When he awoke again, which was instantly, as he thought, what was his surprise to behold an extraordinary-looking sprite riding upon his worst foot. The thing was dressed like a jockey, cap, jacket, breeches, and boots, the latter being furnished with a pair of needles instead of spurs; but with such a comical face that Bulworthy would have laughed heartily at its funny expression, except that the sight of those ominous goads effectually checked all thoughts of risibility.
"Who the devil are you? Get off o' my toe, you impudent little scoundrel," said the Squire, "or I'll fling a pill-box at you."
"Bless you, that would be no use," piped the diminutive jock, settling himself in his saddle.
"Move, I say, or bang goes this bottle of doctor's stuff right in yer eye."
"Fire away," says the imp, with a little bit of a laugh, like the squeak of a mouse, "I don't fear any of your doctor's bedevilment."
"What brings you here, anyway?" demanded Bulworthy. He was now out of pain, and consequently waxing arrogant.
"You," squeaked the little rider.
"It's a lie. I never invited you."
"Oh, yes, you did, and moreover, I must say, treated me like a prince; boarded and lodged me gloriously."
"Pooh! you're a fool. Where did I lodge you?"