“But I dare say he’d enjoy it very much,” observed Dribbler.
“Well, then, will you mount him?” asked Sir Moses.
“Why I thought you were going to do it,” replied Dribbler.
“Me mount him!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his ringed hands in well-feigned astonishment, as if he had never made such an offer—“Me mount him! why, my dear fellow, do you know how many people I have to mount as it is? Let me tell you,” continued he, counting them off on his fingers, “there’s Tom, and there’s Harry, and there’s Joe, and there’s the pad-groom and myself, five horses out every day—generally six, when I’ve a hack—six horses a day, four days a week—if that isn’t enough, I don’t know what is—dom’d if I do,” added he, with a snort and a determined jerk of his head.
“Well, but we can manage him a mount among us, somehow, I dare say,” persevered Dribbler, looking round upon the now partially smoke-obscured company.
“Oh no, let him alone, poor fellow; let him alone,” replied Sir Moses, coaxingly, adding, “he evidently doesn’t wish to go—evidently doesn’t wish to go.”
“I don’t know that,” exclaimed Cuddy Flintoff, with a knowing jerk of his head; “I don’t know that—I should say he’s rather a y-o-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-eks push ‘im up! sort of chap.” So saying, Cuddy drained his glass to the dregs.
“I should say you’re rather a y-o-i-eks wind ‘im—y-o-i-cks drink ‘im up sort of chap,” replied Sir Moses, at which they all laughed heartily.
Cuddy availed himself of the divertissement to make another equally strong brew—saying, “It was put there to drink, wasn’t it?” at which they all laughed again.
Still there was a disposition to harp upon the hunt—Dribbler tied on the scent, and felt disposed to lend Jack a horse if nobody else would. So he threw out a general observation, that he thought they could manage a mount for Monsieur among them.