“Well, but perhaps his master mayn’t, like it,” suggested Sir Moses, in hopes that Billy would come to the rescue.
“O, I don’t care about it,” replied Billy, with an air of indifference, who would have been glad to hunt by deputy if he could, and so that chance fell to the ground.
“Hoick to Governor! Hoick to Governor!” cheered Cuddy at the declaration. “Now who’ll lend him a horse?” asked he, taking up the question. “What say you, Stub?” appealing to Mr. Strongstubble, who generally had more than he could ride.
“He’s such a beefey beggar,” replied Strongstubble, between the whiffs of a cigar.
“Oh, ah, and a Frenchman too!” interposed Sir Moses, “he’ll have no idea of saving a horse, or holding a horse together, or making the most of a horse.”
“Put him on one that ‘ll take care of himself,” suggested Cuddy; “there’s your old Nutcracker horse, for instance,” added he, addressing himself to Harry Waggett.
“Got six drachms of aloes,” replied Waggett, drily.
“Or your Te-to-tum, Booty,” continued Cuddy, nothing baffled by the failure.
“Lame all round,” replied Booty, following suit.
“Hut you and your lames,” rejoined Cuddy, who knew better—“I’ll tell you what you must do then, Tommy,” continued he, addressing himself familiarly to Dribbler, “you must lend him your old kicking chestnut—the very horse for a Frenchman,” added Cutty, slapping his own tight-trousered leg—“you send the Shaver to the Billet in the morning along with your own horse, and old Johnny Crapaud will manage to get there somehow or other—walk if he can’t ride: shoemaker’s pony’s very safe.”