“Ah! Hybrid, how d’ye do?” now exclaims Sir Moses familiarly; “hope you’re well?—how’s the Peer? hope he’s well. Come all the way from Barley Hill?”
“Barley Hill Hall,” replies the great man with an emphasis on the Hall, adding in the same breath, “Oi say, ostler, send moy fellow!” whereupon there is a renewed nudging and whispering among the ladies beside him, of “That’s Mr. Hybrid!”
“That’s Imperial John, the gentleman who wanted to marry Miss de Glancey for though Miss de Glancey was far above having him, she was not above proclaiming the other.”
His Highness then becomes an object of inquisitive scrutiny by the fair; one thinking he might do for Lavinia Edwards; another, for Sarah Bates; a third, for Rachel Bell; a fourth, perhaps, for herself. It must be a poor creature that isn’t booked for somebody.
Still, John stands erect in his vehicle, flourishing his whip, hallooing and asking for his fellow.
“Ring the bell for moy fellow!—Do go for moy fellow!—Has anybody seen moy fellow? Have you seen moy fellow?” addressing an old smock-frocked countryman with a hoe in his hand.
“Nor, arm d—d if iver ar i did!” replied the veteran, looking him over, a declaration that elicited a burst of laughter from the bystanders, and an indignant chuck of the Imperial chin from our John.
“Tweet, tweet, tweet!” who have we here? All eyes turn up the Cherryburn road; the roused hounds prick their ears, and are with difficulty restrained from breaking away. It’s Walker, the cross postman’s gig, and he is treating himself to a twang of the horn. But who has he with him? Who is the red arm-folded man lolling with as much dignity as the contracted nature of the vehicle will allow? A man in red, with cap and beard, and all complete. Why it’s Monsieur! Monsieur coming in forma pauperis, after Sir Moses’ liberal offer to send him to cover,—Monsieur in a faded old sugar-loaf shaped cap, and a scanty coat that would have been black if it hadn’t been red.