“Shall be w-h-a-w-t?” drawled our hero, dreading the reply.
“Down in de mouth—seek—onvell,” replied Jack, depositing the top-boots by the sofa, and placing the shaving-water on the toilette table.
“Oh, is he!” said Billy, perking up, thinking he saw his way out of the dilemma. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He coughs, sare—he does not feed, sare—and altogether he is not right.”
“So-o-o,” said Billy, conning the matter over—“then, p’raps I’d better not ride him?”
“Vot you think right, sare,” replied Jack. “He is your quadruped, not mine; but I should not say he is vot dey call, op to snoff—fit to go.”
“Ah,” replied Billy. “I’ll not ride ‘im! hate a horse that’s not up to the mark.”
“Sare Moses Baronet vod perhaps lend you von, sare,” suggested Jack.
“Oh, by no means!” replied Billy in a fright. “By no means! I’d just as soon not hunt to-day, in fact, for I’ve got a good many letters to write and things to do; so just take the water away for the present and bring it back when Sir Moses is gone.” So saying, Billy turned over on his thin pillow, and again sought the solace of his couch. He presently fell into a delightful dreamy sort of sleep, in which he fancied that after dancing the Yammerton girls all round, he had at length settled into an interminable “Ask Mamma Polka,” with Clara, from which he was disagreeably aroused by Jack Rogers’ hirsute face again protruding between the partially-drawn curtains, announcing, “Sare Moses Baronet, sare, has cot his stick—is off.”
“Sir Moses, what!” started Billy, dreading to hear about the hunt.