“Fit!” ejaculated Billy, brushing past Gaiters, and hurrying out of the room.
“Fit!” repeated Gaiters, turning round with comfortable composure, looking at the man as much as to say, what do you know about it?
“Yes, f-f-fit!” repeated the footman, brandishing his knife, and running after Billy as though he were going to slay him.
Dashing along the dark passages, breaking his shins over one of those unlucky coal-scuttles that are always in the way, Billy fell into an outward-bound stream of humanity,—Mrs. Margerum, Barbara the housemaid, Mary the Lanndrymaid, Jones the gardener’s boy, and others, all hurrying to the scene of action.
Already there was a ring formed round the door, of bare-armed helpers, and miscellaneous hangers-on, looking over each other’s shoulders, who opened a way for Billy as he advanced.
The horse was indeed down, but not in a fit; for he was dying, and expired just as Billy entered. There lay the glazy-eyed hundred-guinea Napoleon the Great, showing his teeth, reduced to the mere value of his skin; so great is the difference between a dead horse and a live one.
“Bad job!” said Wetun, who was on his knees at its head, looking up; “bad job!” repeated he, trying to look dismal.
“What! is he dead?” demanded Billy, who could hardly realise the fact.
“Dead, ay—he’ll never move more,” replied Wetun, showing his fast-stiffening neck.
“By Jove! why didn’t you send for the doctor?” demanded Billy.