“Saw you at Westbury, I think,” said Fleetwood politely to Plank, as the two lifted their glasses to one another.
“I hunted there for a day or two,” replied Plank, modestly. “If it's that big Irish thoroughbred you were riding that you want to sell I'd like a look in, if Miss Page doesn't fancy him.”
Fleetwood laughed, and glanced amusedly at Plank over his glass. “It isn't that horse, Mr. Plank. That's Drumceit, Stephen Siward's famous horse.” He interrupted himself to exchange greetings with several men who came into the room rather noisily, their spurs resounding across the oaken floor. One of them, Tom O'Hara, joined them, slamming his crop on the desk beside Plank and spreading himself over an arm-chair, from the seat of which he forcibly removed Mortimer's feet without excuse.
“Drink? Of course I want a drink!” he replied irritably to Fleetwood—“one, three, ten, several! Billy, whose weasel-bellied pinto was that you were kicking your heels into in the park? Some of the squadron men asked me—the major. Oh, beg pardon! Didn't know you were trying to stick Mortimer with him. He might do for the troop ambulance, inside!... What? Oh, yes; met Mr. Blank—I mean Mr. Plank—at Shotover, I think. How d'ye do? Had the pleasure of potting your tame pheasants. Rotten sport, you know. What do you do it for, Mr. Blank?”
“What did you come for, if it's rotten sport?” asked Plank so simply that it took O'Hara a moment to realise he had been snubbed.
“I didn't mean to be offensive,” he drawled.
“I suppose you can't help it,” said Plank very gently; “some people can't, you know.” And there was another silence, broken by Mortimer, whose entire hulk was tingling with a mixture of surprise and amusement over his protégé's developing ability to take care of himself. “Did you say that Stephen Siward is in Westbury, Billy?”
“No; he's in town,” replied Fleetwood. “I took his horses up to hunt with. He isn't hunting, you know.”
“I didn't know. Nobody ever sees him anywhere,” said Mortimer. “I guess his mother's death cut him up.”
Fleetwood lifted his empty glass and gently shook the ice in it. “That, and—the other business—is enough to cut any man up, isn't it?”