And he made for the door, brushing up against the outraged Mr Pillans on his way.
“Take that for an impudent young beggar!” said the latter as he passed, suiting the action to the word with a smart cuff directed at the visitor’s head.
Horace, however, was quick enough to ward it off.
“I thought you’d try that on,” he said, with a laugh; “you’re—”
But Mr Pillans, who had by this time worked himself into a fury by a method known only to himself, cut short further parley by making a desperate rush at him just as he reached the door.
The wary Horace had not played football for three seasons for nothing. He quietly ducked, allowing his unscientific assailant to overbalance himself, and topple head first on the lobby outside, at the particular moment when the real owner of the racehorse and the real wine-merchant, who had just arrived, reached the top of the stairs.
“Hullo, young fellow!” said the sporting gentleman; “practising croppers, are you? or getting up an appetite? or what? High old times you’re having up here among you! Who’s the kid?”
“Stop him!” gasped Pillans, picking himself up; “don’t let him go! hold him fast!”
The wine-merchant obligingly took possession of Horace by the collar, and the company returned in solemn procession to the room.
“Now, then,” said Horace’s captor, “what’s the row? Let’s hear all about it. Has he been collaring any of your spoons? or setting the house on fire? or what? Who is he?”