“You’ll find him hard enough—hard as one of Millard’s eggs. I recommend you both to keep away from him and his horse,” said Peter.
Here the music struck up a galop and the two flexible youths, pocketing their moist batistes, tore wildly into the affray. Mr. Belden dashed by with Mrs. Budlong in his arms.
He had found her tête-à-tête with De Châteaunéant. Their whispered conversation closed as Belden approached, and bowed his request for a dance. “Hot nubbless” looked after her wickedly as she moved away.
Sir Comeguys, passing with Granby, looked into the parlour. Sir Com saw the Frenchman standing there with his vicious look and his clenched fist.
“Gwanby,” said the bold and battailous Briton, “I can’t be wong—that is the scoundwel that helped to wob me in Pawis. He called himself Lavallette then, or some such name.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE BRAVE PREPARE FOR A RACE, THE FAIR FOR A
PICNIC
NEXT morning after Millard’s hop, several of our acquaintance met on the piazza.
“What happened at the subscription party last night?” asked Peter Skerrett of Gyas, who looked blue and slumbrous as a night policeman.