Proceeding yet further west I passed the College of Surgeons—presented by George IV. in a fit of after-dinner generosity to that distinguished body to be held for all time on a pepper-corn rent. One can almost picture the burst of humble gratitude that gushed forth at the gracious act, and the bland smile that illumined the anointed features at the consciousness of having done a generous deed without being one penny the worse for it. It was condescensions such as this that endeared “the first gentleman” to a loyal and dutiful people. And then across the square, where Northumberland House once stood, I wondered if one human being could locate the spot within fifty yards, and whether the old lion that topped it pointed his tail to the east or west, a subject on which more bets have been made than ever fell to the lot of man or beast.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE ROCK AND THE CAPE.
The providential success of Playfair in the Cambridgeshire of ’72 had released more than one of our clique from the jaws of the usurer, and Bill Stourton, by the judicious investment of a fiver, was in expectation of being the proud owner of £300 on the following Monday.
Dashing down to Somersetshire overflowing with filial duty and in anticipation of our early embarkation for Gibraltar, a considerable scare was created one morning by a groom running up to the house and reporting that the sheriff’s carriage and two grimy beaks from Taunton had pulled up at the “George” and were making tender inquiries as to Mr. William’s whereabouts.
All this occurred on Monday, when, as it happened, Billy was speeding towards London to realise at Tattersall’s the result of his sagacity at Newmarket. And so, when the oleaginous visitors inquired at the ancestral porch, the reply they received was discouraging in the extreme.
“That is Mr. William’s bedroom,” pointing to a window, was the ingenuous servitor’s reply; “you can go and examine it if you wish; but I give you my word he left for London this morning.” And so it came to pass that the astute “Fitch and Son,” of Southwark, failed to serve the capias, and the rascally Israelite who had made “affidavit” as to his intention of “leaving the kingdom” (as embarking with the regiment might certainly be construed by a quibble) had to pay the cost of the imposing coach that had been provided for his conveyance to Taunton.
The faithful butler had omitted to add that the young reprobate was returning the same evening, and that the dog-cart was to meet him at nine.
But the reprieve was not of long duration, and within a year Bill had sold his commission and become a full private in the Blues.
Passing into the Horse Guards one day a former brother officer chanced to inquire of the sentry the way to the military secretary’s, and was considerably startled by the reply, “First door to the left, Polly.”
The sentry was ex-Lieutenant Stourton.