The man soon appeared. "Salute your supareor," said the Sergeant, as he squared his heels. "Touch your caubeen."
"Arrah, now, Patrick, wasn't I after doing it?"
"Well, do it at onst, ye murdering ruffian, and tell all ye know."
"Yes, sir, yer honour," commenced the man, "Faix, the Captain 'av' been trying the mare day after day at the water. Onst she jumped finely. The Captain made a brook close by our cabin, and is often wid her there. Sometimes she jumps and sometimes she won't; and when she won't, mille murther! maybe don't he larrup her! Long life to your honour! but I don't think the mare likes water, at all, at all. And by my troth, there's many a man thinks the same. The devil's luck to him! he's been all over the fresh-planted praties, and cut them to smithereens, bad cess to him! But av course, Leiftenent, ye won't tell on a poor boy, more by token as he is after doing yer honour a little sarvice. I wouldn't give a handful of prayers for my life if he found me out; for sorra a one knows the Captain better than myself, death to his sowl! Tear-an-ages! he's a terrible bad man entirely, is the Captain. The top of the morning, and long life to your honour!" said the gossoon, as the Sergeant led him away, pocketing half a crown.
"There, Fortescue, what do you think of that?" said his friend, as they sauntered away to the anteroom for a whiskey and soda. "It's evident Mad Moll is no water jumper. By Jupiter! I think you will pull through. Quite fair my giving the lad half-a-crown. O'Rooney's friends have been doing the same—fair play is a jewel!"
Somehow the public at last began to lean towards the English horse. He did his work quietly and openly, without any attempt at concealment.
But what is this excitement in the barrack yard? Officers are rushing to the mess-room. Two gentlemen have been driven up there in a car. Lord Plunger and his friend Bradon have arrived. They are old friends of the Stiffshire battalion.
"By George! Plunger and Bradon, I'm delighted to see you," said the warm-hearted Colonel, hastening in, while endeavouring to make his sword-belt meet about his somewhat bulky waist. "I did not tell the boys I had written for you both. Lunch ready in ten minutes—glass of sherry first to wet your mouths. Now, Fortescue will have a little good advice. You will ride the last gallop to-morrow morning, Bradon, and give us your opinion. Dammee, I'm so glad to see you both in the wild west. Here, some one tell the captain of the day I won't have another roll-call. Obliged to do this kind of thing here, Bradon—never know what's going to happen from one minute to another. Shooting landlords like the devil. Potted Lambert last week; five shots in him, and the only one that did no harm was the one that took him in the forehead. Rest his sowl, as the Irishmen say, a near escape for him. Lucky dog! Here is the sherry!" In this way did the popular Colonel rattle on.
The gallop is over, and Screwdriver has been tried at even weights against a good one. George Bradon had thought it better that Fortescue should ride his own horse in the trial, which he did. "By Jove, you've got a clipper, Fortescue!" said the former, as they pulled up; "you don't know how good. I deceived you all when I told you I had borrowed this nag to try you. Keep your mouth shut, hermetically sealed, old fellow, and I'll tell you something you will care to know. It is no commoner you have galloped against to-day. Mind, on your life, not a word to your dearest friend. It's my own horse, Guardsman, you have had a spin with—the winner of the Cheltenham Grand Annual!"
The young man thus addressed sat like one in a dream, at this revelation.