“How very gallant! I take it quite as a compliment to myself.”
“M’Whirter! you’re wanted,” cried a voice from below.
“Bless me! I suppose it is time for saddling. Farewell, Edith—farewell, Mary! I shall win if I possibly can.”
“Good-by!” said Roper. “Stick on tightly and screw him up, and there’s no fear of Masaniello.”
“Where the deuce have you been, M’Whirter?” said Randolph. “Get into the scales as fast as you can. You’ve been keeping the whole of us waiting.”
“I’ll back Masaniello against the field at two to one,” said Anthony Whaup.
“Done with you, in ponies,” said Patsey Chaffinch, who was assisting his brother from the scales.
“Do you feel nervous, M’Whirter?” asked Hosier, a friend who was backing me rather heavily. “You look a little white in the face.”
“To tell you the truth—I do.”
“That’s awkward. Had you not better take a glass of brandy?”