“Then this bloodhound of a Colonel, as he calls himself, your Grace cannot even lay him on a quest which is to do you service, but you must do him such indignity at the same time, as he will not fail to remember, and be sure to fly at your throat should he ever have an opportunity of turning on you.”
“I will take care he has none,” said the Duke; “and yours, Jerningham, is a low-lived apprehension. Beat your spaniel heartily if you would have him under command. Ever let your agents see you know what they are, and prize them accordingly. A rogue, who must needs be treated as a man of honour, is apt to get above his work. Enough, therefore, of your advice and censure, Jerningham; we differ in every particular. Were we both engineers, you would spend your life in watching some old woman’s wheel, which spins flax by the ounce; I must be in the midst of the most varied and counteracting machinery, regulating checks and counter-checks, balancing weights, proving springs and wheels, directing and controlling a hundred combined powers.”
“And your fortune, in the meanwhile?” said Jerningham; “pardon this last hint, my lord.”
“My fortune,” said the Duke, “is too vast to be hurt by a petty wound; and I have, as thou knowest, a thousand salves in store for the scratches and scars which it sometimes receives in greasing my machinery.”
“Your Grace does not mean Dr. Wilderhead’s powder of projection?”
“Pshaw! he is a quacksalver, and mountebank, and beggar.”
“Or Solicitor Drowndland’s plan for draining the fens?”
“He is a cheat,—videlicet, an attorney.”
“Or the Laird of Lackpelf’s sale of Highland woods?”
“He is a Scotsman,” said the Duke,—“videlicet, both cheat and beggar.”