“A groom—from your brother.”
That answer appeared to electrify the lounging and lazy athlete. Geoffrey hurried, with eager steps, to the summer-house. He addressed the groom before the man had time to speak With horror and dismay in his face, he exclaimed:
“By Jupiter! Ratcatcher has relapsed!”
Sir Patrick and Arnold looked at each other in blank amazement.
“The best horse in my brother’s stables!” cried Geoffrey, explaining, and appealing to them, in a breath. “I left written directions with the coachman, I measured out his physic for three days; I bled him,” said Geoffrey, in a voice broken by emotion—“I bled him myself, last night.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir—” began the groom.
“What’s the use of begging my pardon? You’re a pack of infernal fools! Where’s your horse? I’ll ride back, and break every bone in the coachman’s skin! Where’s your horse?”
“If you please, Sir, it isn’t Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher’s all right.”
“Ratcatcher’s all right? Then what the devil is it?”
“It’s a message, Sir.”