The Amateur Gentleman Part 47

"And I'll warrant he deserved it, Bev."

"I think so," said Barnabas; "it was in the wood, d.i.c.k."

"The wood? Ah! do you mean where you--"

"Where I found her lying unconscious."

"Unconscious! And with him beside her! My G.o.d, man!" cried the Viscount, with a vicious snap of his teeth. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"Because I was beside her--first, d.i.c.k."

"d.a.m.n him!" exclaimed the Viscount bitterly.

"But he is your friend, d.i.c.k."

"Was, Bev, was! We'll make it in the past tense hereafter."

"Then you agree with your father after all?"

"I do, Bev; my father is a cursed, long-sighted, devilish observant man! I'll back him against anybody, though he is such a Roman. But oh, the devil!" exclaimed the Viscount suddenly, "you can never ride in the race after this."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll meet Carnaby; and that mustn't happen."

"Why not?"

"Because he'll shoot you."

"You mean he'd challenge me? Hum," said Barnabas, "that is awkward!

But I can't give up the race."

"Then what shall you do?"

"Risk it, d.i.c.k."

But now, Mr. Smivvle, who from an adjoining corner had been an interested spectator thus far, emerged, and flouris.h.i.+ng off the curly-brimmed hat, bowed profoundly, and addressed himself to the Viscount.

"I believe," said he, smiling affably, "that I have the pleasure to behold Viscount Devenham?"

"The same, sir," rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.

"You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?"

The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.

"No, I don't, sir."

Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.

"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"

The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.

"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.

Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.

"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse--the mult.i.tude--the ah--the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir, --a Smivvle, every inch of me,--while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,'

and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a friend--"

"Indeed, sir," said the Viscount, in a tone of faint surprise, and beckoning a pa.s.sing ostler, ordered out his curricle.

"As I say," repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to search for his whisker again, "I have a friend, my Lord--"

"Congratulate you," murmured the Viscount, pulling at his glove.

"A friend who has frequently spoken of your Lords.h.i.+p--"

"Very kind of him!" murmured the Viscount.

"And though, my Lord, though my name is not familiar, I think you will remember his; the name of my friend is "--here Mr. Smivvle, having at length discovered his whisker, gave it a fierce twirl,-- "Ronald Barrymaine."

The Viscount's smooth brow remained unclouded, only the glove tore in his fingers; so he smiled, shook his head, and drawing it off, tossed it away.

"Hum?" said he, "I seem to have heard some such name--somewhere or other--ah! there's my Imp at last, as tight and smart as they make 'em, eh, Bev? Well, good-by, my dear fellow, I shan't forget Friday next." So saying, the Viscount shook hands, climbed into his curricle, and, with a flourish of his whip, was off and away in a moment.

"A fine young fellow, that!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle; "yes, sir, regular out-and-outer, a Bang up! by heaven, a Blood, sir! a Tippy!

a Go! a regular Das.h.!.+ High, sir, high, d.a.m.ned high, like my friend Barrymaine,--indeed, you may have remarked a similarity between 'em, sir?"

"You forget, I have never met your friend," said Barnabas.

"Ah, to be sure, a great pity! You'd like him, for Barrymaine is a cursed fine fellow in spite of the Jews, dammem! yes,--you ought to know my friend, sir."

"I should be glad to," said Barnabas.

"Would you though, would you indeed, sir? Nothing simpler; call a chaise! Stay though, poor Barry's not himself to-day, under a cloud, sir. Youthful prodigalities are apt to bring worries in their train--chiefly in the shape of Jews, sir, and devilish bad shapes too!

Better wait a day--say to-morrow, or Thursday--or even Friday would do."

"Let it be Sat.u.r.day," said Barnabas.

"Sat.u.r.day by all means, sir, I'll give myself the pleasure of calling upon you."

"St. James's Square," said Barnabas, "number five."

But now Peterby, who had been eyeing Mr. Smivvle very much askance, ventured to step forward.

"Sir," said he, "may I remind you of your appointment?"