The Amateur Gentleman

Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand,

Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle

smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted

glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table,

from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude

they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.

"Sir," said Barnabas without looking up, "pray excuse the blot, the

pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see."

Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at

unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and,

having found it, tugged it viciously.

"Blot, sir!" he exclaimed loudly; "now, upon my soul and honor--what

blot, sir?"

"This," said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the

Viscount--"if you've finished, we may as well destroy it," and

forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty

fireplace.

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, louder than before, "'pon my soul, now,

if you mean to insinuate--" Here he paused, staring at Barnabas, and

with his whiskers fiercer than ever.

"Well, sir?" inquired Barnabas, still busily trimming his quill.

Mr. Smivvle frowned; but finding Barnabas was quite unconscious of it,

shook his head, felt for his whisker again, found it, tugged it, and

laughed jovially.

"Sir," said he, "you are a devilish sharp fellow, and a fine fellow.

I swear you are. I like your spirit, on my soul and honor I do, and,

as for blots, I vow to you I never write a letter myself that I

don't smear most damnably--curse me if I don't. That blot, sir,

shall be another bond between us, for I have conceived a great

regard for you. The astounding likeness between you and one who--was

snatched away in the flower of his youth--draws me, sir, draws me

most damnably; for I have a heart, sir, a heart--why should I

disguise it?" Here Mr. Smivvle tapped the third left-hand button of

his coat. "And so long as that organ continues its functions, you

may count Digby Smivvle your friend, and at his little place in

Worcestershire he will be proud to show you the hospitality of a

Smivvle. Meanwhile, sir, seeing we are both strangers in a strange

place, supposing we--join forces and, if you are up for the race, I

propose--"

"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, looking up suddenly.

"Yes, sir, devilish swell affair, with gentlemen to ride, and

Royalty to look on--a race of races! London's agog with it, all the

clubs discuss it, coffee houses ring with it, inns and taverns

clamor with it--soul and honor, betting--everywhere. The odds

slightly favor Sir Mortimer Carnaby's 'Clasher'; but Viscount

Devenham's 'Moonraker' is well up. Then there's Captain Slingsby's

'Rascal,' Mr. Tressider's 'Pilot,' Lord Jerningham's 'Clinker,' and

five or six others. But, as I tell you, 'Clasher' and 'Moonraker'

carry the money, though many knowing ones are sweet on the 'Rascal.'

But, surely, you must have heard of the great steeplechase? Devilish

ugly course, they tell me."