The Amateur Gentleman

"And such a pretty child, too!" sighed the Duchess.

"Child, mam? I ain't no child, I'm a groom, I am. Child yourself, mam!"

"Lud! I do believe he's even paying me compliments! How old are you,

boy?"

"A lot more 'n you think, and hoceans more 'n I look, mam."

"And what's your name?"

"Milo, mam,--Milo o' Crotona, but my pals generally calls me Tony,

for short, they do."

"Milo of Crotona!" repeated the Duchess, with her eyes wider than

ever, "but he was a giant who slew an ox with his fist, and ate it

whole!"

"Why, mam, I'm oncommon fond of oxes,--roasted, I am."

"Well," said the Duchess, "you are the very smallest giant I ever saw."

"Why, you ain't werry large yourself, mam, you ain't."

"No, I fear I am rather petite," said the Duchess with a trill of

girlish laughter. "And pray, Giant, what may you be doing here?"

"Come up on the coach, I did,--box seat, mam,--to take Mr. Beverley

back wiv me 'cause 'is 'oss ain't safe, and--"

"Not safe,--what do you mean, boy?"

"Some coves got in and tried to nobble 'Moonraker' and 'im--"

"Nobble, boy?"

"Lame 'em, mam,--put 'em out o' the running."

"The wretches!"

"Yes'm. Ye see us sportsmen 'ave our worritting times, we do."

"But where is Mr. Beverley?"

"Why, I ain't looked, mam, I ain't,--but they're down by the

brook--behind them bushes, they are."

"Oh, are they!" said the Duchess, "Hum!"

"No mam,--'e's a-coming, and so's she."

"Why, Barnabas," cried the Duchess, as Cleone and he stepped out of

the shadow, "what's all this I hear about your horse,--what is the

meaning of it?"

"That I must start for London to-night, Duchess."

"Leave to-night? Absurd!"

"And yet, madam, Cleone seems to think I must, and so does Viscount

Devenham,--see what he writes." So the Duchess took the Viscount's

letter and, having deciphered it with some difficulty, turned upon

Barnabas with admonishing finger upraised: "So you 've been betting, eh? And with Sir Mortimer Carnaby and

Mr. Chichester of all people?"

"Yes, madam."

"Ah! You backed the Viscount, I suppose?"

"No,--I backed myself, Duchess."

"Gracious goodness--"

"But only to beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"

"The other favorite. Oh, ridiculous! What odds did they give you?"

"None."

"You mean--oh, dear me!--you actually backed yourself--at even money?"

"Yes, Duchess."

"But you haven't a chance, Barnabas,--not a chance! You didn't bet

much, I hope?"

"Not so much as I intended, madam."

"Pray what was the sum?"

"Twenty thousand pounds."

"Not--each?"

"Yes, madam."

"Forty thousand pounds! Against a favorite! Cleone, my dear,"

said the Duchess, with one of her quick, incisive nods, "Cleone,

this Barnabas of ours is either a madman or a fool! And yet--stoop

down, sir,--here where I can see you,--hum! And yet, Cleone,

there are times when I think he is perhaps a little wiser than he

seems,--nothing is so baffling as simplicity, my dear! If you wished

to be talked about, Barnabas, you have succeeded admirably,--no wonder

all London is laughing over such a preposterous bet. Forty thousand

pounds! Well, it will at least buy you notoriety, and that is next to

fame."