"Well, I suppose I 'm to believe you," said Davis, half reluctantly.

"It was in a letter from the Crimea, stating that so confident are the friends of a certain claimant to the title and estates now enjoyed by Lord Lackington, that they have offered the young soldier who represents the claim any amount of money he pleases to purchase promotion in the service."

"I repeat to you my word of honor, I never saw nor heard of it"

"Of course, then, I believe you," said Grog.

Again and again did Beecher reiterate assurances of his good faith; he declared that during all his stay at Aix he had never looked into a newspaper, nor had he received one single letter, except from Davis himself; and Davis believed him, from the simple fact that such a paragraph as he quoted had no existence,--never was in print, never uttered till Grog's own lips had fashioned it.

"But, surely, Grog, it is not a flying rumor--the invention of some penny-a-liner--would find any credence with _you?_"

"I don't know," said Davis, slowly; "I won't say I 'd swear to it all, but just as little would I reject it as a fable. At all events, I gave you credit for having trimmed your sails by the tidings; and if you did n't, why, there's no harm done, only you 're not so shrewd a fellow as I thought you."

Beecher's face grew scarlet; how near, how very near, he was of being "gazetted" the sharp fellow he had been striving for years to become, and now, by his own stupid admission, had he invalidated his claim to that high degree.

"And this is old Stein's celebrated book? I 've heard of it these five-and-thirty years, though I never saw it till now. Well, I won't say you made a bad bargain--"

"Indeed, Grog,--indeed, by George! I 'm as glad as if I won five hundred to hear you say so. To tell you the truth, I was half afraid to own myself the purchaser. I said to myself, 'Davis will chaff me so about this book, he 'll call me all the blockheads in Europe--'"

"No, no, Beecher, you ain't a blockhead, nor will I suffer any one to call you such. There are things--there are people, too, Just as there are games--that you don't know, but before long you 'll be the match of any fellow going. I can put you up to them, and I will. There's my hand on it."

Beecher grasped the proffered hand, and squeezed it with a warmth there was no denying. What wonderful change had come over Grog he could not guess. Whence this marvellous alteration in his manner towards him? No longer scoffing at his mistaken notions of people, or disparaging his abilities, Davis condescended now to talk and take counsel with him as an equal.

"That 's the king of wines," said Davis, as he pushed a fresh bottle across the table. "When you can get Marcobrunner like that, where's the Burgundy ever equalled it? Fill up your glass, and drink a bumper to our next venture, whatever it be!"

"'Our next venture, whatever it be!'" echoed Beecher, as he laid the empty glass on the table.

"Another toast," said Davis, replenishing the glasses. "'May all of our successes be in company.'"

"I drink it with all my heart, old fellow. You 've always stood like a man to me, and I 'll never desert you," cried Beecher, whose head was never proof against the united force of wine and excitement.

"There never were two fellows on this earth so made to run in double harness," said Davis, "as you and myself. Let us only lay our heads together, and there's nothing can resist us."

Grog now launched forth into one of those descriptions which he could throw off with a master's hand, sketching life as a great hunting-ground, and themselves as the hunters. What zest and vigor could he impart to such a picture!--how artfully, too, could he make Beecher the foreground figure, he himself only shadowed forth as an accessory!

Listening with eagerness to all he said, Beecher continued to drink deeply; the starry night, the perfumed air, the rippling sounds of the river, all combining with the wine and the converse to make up a dreamland of fascination. Nor was the enchantment less perfect that the objects described passed before him like a series of dissolving views.

They represented, all of them, a life of pleasure and enjoyment,--means inexhaustible, means for every extravagance, and, what he relished fully as much, the undisputed recognition by the world to the claim of being a "sharp fellow,"--a character to which Grog's aid was so dexterously contributed as to escape all detection.

Perhaps our reader might not have patience with us were we to follow Davis through all the devious turns and windings of this tortuous discourse. Perhaps, too, we should fail signally were we to attempt to convey in our cold narrative what came from his lips with all the marvellous power of a good story-teller, whose voice could command many an inflection, and whose crafty nature appreciated the temper of the metal beneath his beat If we could master all these, another and a greater difficulty would still remain; for how could we convey, as Davis contrived to do, that through all these gorgeous scenes of worldly success, in the splendor of a life of magnificence, amidst triumphs and conquests, one figure should ever pass before the mind's eye, now participating in the success, now urging its completion, now, as it were, shedding a calm and chastened light over all,--a kind of angelic influence that heightened every enjoyment of the good, and averted every approach of evil?

Do not fancy, I beseech you, that this was a stroke of high art far above the pencil of Grog Davis. Amongst the accidents of his early life the "stage" had figured, and Grog had displayed very considerable talents for the career. It was only at the call of what he considered a higher ambition he had given up "the boards" for "the ring." Besides this, he was inspired by the Marcobrunner, which had in an equal degree affected the brain of him who listened. If Grog were eloquent, Beecher was ductile. Indeed, so eagerly did he devour all that the other said, that when a moment of pause occurred, he called out, "Go on, old fellow,--go on! I could listen to you forever!"

Nor was it altogether surprising that he should like to hear words of praise and commendation from lips that once only opened in sarcasm and ridicule of him. How pleasant to know, at last, that he was really and truly a great partner in the house of Davis and Co., and not a mere commission agent, and that this partnership--how that idea came to strike him we cannot determine--was to be binding forever. How exalting, too, the sentiment that it was just at the moment when all his future looked gloomiest this friendship was ratified. The Lackington peerage might go, but there was Grog Davis, stanch and true,--the ancient estates be torn from his house, but there was the precious volume of old Lazarus, with wealth untold within its pages. Thus threading his way through these tortuous passages of thought, stumbling, falling, and blundering at every step, that poor brain lost all power of coherency and all guidance, and he wavered between a reckless defiance of the world and a sort of slavish fear of its censure.

"And Lackington, Grog,--Lackington," cried he, at length,--"he's as proud as Lucifer; what will he say?"

"Not so much as you think!" remarked Grog, dryly. "Lackington will take it easier than you suspect."

"No, no, you don't know him,--don't know him at all. I wouldn't stand face to face with him this minute for a round sum!"

"I 'd not like it over-much myself!" muttered Davis, with a grim smile.

"It's all from pride of birth and blood, and he 'd say, 'Debts, if you like; go ahead with Jews and the fifty per centers, but, hang it, don't tie a stone round your throat, don't put a double ditch between you and your own rank! Look where I am,' he 'd say,--'look where I am!'"

"Well, I hope he finds it comfortable!" muttered Grog, with a dry malice.

"Look where I am!" resumed Beecher, trying to imitate the pretentious tones of his brother's voice. "And where is it, after all?"

"Where we 'll all be, one day or other," growled out Grog, who could not help answering his own reflections.

"'And are you sure of where you are?'--that's what I 'd ask him, eh, Grog?--'are you sure of where you are?'"

"That _would_ be a poser, I suspect," said Davis, who laughed heartily; and the contagion catching Beecher, he laughed till the tears came.

"I might ask him, besides, 'Are you quite sure how long you are to remain where you are?' eh, Grog? What would he say to that?"

"The chances are, he 'd not answer at all," said Davis, dryly.

"No, no! you mistake him, he's always ready with a reason; and then he sets out by reminding you that he's the head of the house,--a fact that a younger brother does n't need to have recalled to his memory. Oh, Grog, old fellow, if I were the Viscount,--not that I wish any ill to Lack-ington,--not that I 'd really enjoy the thing at any cost to _him_,--but if I were--"

"Well, let's hear. What then?" cried Davis, as he filled the other's glass to the top,--"what then?"

"Would n't I trot the coach along at a very different pace. It's not poking about Italy, dining with smoke-dried cardinals and snuffy old 'marchesas,' I 'd be; but I 'd have such a stable, old fellow, with Jem Bates to ride and Tom Ward to train them, and yourself, too, to counsel me. Would n't we give Binsleigh and Hawksworth and the rest of them a cold bath, eh?"

"That ain't the style of thing at all, Beecher," said Grog, deprecatingly; "you ought to go in for the 'grand British nobleman dodge,'--county interests, influence with a party, and a vote in the Lords. If you were to try it, you 'd make a right good speech. It wouldn't be one of those flowery things the Irish fellows do, but a manly, straightforward, genuine English discourse."

"Do you really think so, Grog?" asked he, eagerly.

"I 'm sure of it I never mistook pace in my life; and I know what's in you as well as if I saw it. The real fact is, you have a turn of speed that you yourself have no notion of, but it will come out one of these days if you 're attacked,--if they say anything about your life on the turf, your former companions, or a word about the betting-ring."

The charm of this flattery was far more intoxicating than even the copious goblets of Marcobrunner, and Beecher's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes betrayed how it overpowered him. Davis went on:--

"You are one of those fellows that never show 'the stuff they 're made of' till some injustice is done them,--eh?"

"True as a book!" chimed in Beecher.

"Take you fairly, and a child might lead you; but try it on to deny you what you justly have a right to,--let them attempt to dictate to you, and say, 'Do this, and don't do the other,'--little they know on what back they 've put the saddle. You 'll give them such a hoist in the air as they never expected!"

"How you read every line of me!" exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy.

"And I 'll tell you more; there's not another man breathing knows you but myself. They 've always seen you in petty scrapes and little difficulties, pulling the devil by the last joint of his tail, as Jack Bush says; but let them wait till you come out for a cup race,--the Two Thousand Guinea Stakes,--then I'm not Kit Davis if you won't be one of the first men in England."

"I hope you 're right, Davis. I almost feel as if you were," said Beecher, earnestly.

"When did you find me in the wrong, so far as judgment went? Show me one single mistake I ever made in a matter of opinion? Who was it foretold that Bramston would bolt after the Cotteswold if Rugby didn't win?

Who told the whole yard at Tattersall's that Grimsby would sell Holt's stable? Who saw that Rickman Turner was a coward, and would n't fight?--and I said it, the very day they gave him 'the Bath' for his services in China! I don't know much about books, nor do I pretend to; but as to men and women--men best--I 'll back myself against all England and the Channel Islands."

"And I 'll take as much as you 'll spare me out of your book, Grog,"

said Beecher, enthusiastically, while he filled his glass and drained it.

"You see," said Davis, in a low, confidential tone, as if imparting a great secret, "I've always remarked that the way they smash a fellow in Parliament--I don't care in which House--is always by raking up something or other he did years before. If he wrote a play, or a novel, or a book of poems, they 're down on him at once, about his imagination and his fancy,--that means, he never told a word of truth in his life.