"Mumps did not touch his hock, I hope, when he kicked there?" asked Beecher.

"Call him Klepper,--never forget that," remonstrated Grog; "he's remarkably like Mumps, that's all; but Mumps is in Staffordshire,--one of the Pottery fellows has him."

"So he is," laughed Beecher, pleasantly. "I know the man that owns him."

"No, you don't," broke in Davis; "you've only heard his name,--it is Coulson or Cotton, or something like that. One thing, however, is certain: he values him at twelve hundred pounds, and we 'd sell our horse for eight."

"So we would, Grog, and be on the right side of the hedge too."

"He'd be dog cheap for it," said Davis; "he's one of those lazy beggars that never wear out. I 'd lay an even thousand on it that he runs this day two years as he does to-day, and even when he has n't speed for a flat race he 'll be a rare steeple-chase horse."

Beecher's eyes glistened, and he rubbed his hands with delight as he heard him.

"I do like an ugly horse," resumed Davis; "a heavy-shouldered beast, with lob-ears, lazy eyes, and capped hocks, and if they know how to come out a stable with a 'knuckle over' of the pastern, or a little bit lame, they 're worth their weight in gold."

What a merry laugh was Beecher's as he listened!

"Blow me!" cried Grog, in a sort of enthusiasm, "if some horses don't seem born cheats,--regular legs! They drag their feet along, all weary and tired; if you push them a bit, they shut up, or they answer the whip with a kind of shrug, as if to say, 'It ain't any use punishing me at all,' the while they go plodding in, at the tail of the others, till within five, or maybe four lengths of the winning-post, and then you see them stretching--it ain't a stride, it's a stretch--you can't say how it's done, but they draw on--on--on, till you see half a head in front, and there they stay--just doing it--no more."

"Mumps is exactly--"

"Klepper,--remember, he's Klepper," said Grog, mildly.

"Klepper, to be sure,--how can I forget it?"

"I hope that fellow Conway is off," said Grog.

"Yes, he started by the train for Liege,--third class too,--must be pretty hard up, I take it, to travel that way."

"Good enough for a fellow that has been roughing it in the ranks these two years."

"He's a gentleman, though, for all that," broke in Beecher.

"And Strawberry ran at Doncaster, and I saw him t' other day in a 'bus.

Now, I 'd like to know how much better he is for having once been a racer?"

"Blood always tells--"

"In a horse, Beecher, in a horse, not in a man. Have n't I got a deal of noble blood in my veins?--ain't I able to show a thoroughbred pedigree?"

said he, mockingly. "Well, let me see the fellow will stand at eight paces from the muzzle of a rifle-pistol more cool, or who'll sight his man more calm than I will." There was a tinge of defiance in the way these words were said that by no means contributed to the ease of him who heard them.

"When do we go for Brussels, Grog?" asked he, anxious to change the subject.

"Here's the map of the country," said Davis, producing a card scrawled over with lines and figures. "Brussels, the 12th and 14th; Spa, the 20th; Aix, the 25th. Then _you_ might take a shy at Dusseldorf, _I_ can't; I winged a Prussian major there five years ago, and they won't let me in. I 'll meet you at Wiesbaden, and we 'll have a week at the tables. You 'll have to remember that I 'm Captain Christopher so long as we're on the Rhine; once at Baden, 'Richard's himself again!'"

"Is this for either of you, gentlemen?" said the waiter, presenting an envelope from the telegraph-office.

"Yes; I'm Captain Davis," said Grog, as he broke the seal.

"'Is the Dean able to preach?--may we have a collection?--Telegraph back.--Tom,'" read? Davis, slowly, aloud; and then added, "Ain't he a flat to be always telegraphing these things? As if every fellow in the office couldn't see his game!"

"Spicer, is it?" asked Beecher.

"Yes; he wants to hear how the horse is,--if there's good running in him, and what he's to lay on; but that's no way to ask it. I mind the day, at Wolverton, when Lord Berrydale got one of these: 'Your mother is better,--they are giving her tonics.' And I whispered to George Rigby, 'It 's about Butterfly his mare, that's in for the York, and that's to say, "She's all safe, lay heavy on it." And so I hedged round, and backed her up to eight thousand,--ay, and I won my money; and when Berrydale said to me after the race was over, 'Grog,' says he, 'you seem to have had a glimpse of the line of country this time,' says I to him; 'Yes, my Lord,' says I; 'and I 'm glad to find the tonics agree with your Lordship's mother.' Did n't he redden up to the roots of his hair!

and when he turned away he said, 'There's no coming up to that fellow Davis!'"

"But I wonder you let him see that you were in his secret," said Beecher.

"That was the way to treat _him_. If it was Baynton or Berries, I'd not have said a word; but I knew Berrydale was sure to let me have a share in the first good thing going just out of fear of me, and so he did; that was the way I came to back Old Bailey."

It was now Beecher's turn to gaze with admiring wonder at this great intelligence, and certainly his look was veneration itself.

"Here's another despatch," cried Davis, as the waiter presented another packet like the former one. "We 're like Secretaries of State to-day,"

added he, laughing, as he tore open the envelope. This time, however, he did not read the contents aloud, but sat slowly pondering over the lines to himself.

"It's not Spicer again?" asked Beecher.

"No," was the brief reply.

"Nor that other fellow,--that German with the odd name?"

"No."

"Nothing about Mumps,--Klepper, I mean,--nothing about him?"

"Nothing; it don't concern him at all. It's not about anything you ever heard of before," said Davis, as he threw a log of wood on the fire, and kicked it with his foot. "I 'll have to go to Brussels to-night. I 'll have to leave this by the four o'clock train," said he, looking at his watch. "The horse is n't fit to move for twenty-four hours, so you 'll remain here; he must n't be left without one of us, you know."

"Of course not. But is there anything so very urgent--"

"I suppose a man is best judge of his own affairs," said Davis, rudely.

Beecher made no reply, and a long and awkward silence ensued.

"Let him have one of the powders in a linseed mash," said Davis, at last, "and see that the bandages are left on--only a little loose--at night. Tom must remain with him in the box on the train, and I 'll look out for you at the station. If we shouldn't meet, come straight to the Hotel Tirlemont, where all will be ready for you."

"Remember, Grog, I've got no money; you haven't trusted me with a single napoleon."

"I know that; here's a hundred francs. Look out sharp, for you 'll have to account for every centime of it when we meet. Dine upstairs here, for if you go down to the ordinary you 'll be talking to every man Jack you meet,--ay, you know you will."

"Egad! it's rather late in the day to school me on the score of manners."

"I 'm not a-talking of manners, I 'm speaking of discretion,--of common prudence,--things you 're not much troubled with; you 're just as fit to go alone in life as I am to play the organ at an oratorio."

"Many thanks for the flattery," said Beecher, laughing.

"What would be the good of flattering you?" broke out Grog. "You ain't rich, that one could borrow from you; you haven't a great house, where one could get dinners out of you; you 're not even the head of your family, that one might draw something out of your rank,--you ain't anything."

"Except _your_ friend, Grog Davis; pray don't rob me of that distinction," said Beecher, with a polished courtesy the other felt more cutting than any common sarcasm.