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."