"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."