"Me let it out!" cried Mellish, indignantly. "Is it likely? Now, I
asts you, Cashel Byron, is it likely?"
"Likely or not, don't do it," said Cashel. "You might get talking
with some of the chaps about the castle stables. They are generous
with their liquor when they can get sporting news for it."
Mellish looked at him reproachfully, and Cashel turned towards the
door. This movement changed the trainer's sense of injury into
anxiety. He renewed his remonstrances as to the folly of venturing
into the night air, and cited many examples of pugilists who had
suffered defeat in consequence of neglecting the counsel of their
trainers. Cashel expressed his disbelief in these anecdotes in brief
and personal terms; and at last Mellish had to content himself with
proposing to limit the duration of the walk to half an hour.
"Perhaps I will come back in half an hour," said Cashel, "and
perhaps I won't."
"Well, look here," said Mellish; "we won't quarrel about a minute or
two; but I feel the want of a walk myself, and I'll come with you."
"I'm d--d if you shall," said Cashel. "Here, let me out; and shut
up. I'm not going further than the park. I have no intention of
making a night of it in the village, which is what you are afraid
of. I know you, you old dodger. If you don't get out of my way I'll
seat you on the fire."
"But duty, Cashel, duty," pleaded Mellish, persuasively. "Every man
oughter do his duty. Consider your duty to your backers."
"Are you going to get out of my way, or must I put you out of it?"
said Cashel, reddening ominously.
Mellish went back to his chair, bowed his head on his hands, and
wept. "I'd sooner be a dog nor a trainer," he exclaimed. "Oh! the
cusseduess of bein' shut up for weeks with a fightin' man! For the
fust two days they're as sweet as treacle; and then their con
trairyness comes out. Their tempers is puffict 'ell."
Cashel, additionally enraged by a sting of remorse, went out and
slammed the door. He made straight towards the castle, and watched
its windows for nearly half an hour, keeping in constant motion so
as to avert a chill. At last an exquisitely toned bell struck the
hour from one of the minarets. To Cashel, accustomed to the coarse
jangling of ordinary English bells, the sound seemed to belong to
fairyland. He went slowly back to the Warren Lodge, and found his
trainer standing at the open door, smoking, and anxiously awaiting
his return. Cashel rebuffed certain conciliatory advances with a
haughty reserve more dignified, but much less acceptable to Mr.
Mellish, than his former profane familiarity, and went
contemplatively to bed.