I am not a
jockey, to be put up at your whim, and to give you the chance to lose
money."

Chartersea swung around my way.

"Your pardon, Mr. Carvel," said he, very coolly, very politely; "yours is
the choice of the wager. And you reject it, the others must be called
off."

"Slife! I double it!" I said hotly, "provided the horse is alive, and
will stand up."

"Devilish well put, Richard!" Mr. Fox exclaimed, casting off his
restraint.

"I give you my word the horse is alive, sir," he answered, with a mock
bow; "'twas only yesterday that he killed his groom, at Hampstead."

A few moments of silence followed this revelation. It was Charles Fox
who spoke first.

"I make no doubt that your Grace, as a man of honour,"--he emphasized the
word forcibly,--"will not refuse to ride the horse for another twenty
minutes, provided Mr. Carvel is successful. And I will lay your Grace
another hundred that you are thrown, or run away with."

Truly, to cope with a wit like Mr. Fox's, the duke had need for a longer
head. He grew livid as he perceived how neatly he had been snared in his
own trap.

"Done!" he cried loudly; "done, gentlemen. It only remains to hit upon
time and place for the contest. I go to York to-morrow, to be back this
day fortnight. And if you will do me the favour of arranging with
Baltimore for the horse, I shall be obliged. I believe he intends
selling it to Astley, the showman."

"And are we to keep it?" asks Mr. Fox.

"I am dealing with men of honour," says the duke, with a bow: "I need
have no better assurance that the horse will not be ridden in the
interval."

"'Od so!" said Comyn, when we were out; "very handsome of him. But I
would not say as much for his Grace."

And Mr. Fox declared that the duke was no coward, but all other epithets
known might be called him. "A very diverting evening, Richard," said he;
"let's to your apartments and have a bowl, and talk it over."

And thither we went.

I did not sleep much that night, but 'twas of Dolly I thought rather than
of Chartersea. I was abroad early, and over to inquire in Arlington
Street, where I found she had passed a good night. And I sent Banks
a-hooting for some violets to send her, for I knew she loved that flower.

Between ten and eleven Mr. Fox and Comyn and I set out for Baltimore
House. When you go to London, my dears, you will find a vast difference
in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury from what it was that May morning in
1770. Gre