porting world,--I 'd have
your name at the top of the list at 'the turf.' In six months from
this day--this very day--I 'd bind myself to make Annesley Beecher the
foremost man at Newmarket. But just on one condition."

"And that?"

"You should take a solemn oath--I 'd make it a solemn one, I promise
you--never to question anything I decided in your behalf, but obey me
to the letter in whatever I ordered. Three months of that servitude, and
you 'd come out what I 've promised you."

"I 'll swear it this moment," cried Beecher.

"Will you?" asked Davis, eagerly.

"In the most solemn and formal manner you can dictate on oath to me. I
'll take it now, only premising you 'll not ask me anything against the
laws."

"Nothing like hanging, nor even transportation," said Grog, laughing,
while Beecher's face grew crimson, and then pale. "No,--no; all I 'll
ask is easily done, and not within a thousand miles of a misdemeanor.
But you shall Just think it over quietly. I don't want a 'catch match.'
You shall have time to reconsider what I have said, and when we meet at
Brussels you can tell me your mind."

"Agreed; only I hold _you_ to your bargain, remember, if _I_ don't
change."

"I'll stand to what I've said," said Davis. "Now, remember, the Hotel
Tirlemont; and so, good-bye, for I must pack up."

When the door closed after him, Annesley Beecher walked the room,
discussing with himself the meaning of Davis's late words. Well did
he know that to restore himself to rank and credit and fair fame was
a labor of no common difficulty. How was he ever to get back to that
station, forfeited by so many derelictions! Davis might, it is true,
get his bills discounted,--might hit upon fifty clever expedients for
raising the wind,--might satisfy this one, compromise with that; he
might even manage so cleverly that racecourses and betting-rooms would
be once more open to him. But what did--what could Grog know of that
higher world where once he had moved, and to which, by his misdeeds,
he had forfeited all claim to return? Why, Davis did n't even know the
names of those men whose slightest words are verdicts upon character.
All England was not Ascot, and Grog only recognized a world peopled with
gentlemen riders and jocks, and a landscape dotted with flagstaffs, and
closed in with a stand-house.

"No, no," said he to himself; "that's a flight above you, Master Davis.
It 's not to be thought of."

CHAPTER XXX. THE OPERA.