"And he can't be a day older than fourteen, my dear Bev," said the
Viscount, with a complacent nod, as they halted in the perfumed
shade of an adjacent rick; "that's his stable voice assumed for the
occasion, and, between you and me, I can't think how he does it. Egad!
he's the most remarkable boy that ever wore livery, the sharpest,
the gamest. I picked him up in London, a ragged urchin--caught him
picking my pocket, Been with me ever since, and I wouldn't part with
him for his weight in gold."
"Picking your pocket!" said Barnabas, "hum!"
The Viscount looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Why you see, my dear
fellow," he explained, "he was so--so deuced--small, Bev, a wretched
little pale-faced, shivering atomy, peeping up at me over a ragged
elbow waiting to be thrashed, and I liked him because he didn't
snivel, and he was too insignificant for prison, so, when he told me
how hungry he was, I forgot to cuff his shrinking, dirty little head,
and suggested a plate of beef at one of the a la mode shops. 'Beef?'
says he. 'Yes, beef,' says I, 'could you eat any?' 'Beef?' says he
again, 'couldn't I? why, I could eat a ox whole, I could!' So I
naturally dubbed him Milo of Crotona on the spot.
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