R.H."
"Sir," inquired Barnabas, frowning, "do you mean the Prince?"
"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, with a smiling shake of the head, "I prefer
the letters H.R.H. Anyhow, there were many rumors afloat at the time,
and her guardian--a regular, tarry old sea dog, by George--drags her
away from her brother's side, and buries her in the country, like
the one-armed old pirate he is, eye to her money they tell me;
regular old skinflint; bad as a Jew--damn him! But speaking of the
race, sir, do you happen to--know anything?"
"I know that it is to be run on the fifteenth of July," said
Barnabas abstractedly.
"Oh, very good!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle--"ha! ha!--excellent! knows
it is to be run on the fifteenth; very facetious, curse me! But,
joking apart, sir, have you any private knowledge? The Viscount, now,
did he happen to tell you anything that--"
But, at this juncture, they were interrupted by a sudden tumult in
the yard outside, a hubbub of shouts, the ring and stamp of hoofs,
and, thereafter, a solitary voice upraised in oaths and curses.
Barnabas sprang to his feet, and hurrying out into the yard, beheld
a powerful black horse that reared and plunged in the grip of two
struggling grooms; in an adjacent corner was the late rider, who sat
upon a pile of stable-sweepings and swore, while, near by, perched
precariously upon an upturned bucket, his slim legs stretched out
before him, was a young exquisite--a Corinthian from top to toe--who
rocked with laughter, yet was careful to keep his head rigid, so as
to avoid crushing his cravat, a thing of wonder which immediately
arrested the attention of Barnabas, because of its prodigious height,
and the artful arrangement of its voluminous folds.
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