I should have been
rotting in the Fleet, or the Marshalsea, years ago if it hadn't been
for my uncle's gout, b'gad!"
"His gout?"
"Precisely! Every twinge he has--up goes my credit. I'm his only heir,
y'know, and he's seventy-one. At present he's as sound as a bell,
--actually rode to hounds last week, b'gad! Consequently my
credit's--nowhere. Jolly old boy, though--deuced fond of him--ha!
there's Haynes! Over yonder! Fellow driving the phaeton with the
black-a-moor in the rumble."
"You mean the man in the bright green coat?"
"Yes. Call him 'Pea-green Haynes'--one of your second-rate, ultra
dandies. Twig his vasty whiskers, will you! Takes his fellow hours
to curl 'em. And then his cravat, b'gad!"
"How does he turn his head?" inquired Barnabas.
"Never does,--can't! I lost a devilish lot to him at hazard a few
years ago--crippled me, y' know. But talking of my uncle--devilish
fond of him--always was."
"But mark you, Beverley, a man has no right--no business to go
on living after he's seventy, at least, it shows deuced bad
taste, I think--so thoughtless, y'know. Hallo! why there's Ball
Hughes--driving the chocolate-colored coach, and got up like a
regular jarvey.
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