“Monsieur, Monsieur—oh, ah, that’s my friend Pringle’s valet,” observed Sir Moses, drily; “what about him?” “Why he’s going, isn’t he?” replied Dribbler. “Oh, poor fellow, no,” rejoined Sir Moses; “he doesn’t want to go—it’s no use persecuting a poor devil because a Frenchman.” “But I dare say he’d enjoy it very much,” observed Dribbler. “Well, then, will you mount him?” asked Sir Moses. “Why I thought _you_ were going to do it,” replied Dribbler. “_Me_ mount him!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his ringed hands in well-feigned astonishment, as if he had never made such an offer—“_Me_ mount him! why, my dear fellow, do you know how many people I have to mount as it is? Let me tell you,” continued he, counting them off on his fingers, “there’s Tom, and there’s Harry, and there’s Joe, and there’s the pad-groom and myself, five horses out every day—generally six, when I’ve a hack—six horses a day, four days a week—if that isn’t enough, I don’t know what is—dom’d if I do,” added he, with a snort and a determined jerk of his head. “Well, but we can manage him a mount among us, somehow, I dare say,” persevered Dribbler, looking round upon the now partially smoke-obscured company. “Oh no, let him alone, poor fellow; let him alone,” replied Sir Moses, coaxingly, adding, “he evidently doesn’t wish to go—evidently doesn’t wish to go.” “I don’t know that,” exclaimed Cuddy Flintoff, with a knowing jerk of his head; “I don’t know that—I should say he’s rather a y-o-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-eks push ‘im up! sort of chap.” So saying, Cuddy drained his glass to the dregs. “I should say you’re rather a y-o-i-eks wind ‘im—y-o-i-cks drink ‘im up sort of chap,” replied Sir Moses, at which they all laughed heartily. Cuddy availed himself of the _divertissement_ to make another equally strong brew—saying, “It was put there to drink, wasn’t it?” at which they all laughed again. Still there was a disposition to harp upon the hunt—Dribbler tied on the scent, and felt disposed to lend Jack a horse if nobody else would. So he threw out a general observation, that he thought they could manage a mount for Monsieur among them. “Well, but perhaps his master mayn’t, like it,” suggested Sir Moses, in hopes that Billy would come to the rescue. “O, I don’t care about it,” replied Billy, with an air of indifference, who would have been glad to hunt by deputy if he could, and so that chance fell to the ground. “_Hoick to Governor! Hoick to Governor!_” cheered Cuddy at the declaration. “Now who’ll lend him a horse?” asked he, taking up the question. “What say you, Stub?” appealing to Mr. Strongstubble, who generally had more than he could ride.