“I’ll show you, sir; I’ll show you,” replied she, closing the room-door, and hurrying on to another one further along. “This is Mr. Pringle’s room, sir,” said she, stopping before it. “All right!” exclaimed Cuddy, knocking at the door. “Come in,” replied a feeble voice from within; and in Cuddy went. There was Billy in bed, with much such a disconsolate face as he had when Jack Rogers appeared with his hunting things. As, however, nobody ever admits being sick with smoking, Billy readily adopted Cuddy’s suggestion, and laid the blame on the pie. Cuddy, indeed, was good enough to say he had been sick himself, and of course Billy had a right to be so, too. “Shouldn’t have been so,” said Cuddy, “if that beggar Bankhead had brought the brandy; but there’s no getting anything out of that fellow.” And Caddy and Billy being then placed upon terms of equality, the interesting invalids agreed to have a walk together. To this end Billy turned out of bed and re-established himself in his recently-discarded coat and vest; feeling much like a man after a bad passage from Dover to Calais. The two then toddled down-stairs together, Cuddy stopping at the bottom of the flight to consult his old friend the glass, and speculate upon the Weather. “Dash it! but it’s falling,” said he, with a shake of the head after tapping it. “Didn’t like the looks of the sky this morning—wish there mayn’t be a storm brewing. Had one just about this time last year. Would be a horrid bore if hunting was stopped just in its prime,” and talked like a man with half-a-dozen horses fit to jump out of their skins, instead of not owning one. And Billy thought it would be the very thing for him if hunting was stopped. With a somewhat light heart, he followed Cuddy through the back slums to the stables. “Sir Moses doesn’t sacrifice much to appearances, does he?” asked Cuddy, pointing to the wretched rough-cast peeling off the back walls of the house, which were greened with the drippings of the broken spouts. “No,” replied Billy, staring about, thinking how different things looked there to what they did at the Carstle. “Desperately afraid of paint,” continued Cuddy, looking about. “Don’t think there has been a lick of paint laid upon any place since he got it. Always tell him he’s like a bad tenant at the end of a long lease,” which observation brought them to the first stable-door. “Who’s here?” cried Cuddy, kicking at the locked entrance. “Who’s there?” demanded a voice from within. “Me! _Mr. Flintoff_’!” replied Cuddy, in a tone of authority; “_open the door_” added he, imperiously.