“Don’t, Cuddy! don’t!” now muttered Sir Moses, taking the entire top tier off a pile of muffins, and filling his mouth as full as it would hold; “don’t,” repeated he, adding, “it’s no use (munch) bullying a poor (crunch) beggar because he’s a (munch) Frenchman” (crunch). Sir Moses then took a great draught of tea. Monsieur’s monkey, however, was now up, and he felt inclined to tackle with Flintoff. “I tell you vot, sare Cuddy,” said he, looking him full in the face, “you think yourself vare great man, vare great ossmaan, vare great foxer, and so on, bot I vill ride you a match for vot monies you please.” “Hoo-ray! well done you! go it, Monsieur! Who’d ha’ thought it! Now for some fun!” resounded through the room, bringing all parties in closer proximity. Flintoff was rather taken aback. He didn’t expect anything of that sort, and though he fully believed Jack to be a tailor, he didn’t want to test the fact himself; indeed he felt safer on foot than on horseback, being fonder of the theory than of the reality of hunting. “Hut you and your matches,” sneered he, thrusting his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, inclining to sheer of, adding, “go and get his Imperial Highness to ride you one.” “His Imperial Highness, sare, don’t deal in oss matches. He is not a jockey, he is a gentlemans—great friend of de great lords vot rules de oder noisy dogs,” replied Jack. “_Humph_, grunted Sir Moses, not liking the language. “In-deed!” exclaimed Cuddy with a frown, “In-deed! Hark to Monsieur! Hark!” “Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now interposed Paul Straddler, closing up to prevent Cuddy’s retreat. Paul, as we said before, was a disengaged gentleman who kept a house of call for Bores at Hinton,—a man who was always ready to deal, or do anything, or go any where at any body else’s expense. A great judge of a horse, a great judge of a groom, a great judge of a gig, a gentleman a good deal in Cuddy Flintoff’s own line in short, and of course not a great admirer of his. He now thought he saw his way to a catch, for the Woolpack had told him how shamefully Jack had bucketed his horse, and altogether he thought Monsieur might be as good a man across country as Mr. Flintoff. At all events he would like to see. “Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now exclaimed he, adding in Flintoff’s ear, “never let it be said you were afraid of a Frenchman.” “Afraid!” sneered Cuddy, “nobody who knows me will think that, I guess.” “Well then, _make_ him a match!” urged Tommy Heslop, who was no great admirer of Cuddy’s either; “_make_ him a match, and I’ll go your halves.”