“And I’ll go Monsieur’s,” said Mr. Straddler, still backing the thing up. Thus appealed to, poor Cuddv was obliged to submit, and before he knew where he was, the dread pen, ink and paper were produced, and things began to assume a tangible form. Mr. Paul Straddler, having seated himself on a chair at the opportune card-table, began sinking his pen and smoothing out his paper, trying to coax his ideas into order. “Now, let us see,” said he, “now let us see. Monsieur, what’s his name—old Bushey-heath as you call him, agrees to ride Mr. Flintoff a match across country—now for distance, time, and stake! now for distance, time, and stake!” added he, hitting off the scent. “Well, but how can you make a match without any horses? how can you make a match without any horses?” asked Sir Moses, interposing his beak, adding “I’ll not lend any—dom’d if I will.” That being the first time Sir Moses was ever known not to volunteer one. “O, we’ll find horses,” replied Tommy Heslop, “we’ll find horses!” thinking Sir Moses’s refusal was all in favor of the match. “Catch weights, catch horses, catch every thing.” “Now for distance, time, and stake,” reiterated Mr. Straddler. “Now for distance, time, and stake, Monsieur!” continued he, appealing to Jack. “What distance would you like to have it?” “Vot you please, sare,” replied Monsieur, now depositing his tray on the sideboard; “vot you please, sare, much or little; ten miles, twenty miles, any miles he likes.” “O, the fellow’s mad,” muttered Cuddy, with a jerk of his head, making a last effort to be off. “Don’t be in a hurry, Cuddy, don’t be in a hurry,” interposed Heslop, adding, “he doesn’t understand it—he doesn’t understand it.” “O, I understands it, nicely, vell enough,” replied Jack, with a shrug of his shoulders; “put us on to two orses, and see vich gets first to de money post.” “Aye, yes, exactly, to be sure, that’s all right,” asserted Paul Straddler, looking up approvingly at Jack, “and you say you’ll beat Mr. Flintoff?” “I say I beat Mr. Flintoff,” rejoined Jack—“beat im dem vell too—beat his ead off—beat him _stupendous!_” added he. “O, dash it all, we can’t stand that, Caddy!” exclaimed Mr. Heslop, nudging Mr. Flintoff; “honor of the country, honor of the hunt, honor of England, honor of every thing’s involved.” Cuddy’s bristles were now up too, and shaking his head and thrusting his hands deep into his trousers pockets, “he declared he couldn’t stand that sort of language,—shot if he could.” “No; nor nobody else,” continued Mr. Heslop, keeping him up to the indignity mark; “must be taught better manners,” added he with a pout of the lip, as though fully espousing Caddy’s cause.