Contraband; Or, A Losing HazardWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Contraband; Or, A Losing Hazard
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
"Oh! I don't know them very well," said Frank, growing red, and feeling
that he was making himself ridiculous. "I stayed with them last winter,
near Bragford. Capital place to hunt from, and Sir Henry was very kind
and hospitable. If you're quite done, shall we come outside? The drag
will start in an hour, and I will have a place kept for you, if you'd
like to go with the others from here."
"I am not going at all," answered Picard. "The fact is, I'm not much of
a racing man, and two days running is rather a benefit. Don't let me put
you out in your arrangements, I beg. This is a beautiful neighbourhood,
and I've been so much abroad, that I quite enjoy the air, and the
English scenery, and the rest of it. I'd rather take a quiet walk while
you're all at the races; but I'll stay and see you start the team
notwithstanding."
"Not going!" thought Frank. "How very odd! Now, what can a fellow like
this have to do down here on the sly? Country walk! Gammon! He's after
some robbery, I'll lay a hundred!" But he only _said_:
"My Cornet's going to drive. I don't think I shall be on the Heath at
all, unless I gallop a hack over in the afternoon."
"Hot work," answered Picard carelessly. "I thought everybody was keen
about racing, except me." But he too wondered at the taste of his
entertainer in thus preferring a solitary morning to a pleasant drive in
the merriest of company, accounting for it on a theory of his own.
"War-path, of course! and, keen as a true Indian, means to follow it up
alone. Got 'sign,' no doubt, and sticks to the trail like a wolf. Won't
come back, I'll lay a thousand, without 'raising hair.' Ah! this child,
too, could take scalps once, and hang them round his belt, with the best
of ye! And _now_----Well, I'm about no harm to-day, at any rate, and
that's refreshing, if it's only for a change!"
So he sat himself down on a garden seat in front of the officers'
quarters, where, producing a case the size of a portmanteau, filled with
such cigars as are only consumed by trans-Atlantic smokers, and,
offering them liberally all round, he soon became the centre of an
admiring circle, civil as well as military, to whom he related sundry
experiences of international warfare in the States, well told,
interesting, no doubt, and more startling than probable.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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