It was in vain Bella tried to get back the conversation to the events of the campaign, to the scenes wherein poor Jack was an actor. Beecher's perverse activity held them chained to incidents which, to him, embraced all that was worth living for. “You must have had some capital things in your time, though. You had some race-horses, and were well in with Tom Nolan's set,” said he to Conway. “Shall I tell you the best match I ever had,--at least, the one gave me most pleasure?” “Do, by all means,” said Beecher, eagerly, “though I guess it already. It was against Vickersley, even for ten thousand, at York.” “No,” said the other, smiling. “Well, then, it was the Cotswold,--four miles in two heats. You won it with a sister to Ladybird.” “Nor that, either; though by these reminiscences you show me how accurately you have followed my humble fortunes.” “There 's not a man has done anything on the turf for fifty years I can't give you his history; not a horse I won't tell you all his performances, just as if you were reading it out of the 'Racing Calendar.' As 'Bell's Life' said t' other day, 'If Annesley Beecher can't answer that question,'--and it was about Running Rein,--'no man in England can.' I'm 'The Fellow round the corner' that you always see alluded to in 'Bell.'” “Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, with assumed deference. “That I am,--Kellett knows it. Ask old Paul there,--ask Grog,--ask any one you like, whether A. B. is up to a thing or two. But we 're forgetting this match,--the best thing you said you ever had.” “I 'm not so sure you 'll be of my mind when you hear it,” said Conway, smiling. “It was a race we had t' other day in the Crimea,--a steeplechase, over rather a stiff course, with Spanish ponies; and I rode against Lord Broodale, Sir Harry Curtis, and Captain Marsden, and won five pounds and a dozen of champagne. My comrades betted something like fifty shillings on the match, and there would have been a general bankruptcy in the company if I had lost. Poor Jack mortgaged his watch and a pilot coat that he was excessively proud of,--it was the only bit of mufti in the battalion, I think; but he came off all right, and treated us all to a supper with his winnings, which, if I don't mistake, did n't pay more than half the bill.” “Good luck to him, and here's his health,” cried Kellett, whose heart, though proof against all ordinary appeals to affection, could not withstand this assault of utter recklessness and improvidence. “He's my own flesh and blood, there's no denying it.”