“Would n't I trot the coach along at a very different pace. It's not poking about Italy, dining with smoke-dried cardinals and snuffy old 'marchesas,' I 'd be; but I 'd have such a stable, old fellow, with Jem Bates to ride and Tom Ward to train them, and yourself, too, to counsel me. Would n't we give Binsleigh and Hawksworth and the rest of them a cold bath, eh?” “That ain't the style of thing at all, Beecher,” said Grog, deprecatingly; “you ought to go in for the 'grand British nobleman dodge,'--county interests, influence with a party, and a vote in the Lords. If you were to try it, you 'd make a right good speech. It wouldn't be one of those flowery things the Irish fellows do, but a manly, straightforward, genuine English discourse.” “Do you really think so, Grog?” asked he, eagerly. “I 'm sure of it I never mistook pace in my life; and I know what's in you as well as if I saw it. The real fact is, you have a turn of speed that you yourself have no notion of, but it will come out one of these days if you 're attacked,--if they say anything about your life on the turf, your former companions, or a word about the betting-ring.” The charm of this flattery was far more intoxicating than even the copious goblets of Marcobrunner, and Beecher's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes betrayed how it overpowered him. Davis went on:-- “You are one of those fellows that never show 'the stuff they 're made of' till some injustice is done them,--eh?” “True as a book!” chimed in Beecher. “Take you fairly, and a child might lead you; but try it on to deny you what you justly have a right to,--let them attempt to dictate to you, and say, 'Do this, and don't do the other,'--little they know on what back they 've put the saddle. You 'll give them such a hoist in the air as they never expected!” “How you read every line of me!” exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy. “And I 'll tell you more; there's not another man breathing knows you but myself. They 've always seen you in petty scrapes and little difficulties, pulling the devil by the last joint of his tail, as Jack Bush says; but let them wait till you come out for a cup race,--the Two Thousand Guinea Stakes,--then I'm not Kit Davis if you won't be one of the first men in England.” “I hope you 're right, Davis. I almost feel as if you were,” said Beecher, earnestly. “When did you find me in the wrong, so far as judgment went? Show me one single mistake I ever made in a matter of opinion? Who was it foretold that Bramston would bolt after the Cotteswold if Rugby didn't win? Who told the whole yard at Tattersall's that Grimsby would sell Holt's stable? Who saw that Rickman Turner was a coward, and would n't fight?--and I said it, the very day they gave him 'the Bath' for his services in China! I don't know much about books, nor do I pretend to; but as to men and women--men best--I 'll back myself against all England and the Channel Islands.”