His luck at cards continuing, and with it his determination to move thereafter in polite life, Mr. Wetheral set about acquiring certain accomplishments necessary to his purpose. There was a fop among Lord George's acquaintance, given to telling laughable stories, partly in French. Of this gentleman's Coffee House audience, Dick was the only one who could not laugh uproariously at these Gallic passages. He thereupon resolved to learn French, as well as to acquire the more fashionable styles of dancing, and to improve what rudiments of fencing had been imparted to him by old Tom MacAlister. Thus he invested a good part of his nightly winnings in clandestine lessons, taken while Lord George was making visits, or off with some pleasure-seeking party to Spring Gardens, or elsewhere engaged. Wetheral supplemented his French and fencing lessons with private practice in his rooms, or in some solitary part of the grove by the Avon, or of King's Mead Fields, or elsewhere. His natural readiness and his fierce application soon enabled him to read and write easy French passably well; but when he came to speak in that language to the foppish little master of ceremonies at the Rooms, he brought confusion on himself. He made a better show at dancing, though; and a few trials of the foils with Lord George, on a rainy day, displayed a promise of early ability to handle a sword in the approved fashion. One evening in the second week of May, Lord George announced his wish of starting for London on the morrow, as the fashionable season at Bath would soon be over. Dick had no sorrow at this, for he had resolved to continue in London his present way of life, by means of the cards and by whatever other resources he might find at hand. He was quite ready for fresh fields, as long as they were of the flowery kind. Desiring, though, a last survey of the field he was about to leave, Dick sallied forth alone that night for the Rooms, Lord George having to remain at his lodgings to write some letters he had postponed to the last moment. Just as Mr. Wetheral was entering the ballroom, during a cessation of dancing, and was felicitating himself on the flattering salutations he got from acquaintances obtained through Lord George,--and several of these greetings came with melting smiles from fair faces,--he heard a voice at his side cry out: "Why, by God, 'tis the rascal gamekeeper masquerading as a gentleman!" Dick recognized the voice, now bellow and now whimper, ere even he turned, like a man shot, and saw the face. At sight of the gross, insolent visage of Squire Bullcott, the memory of the horse-whipping drove away every other consideration, and Dick, thinking only of revenge, not of his own possible discomfiture, replied, hotly: "So 'tis you, Bully Bullcott! I intended to return and pay off my score, but kind Providence has saved me the trouble by sending you to Bath. Wait until I meet you in the street, sir!"