“How’d Forest King stand the train?”

“Bright as a bird, sir; he never mind nothing.  Mother o’ Pearl she worreted a little, he says; she always do, along of the engine noise, but the King walked in and out just as if the station were his own stable-yard.”

“He gave them gruel and chilled water after the shaking before he let them go to their corn?”

“He says he did, sir.”

Rake would by no means take upon himself to warrant the veracity of his sworn foe, the stud-groom; unremitting feud was between them; Rake considered that he knew more about horses than any other man living, and the other functionary proportionately resented back his knowledge and his interference, as utterly out of place in a body-servant.

“Tell him I’ll look in at the stable after duty and see the screws are all right; and that he’s to be ready to go down with them by my train to-morrow—­noon, you know.  Send that note there, and the bracelets, to St. John’s Wood:  and that white bouquet to Mrs. Delamaine.  Bid Willon get some Banbury bits; I prefer the revolving mouths, and some of Wood’s double mouths and Nelson gags; we want new ones.  Mind that lever-snap breech-loader comes home in time.  Look in at the Commission stables, and if you see a likely black charger as good as Black Douglas, tell me.  Write about the stud fox-terrier, and buy the blue Dandy Dinmont; Lady Guinevere wants him.  I’ll take him down with me, but first put me into harness, Rake; it’s getting late.”

Murmuring which multiplicity of directions, for Rake to catch as he could, in the softest and sleepiest of tones, Bertie Cecil drank a glass of Curacoa, put his tall, lithe limbs indolently off his sofa, and surrendered himself to the martyrdom of cuirass and gorget, standing six feet one without his spurred jacks, but light-built and full of grace as a deer, or his weight would not have been what it was in gentleman-rider races from the Hunt steeple-chase at La Marche to the Grand National in the Shires.

“As if Parliament couldn’t meet without dragging us through the dust!  The idiots write about ‘the swells in the Guards,’ as if we had all fun and no work, and knew nothing of the rough of the Service.  I should like to learn what they call sitting motionless in your saddle through half a day, while a London mob goes mad round you, and lost dogs snap at your charger’s nose, and dirty little beggars squeeze against your legs, and the sun broils you, or the fog soaks you, and you sit sentinel over a gingerbread coach till you’re deaf with the noise, and blind with the dust, and sick with the crowd, and half dead for want of sodas and brandies, and from going a whole morning without one cigarette!  Not to mention the inevitable apple-woman who invariably entangles herself between your horse’s legs, and the certainty of your riding down somebody and having a summons about it the next day!  If all that isn’t the rough of the Service, I should like to know what is.