“It so chanced, egad, that the devil sent Miss Tea Merchant to Bury to buy apples.  She amused herself at playing country gentlewoman while papa worked all week in the city.  She saw the cart in the market, and ate three (for she had the health of a barmaid), and bid in the load, and George with it.  ’Pon my soul! she did.  They found his boots first.  And the lady said, before all the grinning Johns and Willums, that since she had bought him she supposed she would have to keep him.  And, by Gads life! she has got him yet, which is a deal stranger.”

Even the duke laughed.  For, as Fox told it, the story was irresistible.  But it came as near to being a wanton insult as a reference to his Grace’s own episode might.  The red came slowly back into his eye.  Fox stared vacantly, as was his habit when he had done or said something especially daring.  And Comyn and I waited, straining and expectant, like boys who have prodded a wild beast and stand ready for the spring.  There was a metallic ring in the duke’s voice as he spoke.

“I have heard, Mr. Carvel, that you can ride any mount offered you.”

“Od’s, and so he can!” cried Jack.  “I’ll take oath on that.”

“I will lay you an hundred guineas, my Lord,” says his Grace, very off-hand, “that Mr. Carvel does not sit Baltimore’s Pollux above twenty minutes.”

“Done!” says Jack, before I could draw breath.

“I’ll take your Grace for another hundred,” calmly added Mr. Fox.

“It seems to me, your Grace,” I cried, angry all at once, “it seems to me that I am the one to whom you should address your wagers.  I am not a jockey, to be put up at your whim, and to give you the chance to lose money.”

Chartersea swung around my way.

“Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,” said he, very coolly, very politely; “yours is the choice of the wager.  And you reject it, the others must be called off.”

“Slife!  I double it!” I said hotly, “provided the horse is alive, and will stand up.”

“Devilish well put, Richard!” Mr. Fox exclaimed, casting off his restraint.

“I give you my word the horse is alive, sir,” he answered, with a mock bow; “’twas only yesterday that he killed his groom, at Hampstead.”

A few moments of silence followed this revelation.  It was Charles Fox who spoke first.

“I make no doubt that your Grace, as a man of honour,”—­he emphasized the word forcibly,—­“will not refuse to ride the horse for another twenty minutes, provided Mr. Carvel is successful.  And I will lay your Grace another hundred that you are thrown, or run away with.”

Truly, to cope with a wit like Mr. Fox’s, the duke had need for a longer head.  He grew livid as he perceived how neatly he had been snared in his own trap.

“Done!” he cried loudly; “done, gentlemen.  It only remains to hit upon time and place for the contest.  I go to York to-morrow, to be back this day fortnight.  And if you will do me the favour of arranging with Baltimore for the horse, I shall be obliged.  I believe he intends selling it to Astley, the showman.”