room
beyond, which he dashed all to pieces with his head. Worse remains to be
told. 'Multum in Parvo,' seeing his old comrade's hind-quarters
disappearing through the window, just took the bit between his teeth, and
followed, in spite of Mr. Sponge's every effort to turn him; and when at
length he got him hauled round, the horse was found to have decorated
himself with a sky-blue _visite_ trimmed with Honiton lace, which he wore
like a charger on his way to the Crusades, or a steed bearing a knight to
the Eglinton tournament.

Quick as it happened, and soon as it was over, all Laverick Wells seemed to
have congregated in the street as our heroes rode out of the folding
glass-doors.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII

AN OLD FRIEND

About a fortnight after the above catastrophe, and as the recollection of
it was nearly effaced by Miss Jumpheavy's abduction of Ensign Downley, our
friend, Mr. Waffles, on visiting his stud at the four o'clock
stable-hour, found a most respectable, middle-aged, rosy-gilled,
better-sort-of-farmer-looking man, straddling his tight drab-trousered
legs, with a twisted ash plant propping his chin, behind the redoubtable
Hercules. He had a bran-new hat on, a velvet-collared blue coat with metal
buttons, that anywhere but in the searching glare and contrast of London
might have passed for a spic-and-span new one; a small, striped,
step-collared toilanette vest; and the aforesaid drab trousers, in the
right-hand pocket of which his disengaged hand kept fishing up and slipping
down an avalanche of silver, which made a pleasant musical accompaniment to
his monetary conversation. On seeing Mr. Waffles, the stranger touched his
hat, and appeared to be about to retire, when Mr. Figg, the stud-groom,
thus addressed his master:

'This be Mr. Buckram, sir, of London, sir; says he knows our brown 'orse,
sir.'

'Ah, indeed,' observed Mr. Waffles, taking a cigar from his mouth; 'knows
no good of him, I should think. What part of London do you live in, Mr.
Buckram?' asked he.

'Why, I doesn't exactly live in London, my lord--that's to say, sir--a
little way out of it, you know--have a little hindependence of my own, you
understand.'

'Hang it, how should I understand anything of the sort--never set eyes on
you before,' replied Mr. Waffles.

The half-crowns now began to descend singly in the pocket, keeping up a
protracted jingle, like the notes of a lazy, undecided musical snuff-box.
By the tim