with the strong effort; for, mark ye, Choctaws isn't
Pawnees: they 're on you with a swoop, just like a white squall in the
summer time." There is no saying how far Quackinboss, notwithstanding
all his boasted skill in physic, might have been tempted to talk on
about a theme he loved so well, when he was suddenly admonished, by the
expression of Layton's face, that the sick man was utterly unconscious
of all around him. The countenance had assumed that peculiar stern
and stolid gaze which is so markedly the characteristic of an affected
brain.

"There," muttered Quackinboss to himself, "I 've been a-talkin' all this
time to a poor creetur as is ravin' mad; all I 've been doin' is to make
him worse."

CHAPTER XVII. A MASTER AND MAN

Who owns the smart tandem that trips along so flippantly over the
slightly frosted road from the Bagni towards Lucca? What genius, cunning
in horseflesh, put that spicy pair together, perfect matches as they are
in all but color, for the wheeler is a blood chestnut, and the leader
a bright gray, with bone and substance enough for hunters? They have a
sort of lithe and wiry action that reminds one of the Hungarian
breed, and so, indeed, a certain jaunty carriage of the head, and
half wild-looking expression of eye, bespeak them. The high dog-cart,
however, is unmistakably English, as well as the harness, with its
massive mountings and broad straps. What an air of mingled elegance
and solidity pervades the entire! It is, as it were, all that such
an equipage can pretend to compass,--lightness, speed, and a dash of
sporting significance being its chief characteristics.

It is not necessary to present you to the portly gentleman who holds the
ribbons, all encased as he is in box-coats and railway wrappers; you
can still distinguish Mr. O'Shea, and as unmistakably recognize his
man Joe beside him. The morning is sharp, clear, and frosty, but so
perfectly still that the blue smoke of Mr. O'Shea's cigar hangs floating
in the air behind him, as the nimble nags spin along at something
slightly above thirteen miles an hour. Joe, too, solaces himself with
the bland weed, but in more primitive fashion, from a short "dudeen" of
native origin: his hat is pressed down firmly over his brows, and his
hands, even to the wrists, deeply encased in his pockets, for Joe, be it
owned, is less amply supplied with woollen comforts than his master, and
feels the morning sharp.

"Now, I call this a very nea