"Why then, Peterby—what of Sir Mortimer Carnaby?"
"He managed it by going into the ring with Jack Fearby, the 'Young Ruffian,' and beating him in twenty-odd rounds for one thing, and winning a cross-country race—"
"Ha!" exclaimed Barnabas, "a race!" and so he fell to staring up at the ceiling again.
"But I fear, sir," continued Peterby, "that in making him your enemy, you have damned your chances at the very outset, as I told you."
"A race!" said Barnabas again, vastly thoughtful.
"And therefore," added Peterby, leaning nearer in his earnestness, "since you honor me by asking my advice, I would strive with all my power to dissuade you."
"John Peterby—why?"
"Because, in the first place, I know it to be impossible."
"I begin to think not, John."
"Why, then, because—it's dangerous!"
"Danger is everywhere, more or less, John."
"And because, sir, because you—you—" Peterby rose, and stood with bent head and hands outstretched, "because you gave a miserable wretch another chance to live; and therefore I—I would not see you crushed and humiliated. Ah, sir! I know this London, I know those who make up the fashionable world. Sir, it is a heartless world, cruel and shallow, where inexperience is made a mock of—generosity laughed to scorn; where he is most respected who can shoot the straightest; where men seldom stoop to quarrel, but where death is frequent, none the less—and, sir, I could not bear—I—I wouldn't have you cut off thus—!"
Peterby stopped suddenly, and his head sank lower; but as he stood Barnabas rose, and coming to him, took his hand into his own firm clasp.
"Thank you, John Peterby," said he. "You may be the best valet in the world—I hope you are—but I know that you are a man, and, as a man, I tell you that I have decided upon going on with the adventure."
"Then I cannot hope to dissuade you, sir?"
"No, John!"
"Indeed, I feared not."
"It was for this I came to London, and I begin—at once."
"Very good, sir."
"Consequently, you have a busy day before you; you see I shall require, first of all, clothes, John; then—well, I suppose a house to live in—"
"A—house, sir?"
"In a fashionable quarter, and furnished, if possible."
"A lodging, St. James's Street way, is less expensive, sir, and more usual."
"Good!" said Barnabas; "to buy a house will be more original, at least. Then there must be servants, horses—vehicles—but you will understand—"
"Certainly, sir."
"Well then, John—go and get 'em."
"Sir?" exclaimed Peterby.
"Go now, John," said Barnabas, pulling out his purse, "this very moment."
"But," stammered Peterby, "but, sir—you will—"
"I shall stay here—I don't intend to stir out until you have me dressed as I should be—in 'clothes that exist,' John!"
"But you—don't mean to—to entrust—everything—to—me?"
"Of course, John."
"But sir—"
"I have every confidence in your judgment, you see. Here is money, you will want more, of course, but this will do to go on with."
But Peterby only stared from Barnabas to the money on the table, and back again.
"Sir," said he at last, "this is—a great deal of money."
"Well, John?"
"And I would remind you that we are in London, sir, and that yesterday I—was a poacher—a man of no character—a—"
"But to-day you are my valet, John. So take the money and buy me whatever I require, but a tailor first of all."
Then, as one in a dream, Peterby took up the money, counted it, buttoned it into his pocket, and crossed to the door; but there he paused and turned.
