“You honour me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond,” says the other, with a very grand bow. My lord was always a fine gentleman, and young as he was there was that in Esmond’s manner which showed that he was a gentleman too, and that none might take a liberty with him—so the pair went out, and mounted the little carriage which was in waiting for them in the court, with its two little cream-coloured Hanoverian horses covered with splendid furniture and champing at the bit.
“My lord,” says Harry Esmond, after they were got into the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun’s foot, which was swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion—“my lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge.”
“Indeed, Parson Harry,” says he: “and are you going to take out a diploma: and cure your fellow student of the——”
“Of the gout,” says Harry, interrupting him, and looking him hard in the face; “I know a good deal about the gout.”
“I hope you may never have it. ’Tis an infernal disease,” says my lord, “and its twinges are diabolical. Ah!” and he made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt a twinge.
“Your lordship would be much better if you took off all that flannel—it only serves to inflame the toe,” Harry continued, looking his man full in the face.
“Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?” says the other, with an innocent air.
“If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper away, and wore a boot,” continues Harry.
“You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?” asks my lord.
“Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three days ago run down the gallery fast enough,” Harry goes on. “I am sure that taking gruel at night is not so pleasant as claret to your lordship; and besides it keeps your lordship’s head cool for play, whilst my patron’s is hot and flustered with drink.”
“’Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don’t play fair?” cries my lord, whipping his horses, which went away at a gallop.
“You are cool when my lord is drunk,” Harry continued; “your lordship gets the better of my patron. I have watched you as I looked up from my books.”
“You young Argus!” says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry Esmond—and for whose company and wit, and a certain daring manner, Harry had a great liking too—“You young Argus! you may look with all your hundred eyes and see we play fair. I’ve played away an estate of a night, and I’ve played my shirt off my back; and I’ve played away my periwig and gone home in a nightcap. But no man can say I ever took an advantage of him beyond the advantage of the game. I played a dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won ’em, and have one of ’em in my lodging in Bow Street in a bottle of spirits. Harry Mohun will play any man for anything—always would.”