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There are some spectacles which a man never forgets. The burning of Troy probably seemed a large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises. In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone.
I will try and sketch him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was then only fifteen. His broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. Perhaps he was a trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. His eyes were glittering but pitiless.
Then, passing his hand over his marble brow, the old look of stern fixedness of purpose and unflinching severity would straighten the lines of his mouth, and he would mutter, half to himself, "S'death!" "Come with me to Heavystone Grange. The Exmoor hounds throw off to- morrow. I'll give you a mount," he said, as he amused himself by rolling up a silver candlestick between his fingers.
A striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill or, and the motto, "Devil a better!" I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.
"He carries weight, he rides a race, 'Tis for a thousand pound." "There is Flora Billingsgate, the greatest coquette and hardest rider in the country," said my companion, Ralph Mortmain, as we stood upon Dingleby Common before the meet. I looked up and beheld Guy Heavystone bending haughtily over the saddle, as he addressed a beautiful brunette.
With the rapidity of lightning, Guy Heavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated "Habet!" and with a back stroke of his cavalry sabre severed the member from its trunk, and, drawing the net back again, cast the gory head upon the floor, saying quietly: "One."
Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived, hard. "One cigar a day!" said Judge Boompointer. "One cigar a day!" repeated John Jenkins, as with trepidation he dropped his half-consumed cigar under his work-bench. "One cigar a day is three cents a day," remarked Judge Boompointer gravely; "and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, amounts to in the course of four years?"
The burning of Troy probably seemed a large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises. In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone. I say alone, for the pile of small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called company.
A striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill or, and the motto, "Devil a better!" I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.
He hissed the last sentence between his teeth, and a gloomy frown descended over his calm brow. I affected to turn over the tradesmen's bills that lay on the table, for, like all of the Heavystone race, Guy seldom paid cash, and said, "You remind me of the time when Leonidas" "Oh, bother Leonidas and your classical allusions. Come!" We descended to dinner.
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