the place cleared, begged, that I would ride his Indian Chief.  I refused; but March pressed me, and Comyn declared he had staked his reputation upon my horsemanship.  Astley was a large man, about my build, and I donned a pair of his leather breeches and boots, and put Indian Chief to his paces around the ring.  I found him no more restive, nor as much so, as Firefly.  The gentlemen were good enough to clap me roundly, and Astley vowed (no doubt because of the noble patrons present) that he had never seen a better seat.

We all repaired afterwards for supper to Don Saltero’s Coffee House and Museum in Chelsea.  And I remembered having heard my grandfather speak of the place, and tell how he had seen Sir Richard Steele there, listening to the Don scraping away at the “Merry Christ Church Bells” on his fiddle.  The Don was since dead, but King James’s coronation sword and King Henry VIII.’s coat of mail still hung on the walls.

The remembrance of that fortnight has ever been an appalling one.  Mr. Carvel had never attempted to teach me the value of money.  My grandfather, indeed, held but four things essential to the conduct of life; namely, to fear God, love the King, pay your debts, and pursue your enemies.  There was no one in London to advise me, Comyn being but a wild lad like myself.  But my Lord Carlisle gave me a friendly warning: 

“Have a care, Carvel,” said he, kindly, “or you will run your grandfather through, and all your relations beside.  I little realized the danger of it when I first came up.” (He was not above two and twenty then.) “And now I have a wife, am more crippled than I care to be, thanks to this devilish high play.  Will you dine with Lady Carlisle in St. James’s Place next Friday?”

My heart went out to this young nobleman.  Handsome he was, as a picture.  And he knew better than most of your fine gentlemen how to put a check on his inclinations.  As a friend he had few equals, his purse being ever at the command of those he loved.  And his privations on Fox’s account were already greater than many knew.

I had a call, too, from Mr. Dix.  I found him in my parlour one morning, cringing and smiling, and, as usual, half an hour away from his point.

“I warrant you, Mr. Carvel,” says he, “there are few young gentlemen not born among the elect that make the great friends you are blessed with.”

“I have been fortunate, Mr. Dix,” I replied dryly.

“Fortunate!” he cried; “good Lord, sir!  I hear of you everywhere with Mr. Fox, and you have been to Astley’s with my Lord March.  And I have a draft from you at Ampthill.”

“Vastly well manoeuvred, Mr. Dix,” I said, laughing at the guilty change in his pink complexion.  “And hence you are here.”

He fidgeted, and seeing that I paid him no attention, but went on with my chocolate, he drew a paper from his pocket and opened it.

“You have spent a prodigious sum, sir, for so short a time,” said he, unsteadily. “’Tis very well for you, Mr. Carvel, but I have to remember that you are heir only.  I am advancing you money without advices from his Worship, your grandfather.  A most irregular proceeding, sir, and one likely to lead me to trouble.  I know not what your allowance may be.”