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now thought it had been so ill made that it would never have prospered with him. And Facey wondered that the idea had never struck him before: it seemed so natural and obvious, that he could not think how it had happened. Money! It required no money! The people who wanted the sport would find the money. He would find discretion and judgment. He knew all the ins and outs of management,—how a twenty pund horse was made into a fifty,—where to buy meal, where to buy oats, where to buy hay, where to buy everything. Then he would hunt the hounds himself,—do for pleasure what others did for pay,—and could soon fashion a light, active, ’cute lad with brains in his head into a whip. He knew how to get helpers at the exact market price,—he would be his-own stud-groom,—master of horse to himself. His hunting would get him shooting, and shooting would get him fishing, and the three would get him into society, and there was no saying but he might get an heiress after all. And Facey congratulated himself uncommonly on his sagacity, and retraced his steps to the Blue Posts, and then back to Soapey’s, with a light elasticity that he had never known since the death of Oncle Gilroy. Still there was no Soapey to be seen in Jermyn Street. Lucy was there, neat and pretty as usual, with the accustomed levee of nincompoops, all looking out for a smile. A mortgagee to the extent of sivin pun ten might well exercise acts of ownership, and Facey rolled in with such an air of importance that several of the small fry slunk away in alarm, thinking Facey was Soapey, and might perhaps spin them into the street. And as Soapey knew better than appear when Facey was there, the latter had the shop pretty much to himself; a presence, however, that did not at all contribute to the increase of custom. But as Facey had no share in the profits, and found the shop a very convenient lounge, he just dropped in whenever it suited him, getting his pipe and his porter from the Black Horse over the way. Lucy was always neat and nicely dressed, and partly from having an excellent figure of her own, and partly because the space behind the counter was rather contracted, she did not counteract Nature’s gifts by making herself into a haystack with hoops, but just put on as much something as made her clothes stand out below. She was always busy with her needle,—always either making her own clothes or mending Soapey’s, which latter were sometimes rather dilapidated.
    Facey on his part kept the mastership project firmly and steadily in view. The letters M.F.H. met him in the morning, they accompanied him throughout the day, and closed his eyes at night. He apostrophised the Bow bells’ address to Whittington—
    Turn again, Whittington,
    Thrice Lord Mayor of London.
    into,
    Turn again, Romford,
    Thrice Master of Fox-Hounds.
    He felt fully persuaded he would be a master, just as Mr Disraeli felt fully persuaded he would be an orator, and Louis Napoleon that he would be an emperor—it was fated so. He visited all the likely haunts of horsey and hunting men, from Tattersall’s down to some of the enterprising gentlemen who offer invaluable horses for half nothing, with every opportunity of investigation and trial. Though most of these thought Facey looked like a clown, yet there was something about his roguish physiognomy that prevented their trying it on with him. One thought he was a coper in disguise, and asked him, with a knowing wink, if he wasn’t in their line himself. And though Facey had gone into the yard with a considerable swagger, he did not resent the imputation, but said, in a low confidential sort of tone, “Well, no, but p’raps I could give you a lift.” And the man being ever anxious to do someone, after feeling his way a little further, fraternised with Facey, and put him up to a thing or two. So Facey went about from place to place, always with an eye to the main