by R S Surtees
“Nice nag you’ve got there,” said Cake, in a careless sort of way—” could hunt a little, I should think, that nag.”
“A good deal,” replied Tom, adding, “that’s just what I keep her for.”
“Indeed!” replied Cake, with a touch of his hat, and a low bow.
“I want to see the Stout-as-steel hounds tomorrow — how far is the Bridge of Bevis Mount from here?”
“Bridge of Bevis Mount — Bridge of Bevis Mount,” muttered Cake quickly, as if he knew the place so well that he quite forgot it. “How far is the bridge of Bevis Mount from here, Beer?” asked he of the ostler.
“Bevis M-o-u-n-t, Bevis M-o-u-n-t,” drawled the dawdler; “Bevis M-o-u-n-t?” repeated he—” W-h-o-y, it’ill be up ‘mong hills, l-o-i-k-e, away by Gussingen,” wagging a hand in the air as if pointing to it. —
“Ah, I know,” replied Tom, walking away in search of the saddler.
Having found that functionary, and learned all about it, he was presently stamping the cold, slaty mud off his hoots in the door-way, beneath the blazing sign of the Goldtrap Arms.
“This way, Sir, if you please,” exclaimed Cornelius Cake, rushing out of the little back parlour commanding a view of the entrance, throwing open the black door of the little parlour on the right, in whose pittance of a grate smoked and spluttered some white-ashed, slaty-looking coals.
Though the best room, it was small and low, papered with a tasteless, repulsive-looking, dark-green paper, carried half way down the wall, the part below the skirting-board being whitewashed. We sometimes see papers so hideously ugly as to look as if they had been made for a premium.
On the wall opposite the windows, and above the wooden mantel-piece, which latter was decorated with paper fans, spars, card-racks, china poodles, and other dust-catching articles, were portraits of Tom’s host and hostess — Cornelius and Mrs. Cake.
They were evidently by the same hand, most likely acquired in the usual way of inn portraiture, — some travelling artist painting out his bill. On no other supposition can we account for the wonderful tendency publicans have to “run to portrait.”
How hard, and cold, and solemn, and vulgarly like himself, Cornelius looked down upon Tom from his gilt frame.
When he brought in candles, he had brushed up his hair to the picture point, and arrayed himself in the snuff-coloured coat with the velvet collar and black waistcoat of the portrait. He only wanted the amplified neckcloth, with the butterfly brooch, and red cord watchguard, to be perfect.
“I should like to have some dinner,” said Tom, after Cake had deposited the candles, and let down the scant drab window-curtains, trimmed with red gimp.
“What would you like, sir?” inquired Cake, with the air of a Lord Mayor’s cook.
“What have you in the house?” replied Tom, anticipating the usual variety — mutton chop, beef steak — beef steak, mutton-chop.
“There’s soup, sir; mutton broth, at least. Fish — fish, sir, I’m afraid’s not very fresh — not what I could recommend. You could have a fowl or a duck, and a nice little French dish to follow.”
“French dish!” exclaimed Tom, as the Dawdle Court banquet, and Louis Philippe night-mare flashed across his mind. “French dish! what, you haven’t a French cook, have you?”
“My lady’s a Frenchwoman,” replied Cake, speaking of her in the true Debrett style; my lady’s a Frenchwoman;” as if that was enough to constitute a cook. The fact was, Cornelius had been butler, and Madame Cake lady’s maid to Sir Digby and Lady Goldtrap, and — but our readers will anticipate the rest.
“Well; I’ll have the broth, and a fowl, and a French dish to follow,” said Tom.
“Any sweets?” inquired Cake; “Sir Digby always took sweets.”
“Yes; you may let me have a nice little French dish of sweets, too,” replied Tom. So saying, Cake departed to execute the order.
Tom had revisited the stable, fed the mare, seen his bedroom, opened the window, drawn the stuffy blue check curtains, stared up the street, examined the portrait of Madame Cake, and thought how the light, tasteful spirit of French elegance must have shuddered at the harsh matter-of-fact-looking cap and brown silk gown in which she was daubed, ere the bump of the tray against the weak door announced that it was about time to take his seat: — the oaths at a dinner of this sort are frequently taken after.
Having deposited the little basin of mutton broth before Tom, Cake, with a napkin-covered thumb, lifted the little delf lid off with the flourish of a man uncovering a glittering tureen of many hundred ounces weight.
“What wine will you please to take, sir?” asked he, giving the hock glass a push against the other two to draw Tom’s attention to their presence.
It’s a fearful thing when a man’s consequence entails a variety of wine-glasses upon him at an inn.
Had Tom brought Sleekpow, he would have attributed the misfortune to him, concluding he had been telling where they had come from. As it was, he was obliged to put it down to the superior refinement of his host over himself. Indeed, we know men who keep servants to teach them what they ought to do.
Tom wouldn’t give twopence a gallon for hock, so he humbly replied that he’d take a pint of sherry.
“Some of Sir Digby, I s’pose, sir,” replied Cake.
“Of course,” said Tom; and away he went for the liquid.
The mutton broth, or pot barley and water, was execrable; and Tom had dropped the spoon in the plate in despair ere Cake came back rubbing a tiny decanter with a napkin.
“You’ll find this very fine wine, sir,” said he, holding it up to the candle, and smacking his lips as though it were most luscious.
He then helped Tom to three quarters of a glass.
“Sir Digby always calls this my golden particular,” added he, setting it down.
A bad dinner and a loquacious waiter are evils that no man can stand jointly; so Tom intimated, by a lateral motion of the spoon in the plate, that he was ready for the “follow,” as they say at the Clubs. This was old Cock-a-doodle-doo!
If possible, it was worse than the broth, being black, and hard, and dry, and tough, — a very old chanticleer indeed. —
Cake saw it wouldn’t do, and proposed making a grill of it. “Sir Digby was very fond of grills,” said he, as if that was enough.
Tom didn’t care much about it, having an eye to the nice little French dish that was to follow; so he said, “Perhaps you may as well bring in the next dish?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Cake, whisking away both fowl and plate.
The precipitancy of the remove made a gap in the series, and left Tom a little time to speculate on the next “follow.”
He wondered what it would be, “Blanquette de veau aux champignons,”
“Côté de Bœuf à la Bonne Femme,” or perhaps game dressed in some peculiar way — Escalopes de Chevreuil,” or “ — à la Péreguèux.”
“One wouldn’t expect French cookery in a house of this sort,” observed he, looking at the most perfect public-house appearance of the little parlour and its appurtenances; but there’s no saying what one may meet with in this world.’
Just then somebody threw open the door, and in rushed Cake with a round vegetable dish, encircled in a napkin, clasped in both hands.
This he set down with, a noise betokening the most perfect confidence in its contents.
“Hot plate! hot plate!” exclaimed he, as if a moment’s delay might be fatal to the feast.
He lifted the lid, and, lo! four, great fat, greasy mutton chops, slightly sprinkled over with bread, appeared.
CHAP. VII.
THE GOLDTRAP ARMS; OR, TROTTING HIM OUT.
USED AS OUR friend Tom Scott is to the solitude of his own chair, still there was such an utter unhomishness in the solitude of the Goldtrap Arms, that he could not compose himself to his accustomed nap after dinner. He was so vexed with the nice little French dish, and also with a great Yorkshire pudding of an omelette that followed, that h
e would not listen to his host’s advice about a bottle of curious old port, that “Sir Digby greatly commended.” He therefore had some hot water and sugar, and took his revenge on the bad sherry by making it into negus before Cake’s face; — the most practical reproof that can be given an innkeeper.
The musical cuckoo clock struck seven as the hot water came in, hinting by its provoking monotony what a long weary evening it would be.
Who would keep a cuckoo clock that didn’t wish to be driven mad?
This was the slowest, prosiest, most unlike a cuckoo, cuckoo clock that ever was heàrd. It did not seem to travel above four miles an hour. First it began with a shivering sort of jingle among the works as if they were all loose together, and were in a devil of a hurry to be off; then came a jingling tune, followed by a clap caused by the opening of the wooden shutters, through which the stupid bird emerged on to its board, shouldering its wings, and beginning “Cuckoo!”
“Cuckoo!”
“Cuckoo!”
“Cuckoo!” at intervals of a couple of seconds; so that what with the tune, the noise, the notes, and the striking, the clock was scarcely ever quiet, — a perfect nuisance.
Finding he couldn’t sleep, Tom began to exercise himself about the little room. Below the portrait of Mr. Cake hung some book-shelves, containing the usual miscellaneous selection, or rather collection, of an inn library — three old copies of “Boyle’s Court Guide,”
“Drysdale’s Sermons,” many numbers of the “World of Fashion,” a monthly magazine of the courts of London and Paris, “Le Cuisinier Royal, ou, l’Art de Faire la Cuisine,”
“History of New York,”
“The Courser’s Companion,” two volumes of the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” a well-thumbed “Baronetage,” and an old “Post Office Directory.”
“What dissatisfied mortals men are, to be sure,” mused Tom. “Last night, and the night before, I was grumbling and growling (to myself) at the bother of company, and the long-winded stories and hunting eloquence of my noble host, whereas to-night I am fit to cut my throat for Avant of somebody to speak to. What creatures of impulse we are, too,” continued he, adjusting himself in an uneasy easy chair before the fire, and cocking a foot on each hob. Only last Saturday I fully determined to go over to Snailswell, and make the long-delayed offer to Liddey, instead of which I am first tempted to Dawdle Court, and now, of my own voluntary free will, have come on this wild-goose chase to Sludgington, to be bored with the monotony of a cuckoo clock, and wearied with the hum, pipetapping, and distant jollification of the kitchen guests. Oh, this hunting! this hunting! what a deal it has to answer for. It is odd” (continued he) “what a vast of idleness one can stand at home, and yet how oppressive it is away. At home, I just chuck myself into the easy chair after dinner, and fall into a reverie, a hunting, a draining, or a castle-building speculation, as naturally and easily as possible; whereas here I can neither compose myself to sleep, nor to dream, nor to do anything. If I thought you repulsive, clotted-looking inkstand had anything but a black bog of ink in it, and a stumped pen, split up to the feather, I’d take a letter-back and concoct an offer to Lydia” (continued he); “but who ever found both a pen and ink in an inn inkstand that would write?” Strange to say, curiosity tempted him to get up and examine this stand, and finding that a veterinary surgeon might pass the pen, and that a few drops of sherry would revive the ink, Tom devoted that quantity of drink to it, and was presently in possession of very “go-able” materials.
Our fair readers will doubtless now be anxious for the offer produced under such inspiriting circumstances; but, alas! for the mutability of a sportsman’s intentions! In sorting his letter-backs, he pulled out the one containing Lord Lazytongs’ invitation, which operated like the make-believe pills of the doctors on people who have nothing the matter with, them. Finding he had got something to do, he forthwith began trying to shirk it, and, resuming his seat before the fire, with one leg up and the other down, returned to the visit at Dawdle Court, recalling the flow of words that proceeded from his noble host’s lips, and all the wonderful performances he narrated. Then Tom thought how needless an appendage such a man as Captain Windeyhash was to his lordship, who was so well able to run himself out; and at last his thoughts settled into the channel, that at slower or at faster intervals produced the following current of ideas: —
“Trot him out,” thought Tom; ay, that’s a proceeding adapted to bipeds as well as quadrupeds. “Trot him out again, Joe!” that’s to say, show him off, and see if you can’t catch a flat. There is just the same sort of thing among Christians, and whether it is done in the palpable way of the horse exhibitor, or the apparently natural though oftentimes studiously arranged impromptu, depends altogether on the skill of the one party and the docility of the other.”
And here, leaving our friend in his arm chair for a few minutes, we may say that we “back” the observation. “Trotting him out” is a very common recreation; and though it requires the fine and delicate hand of the fly-fisher, yet we frequently see it attempted by the clumsy fist of the mere dredger. In truth, the office of “trotter-out” requires a considerable amount of skill, knowledge, and observation; tact in drawing stealthily on the line of the joke or story, apprising the individual without preparing the party, knowledge of the humour, we might say the caprices, of the “trottee,” and observation of the time most appropriate for introducing the subject. What can be worse than a sulky “snub” instead of a “rise,” or a still-born joke shattering itself among a cast-iron-faced company? Poor old Mathews used to say that if he came on to the stage and saw his friend L — d— ‘s imperturbable features, and great silver-rimmed spectacles fixed upon him, it was such a damper that he could hardly raise his spirits to go on with his “At Home.”
There are two ways of trotting a man out, just as there are two ways of trotting a horse out. There is the trot to display, and the trot to expose. We don’t know that many men object to being trotted out for admiration, provided the case is not too palpable, or the audience one before whom the “trottee” has too recently appeared. The “trot-out” to expose is seldom undertaken by any but ill-natured fools, fellows with gumption enough to see, but not charity enough to help, the amiable weaknesses of the world, — fellows who say, “See how I’ll trot old Goodfellow out after dinner;” and because the kind, meek old man doesn’t kick them, they fancy he doesn’t see what they are after. We have all some pet story or other that we like telling, and are we to be branded as “twaddlers” because some gentleman has heard us tell it before? The fault is his for being present again, not ours for telling it.
This, of course, applies to natural, appropriate, impromptu stories, not to your “lug-him-in-neck-and-heels” sort of jokes. These latter fall more in the department of the regular professional, or licensed trotter-out.
A regular licensed trotter-out should keep a daybook, and enter the performances of his Magnus Apollo, registering the stories he tells, the jokes he uses, how they were brought out, and the audience before whom he appeared, so that he may not “trot him out” before the same parties again too soon. A story, like a fox-cover, should be allowed a certain rest before it is disturbed again. In this respect a town trotter-out has a great advantage over a country one, for, with the large and varied field of the metropolis, the same story may be come upon or trotted out very often without running the risk of falling into that dreadful wet blanket, a dead silence, an, “I think I’ve heard that before” — or the still more bearish and un-feeling “That’s meant for wit, is it?”
What can be more chilling than a set of hard, dry, matter-of-fact features, contracting into a sneer instead of a snort at a joke? Blessings on the man, say we, who will help a lame dog of a story over a style with a laugh. We can forgive anything in furtherance of fun, except the petty larcenist who sells another’s jokes or stories, and murders them in the telling. Silvester Blubberhead is a great hand at this. Most families keep a sort of first and second class com
pany, into which bachelors are thrust indiscriminately, just as it suits the convenience of the table; but Blubberhead, tying a better neckcloth, if anything, than our funny friend Tom Sparks, and wearing both studs and rings, has rather the “call” of him, as they say at the “corner,” and Tom frequently follows in the second class train, picking up the scraps and remnants of his own good stories, just like a cook after a crockery crash.
Blubberhead, however, comes more under the denomination of a prosèr or a twaddler than a trotter-out. Joe Slowman may be classed under the same head. Joe will swear a man to a secret that he swore him to twelve months before, and that most likely a secret not worth knowing.
Still “trotting out” is worthy of cultivation as a liberal science, and is capable of utilitarian as well as of mirthful application. For instance, a host and hostess at either end of a long table, with a Bimham Wood of an epergne or a round of ship beef between them, screening not only themselves but shutting out half the company from a knowledge of what their respective “pieces of resistance” are, may usefully trot each other out thus: — Mr. Blowout. “What have you got there, my love?”
Mrs. Blowout. “Ten Chickens and a tongue, my dear. What have you down there?”
Mr. Blowout. “Round of beef, my love.”
So champagne “stinters” might invent a “trot out” instead of that horrible holding of the bottle to the light: but that being an unworthy application of the art, we shall leave them to contrive a form for themselves.
Trotters-out for admiration are generally kind, obliging sort of people. With no great talents themselves, or perhaps with an over modest estimate of what they have, they yet lend themselves to the amusement of society, by showing off others who they think have more. Those who are in the secret may see a professed trotter-out “touting,” as it were, for a story, laying the bait, during the progress of the soup, that is to bring in the rich “guffaw” of a laugh after the first-lass of champagne. London party-givers understand the doctrine of “trotting out” so well that they never think of separating a joker and his accoucheur. Indeed, the professed punster wouldn’t stand it. Have me, have my friend, Orlando Burst-sides.