Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  ‘I think he is,’ replied Sponge, rubbing some of the now dried sweat from his shoulder and neck; ‘I think he is; I like him a good deal better to-day than I did the first time I rode him.’

  ‘What, he’s a new one, is he?’ asked Mr. Waffles, taking a scented cigar from his mouth, and giving a steady sidelong stare at the horse.

  ‘Bought him in Leicestershire,’ replied Sponge. ‘He belonged to Lord Bullfrog, who didn’t think him exactly up to his weight.’

  ‘Up to his weight!’ exclaimed Mr. Caingey Thornton, who had now ridden up on the other side of his great patron, ‘why, he must be another Daniel Lambert.’

  ‘Rather so,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘rides nineteen stun.’

  ‘What a monster!’ exclaimed Thornton, who was of the pocket order.

  ‘I thought he didn’t go fast enough at his fences the first time I rode him,’ observed Mr. Sponge, drawing the curb slightly so as to show the horse’s fine arched neck to advantage; ‘but he went quick enough to-day, in all conscience,’ added he.

  ‘He did that,’ observed Mr. Thornton, now bent on a toadying match. ‘I never saw a finer lepper.’

  ‘He flew many feet beyond the brook,’ observed Mr. Spareneck, who, thinking discretion was the better part of valour, had pulled up on seeing his comrade Thornton blobbing about in the middle of it, and therefore was qualified to speak to the fact.

  So they went on talking about the horse, and his points, and his speed, and his action, very likely as much for want of something to say, or to keep off the subject of the run, as from any real admiration of the animal.

  The true way to make a man take a fancy to a horse is to make believe that you don’t want to sell him — at all events, that you are easy about selling. Mr. Sponge had played this game so very often, that it came quite natural to him. He knew exactly how far to go, and having expressed his previous objection to the horse, he now most handsomely made the amende honorable by patting him on the neck, and declaring that he really thought he should keep him.

  It is said that every man has his weak or ‘do-able’ point, if the sharp ones can but discover it. This observation does not refer, we believe, to men with an innocent penchant for play, or the turf, or for buying pictures, or for collecting china, or for driving coaches and four, all of which tastes proclaim themselves sooner or later, but means that the most knowing, the most cautious, and the most careful, are all to be come over, somehow or another.

  There are few things more surprising in this remarkable world than the magnificent way people talk about money, or the meannesses they will resort to in order to get a little. We hear fellows flashing and talking in hundreds and thousands, who will do almost anything for a five-pound note. We have known men pretending to hunt countries at their own expense, and yet actually ‘living out of the hounds.’ Next to the accomplishment of that — apparently almost impossible feat — comes the dexterity required for living by horse-dealing.

  A little lower down in the scale comes the income derived from the profession of a ‘go-between’ — the gentleman who can buy the horse cheaper than you can. This was Caingey Thornton’s trade. He was always lurking about people’s stables talking to grooms and worming out secrets — whose horse had a cough, whose was a wind-sucker, whose was lame after hunting, and so on — and had a price current of every horse in the place — knew what had been given, what the owners asked, and had a pretty good guess what they would take.

  Waffles would have been an invaluable customer to Thornton if the former’s groom, Mr. Figg, had not been rather too hard with his ‘reg’lars.’ He insisted on Caingey dividing whatever he got out of his master with him. This reduced profits considerably; but still, as it was a profession that did not require any capital to set up with, Thornton could afford to be liberal, having only to tack on to one end to cut off at the other.

  After the opening Sponge gave as they rode home with the hounds, Thornton had no difficulty in sounding him on the subject.

  ‘You’ll not think me impertinent, I hope,’ observed Caingey, in his most deferential style, to our hero when they met at the News’-room the next day— ‘you’ll not think me impertinent, I hope; but I think you said as we rode home, yesterday, that you didn’t altogether like the brown horse you were on?’

  ‘Did I?’ replied Mr. Sponge, with apparent surprise; ‘I think you must have misunderstood me.’

  ‘Why, no; it wasn’t exactly that,’ rejoined Mr. Thornton, ‘but you said you liked him better than you did, I think?’

  ‘Ah! I believe I did say something of the sort,’ replied Sponge casually— ‘I believe I did say something of the sort; but he carried me so well that I thought better of him. The fact was,’ continued Mr. Sponge, confidentially, ‘I thought him rather too light mouthed; I like a horse that bears more on the hand.’

  ‘Indeed!’ observed Mr. Thornton; ‘most people think a light mouth a recommendation.’

  ‘I know they do,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ‘I know they do; but I like a horse that requires a little riding. Now this is too much of a made horse — too much of what I call an old man’s horse, for me. Bullfrog, whom I bought him of, is very fat — eats a great deal of venison and turtle — all sorts of good things, in fact — and can’t stand much tewing in the saddle; now, I rather like to feel that I am on a horse, and not in an arm-chair.’

  ‘He’s a fine horse,’ observed Mr. Thornton.

  ‘So he ought,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘I gave a hatful of money for him — two hundred and fifty golden sovereigns, and not a guinea back. Bullfrog’s the biggest screw I ever dealt with.’

  That latter observation was highly encouraging to Thornton. It showed that Mr. Sponge was not one of your tight-laced dons, who take offence at the mere mention of ‘drawbacks,’ but, on the contrary, favoured the supposition that he would do the ‘genteel,’ should he happen to be a seller.

  ‘Well, if you should feel disposed to part with him, perhaps you will have the kindness to let me know,’ observed Mr. Thornton; adding, ‘he’s not for myself, of course, but I think I know a man he would suit, and who would be inclined to give a good price for him.’

  ‘I will,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘I will,’ repeated he, adding, ‘if I were to sell him, I wouldn’t take a farthing under three ‘underd for him — three ‘underd guineas, mind, not punds.’

  ‘That’s a vast sum of money,’ observed Mr. Thornton.

  ‘Not a bit on’t,’ replied Mr. Sponge. ‘He’s worth it all, and a great deal more. Indeed, I haven’t said, mind that, I’ll take that for him; all I’ve said is, that I wouldn’t take less.’

  ‘Just so,’ replied Mr. Thornton.

  ‘He’s a horse of high character,’ observed Mr. Sponge. ‘Indeed he has no business out of Leicestershire; and I don’t know what set my fool of a groom to bring him here.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see if I can coax my friend into giving what you say,’ observed Mr. Thornton.

  ‘Nay, never mind coaxing,’ replied Mr. Sponge, with the utmost indifference; ‘never mind coaxing; if he’s not anxious, my name’s “easy.” Only mind ye, if I ride him again, and he carries me as he did yesterday, I shall clap on another fifty. A horse of that figure can’t be dear at any price,’ added he. ‘Put him in a steeple-chase, and you’d get your money back in ten minutes, and a bagful to boot.’

  ‘True,’ observed Mr. Thornton, treasuring that fact up as an additional inducement to use to his friend.

  So the amiable gentlemen parted.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE DEAL, AND THE DISASTER

  IF PEOPLE ARE inclined to deal, bargains can very soon be struck at idle watering-places, where anything in the shape of occupation is a godsend, and bargainers know where to find each other in a minute. Everybody knows where everybody is.

  ‘Have you seen Jack Sprat?’

  ‘Oh yes; he’s just gone into Muddle’s Bazaar with Miss Flouncey, looking uncommon sweet.’ Or —

  ‘Can you tell me whe
re I shall find Mr. Slowman?’

  Answer.— ‘You’ll find him at his lodgings, No. 15, Belvidere Terrace, till a quarter before seven. He’s gone home to dress, to dine with Major and Mrs. Holdsworthy, at Grunton Villa, for I heard him order Jenkins’s fly at that time.’

  Caingey Thornton knew exactly when he would find Mr. Waffles at Miss Lollypop’s, the confectioner, eating ices and making love to that very interesting much-courted young lady. True to his time, there was Waffles, eating and eyeing the cherry-coloured ribbons, floating in graceful curls along with her raven-coloured ringlets, down Miss Lollypop’s nice fresh plump cheeks.

  After expatiating on the great merits of the horse, and the certainty of getting all the money back by steeple-chasing him in the spring, and stating his conviction that Mr. Sponge would not take any part of the purchase-money in pictures or jewellery, or anything of that sort, Mr. Waffles gave his consent to deal, on the terms the following conversation shows.

  ‘My friend will give you your price, if you wouldn’t mind taking his cheque and keeping it for a few months till he’s into funds,’ observed Mr. Thornton, who now sought Mr. Sponge out at the billiard-room.

  ‘Why,’ observed Mr. Sponge, thoughtfully, ‘you know horses are always ready money.’

  ‘True,’ replied Thornton; ‘at least that’s the theory of the thing; only my friend is rather peculiarly situated at present.’

  ‘I suppose Mr. Waffles is your man?’ observed Mr. Sponge, rightly judging that there couldn’t be two such flats in the place.

  ‘Just so,’ said Mr. Thornton.

  MR. WAFFLES AT MISS LOLLYPOP’S

  ‘I’d rather take his “stiff” than his cheque,’ observed Mr. Sponge, after a pause. ‘I could get a bit of stiff done, but a cheque, you see — especially a post-dated one — is always objected to.’

  ‘Well, I dare say that will make no difference,’ observed Mr. Thornton, ‘“stiff,” if you prefer it — say three months; or perhaps you’ll give us four?’

  ‘Three’s long enough, in all conscience,’ replied Mr. Sponge, with a shake of the head, adding, ‘Bullfrog made me pay down on the nail.’

  ‘Well, so be it, then,’ assented Mr. Thornton; ‘you draw at three months, and Mr. Waffles will accept, payable at Coutts’s.’

  After so much liberality, Mr. Caingey expected that Mr. Sponge would have hinted at something handsome for him; but all Sponge said was, ‘So be it,’ too, as he walked away to buy a bill-stamp.

  Mr. Waffles was more considerate, and promised him the first mount on his new purchase, though Caingey would rather have had a ten, or even a five-pound note.

  Towards the hour of ten on that eventful day, numerous gaitered, trousered, and jacketed grooms began to ride up and down the High Street, most of them with their stirrups crossed negligently on the pommels of the saddles, to indicate that their masters were going to ride the horses, and not them. The street grew lively, not so much with people going to hunt, as with people coming to see those who were. Tattered Hibernians, with rags on their backs and jokes on their lips; young English chevaliers d’industrie, with their hands ready to dive into anybody’s pockets but their own; stablemen out of place, servants loitering on their errands, striplings helping them, ladies’-maids with novels or three-corner’d notes, and a good crop of beggars.

  ‘What, Spareneck, do you ride the grey to-day? I thought you’d done Gooseman out of a mount,’ observed Ensign Downley, as a line of scarlet-coated youths hung over the balcony of the Imperial Hotel, after breakfast and before mounting for the day.

  Spareneck.— ‘No, that’s for Tuesday. He wouldn’t stand one to-day. What do you ride?’

  Downley.— ‘Oh, I’ve a hack, one of Screwman’s, Perpetual Motion they call him, because he never gets any rest. That’s him, I believe, with the lofty-actioned hind-legs,’ added he, pointing to a weedy string-halty bay passing below, high in bone and low in flesh.

  ‘Who’s o’ the gaudy chestnut?’ asked Caingey Thornton, who now appeared, wiping his fat lips after his second glass of eau de vie.

  ‘That’s Mr. Sponge’s,’ replied Spareneck in a low tone, knowing how soon a man catches his own name.

  ‘A deuced fine horse he is, too,’ observed Caingey, in a louder key; adding, ‘Sponge has the finest lot of horses of any man in England — in the world, I may say.’

  Mr. Sponge himself now rose from the breakfast table, and was speedily followed by Mr. Waffles and the rest of the party, some bearing sofa-pillows and cushions to place on the balustrades, to loll at their ease, in imitation of the Coventry Club swells in Piccadilly. Then our friends smoked their cigars, reviewed the cavalry, and criticised the ladies who passed below in the flys on their way to the meet.

  ‘Come, old Bolter!’ exclaimed one, ‘here’s Miss Bussington coming to look after you — got her mamma with her, too — so you may as well knock under at once, for she’s determined to have you.’

  ‘A devil of a woman the old un is, too,’ observed Ensign Downley; ‘she nearly frightened Jack Simpers of ours into fits, by asking what he meant after dancing three dances with her daughter one night.’

  ‘My word, but Miss Jumpheavy must expect to do some execution to-day with that fine floating feather and her crimson satin dress and ermine,’ observed Mr. Waffles, as that estimable lady drove past in her Victoria phaeton. ‘She looks like the Queen of Sheba herself. But come, I suppose,’ he added, taking a most diminutive Geneva watch out of his waistcoat-pocket, ‘we should be going. See! there’s your nag kicking up a shindy,’ he said to Caingey Thornton, as the redoubtable brown was led down the street by a jean-jacketed groom, kicking and lashing out at everything he came near.

  ‘I’ll kick him,’ observed Thornton, retiring from the balcony to the brandy-bottle, and helping himself to a pretty good-sized glass. He then extricated his large cutting whip from the confusion of whips with which it was mixed, and clonk, clonk, clonked downstairs to the door.

  ‘Multum in Parvo’ stopped the doorway, across whose shoulder Leather passed the following hints, in a low tone of voice, to Mr. Sponge, as the latter stood drawing on his dogskin gloves, the observed, as he flattered himself, of all observers.

  ‘Mind now,’ said Leather, ‘this oss as a will of his own; though he seems so quiet like, he’s not always to be depended on; so be on the look-out for squalls.’

  Sponge, having had a glass of brandy, just mounted with the air of a man thoroughly at home with his horse, and drawing the rein, with a slight feel of the spur, passed on from the door to make way for the redoubtable Hercules. Hercules was evidently not in a good humour. His ears were laid back, and the rolling white eye showed mischief. Sponge saw all this, and turned to see whether Thornton’s clumsy, wash-ball seat, would be able to control the fractious spirit of the horse.

  ‘Whoay!’ roared Thornton, as his first dive at the stirrup missed, and was answered by a hearty kick out from the horse, the ‘whoay’ being given in a very different tone to the gentle, coaxing style of Mr. Buckram and his men. Had it not been for the brandy within and the lookers-on without, there is no saying but Caingey would have declined the horse’s further acquaintance. As it was, he quickly repeated his attempt at the stirrup with the same sort of domineering ‘whoay,’ adding, as he landed in the saddle and snatched at the reins, ‘Do you think I stole you?’

  Whatever the horse’s opinion might be on that point, he didn’t seem to care to express it, for finding kicking alone wouldn’t do, he immediately commenced rearing too, and by a desperate plunge, broke away from the groom, before Thornton had either got him by the head or his feet in the stirrups. Three most desperate bounds he gave, rising at the bit as though he would come back over if the hold was not relaxed, and the fourth effort bringing him to the opposite kerb-stone, he up again with such a bound and impetus that he crashed right through Messrs. Frippery and Flummery’s fine plate-glass window, to the terror and astonishment of their elegant young counter-skippers, who were busy ar
ranging their ribbons and finery for the day. Right through the window Hercules went, switching through book muslins and barèges as he would through a bullfinch, and attempting to make his exit by a large plate-glass mirror against the wall of the cloak-room beyond, which he dashed all to pieces with his head. Worse remains to be told. ‘Multum in Parvo,’ seeing his old comrade’s hind-quarters disappearing through the window, just took the bit between his teeth, and followed, in spite of Mr. Sponge’s every effort to turn him; and when at length he got him hauled round, the horse was found to have decorated himself with a sky-blue visite trimmed with Honiton lace, which he wore like a charger on his way to the Crusades, or a steed bearing a knight to the Eglinton tournament.

  Quick as it happened, and soon as it was over, all Laverick Wells seemed to have congregated in the street as our heroes rode out of the folding glass-doors.

  CHAPTER XII

  AN OLD FRIEND

  ABOUT A FORTNIGHT after the above catastrophe, and as the recollection of it was nearly effaced by Miss Jumpheavy’s abduction of Ensign Downley, our friend, Mr. Waffles, on visiting his stud at the four o’clock stable-hour, found a most respectable, middle-aged, rosy-gilled, better-sort-of-farmer-looking man, straddling his tight drab-trousered legs, with a twisted ash plant propping his chin, behind the redoubtable Hercules. He had a bran-new hat on, a velvet-collared blue coat with metal buttons, that anywhere but in the searching glare and contrast of London might have passed for a spic-and-span new one; a small, striped, step-collared toilanette vest; and the aforesaid drab trousers, in the right-hand pocket of which his disengaged hand kept fishing up and slipping down an avalanche of silver, which made a pleasant musical accompaniment to his monetary conversation. On seeing Mr. Waffles, the stranger touched his hat, and appeared to be about to retire, when Mr. Figg, the stud-groom, thus addressed his master:

  ‘This be Mr. Buckram, sir, of London, sir; says he knows our brown ‘orse, sir.’