by R S Surtees
Looking around the scene there seems to be everybody that we have had the pleasure of introducing to the reader in the course of Mr. Sponge’s Tour. Mr. and Mrs. Springwheat in their dog-cart, Mrs. Springey’s figure looking as though ‘wheat had got above forty, my lord’; old Jog and his handsome wife in the ugly old phaeton, well garnished with children, and a couple of sticks in the rough peeping out of the apron, Gustavus James held up in his mother’s arms, with the curly blue feather nodding over his nose. There is also Farmer Peastraw, and faces that a patient inspection enables us to appropriate to Dribble, and Hook, and Capon, and Calcot, and Lumpleg, and Crane of Crane Hall, and Charley Slapp of red-coat times — people look so different in plain clothes to what they do in hunting ones. Here, too, is George Cheek, running down with perspiration, having run over from Dr. Latherington’s, for which he will most likely ‘catch it’ when he gets back; and oh, wonder of wonders, here’s Robert Foozle himself!
‘Well, Robert, you’ve come to the steeple-chase?’
‘Yes, I’ve come to the steeple-chase.’
‘Are you fond of steeple-chases?’
‘Yes, I’m fond of steeple-chases.’
‘I dare say you never were at one before,’ observes his mother.
‘No, I never was at one before,’ replies Robert.
And though last not least, here’s Facey Romford, with his arm in a sling, on Mr. Hobler, come to look after that sivin-p’und-ten, which we wish he may get.
Hark! there’s a row below the stand, and Viney is seen in a state of excitement inquiring for Mr. Washball. Pacey has objected to a gentleman rider, and Guano and Puffington have differed on the point. A nice, slim, well-put-on lad (Buckram’s rough rider) has come to the scales and claimed to be allowed 3 lb. as the Honourable Captain Boville. Finding the point questioned, he abandons the ‘handle’, and sinks into plain Captain Boville. Pacey now objects to him altogether. ‘S-c-e-u-s-e me, sir; s-c-e-u-s-e me, sir,’ simpers our friend Dick Bragg, sidling up to the objector with a sort of tendency of his turn-back-wristed hand to his hat. ‘S-c-e-u-s-e me, sir; s-c-e-u-s-e me,’ repeats he, ‘but I think you was wrong, sir, in objecting to Captain Boville, sir, as a gen’l’man rider, sir.’
‘Why?’ demands Pacey, in the full flush of victory.
‘Oh, sir — because, sir — in fact, sir — he is a gen’l’man, sir.’
‘Is a gentleman! How do you know?’ demands Pacey, in the same tone as before.
‘Oh, sir, he’s a gen’l’man — an undoubted gen’l’man. Everything about him shows that. Does nothing — breeches by Anderson — boots by Bartley; besides which, he drinks wine every day, and has a whole box of cigars in his bedroom. But don’t take my word for it, pray,’ continued Bragg, seeing Pacey was wavering; ‘don’t take my word for it, pray. There’s a gen’l’man, a countryman of his, somewhere about,’ added he, looking anxiously into the surrounding crowd — there’s a gen’l’man, a countryman of his, somewhere about, if we could but find him,’ Bragg standing on his tiptoes, and exclaiming, ‘Mr. Buckram! Mr. Buckram! Has anybody seen anything of Mr. Buckram!’
‘Here!’ replied a meek voice from behind; upon which there was an elbowing through the crowd, and presently a most respectable, rosy-gilled, grey-haired, hawbuck-looking man, attired in a new brown cutaway, with bright buttons and a velvet collar, with a buff waistcoat, came twirling an ash-stick in one hand, and fumbling the silver in his drab trousers’ pocket with the other, in front of the bystanders.
‘Oh! ’ere he is!’ exclaimed Bragg, appealing to the stranger with a hasty ‘You know Captain Boville, don’t you?’
‘Why, now, as to the matter of that,’ replied the gentleman, gathering all the loose silver up into his hand and speaking very slowly, just as a country gentleman, who has all the live-long day to do nothing in, may be supposed to speak—’ Why, now, as to the matter of that,’ said he, eyeing Pacey intently, and beginning to drop the silver slowly as he spoke, ‘I can’t say that I’ve any very ‘ticklar ‘quaintance with the captin. I knows him, in course, just as one knows a neighbour’s son. The captin’s a good deal younger nor me,’ continued he, raising his new eight-and-sixpenny Parisian, as if to show his sandy grey hair. ‘I’m a’most sixty; and he, I dare say, is little more nor twenty,’ dropping a half-crown as he said it. ‘But the captin’s a nice young gent — a nice young gent, without any blandishment, I should say; and that’s more nor one can say of all young gents nowadays,’ said Buckram, looking at Pacey as he spoke, and dropping two consecutive half-crowns.
‘Why, but you live near him, don’t you?’ interrupted Bragg.
‘Near him,’ repeated Buckram, feeling his well-shaven chin thoughtfully. ‘Why, yes — that’s to say, near his dad. The fact is,’ continued he, ‘I’ve a little independence of my own,’ dropping a heavy five-shilling piece as he said it,’ and his father — old Bo, as I call him — adjoins me; and if either of us ‘appen to have a battue, or a ‘aunch of wenzun, and a few friends, we inwite each other, and wicey wersey, you know,’ letting off a lot of shillings and sixpences. And just at the moment the blind fiddler struck up ‘The Devil among the Tailors,’ when the shouts and laughter of the mob closed the scene.
And now gentlemen, who heretofore have shown no more of the jockey than Cinderella’s feet in the early part of the pantomime disclose of her ball attire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and bearskin wraps, and shawls and overcoats of winter, and shine forth in all the silken flutter of summer heat.
We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentlemen playing at jockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but playing at jockeys is infinitely worse — above all, playing at steeple-chase jockeys, combining, as they generally do, all the worst features of the hunting-field and racecourse — unsympathizing boots and breeches, dirty jackets that never fit, and caps that won’t keep on. What a farce to see the great bulky fellows go to scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if to illustrate the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding plate!
But the weighed-in ones are mounting. See, there’s Jack Spraggon getting a hoist on to Daddy Longlegs! Did ever mortal see such a man for a jockey? He has cut off the laps of a stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a great backgammon-board. He has got his head into an old gold-banded military foraging-cap, which comes down almost on to the rims of his great tortoise-shell spectacles. Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on the horse’s mane, talking earnestly to Jack, doubtless giving him his final instructions. Other jockeys emerge from various parts of the farm-buildings; some out of stables; some out of cow-houses; others from beneath cart-sheds. The scene becomes enlivened with the varied colours of the riders — red, yellow, green, blue, violet, and stripes without end. Then comes the usual difficulty of identifying the parties, many of whose mothers wouldn’t know them.
‘That’s Captain Tongs,’ observes Miss Simperley, ‘in the blue. I remember dancing with him at Bath, and he did nothing but talk about steeple-chasing.’
‘And who’s that in yellow?’ asks Miss Hardy.
‘That’s Captain Gander,’ replies the gentleman on her left.
‘Well, I think he’ll win,’ replies the lady.
‘I’ll bet you a pair of gloves he doesn’t,’ snaps Miss Moore, who fancies Captain Pusher, in the pink.
‘What a squat little jockey!’ exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a little dumpling of a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on a fine bay horse, some one recognizing the rider as our old friend Caingey Thornton.
‘And look who comes here?’ whispers Miss Jawleyford to her sister, as Mr. Sponge, having accomplished a mount without derangement of temper, rides Hercules quietly past the stand, his whip-hand resting on his thigh, and his head turned to his fair companion on the white.
‘Oh, the wretch!’ sneers Miss Amelia; and the fair sisters look at Lucy and then at him with the utmost disgust.
Mr. Sponge may now be doubled up by half a dozen falls ere either of
them would suggest the propriety of having him bled.
Lucy’s cheeks are rather blanched with the ‘pale cast of thought,’ for she is not sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of steeple-chasing to know that it is often quite as good for a man to lose as to win, which it had just been quietly arranged between Sponge and Buckram should be the case on this occasion, Buckram having got uncommonly ‘well on’ to the losing tune. Perhaps, however, Lucy was thinking of the peril, not the profit of the thing.
The young ladies on the stand eye her with mingled feelings of pity and disdain, while the elderly ones shake their heads, call her a bold hussy — declare she’s not so pretty — adding that they ‘wouldn’t have come if they’d known,’ &c. &c.
But it is half-past two (an hour and a half after time), and there is at last a disposition evinced by some of the parties to go to the post. Broad-backed parti-coloured jockeys are seen converging that way, and the betting-men close in, getting more and more clamorous for odds. What a hubbub! How they bellow! How they roar! A universal deafness seems to have come over the whole of them. ‘Seven to one ‘gain the Bart.!’ screams one— ‘I’ll take eight!’ roars another. ‘Five to one agen Herc’les!’ cries a third— ‘Done!’ roars a fourth. ‘Twice over!’ rejoins the other— ‘Done!’ replies the taker. ‘Ar’ll take five to one agin the Daddy!’— ‘I’ll lay six!’ ‘What’ll any one lay ‘gin Parvo?’ And so they raise such an uproar that the squeak, squeak, squeak of the
‘Devil among the tailors’
is hardly heard.
Then, in a partial lull, the voice of Lord Scamperdale rises, exclaiming, ‘Oh, you hideous Hobgoblin, bull-and-mouth of a boy! you think, because I’m a lord, and can’t swear, or use coarse language—’ And again the hubbub, led on by the
‘Devil among the tailors,’
drowns the exclamations of the speaker. It’s that Pacey again; he’s accusing the virtuous Mr. Spraggon of handing his extra weight to Lord Scamperdale; and Jack, in the full consciousness of injured guilt, intimates that the blood of the Spraggons won’t stand that — that there’s ‘only one way of settling it, and he’ll be ready for Pacey half an hour after the race.’
At length the horses are all out — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen — fifteen of them, moving about in all directions: some taking an up-gallop, others a down; some a spicy trot, others walking to and fro; while one has still his muzzle on, lest he should unship his rider and eat him; and another’s groom follows, imploring the mob to keep off his heels if they don’t want their heads in their hands. The noisy bell at length summons the scattered forces to the post, and the variegated riders form into as good a line as circumstances will allow. Just as Mr. Sponge turns his horse’s head Lucy hands him her little silver sherry-flask, which our friend drains to the dregs. As he returns it, with a warm pressure of her soft hand, a pent-up flood of tears burst their bounds, and suffuse her lustrous eyes. She turns away to hide her emotion; at the same instant a wild shout rends the air— ‘W-h-i-r-r! They’re off!’
Thirteen get away, one turns tail, and our friend in the Lincoln green is left performing a pas seul, asking the rearing horse, with an oath, if he thinks ‘he stole him’? while the mob shout and roar; and one wicked wag, in coaching parlance, advises him to pay the difference, and get inside.
But what a display of horsemanship is exhibited by the flyers! Tongs comes off at the first fence, the horse making straight for a pond, while the rest rattle on in a mass. The second fence is small, but there’s a ditch on the far side, and Pusher and Gander severally measure their lengths on the rushy pasture beyond. Still there are ten left, and nobody ever reckoned upon these getting to the far end.
‘Master wins, for a ‘undr’d!’ exclaims Leather, as, getting into the third field, Mr. Sponge takes a decided lead; and Lucy, encouraged by the sound, looks up, and sees her ‘white jacket’ throwing the dry fallow in the faces of the field.
‘Oh, how I hope he will!’ exclaims she, clasping her hands, with upturned eyes; but when she ventures on another look, she sees old Spraggon drawing upon him, Hangallows’s flaming red jacket not far off, and several others nearer than she liked. Still the tail was beginning to form. Another fence, and that a big one, draws it out. A striped jacket is down, and the horse, after a vain effort to rise, sinks lifeless on the ground. On they go all the same!
Loud yells of exciting betting burst from the spectators, and Buckram gets well on for the cross.
There are now five in front — Sponge, Spraggon, Hangallows, Boville, and another; and already the pace begins to tell. It wasn’t possible to run it at the rate they started. Spraggon makes a desperate effort to get the lead; and Sponge, seeing Boville handy, pulls his horse, and lets the light-weight make play over a rough, heavy fallow with the chestnut. Jack spurs and flogs, and grins and foams at the mouth. Thus they get half round the oval course. They are now directly in front of the hill, and the spectators gaze with intense anxiety; — now vociferating the name of this horse, now of that; now shouting ‘Red jacket!’ now ‘White!’ while the blind fiddler perseveres with the old melody of— ‘The Devil among the Tailors.’
‘Now they come to the brook!’ exclaims Leather, who has been over the ground; and as he speaks, Lucy distinctly sees Mr. Sponge’s gather an effort to clear it; and — oh, horror! — the horse falls — he’s down — no, he’s up! — and her lover’s in his seat again; and she flatters herself it was her sherry that saved him. Splash! — a horse and rider duck under; three get over; two go in; now another clears it, and the rest turn tail.
What splashing and screaming, and whipping and spurring, and how hopeless the chance of any of them to recover their lost ground. The race is now clearly between five. Now for the wall! It’s five feet high, built of heavy blocks, and strong in the staked-out part. As he nears it, Jack sits well back, getting Daddy Longlegs well by the head, and giving him a refresher with the whip. It is Jack’s last move! His horse comes, neck and croup over, rolling Jack up like a ball of worsted on the far side. At the same moment, Multum-in-Parvo goes at it full tilt; and, not rising an inch, sends Captain Boville flying one way, his saddle another, himself a third, and the stones all ways. Mr. Sponge then slips through, closely followed by Hangallows and a jockey in yellow, with a tail of three after them. They then put on all the steam they can raise over the twenty-acre pasture that follows.
The white! — the red! — the yaller! The red! — the white! — the yaller! and anybody’s race! A sheet would cover them! — crack! whack! crack! how they flog! Hercules springs at the sound.
Many of the excited spectators begin hallooing, and straddling, and working their arms as if their gestures and vociferations would assist the race. Lord Scamperdale stands transfixed. He is staring through his silver spectacles at the awkwardly lying ball that represents poor Spraggon.
‘By Heavens!’ exclaims he, in an undertone to himself, ‘I believe he’s killed!’ And thereupon he swung down the stand-stairs, rushed to his horse, and, clapping spurs to his sides, struck across the country to the spot.
Long before he got there the increased uproar of the spectators announced the final struggle; and looking over his shoulder, he saw white jacket hugging his horse home, closely followed by red, and shooting past the winning-post.
‘Dash that Mr. Sponge!’ growled his lordship, as the cheers of the winners closed the scene.
‘The brute’s won, in spite of him!’ gasped Buckram, turning deadly pale at the sight.
CHAPTER LXIX
HOW OTHER THINGS CAME OFF
‘TWERE HARD TO say whether Lucy’s joy at Sponge’s safety, or Lord Scamperdale’s grief at poor Spraggon’s death, was most overpowering. Each found relief in a copious flood of tears. Lucy sobbed and laughed, and sobbed and laughed again; and seemed as if her little heart would burst its bounds. The mob, ever open to sentiment — especially the sentiment of beauty — cheered and shouted
as she rode with her lover from the winning to the weighing-post.
‘A’, she’s a bonny un!’ exclaimed a countryman, looking intently up in her face.
‘She is that!’ cried another, doing the same.
‘Three cheers for the lady!’ shouted a tall Shaggyford rough, taking off his woolly cap, and waving it.
‘Hoo-ray! hoo-ray! hoo-ray!’ shouted a group of flannel-clad navvies.
‘Three for white jacket!’ then roared a blue-coated butcher, who had won as many half-crowns on the race. — Three cheers were given for the unwilling winner.
‘Oh, my poor dear Jack!’ exclaimed his lordship, throwing himself off his horse, and wringing his hands in despair, as a select party of thimble-riggers, who had gone to Jack’s assistance, raised him up, and turned his ghastly face, with his eyes squinting inside out, and the foam still on his mouth, full upon him. ‘Oh, my poor dear Jack!’ repeated his lordship, sinking on his knees beside him, and grasping his stiffening hand as he spoke. His lordship sank overpowered upon the body.
The thimble-riggers then availed themselves of the opportunity to ease his lordship and Jack of their watches and the few shillings they had about them, and departed.
When a lord is in distress, consolation is never long in coming; and Lord Scamperdale had hardly got over the first paroxysms of grief, and gathered up Jack’s cap, and the fragments of his spectacles, ere Jawleyford, who had noticed his abrupt departure from the stand and scurry across the country, arrived at the spot. His lordship was still in the full agony of woe; still grasping and bedewing Jack’s cold hand with his tears.
‘Oh, my dear Jack! Oh, my dear Jawleyford! Oh, my dear Jack! ‘sobbed he, as he mopped the fast-chasing tears from his grizzly cheeks with a red cotton kerchief. ‘Oh, my dear Jack! Oh, my dear Jawleyford! Oh, my dear Jack! ‘repeated he, as a fresh flood spread o’er the rugged surface. ‘Oh, what a tr-reasure, what a tr — tr — trump he was. Shall never get such another. Nobody could s — s — lang a fi — fi — field as he could; no hu — hu — humbug ‘bout him — never was su — su — such a fine natural bl — bl — blackguard’; and then his feelings wholly choked his utterance as he recollected how easily Jack was satisfied; how he could dine off tripe and cow-heel, mop up fat porridge for breakfast, and never grumbled at being put on a bad horse.