Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “I dare say I can do that,” observed Mr. Bunting — who had a pretty good opinion of his horsemanship.

  “Well I don’t know but you can,” replied Peter, diving his hands into his greasy breeches pockets—” as well as any as has been to look at ’em yet, I dare say.”

  “What, you’ve had some other parties after them, have you?” asked Mr. Bunting.

  “I believe I have” replied Peter, winking his eye at our friend— “Chaps of all sorts and sizes — great, bulky, barge-like fellers, and little bits of bodies that could ‘ardly ‘old a cat together. There was a Mr. Percival Dobbin, from Ball’s Pond, or some such queer place ’ere, not ‘alf an hour afore you came, who looked more like the mark nor any on ’em, but I should say he’s a good stun ‘eavier nor you, and altogether, he wasn’t quite a man to my mind.”

  This information rather quickened the pulse of Mr. Bunting’s aspirations. He wouldn’t like to let Dobbin have the horses.

  “Then you and he didn’t deal?” asked he.

  “We didn’t deal, and we didn’t not deal,” replied Peter, with a chuck of the chin. “I told him I should give him an answer the day arter tomorrow.”

  “Well, but have you power to make the arrangement without referring to your master?” asked Mr. Bunting, thinking that “quick” was the word.

  “Power! to be sure I ‘ave the power,” smiled Peter, “I’ve lived man and boy these forty years in the famly, and if I ha’n’t power to make an arrangement, I don’t know who ‘as.”

  This rather threw a light on the matter. Peter was evidently an old family servant, hence his one eye and disregard of appearances. Perhaps his young master had put his eye out.

  “Then the horses are ready to start at any time?” asked Mr. Bunting.

  “Any time, any time,” replied Peter, “arter we get ‘greed; tomorrow morning, if you like.”

  “Well, I don’t know why we shouldn’t agree,” observed Mr. Bunting, half to himself and half to the man.

  “Nor I,” assented Peter, carelessly, adding, “if you give me a reverence, I makes no doubt I shall find all right.”

  “Well, my name is Bunting — Mr. John Bunting; I am a member of the Polyanthus Club, and of the Tearaway hunt,” producing a card of his Club as he spoke, and handing it to Peter, who received and pocketed it in silence.

  “Then you’ll do nothing with Dobbin till you see me again?” observed Mr. Bunting, sidling to and fro, with his hands in his peg-top trowser pockets.

  “Nothin’ with Dobbin till I see you again,” assented Peter, adding to Matthew Andrew! “Light the gas, boy.”

  Mr. Bunting having then taken his tiny umbrella from the top of the corn-bin, next began sucking its ivory knob, thinking if there was anything else he could do. He thought not. Yet stay, give the fellow a sovereign, and that will keep matters straight, so saying he dipped his forefinger and thumb into his waistcoat-pocket, and fishing up a sovereign, found Crankey’s hand attracted to his on the instant. It jinked into his pocket just as the boy lit the jet of the gas, and Peter then unlocking the door, bowed Mr. Bunting out, hoping to have the pleasure of seeing him the next day.

  CHAPTER LIX.

  AN EQUITABLE ARRANGEMENT.

  IT IS A remarkable fact that we never met any one yet who liked to be laughed at, and though the gathering gloom of a wintry day was fast shrouding the passenger from observation, our friend Mr. Bunting on leaving Captain Cavendish Chichester’s stables, bolted out at the other end of the Mews, in order to avoid the invidious gaze of the aprons by the way that he came. The exit end gained, a short street to the right led him back to the cheerful regions of Rochester Square, on the reverse side to that on which he before entered. Day was now about done, oil and gas were usurping the place of the mist-obscured sun, and careful servants were shutting the shutters, while the me-a-u of the milk-maid, and call of the crumpet-man began to awaken the areas.

  It is a good thing for a mind-perplexed man to get away from the scene of contention, and Rochester Square formed a healthy and agreeable contrast to the fetid smells of Sligo Mews.

  Mr. Bunting was now enabled to take a calm and dispassionate view of the matter. Here was an offer that seemed almost like a god-send to aid his endeavours with his incomparable charmer. True, the groom was not very good, but the horses were magnificent, and looking at such animals made him more sensible of the imperfections of his own. He thought he oughtn’t to miss such a chance, and yet he didn’t exactly see how he could manage it. Four horses would be of no use to him with his mild style of riding, besides which he wouldn’t like to go about with a man with one eye. The slang cry of “There you go with your eye out!” occurred to his recollection. He would like to dispense with Crankey if he could. The question was, how to manage it. At length a thought struck him. If I could get Captain Cavendish Chichester to exchange horses for a time, it might answer both our purposes; I should get my riding, and he would get his horses kept in wind, and condition, and the eatage of the one could be set off against the eatage of the other. “Dash it! if I don’t think that will do,” said he, delighted at his cleverness, and liking the proposition the more he thought of it. He took a rapid turn round the entire Square, and having conned the point well, decided it would do; at all events that he would make the proposal. “And why not at once?” asked he. “Why not, indeed?” was the answer he gave himself. That point settled, he right-about-faced, and again made for the little street by which he had re-entered the Square, and was speedily back in the gloom of Sligo Mews. Faint glow-wormlike candles flickered here and there, varied by an occasional stable-lantern, or the red fire of the itinerant pie or roast-chestnut man. Having taken his bearings pretty accurately, our friend came upon 51 A, just as Peter, having seen the four o’clock stable-ceremonies performed, was retiring for the evening.

  “Hillo!” exclaimed Bunting, as the key turned in the lock, and the retrograding groom nearly trod on his toes—” Hillo!” repeated he, “is that you?”

  “It’s me,” replied Peter, turning the lantern upon Bunting, to be sure of his man. “Oh, Mr. Banting, I see,” continued he, for people generally mangle a name if they can.

  “The same,” replied Mr. Bunting, pocketing the injury. “It has just occurred to me,” continued he, “that the Captain and I could make an arrangement that would be mutually beneficial.”

  “Well, Sir,” said Peter, wondering what it was.

  “You see I have a couple of very neat horses, but not quite the perfect hunters I should like to take into the country I’m going to, where there are bullfinches that require big horses to take in their stride, and also a good deal of water-jumping, so that altogether I want to be rather extra well done by, and it occurred to me that it might suit Captain Chichester if we were just to change horses for the time, and let the servants remain as they are — you taking my horses, and my groom taking yours, by which means you could remain quietly with your family in London.”

  Now mark the amiable benevolence that attends these London horse-dealing transactions! A groom in the country would have looked as black as thunder, and growled, “No, I’m blowed if I do anything of the sort — I’ll not part company with my ‘osses not for no man!” but Peter Crankey came quite pleasantly into the thing, and only seemed anxious about the merits of the animals he was to have in exchange. He was quite “‘greeable, only he wouldn’t like to look arter no rubbisin’ cat-legged beggars that would do him no credit, but if the ‘osses were as Mr. Bunting described, and the reverence Mr. Bunting had given was good, he didn’t see why the ‘rangement shouldn’t be made.”

  Well done! thought Mr. Bunting, chuckling at his own acuteness, and thinking what a swell he would be on Owen Ashford.

  It was then arranged that Peter Crankey should visit Mr. Bunting’s stable in Haycock Mews, May Fair, on the morrow, and if matters were approved of, that the exchange should take place the day after. And Mr. Bunting went away extremely well pleased with his bargain, and chuckling a
t the idea at having disappointed Mr. Percival Dobbin.

  CHAPTER LX.

  JOHN CROP.

  A REAL LONDON groom is a gentleman of great pretension and powers of indolence. He can make less work serve him than almost any other description of servant. They are like the men of a hunting establishment without the exercise — they can dress and they can ride, — at least sit a horse in a walk; but as to dressing the horse or caring about him after they get off him, that is no part of their business — there are other people paid for doing that. So, as the huntsman comes shambling into the yard for his horse in the morning and returns him to the place from whence he came in the evening, do these natty elbow-squaring, neat neckcloth-tying grooms expect to be presented with their animals. The groom who does least is considered to be the greatest man. Between men of this description and the humble-minded individual who advertises his general willingness, there is indeed a great gulph. One is the show, the other the working partner in the great firm of Horse, Hound, and Man. Sometimes indeed the willing man includes matters not exactly within the scope of his jurisdiction, as, for instance, “groom and gardener, can wait well at table;” or, more humble still, “gardener and groom, who can milk and butcher if required.” Considering the number of works we have on the choice and management of horses, we wonder no master has ever favoured the public with a treatise on the choice and management of grooms, a subject of quite as much importance, seeing that the horse is of very little value without an efficient attendant. There are few but whose experience would supply a few wrinkles.

  Mr. Bunting’s groom, John Crop, was a perfect model of the do-nothing order. Accustomed to the light, trim, drawing-room-like stables of the metropolis and great watering-places, he had an idea that there were helpers and men to do all the dirty work for the smart grooms in the country. He could cock his hat and button his coat and arrange his belt, and make his boots and breeches approximate becomingly; but as to anything useful, that was quite out of the question. He cleaned his own clothes and kept himself trim and smart to ride after his master, and what more could a good-looking, fresh-complexioned young fellow, be expected to do.

  “When Peter Crankey’s emissary (for he did not go himself) arrived at Benson’s livery and bait stables in Haycock Mews, May Fair, to inspect our hero’s horses, Crop was waiting for orders at Mr. Bunting’s lodgings in Clarges Street; but the production of Mr. Bunting’s card enabled the party to see the horses, squeeze their wind-pipes, punch their ribs, and otherwise examine them under the auspices of the helper. That done, the man turned on his heel and walked deliberately out of the Mews without note or comment, followed by the usual ejaculation of “Ah, you’re a gemman, you are,” from his late assistant. But if the man was remiss, the master was prompt; for when Mr. Bunting arrived at the Polyanthus Club, the porter on handing him his letters announced that a party had been there to say he could have Captain — Captain — Captain somebody’s horse.

  “Captain Cavendish Chichester’s,” interposed Mr. Bunting.

  “That’s the name, sir,” replied the porter; whereupon our hero went bounding up stairs into the morning room, looking as happy as R — d — l P — lm — r when he has thrown his client’s case away.

  His various notes, letters, cards, &c., hurriedly conned, he got into a Hansom cab and went rolling away to Rochester Square, there to bind the bargain. What a good thing it was, he thought as he galloped along, that he had given the fellow a sovereign. How foolish that finely-named Mr. Dobbin would look when he came, expecting to show off on the gray. And our hero thought if Owen Ashford and he did not captivate Miss Rosa, nothing would. Arrived at Sligo Mews, he presently thought the money might have been better bestowed; for Peter on appearing had evidently been basking in the sunshine of the gin-palace, and had dimmed his evil eye considerably. Still, as a man who is never exactly sober is never quite drunk, his indulgence had only the effect of engendering familiarity, causing him to receive our dandified friend with extended hand instead of giving him the cap or hat rap of servitude. Somehow or other, too, Peter had shaved off or forgotten his moustache.

  “Ah, Captain!” exclaimed he, grasping our hero’s hand severely as he turned, or rather bundled, him into the stable; “Ah, Captain! you’ve got the two besht (hiccup) oshes that ever (hiccup) man laid (hiccup) leg over (lurch), don’t care where the two next (hiccup) besht are. Now when shall we shwop? When shall we shwop?” continued he, diving his hands into his dirty breeches pockets and making a rubbing-post of our friend as he spoke.

  “Well, directly,” replied Mr. Bunting, wishing to be done with the nasty fellow, the return smell of Juniper being stronger than he liked.

  “Di-rectly ish the word!” hiccupped Peter, nudging Bunting with his elbow. —

  “That’s to say, to-morrow morning,” qualified Mr. Bunting, thinking Peter was in no condition to deliver.

  “Morrow mornin ish the word,” responded Peter; “morrow mornin ish the (hiccup) word, Equinocshal Gale, Esheware Road.”

  “No, no, the Golconda Station — the Golconda Station,” frowned Mr. Bunting.

  “Musht stop at the Nocshal Gale,” rejoined Peter, eyeing Bunting reproachfully.

  “No, no, take it as you come back — take it as you come back — after you get my horses done up,” replied our friend, snappishly.

  “Well, Golconda Stashon ish the word — Golconda Stashon ish the word,” muttered Peter, adding, “What time?”

  “Eleven thirty,” replied Mr. Bunting, sternly; “but the horses should be there before that to load — say eleven punctually.”

  “Eleven punc ish the word — eleven punc ish the word,” assented Peter, drawing his dirty hands out of his greasy-topped pockets, adding, “You’ll get my oshes there, and I’ll get your oshes ere. No, I’ll get your oshes where?”

  “Well, at my stable,” replied Mr. Bunting.

  “No— ‘spose you bring ’em ere, goVnor,” rejoined Peter, after a pause, lurching as he spoke, and fixing his evil eye steadily on our friend.

  “Well, I have no objection to that,” assented our hero.

  “You bring your oshes ere, and I’ll ave mine ready to schange,” said Peter, looking especially wise.

  “Very good, very good,” replied Mr. Bunting, thinking they would be better without the monster.

  ‘ “Shoddies, bridles, rollers, rugs, everything,” enumerated the man.

  “Yes, and I get yours in exchange,” observed Mr. Bunting.

  “In courshe — in courshe,” assented Peter.

  “Then say at ten thirty in the morning — ten thirty in the morning punctually,” rejoined our hero.

  “Ten thirty punc ish the word,” added Peter, keeping his eye steadily on Mr. Bunting’s hand, to see if it revisited his waistcoat pocket. But our friend had had enough of that game, and now beat a retreat without further beneficence.

  CHAPTER LXI.

  TUB QOLCONDA STATION OF THE GREAT GAMMON AND SPINACH

  RAILWAY.

  CROP received the intelligence of his master’s change of horses with the same indifference as he would hear that Bartley had sent a pair of new hoots home and wanted the old ones to mend. What he rode was nothing to him, so long as his master was pleased, provided, of course, his mount did not disfigure him. He felt more the severance from pretty Betsy Jane, the barmaid of the Coach and Horses hard by, but by sudden wrench, believing not that “Hearts could thus be torn away,” he looked confidently forward to a renewal of their interesting intimacy. Meanwhile he presented her with an eighteen-penny workbox, with a picture of Roseberry Rocks on the lid, and a handsome coloured photograph of himself in a claret-coloured case.

  Having then communicated his marching orders to the helpers in the yard, so that they might get his horses ready for him, he next began hissing and packing up his own things, in order to send them along with Mr. Bunting’s. Of course he took both first and second class clothes, relays of boots, and everything becoming, little doubting that Burton St. Leg
er was a place of size and importance. Betsy Jane, indeed, had her misgivings on that point, and much feared he might fall into the hands of the designing. Even in his undress travelling clothes, with the rose-tinted tops obscured with caps, she thought she had never seen any one so natty and handsome. What a happy woman she would be if she could have a bar of her own under the title of Mrs. Crop. So Crop and she went to the Alhambra Circus together that evening, and after a soothing glass of rum and milk in the morning, he tore himself away from her auburn ringlets. He then repaired to the Mews, where he found his master waiting to receive him. The bill was paid, the horses were quickly turned out, everything becoming, and Crop received the last compliment of the yard in the shape of a leg up, while another helper handed him his led horse, and, after the usual bumpings and jerkings, he got settled into his saddle, and with parting adieus put his horses in motion, and presently passed off the pavement of the Mews on to the McAdam of May Fair.

  They were nice looking horses as they now stepped freely along; one a hay — called the Bard, on which Mr. Bunting is depicted careering over the Downs to the Pic Nic; the other a brown, called the Kitten, of much the same cut and calibre. Horses, servant, saddles, clothing, were altogether a very creditable turn out. So thought Mr. Bunting, as Crop now aggravated them into a trot, and our Mend jumped into a perambulating Hansom to follow and see that all went on right at the place of exchange. Crop’s instructions were to go to 51 A, Sligo Mews, Rochester Square, there to exchange horses, and then proceed at once to the Golconda Station, where Mr. Bunting would meet him. Now, however, Mr. Bunting thought he would just follow him in view, and abandoning his cab in the Square, take a peep round the corner, to be ready in case of requirement. Crop knowing the town as well as any cabman, went jerking by all the short outs and by-ways, was presently in the denoted region. As luck would have it, he entered Rochester Square on the east side, which led to the 51 A end of Sligo Mews. Being a tolerably quick fellow at finding addresses, he soon saw by Matthew Andrew’s darting in at the door as Crop rounded the corner where the stable was, and ere he reached it, Owen Ashford came popping out in charge of the lad, followed by the Exquisite led by old one-eye. Crop coming up then dropped from the Bard, jockey fashion, who was immediately slapped into the stable, followed by the Kitten, and Crop was instantly hoisted upon Owen Ashford, and the leading-rein of the Exquisite passed into his hand. He then proceeded to jerk and jag them into motion, Peter and Andrew retreating into the stable the moment their horses had left the door. Though the exchange was effected as quickly as possible, not two minutes being consumed in the operation,