by R S Surtees
Tom pondered all this in his mind, and having heard a good deal from dear Jane Daiseyfield’s brother Tom, who was rather an adept at cheating in horses, how they tricked them up for the market, and how they gammoned the greenhorns (if ever there was such a thing as a self-admitted greenhorn in horse-dealing, which we very much doubt), Tom went to look at the horse by appointment, without much expectation of doing business.
Though he went, as we say, by appointment, the diplomatic old colonel, whom he found playing at quoits with the Vet at the back of the riding-school, pretended to have forgotten all about it, and assuming that Tom had come to see the ladies, he offered to show him his daughter’s pad on his way—” a perfect lady’s horse — one that he had been offered no end of money for — but, poor thing, he couldn’t bear the idea of selling her. Angelena was so fond of her,” continued he, as he shuffled himself into his frock-coat, and adjusted his forage cap, for the day was warm, and he had been taking it coolly. He then waddled away to the stable, where, between two elephantine chargers, stood the model of perfection, an Arab-like cream colour, with a flowing silvery mane, and a tail reaching down to the heels.
“There!” roared the colonel, as the soldier-groom swept the clothes over its hind-quarters—” there’s (puff) shape for you! — there’s an Arab-like head — there are clean well-shaped legs and an elegantly set-on tail,” continued he, as the mare began to flourish and switch it in return for the tickling of the groom. “That’s the sort of thing now,” continued he, in a lower tone, drawing across the line of scent, “that Lavender would give any money for to mount one of his band upon; indeed, the Dook’s always at me for it for the Life Guards; but what’s the use of parting with one’s comforts, — one’s child’s comforts, — one’s daughter’s comforts. Couldn’t do it! — couldn’t bear the thought of it! — couldn’t, by Jove!” added he, boiling up, and kicking out with his right fin. Then, after a pause, and passing sundry compliments on his other quadrupeds, and anathematising the soldier-groom for not having the scanty straw laid out to air, he suddenly pretended to remember that Tom had turned a soldier, and would be wanting something in their line. “Shouldn’t wonder now,” continued he thoughtfully, as he held his chubby chin in his hand—” shouldn’t wonder now, if Smallbeere’s horse would suit you. Does anybody know anything about Captain Smallbeere’s horse?” continued he, staring around, an inquiry that failed to elicit an answer from the well-drilled stablemen. “Send the adjutant here!” roared he. “The adjutant will know all about it,” continued he, addressing Tom; adding, “these noodles never know anything.”
Adjutant Collop was a trusty man, and, having been in a good many robberies with the colonel, was extremely useful as well in forwarding the transactions as in keeping Major Fibs in order, who might have been more exorbitant in his “regulars” if he had had no one to compete with. So now to the deal.
The sentries had had orders to acquaint the adjutant the next time our friend Tom entered the barrack-ground; and, having got the information, he had been busy during the time the colonel was expatiating on the beauties of his stud in removing a sweating bandage from the brown horse’s near fore-leg, and offering him sundry little attentions that the uninitiated are, perhaps, as well ignorant of. The colonel’s summons found Collop in the act of biting a piece of ginger, which he handed hastily to the groom, and hurried away to obey the great commander.
“Ah! there he is!” observed the colonel, as the adjutant whipped round the canteen corner; “always at his desk — always at his desk; greatest consumer of ink in the service — sometimes tell him I think he must write the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ or ‘Bell’s Life in London,’ or the ‘Lives of the Chancellors,’ or some of those sort of fandangoes — he’s always so full of employment.”
The adjutant now approached with a pen in one hand, making a full deferential swing of salute with the other.
“Well, old inky fingers, how are ye?” roared the colonel. “Hope you find your cash all square, and don’t cheat yourself out of any halfpence. ‘Take care of the pence, and the pounds ‘ill take care of themselves,’ my grandmother used to teach me. Haw! haw! haw! — he! he! he! — ho! ho! ho!”
And Adjutant Collop he, he, he’d! haw, haw, haw’d! and ho, ho, ho’d! just as if he had never heard the saying before.
“Well, Col,” resumed the colonel, as their risible faculties subsided, “well, Col, you’re the man! Wish I had a dozen such. This is my friend Hall; believe you know Mr Hall; dined with us at the mess, you know. Now, can you tell us,” continued he, still speaking at the top of his voice, though they were all close together, “can you tell us anything about Smallbeere’s horse? — the brown, you know; the one he rode with Jugginson’s harriers.”
“The brown,” repeated the adjutant, thoughtfully—” the brown. He’s sold,” added he, after a pause, “to Bartley.”
“Sold!” exclaimed the colonel, throwing up his fins in well-feigned disgust—” sold! That is a pity! — that is a pity! — very horse to have suited our friend Hall here; gone into the Yeomanry; wants a charger or two.”
“Oh, you mean the charger!” exclaimed the adjutant, with an air of sudden enlightenment—” you mean the charger!”
“To be sure,” replied the colonel, “to be sure. You don’t s’pose I meant that rotten devil Samson? Wouldn’t take him in a gift — dashed if I would!” added he, with a crack of his thigh with his right fin.
“Oh, the brown charger is in,” observed the adjutant deferentially.
“Ah, come, I thought so,” replied the colonel, eyeing Tom encouragingly; adding, what he considered sotto voce though quite loud enough for Collop to hear, “My adjutant isn’t quite so bright as he might be this morning. Got muddled with his accounts, p’r’aps.” Then, turning to Collop, he roared out, “Well, now, does anybody know anything about the horse? — I mean, has anybody any instructions about him — about selling him, I mean?”
“Yes, I have,” replied the adjutant promptly.
“You have?” responded the colonel; adding, “that’s business-like, now. Let’s see him out.”
“Certainly,” replied the adjutant, leading the way to the stable.
The colonel then got himself on to his heels, and, accompanied by Tom, went wad, wad, waddling across the barrack-yard; the farther he went the farther he was left behind by the swift-footed adjutant, who hastened to see that all was right in the stable.
“You’ll not be wanting to ride far, p’r’aps?” observed the colonel, recollecting that a young gentleman at Norwich had once ridden one of his officer’s horses to Ipswich and back on trial; “you’ll not be wanting to ride him far, p’r’aps?” repeated he, as he puffed and laboured away on his heels.
“Oh, no,” replied Tom, glad of an excuse for not mounting at all. “Oh no,” repeated he. “Indeed — in fact — to tell you the truth — I — I — I — only want to look at him.”
“Oh, you can ride him,” said the colonel—” you can ride him; only don’t bucket him cross country, you know, or ram him at any impossible places. The horse can hunt, no doubt; but what I recommend him to you for is as a charger. There I think he’ll excel. Colonel Peters himself couldn’t have made him more perfect. Indeed, if I wasn’t certain about it, I wouldn’t recommend him to you, for who shall counsel a man in the choice of a wife or a horse, as Solomon, or some other gentleman of fortune, asked. Haw, haw, haw! — he, he, he! — ho, ho, ho!” the colonel inwardly hoping he might have to suit Tom with both.
Prudent people may think that the colonel would have done well to confine himself to one endeavour, but his rule was never to lose a chance; and he had seen the failure of so many of Angelena’s bright prospects, that he thought the horse might be the best chance of the two.
The reader will now have the kindness to suppose our fat friends arriving at the stable door just as the horse’s tan muzzle pioneered his glossy body, radiant with grooming, and fresh from the operation of mane and tail combing and br
ushing, to say nothing of other figments. Whatever might have been Tom’s misgivings and suspicions — whatever his previous determinations about buying or not buying, they entirely vanished under the influence of the colonel’s honest interest and the pleasing appearance of the horse. He stepped out of the stable so lightly and quietly, and as Tom marked his blooming coat, clean unblemished legs, and placid eye — above all, the flowing flourish of his well set-on tail — an appendage that has led more young ladies and gentlemen into mischief than the uncandid will care to acknowledge — Tom’s only fear was that they would be asking an impossible price for him — two or three hundred perhaps.
“There!” exclaimed the colonel, striking out his right fin towards the horse, “there! that’s a neat horse! He’s not a great horse, nor a grand horse, nor an overpowering horse; but he’s a neat horse — a gentleman’s horse — a horse that a man may ride down St James’s-street before all the bow-window beggars that ever were foaled, and snap his fingers at the ‘ole lot on ’em” — the colonel accompanying the declaration with a hearty snap of his own. And Tom stood mute, simply because he didn’t know what to say, and didn’t like to let out that this was his first deal. “Good shoulders — deep girth — fine, expressive, blood-like head,” continued the colonel. “How old is he?” demanded he of the man.
“Seven off, sir,” replied the groom, with a respectful touch of his forelock.
“Seven off,” repeated the colonel, “seven off. Thought he’d been older. Devilish good age,” whispered he to Tom. “Wasn’t handled till he was four; did nothin’ till he was five. Easin”em at one end puts a deal on at t’other. That horse’ll be fresh at twenty.” And Tom still stood mute, for the colonel’s logic was all Greek to him. He was as ignorant as Pickwick in all that related to horses — didn’t know whether they lived to twenty, fifty, or a hundred. He would have given anything for an idea.
“Get on him, Hall,” at length roared the colonel, tired of Tom’s staring. “Get on him,” repeated he, “and give him a round in the riding-school.”
“Thank’ee — no,” replied Tom, in an easy, indifferent sort of way, as if he didn’t think the horse likely to suit, but in reality to avoid the chance of a spill.
“Well, as you please,” responded the colonel, in a huff, with a lack out of his right fin; “as you please, as you please — only don’t keep the horse starvin’ there, or we shall be havin’ his death at our door.”
“Let me lay my leg over him,” interposed the adjutant, anxious, if possible, to save the deal, though he feared things were going against him, he too suspecting Tom had been reading some of the mischievous books that recommend youngsters not to try horses they don’t think likely to suit, less they should afterwards be talked into buying them.
Adjutant Collop then approached the passive animal, and, mounting with a military stirrup, proceeded to point his toe and show off, turning right left about on the horse’s centre, fore and hind-quarters, and so on, to the evident satisfaction of Tom, who fancied himself the equestrian, with his lady-love looking at him.
At the close of each well-performed evolution, Tom’s fear increased that the price would be an impossible one.
The adjutant, having twisted and turned and tickled the horse about, at length drew up beside our friends, with the horse’s head towards the rising ground, and, making him extend himself, he proceeded to dismount.
“How is he under you?” roared the colonel, as if the adjutant was a mile off.
“Sweet ‘orse,” replied the adjutant, who was a bit of a Cockney. “Sweet ‘orse,” repeated he.
“Now will you mount him?” demanded the colonel of Tom.
“Thank’ee — no,” replied Tom, in an easy, indifferent sort of tone, “thank’ee — no,” repeated he, turning away, as if he wasn’t going to be tempted. The fact was, he saw little Jug and Mattyfat watching him from behind the red curtain of the messroom window, and he didn’t know how many more might be in the bush.
“Take him in, then,” roared the colonel, disgusted at Tom’s stupidity; and, wheeling round, he proceeded to retrace his steps to the quoit-ground, thinking what an ass he had been to give himself so much trouble. Tom followed passively, fearing he had offended the opulent man.
“What’s the price?” at length asked Tom timidly, after walking for some time in silence by the side of the rolling man-mountain.
“Price!” exclaimed the colonel, brightening up. “Price!” repeated he; “faith I can hardly tell you about price — don’t belong to me — belongs to one of my young people — Captain Smallbeere — you know him — ugly conceited feller — great head, button nose — away on leave — old Collywobbles there (meaning Collop) has the selling of him. Should say — though mind, I don’t know for certain,” continued he, dropping his voice as he scrutinised Tom’s vacant face— “should think that he might be had reasonable — say sixty, or p’r’aps se — ven — ty guineas — sixty p’r’aps,” continued he, as he saw Tom’s countenance fall.
And when Tom said, with a long-drawn h-e-m, that he would “consider,” the colonel saw he had made a mistake, but his sagacity did not tell him where.
“Well,” said he, “do as you like; buy in haste, repent at leisure’s an old sayin’, and not a bad ‘un. But mind ye!” continued he, raising his voice, “the horse may be sold while you are considerin’.” So saying, the gallant colonel lashed out with his right fin and struck across the barracks to seek consolation at the hand of his friend, Major Fibs, leaving Tom to dispose of himself as he thought proper.
CHAPTER X.
COLONEL BLUNT CONFIDES IN MAJOR FIBS.
“AH! I THEE how it ith, thir! I thee how it ith!” lisped Major Fibs, when the colonel told him what had taken place, “I thee how it ith — the fact ith, thir, you’re too conthiderate — you don’t do yourthelf juthtice — you should have asked him a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, and you’d have got it.”
“D’ye think so?” exclaimed the colonel in disgust.
“Thure of it,” replied the major, “thure of it; never was a boy yet that wanted an orth under a hundred.”
“But d’ye think that old griffin of a governor of his would have forked out the tin?” asked the colonel.
“No doubt about it, thir,” replied the major, “no doubt about it. Bleth ye, that old buffer’s rolling in money — has a hundred thouthand pounds in the funds — not a hundred thouthand stock, but stock that’ll prodooth a hundred thouthand tholid thubstanthal thovereigns.”
“And lives like a mouse in a cheese!” exclaimed the old colonel, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Well, it’s a pity,” added he, “it’s a great pity.”
“It is a pity,” replied the major thoughtfully; “but, excuse me for thaying it, you really throw away the advantages of your high pothithon. What’s the uth of being colonel of a crack cavalry corps if you don’t improve your opportunities? You don’t s’pothe Andrews throws chances away like you? Not he, by Jove! Two ‘under’d and fifty, or three ‘under’d, and not all the Mr Watsons, Q.C., could indooth an honest British joory to believe that it wasn’t an upright transaction. It would be a Q.C., or queer concern, if, because a man’s a colonel, he’s not to sell an orth for as much as he can get.”
“It would be a pretty go indeed,” assented the colonel. “I like these common councilmen thinking to teach us what’s right and proper, as if the army isn’t the real school for honour and morality.”
“To be thure!” rejoined the major, “to be thure! Her Majesty’s commithon wouldn’t be worth holdin’ if one mightn’t turn an occathonal copper by orthes.”
The two then sat mute for some time, the huge colonel contemplating his enormous feet, occasionally lifting one up, as if to see they were fellows, and the gaunt major stretching his legs to their utmost longitude, wetting his finger and thumb, and twiddling his truculent moustachios into points. No noise disturbed the scene, except the occasional tap, tap, tapping of the terrier dog’s tail against the
uncarpeted corner of the room where he lay.
“I think we might manage it yet, thir,” at length observed the major.
“D’ye think so, Fibby!” exclaimed the colonel, starting up.
“Think tho, thir!” replied the major, cautiously but deferentially.
“I wish you’d try, by Jove!” roared the colonel, “for I’m reg’larly in Short’s-gardens — never was so hard up in my life. May call me Blunt, but I know I never have any. Don’t know where to lay hands on a halfpenny; and there’s that beastly Mrs Bussleton’s dunnin’ me almost every post for her ‘little bill,’ as she calls it — eighteen pund odd.”
“‘Deed!” replied the major; “doesn’t deserve the honour of the ladies’ cuthtom. However, I’ll tell you what, thir, if, as I thuspect, this young gentleman was put off buyin’ the orth on account of the prithe, we can accommodate him either with this orth or another.”
“You’ll do the State great service!” exclaimed the colonel—” you’ll do the State great service!” repeated he. “I always say her Majesty hasn’t a more meritorious officer than yourself. The Duke’s services are nothin’ compared to yours. Well, now, tell me how you think it can be done?” continued he, dropping his voice, and leaning forward in his chair towards the major.
“Why,” replied the major, “it must be done gingerly. I must endeavour to find out what his objection was to this orth; and if it was merely prithe, I’d try him on again with it; but if he has any tholid thubstanthal dithhke to him, then we must look out for another. There are plenty of orthes in the world, and it wouldn’t do to let such a promithin’ young gentleman go on foot for want of one.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed the colonel, “certainly not! In my humble opinion, however,” added he, in a lower tone, “this horse is the very one for him — quiet tractable animal, used to troops, and all that sort of thing; no great constitution p’r’aps, but that’s matter of opinion — de gustibus non est somethin’ — I forget the word,” added he, with a shake of his head, “but you know what I mean?”