by George Moore
“I dun know,” said William; “have it that way if you like, but I’m glad there ain’t many about like him. I wish he’d take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do.”
“What sort of man should you say he was? ‘as he been a servant, should you say?” asked old John.
“I can’t tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that ’ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don’t bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn’t see the people, and he don’t care that for the ‘orses. Knowing he don’t mean no business, I cries to him, ‘The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.’ He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm ‘un; he is just about as ‘ot as they make ’em.”
“What I can’t make out,” said Journeyman, “is why he bets on the course. You say he don’t know nothing about horses. Why don’t he remain at ‘ome and save the exes?”
“I’ve thought of all that,” said William, “and can’t make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six ‘undred a year.”
At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all — a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman.
“Won’t you step round, sir, to the private bar?” said William. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I’d come in and have a look round…. I see that you haven’t forgotten the old horses,” he said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer’s Dean which William had hung on the wall. “That was a great day, wasn’t it? Fifty to one chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry…. Hullo, John! very glad to see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?”
The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, and as the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across the bar.
“I ‘ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir,” said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne.
Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six.
“Do you know him?” said William.
“Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night — Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton.”
The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat.
“You’d better ‘ave the coat,” he said; “you won’t better it;” and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. “Glass of porter; nice warm weather, good for the ‘arvest. Just come up from the country — a bit dusty, ain’t I?”
“Ain’t you the chap,” said William, “what laid Mr. Ketley six ‘alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads?”
Charles nodded, and William continued —
“I like your cheek coming into my bar.”
“No harm done, gov’nor; no one was about; wouldn’t ‘ave done it if they had.”
“That’ll do,” said William. “… No, he don’t want the coat. We likes to know where our things comes from.”
Bill Evans finished his glass. “Good-night, guv’nor; no ill-feeling.”
The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. “Take it for love,” she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together.
“I don’t like the looks of that chap,” said William, and he let go the champagne cork. “Yer health, sir.” They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next week’s racing.
“I dun know about next week’s events,” said old John, “but I’ve heard of something for the Leger — an outsider will win.”
“Have you backed it?”
“I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky with me lately. But I’d advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It’s the best tip I ‘ave had in my life.”
“Really!” said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, “so I will, and so shall you. I’m damned if you shan’t have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the odds. What is it?”
“Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir.”
“Why, I thought that—”
“No such thing, sir; Briar Rose’s the one.”
Ginger took up the paper. “Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken.”
“You see, sir, it was taken.”
“Will you lay the price, William — twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?”
“Yes, I’ll lay it.”
Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker.
“I never take money over this bar. You’re good for a thin ‘un, sir,” William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money.
“But I don’t know when I shall see you again,” said Ginger. “It will be very inconvenient. There’s no one in the bar.”
“None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don’t matter?”
Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless.
XXXI
NEVER HAD A Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, between which the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night at the “King’s Head.” Ketley’s wife used to wear a string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn’t certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that — not being much of a reader. So what with one thing and another Ketley didn’t believe much in this ’ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn’t Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John’s experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. “When they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about enough of it.” Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on Dewberry. He didn’t know much about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him; “and when I know the stable-money is right I says, ‘That’s good enough for me!’”
Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Ne
cklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to with awed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he described how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn’t have ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider’s opinion worth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger’s magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was good enough for him. He didn’t suppose the guv’nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten.
“Turn it up, old mate,” said William.
“All right, guv’nor, I never presses my goods on them that don’t want ’em. If there’s any other gentleman who would like to look at this ’ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they’re in for fifteen shillings. Here’s the ticket. I’m a bit short of money, and have a fancy for a certain outsider. I’d like to have my bit on, and I’ll dispose of the ticket for — what do you say to a thin ‘un, Mr. Ketley?”
“Did you ‘ear me speak just now?” William answered angrily, “or shall I have to get over the counter?”
“I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?” said Ginger.
“No, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a race run.”
“How’s that, shouldn’t you care?”
“You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there’s the house to look after.”
“I never thought of it before,” said William. “You’ve never seen a race run, no more you haven’t. Would you care to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther?”
“I think I should.”
At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, “We shall lose our licence if — —”
“If we don’t get out,” said Ginger.
William apologised.
“The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can’t serve any more liquor to-night…. Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in…. Now, gentlemen, gentlemen.”
Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. A few minutes after the house was closed.
A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour’s work before bed-time, and then they lighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs.
William flung off his coat. “I’m dead beat,” he said, “and all this to lose — —” He didn’t finish the sentence. Esther said —
“You’ve a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider’ll win.”
“I ‘ope so…. But if you’d care to see the race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you.”
“I don’t know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither.”
They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes….
“I wonder if there’s any one going who you’d care for?”
“I don’t care a bit about it, Bill.” The conversation paused. At the end of a long silence William said —
“It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much should never have seen a race.” Esther didn’t answer. She was falling asleep, and William’s voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a great shove. “Wake up, old girl, I’ve got it. Why not ask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she’s out of situation. It’ll be a nice treat for her.”
“Ah…. I should like to see Sarah again.”
“You’re half asleep.”
“No, I’m not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us.”
William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides, the road wasn’t what it used to be; every one goes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah’s address.
Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed and said —
“I think it will be a fine day, Esther.” He took out his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said —
“Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes.”
“Is it time to get up?”
“Yes, I should think it was. For God’s sake, get up.”
She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the door.
“All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife’s not dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther.”
Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there isn’t no time to lose if the governor don’t want to lose his place on the ‘ill.”
“Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don’t stand there talking.”
The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly as large as a sixpence.
“You’ll wear the green tie, sir?” William nodded. The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. “I’ve got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?”
William glanced at the bouquet. “They look a bit loud,” he said; “I’ll wait till we get on the course; put them in the bag.”
The card to be worn in the white hat— “William Latch, London,” in gold letters on a green ground — was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, on which was written in gold letters, “William Latch, ‘The King’s Head,’ London. Fair prices, prompt payment.”
It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul’s on one side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men — here and there a girl’s dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said —
“We shall be late; we shall have to go without her.”
Esther’s face clouded. “We can’t go without her; don’t be so impatient.” At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, “I think that that’s Sarah.”
“You can chatter in the train — you’ll have a whole hour to talk about each other’s dress; get in, get in,” and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarah was the first to speak.
“It was kind of you to think of me. So you’ve married, and to him after all!” she added, lowering her voice.
Esther laughed. “It do seem strange, don’t it?”
“You’ll tell me all about it,” she said. “I wonder we
didn’t run across one another before.”
They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil.
The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, ‘buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago.
The men puffed at their pipes, and old John’s anecdotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofs which they carried on their arms.
They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line was blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreading trees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer’s day.