[frontispiece: "micky's standin' in the track leanin' against hamilton."] blister jones by john taintor foote illustrated by jay hambidge indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company i dedicate this, my first book, with awe and the deepest affection, to mulvaney--mowgil--kim, and all the wonderful rest of them. j. t. f. a certain magazine, that shall be nameless, i read every month. not because its pale contents, largely furnished by worthy ladies, contain many red corpuscles, but because as a child i saw its numbers lying upon the table in the "library," as much a part of that table as the big vase lamp that glowed above it. my father and mother read the magazine with much enjoyment, for, doubtless, when its editor was young, the precious prose and poetry of araminta perkins and her ilk satisfied him not at all. therefore, in memory of days that will never come again, i read this old favorite; sometimes--i must confess it--with pain. it chanced that a story about horses--aye, race horses--was approved and sanctified by the august editor. this story, when i found it sandwiched between _jane somebody's impressions upon seeing an italian hedge_, and three verses entitled _resurgam_, or something like that, i straightway bore to "blister" jones, horse-trainer by profession and gentleman by instinct. "what that guy don't know about a hoss would fill a book," was his comment after i had read him the story. i rather agreed with this opinion and so--here is the book. the thoroughbred lead him away!--his day is done, his satin coat and velvet eye are dimmed as moonlight in the sun is lost upon the sky. lead him away!--his rival stands a calf of shiny gold; his masters kneel with lifted hands to this base thing and bold. lead him away!--far down the past, where sentiment has fled; but, gentlemen, just at the last, drink deep!--_the thoroughbred_! contents i blister ii two ringers iii wanted--a rainbow iv salvation v a tip in time vi très jolie vii ole man sanford viii class ix exit butsy x the big train illustrations "micky's standin' in the track leanin' against hamilton" . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "très jolie!" he shrieked. "i see the elefant stamp him." blister jones blister how my old-young friend "blister" jones acquired his remarkable nickname, i learned one cloudless morning late in june. our chairs were tipped against number in the curving line of box-stalls at latonia. down the sweep of whitewashed stalls the upper doors were yawning wide, and from many of these openings, velvet black in the sunlight, sleek snaky heads protruded. my head rested in the center of the lower door of . from time to time a warm moist breath, accompanied by a gigantic sigh, would play against the back of my neck; or my hat would be pushed a bit farther over my eyes by a wrinkling muzzle--for tambourine, gazing out into the green of the center-field, felt a vague longing and wished to tell me about it. the track, a broad tawny ribbon with a lace-work edging of white fence, was before us; the "upper-turn" with its striped five-eighths pole, not fifty feet away. some men came and set up the starting device at this red and white pole, and i asked blister to explain to me just what it meant. "goin' to school two-year-olds at the barrier," he explained. and presently--mincing, sidling, making futile leaps to get away, the boys on their backs standing clear above them in the short stirrups--a band of deer-like young thoroughbreds assembled, thirty feet or so from the barrier. then there was trouble. those sweet young things performed, with the rapidity of thought, every lawless act known to the equine brain. they reared. they plunged. they bucked. they spun. they surged together. they scattered like startled quail. i heard squeals, and saw vicious shiny hoofs lash out in every direction; and the dust spun a yellow haze over it all. "those jockeys will be killed!" i gasped. "jockeys!" exclaimed blister contemptuously. "them ain't jockeys--they're exercise-boys. do you think a jock would school a two-year-old?" a man, who blister said was a trainer, stood on the fence and acted as starter. language came from this person in volcanic blasts, and the seething mass, where infant education was brewing, boiled and boiled again. "that bay filly's a nice-lookin' trick, four eyes!" said blister, pointing out a two-year-old standing somewhat apart from the rest. "she's by hamilton 'n' her dam's alberta, by seminole." the bay filly, i soon observed, had more than beauty--she was so obviously the outcome of a splendid and selected ancestry. even her manners were aristocratic. she faced the barrier with quiet dignity and took no part in the whirling riot except to move disdainfully aside when it threatened to engulf her. i turned to blister and found him gazing at the filly with a far-away look in his eyes. "ole alberta was a grand mare," he said presently. "i see her get away last in the crescent city derby 'n' be ten len'ths back at the quarter. but she come from nowhere, collared ole stonebrook in the stretch, looked him in the eye the last eighth 'n' outgamed him at the wire. she has a hundred 'n' thirty pounds up at that. "ole alberta dies when she has this filly," he went on after a pause. "judge dillon, over near lexington, owned her, 'n' mrs. dillon brings the filly up on the bottle. see how nice that filly stands? handled every day since she was foaled, 'n' never had a cross word. sugar every mawnin' from mrs. dillon. that's way to learn a colt somethin'." at last the colts were formed into a disorderly line. "now, boys, you've got a chance--come on with 'em!" bellowed the starter. "not too fast . . ." he cautioned. "awl-r-r-right . . . let 'em go-o-!" they were off like rockets as the barrier shot up, and the bay filly flashed into the lead. her slender legs seemed to bear her as though on the breast of the wind. she did not run--she floated--yet the gap between herself and her struggling schoolmates grew ever wider. "oh, you alberta!" breathed blister. then his tone changed. "most of these wise ikes talk about the sire of a colt, but i'll take a good dam all the time for mine!" standing on my chair, i watched the colts finish their run, the filly well in front. "she's a wonder!" i exclaimed, resuming my seat. "she acts like she'll deliver the goods," blister conceded. "she's got a lot of step, but it takes more'n that to make a race hoss. we'll know about _her_ when she goes the route, carryin' weight against class." the colts were now being led to their quarters by stable-boys. when the boy leading the winner passed, he threw us a triumphant smile. "i guess she's bad!" he opined. "some baby," blister admitted. then with disgust: "they've hung a fierce name on her though." "ain't it the truth!" agreed the boy. "what _is_ her name?" i asked, when the pair had gone by. "they call her trez jolly," said blister. "now, ain't that a hell of a name? i like a name you can kind-a warble." he had pronounced the french phrase exactly as it is written, with an effort at the "j" following the sibilant. "très jolie--it's french," i explained, and gave him the meaning and proper pronunciation. "traysyolee!" he repeated after me. "say, i'm a rube right. tra-aysyole-e in the stretch byano-o-se!" he intoned with gusto. "you can warble that!" he exclaimed. "i don't think much of blister--for beauty," i said. "of course, that isn't your real name." "no; i had another once," he replied evasively. "but i never hears it much. the old woman calls me 'thatdambrat,' 'n' the old man the same, only more so. i gets blister handed to me by the bunch one winter at the new awlin' meetin'." "how?" i inquired. "wait till i get the makin's 'n' i'll tell you," he said, as he got up and entered a stall. "one winter i'm swipin' fur jameson," he began, when he returned with tobacco and papers. "we ships to new awlins early that fall. we have twelve dogs--half of 'em hop-heads 'n' the other half dinks. "in them days i ain't much bigger 'n a peanut, but i sure thinks i'm a clever guy. i figger they ain't a gazabo on the track can hand it to me. "one mawnin' there's a bunch of us ginnies settin' on the fence at the wire, watchin' the work-outs. some trainers 'n' owners is standin' on the track rag-chewin'. "a bird owned by cal davis is finishin' a mile-'n'-a-quarter, under wraps, in scan'lous fast time. cal is standin' at the finish with his clock in his hand lookin' real contented. all of a sudden the bird makes a stagger, goes to his knees 'n' chucks the boy over his head. his swipe runs out 'n' grabs the bird 'n' leads him in a-limpin'. "say! that bird's right-front tendon is bowed like a barrel stave! "this cal davis is a big owner. he's got all kinds of kale--'n' he don't fool with dinks. he gives one look at the bowed tendon. "'anybody that'll lead this hoss off the track, gets him 'n' a month's feed,' he says. "before you could spit i has that bird by the head. his swipe ain't goin' to let go of him, but cal says: 'turn him loose, boy!' 'n' i'm on my way with the bird. "that's the first one i ever owns. jameson loans me a stall fur him. that night a ginnie comes over from cal's barn with two bags of oats in a wheelbarrow. "a newspaper guy finds out about the deal, 'n' writes it up so everybody is hep to me playin' owner. one day i see the starter point me out to colonel king, who's the main squeeze in the judge's stand, 'n' they both laugh. "i've got all winter before we has to ship, 'n' believe me i sweat some over this bird. i done everythin' to that tendon, except make a new one. in a month i has it in such shape he don't limp, 'n' i begins to stick mile gallops 'n' short breezers into him. he has to wear a stiff bandage on the dinky leg, 'n' i puts one on the left-fore, too--it looks better. "it ain't so long till i has this bird cherry ripe. he'll take a-holt awful strong right at the end of a stiff mile. one day i turns him loose, fur three-eighths, 'n' he runs it so fast he makes me dizzy. "i know he's good, but i wants to know _how_ good, before i pays entrance on him. i don't want the clockers to get wise to him, neither! "joe nickel's the star jock that year. i've seen many a good boy on a hoss, but i think joe's the best judge of pace i ever see. one day he's comin' from the weighin'-room, still in his silks. his valet's with him carryin' the saddle. i steps up 'n' says: "'kin i see you private a minute, joe?' "'sure thing, kid,' he says. 'n' the valet skidoos. "'joe,' i says, 'i've got a bird that's right. i don't know just how good he is, but he's awful good. i want to get wise to him before i crowds my dough on to the 'sociation. will you give him a work?' "it takes an awful nerve to ask a jock like nickel to work a hoss out, but he's the only one can judge pace good enough to put me wise, 'n' i'm desperate. "'it's that davis cripple, ain't it?' he asks. "'that's him,' i says. "he studies a minute, lookin' steady at me. "'i'm your huckleberry,' he says at last. 'when do you want me?' "'just as she gets light to-morrow mawnin',' i says quick, fur i hasn't believed he'd come through, 'n' i wants to stick the gaff into him 'fore he changes his mind. "he give a sigh. i knowed he was no early riser. "'all right,' he says. 'where'll you be?' "'at the half-mile post,' i says. 'i'll have him warmed up fur you.' "'all right,' he says again--'n' that night i don't sleep none. "when it begins to get a little gray next mawnin' i takes the bird out 'n' gallops him a slow mile with a stiff breezer at the end. but durin' the night i gives up thinkin' joe'll be there, 'n' i nearly falls off when i comes past the half-mile post, 'n' he's standin' by the fence in a classy overcoat 'n' kid gloves. "he takes off his overcoat, 'n' comes up when i gets down,'n' gives a look at the saddle. "'i can't ride nothin' on that thing,' he says. 'slip over to the jocks' room 'n' get mine. it's on number three peg--here's the key.' "it's gettin' light fast 'n' i'm afraid of the clockers. "'the sharp-shooters'll be out in a minute,' i says. "'i can't help it,' says joe. 'i wouldn't ride a bull on that saddle!' "i see there's no use to argue, so i beats it across the center-field, cops the saddle 'n' comes back. i run all the way, but it's gettin' awful light. "'send him a mile in forty-five 'n' see what he's got left,' i says, as i throws joe up. "'right in the notch--if he's got the step,' he says. "i click jameson's clock on them, as they went away--joe whisperin' in the bird's ear. the back-stretch was the stretch, startin' from the half. i seen the bird's mouth wide open as they come home, 'n' joe has double wraps on him. 'he won't beat fifty under that pull!' i says to myself. but when i stops the clock at the finish it was at forty-four-'n'-three-quarters. joe ain't got a clock to go by neither--that's judgin' pace!--take it from me! "'he's diseased with speed,' says joe, when he gets down. 'he can do thirty-eight sure--just look at my hands!' "i does a dance a-bowin' to the bird, 'n' joe stands there laughin' at me, squeezin' the blood back into his mitts. "we leads the hoss to the gate, 'n' there's a booky's clocker named izzy goldberg. "'you an exercise-boy now?' he asks joe. "'not yet,' says joe. 'mu cousin here owns this trick, 'n' i'm givin' him a work.' "'up kind-a early, ain't you? say! he's good, ain't he, joe?' says izzy; 'n' looks at the bird close. "'naw, he's a mutt,' says joe. "'what's he doin' with his mouth open at the end of that mile?' izzy says, 'n' laughs. "'he only runs it in fifty,' says joe, careless. 'i takes hold of him 'cause he's bad in front, 'n' he's likely to do a flop when he gets tired. so long, bud!' joe says to me, 'n' i takes the bird to the barn. "i'm not thinkin' izzy ain't wise. it's a cinch joe don't stall him. every booky would hear about that work-out by noon. sure enough the _item's_ pink sheet has this among the tips the next day: "'count noble'--that was the bird's name--'a mile in forty-four. pulled to a walk at the end. bet the works on him; his first time out, boys!' "that was on a saturday. on monday i enters the bird among a bunch of dogs to start in a five furlong sprint thursday. i'm savin' every soomarkee i gets my hands on 'n' i pays the entrance to the secretary like it's a mere bag of shells. joe nickel can't ride fur me--he's under contract. i meets him the day before my race. "'you're levelin' with your hoss, ain't you?' he says. 'i'll send my valet in with you, 'n' after you get yours on, he'll bet two hundred fur me.' "'nothin' doin', joe!' i says. 'stay away from it. i'll tell you when i gets ready to level. you can't bet them bookies nothin'--they're wise to him.' "'look-a-here, bud!' says joe. 'that bird'll cake-walk among them crabs. no jock can make him lose, 'n' not get ruled off.' "'leave that to me,' i says. "just as i figgers--my hoss opens up eight-to-five in the books. "i gives him all the water he'll drink afore he goes to the post, 'n' i has bandages on every leg. the paddock judge looks at them bandages, but he knows the bird's a cripple, 'n' he don't feel 'em. "'them's to hold his legs on, ain't they?' he says, 'n' grins. "'surest thing you know,' i says. but i feels some easier when he's on his way--_there's seven pounds of lead in each of them bandages_. "i don't want the bird whipped when he ain't got a chance. "'this hoss backs up if you use the bat on him,' i says to the jock, as he's tyin' his reins. "'he backs up anyway, i guess,' he says, as the parade starts. "the bird gets away good, but i'd overdone the lead in his socks. he finished a nasty last--thirty len'ths back. "'roll over, kid!' says the jock, when i go up to slip him his fee. 'not fur ridin' that hippo. it 'ud be buglary--he couldn't beat a piano!' "i meets colonel king comin' out of the judge's stand that evenin'. "'an owner's life has its trials and tribulations--eh, my boy?' he says. "'yes, sir!' i says. that's the first time colonel king ever speaks to me, 'n' i swells up like a toad. 'i'm gettin' to be all the gravy 'round here,' i says to myself. "two days after this they puts an overnight mile run fur maidens on the card, 'n' i slips the bird into it. i knowed it was takin' a chance so soon after his bad race, but it looks so soft i can't stay 'way from it. i goes to cal davis, 'n' tells him to put a bet down. "'oh, ho!' he says. 'lendin' me a helpin' hand, are you?' then i tells him about nickel. "'did joe nickel work him out for you?' he says. 'the best is good enough fur you, ain't it? i'll see joe, 'n' if it looks good to him i'll take a shot at it. much obliged to you.' "'don't never mention it,' i says. "'how do you mean that?' he says, grinnin'. "'both ways,' says i. "the mawnin' of the race, i'm givin' the bird's bad leg a steamin', when a black swipe named duckfoot johnson tells me i'm wanted on the phone over to the secretary's office, 'n' i gets duckfoot to go on steamin' the leg while i'm gone. "it's a feed man on the phone, wantin' to know when he gets sixteen bucks i owe him. "'the bird'll bring home your coin at four o'clock this afternoon,' i tells him. "'well, that's lucky,' he says. 'i thought it was throwed to the birds, 'n' i didn't figure they'd bring it home again.' "when i gets back there's a crap game goin' on in front of the stall, 'n' duckfoot's shootin'. there's a hot towel on the bird's leg, 'n' it's been there too long. i takes it off 'n' feel where small blisters has begun to raise under the hair--a little more 'n' it 'ud been clear to the bone. i cusses duckfoot good, 'n' rubs vaseline into the leg." i interrupted blister long enough to inquire: "don't they blister horses sometimes to cure them of lameness?" "sure," he replied. "but a hoss don't work none fur quite a spell afterwards. a blister, to do any good, fixes him so he can't hardly raise his leg fur two weeks. "well," he went on, "the race fur maidens was the last thing on the card. i'm in the betting-ring when they chalks up the first odds, 'n' my hoss opens at twenty-five-to-one. the two entrance moneys have about cleaned me. i'm only twenty green men strong. i peels off ten of 'em 'n' shoved up to a booky. "'on the nose fur that one,' i says, pointin' to the bird's name. "'quit your kiddin',' he says. 'what 'ud you do with all that money? this fur yours.' 'n' he rubs to twelve-to-one. "'ain't you the liberal gink?' i says, as he hands me the ticket. "'i starts fur the next book, but say!--the odds is just meltin' away. joe's 'n' cal's dough is comin' down the line, 'n' the gazabos, thinkin' it's wise money, trails. by post-time the bird's a one-to-three shot. "i've give the mount to sweeney, 'n' like a nut i puts him hep to the bird, 'n' he tells his valet to bet a hundred fur him. the bird has on socks again, but this time they're empty, 'n' the race was a joke. he breaks fifth at the get-away, but he just mows them dogs down. sweeney keeps thinkin' about that hundred, i guess, 'cause he rode the bird all the way, 'n' finished a million len'ths in front. "i cashes my ticket, 'n' starts fur the barn to sleep with that bird, when here comes joe nickel. "'he run a nice race,' he says, grinnin', 'n' hands me six hundred bucks. "what's this fur?' i says. 'you better be careful . . . i got a weak heart.' "'i win twelve hundred to the race,' he says. ''n' we splits it two ways.' "'nothin' doin',' i says, 'n' tries to hand him back the wad. "'go awn!' he says, 'i'll give you a soak in the ear. i bet that money fur you, kiddo.' "i looks at the roll 'n' gets wobbly in the knees. i never see so much kale before--not at one time. just then we hears the announcer sing out through a megaphone: "'the o-o-owner of count nobul-l-l-l is wanted in the judge's stand!' "'oy, oy!' says joe. 'you'll need that kale--you're goin' to lose your happy home. it's katy bar the door fur yours, bud!' "'don't worry--watch me tell it to 'em,' i says to joe, as i stuffs the roll 'n' starts fur the stand. i was feelin' purty good. "'wait a minute,' says joe, runnin' after me. 'you can't tell them people nothin'. you ain't wise to that bunch yet. bud--why, they'll kid you silly before they hand it to you, 'n' then change the subject to somethin' interestin', like where to get pompono cooked to suit 'em. i've been up against it,' he says, ''n' i'm tellin' you right. just keep stallin' around when you get in the stand, 'n' act like you don't know the war's over.' "'furget it,' i says. 'i'll show those big stiffs where to head in. i'll hypnotize the old owls. i'll give 'em a song 'n' dance that's right!' "as i goes up the steps i see the judges settin' in their chairs, 'n' i takes off my hat. colonel king ain't settin', he's standin' up with his hands in his pockets. somehow, when i sees _him_ i begins to wilt--he looks so clean. he's got a white mustache, 'n' his face is kind-a brown 'n' pink. he looks at me a minute out of them blue eyes of his. "'are you the owner of count noble, mr.--er--?' "'jones, sir,' i says. "'jones?' says the colonel. "'yes, sir,' i says. "'mr. jones,' says the colonel, 'how do you account for the fact that on thursday count noble performs disgracefully, and on saturday runs like a stake horse? have the days of the week anything to do with it?' "i never says nothin'. i just stands there lookin' at him, foolin' with my hat. "'this is hell," i thinks. "'the judges are interested in this phenomenon, mr. jones, and we have sent for you, thinking perhaps you can throw a little light on the matter,' says the colonel, 'n' waits fur me again. "'come on . . . get busy!' i says to myself. 'you can kid along with a bunch of bums, 'n' it sounds good--don't get cold feet the first time some class opens his bazoo at you!' but i can't make a noise like a word, on a bet. "'the judges, upon looking over the betting sheets of the two races in which your horse appeared, find them quite interesting,' says the colonel. 'the odds were short in the race he did _not_ win; they remained unchanged--in fact, rose--since only a small amount was wagered on his chances. on the other hand, these facts are reversed in to-day's race, which he _won_. it seems possible that you and your friends who were pessimists on thursday became optimists today, and benefited by the change. have you done so?' "i see i has to get some sort-a language out of me. "'he was a better hoss to-day--that's all i knows about it,' i says. "'the _first_ part of your statement seems well within the facts,' says the colonel. 'he was, apparently, a much better horse to-day. but these gentlemen and myself, having the welfare of the american thoroughbred at heart, would be glad to learn by what method he was so greatly improved.' "i don't know why i ever does it, but it comes to me how duckfoot leaves the towel on the bird's leg, 'n' i don't stop to think. "'i blistered him,' i says. "'you--_what_?' says the colonel. i'd have give up the roll quick, sooner'n spit it out again, but i'm up against it. "'i blisters him', i says. "the colonel's face gets red. his eyes bung out 'n' he turns 'round 'n' starts to cough 'n' make noises. the rest of them judges does the same. they holds on to each other 'n' does it. i know they're givin' me the laugh fur that fierce break i makes. "'you're outclassed, kid!' i says to myself. 'they'll tie a can to you, sure. the gate fur yours!' "just then colonel king turns round, 'n' i see i can't look at him no more. i looks at my hat, waitin' fur him to say i'm ruled off. i've got a lump in my throat, 'n' i think it's a bunch of bright conversation stuck there. but just then a chunk of water rolls out of my eye, 'n' hits my hat--pow! it looks bigger'n lake erie, 'n' 'fore i kin jerk the hat away--pow!--comes another one. i knows the colonel sees 'em, 'n' i hopes i croak. "'ahem--', he says. "'now i get mine!' i says to myself. "'mr. jones,' says the colonel, 'n' his voice is kind-a cheerful. 'the judges will accept your explanation. you may go if you wish.'" just as i'm goin' down the steps the colonel stops me. "'i have a piece of advice for you, mr. jones,' he says. his voice ain't cheerful neither. it goes right into my gizzard. i turns and looks at him. '_keep that horse blistered from now on_!' says the colonel. "some ginnies is in the weighin'-room under the stand, 'n' hears it all. that's how i gets my name." two ringers "hello, ole four eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of blister jones. "i ain't seed you lately." i had found him in the blacksmith shop at latonia, lazily observing the smith's efforts to unite fan tan and a set of new-made, blue-black racing-plates. i explained how a city editor had bowed my shoulders with the labors of hercules during the last week, and began to acquire knowledge of the uncertainties connected with shoeing a young thoroughbred. a colored stable-boy stood at fan tan's wicked-looking head and addressed in varied tone and temper a pair of flattened ears. "whoa! baby-doll! dat's ma honey--dat's ma petty chile-- . . . whoa! yuh no-'coun' houn', yuh!" the first of the speech had been delivered soothingly, as the smith succeeded in getting a reluctant hind leg into his lap; the last was snorted out as the leg straightened suddenly and catapulted him into a corner of the shop, where he sat down heavily among some discarded horseshoes. the smith arose, sweat and curses dripping from him. "chris!" said blister, "it's a shame the way you treat that pore filly. she comes into yer dirty joint like a little lady, fur to get a new pair of shoes, 'n' you grabs her by the leg 'n' then cusses her when she won't stand fur it." part of the curses were now directed at blister. "come on, four eyes," he said. "this ain't no place fur a minister's son." "i'd like to stay and see the shoeing!" i protested, as he rose to go. "what shoeing?" he asked incredulously. "you ain't meanin' a big strong guy like chris manhandlin' a pore little filly? come awn--i can't stand to see him abusin' her no more." we wandered down to the big brown oval, and blister, perching himself on the top rail of the fence, took out his stop-watch, although there were no horses on the track. "what are you going to do with that?" i asked. "got to do it," he grinned. "if i was to set on a track fence without ma clock in my mitt, i'd get so nur-r-vous! purty soon i'd be as fidgity as that filly back there. feelin' this ole click-click kind-a soothes my fevered brow." in a silence that followed i watched a whipped-cream cloud adrift on the deepest of deep blue skies. "hi, hum!" said blister presently, and extending his arms in a pretense of stretching, he shoved me off the fence. "you're welcome," he said to my protests, and added: "there's a nice matched pair." a boy, leading a horse, was emerging from the mouth of a stall. the contrast between them was startling--never had i seen a horse with so much elegant apparel; rarely had i seen a boy with so little. the boy, followed by the horse, began to walk a slow circle not far from where we sat. suddenly the boy addressed blister. "say, loan me the makin's, will you, pal?" he drawled. from his hip pocket blister produced some tobacco in a stained muslin bag and a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. these he tossed toward the boy. "yours trooly," muttered that worthy, as he picked up the "makin's". "heard the news about hicky rogers?" he asked, while he rolled a cigarette. "nothin', except he's a crooked little snipe," blister answered. "huh! that ain't news," said the boy. "they've ruled him off--that's what i mean." "that don't surprise me none," blister stated. "he's been gettin' too smart around here fur quite a while. it'll be a good riddance." "were you ever ruled off the track?" i asked blister, as the boy, exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his horse. he studied in silence a moment. "yep--once," he replied. "i got mine at new awlins fur ringin' a hoss. that little ole town has got my goat." "when was this?" i asked.' "the year i first starts conditionin' hosses," he answered. i had noticed that dates totally eluded blister. a past occurrence as far as its relation to time was concerned, he always established by a contemporary event of the turf. pressed as to when a thing had taken place he would say, "the year salvation cops all the colt stakes," or "the fall whisk-broom wins the brooklyn handicap." this had interested me and i now tried to get something more definite from him. he answered my questions vaguely. "say, if you're lookin' fur that kind of info," he said at last, "get the almanac or the byciclopedia. these year things slide by so easy i don't get a good pike at one, 'fore another is not more'n a len'th back, 'n' comin' fast." i saw it was useless. "well, never mind just when it happened," i said. "tell me about it." "all right," said blister. "like i've just said it happens one winter at new awlins, the year after i starts conditionin' hosses. "things break bad fur me that winter. whenever a piker can't win a bet he comes 'round, slaps me on the wrist, 'n' separates me from some of my kale. i'm so easy i squeezes my roll if i meets a child on the street. the cops had ought to patrol me, 'cause larceny'll sure be committed every time a live guy speaks to me. "i've only got three dogs in my string. one of 'em's a mornin'-glory. he'll bust away as if he's out to make salvator look like a truck-hoss, but he'll lay down 'n' holler fur some one to come 'n' carry him when he hits the stretch. one's a hop-head 'n' i has to shoot enough dope into him to make him think he's napoleon bonyparte 'fore he'll switch a fly off hisself. then when he sees how far away the wire is he thinks about the battle of waterloo 'n' says, 'take me to elby.' "i've got one purty fair sort of a hoss. he's just about ready to spill the beans, fur some odds-on, when he gets cast in the stall 'n' throws his stifle out. the vet. gets his stifle back in place. "'this hoss must have a year's complete rest,' he says. "'yes, doc,' i says. ''n' when he gets so he can stand it, how'd a trip to europe do fur him?' "things go along like this till i'm busted right. no, i ain't busted--i'm past that. i owes the woman where i eats, i owes the feed man, i owes the plater, 'n' i owes every gink that'll stand fur a touch. "one day a messenger boy comes 'n' leans against the stall door 'n' pokes a yellow envelope at me. "'well, pierpont,' i says, 'what's the good word?' "'sign here. two bits,' he says, yawnin'. "i sees where it says 'charges paid,' 'n' i takes him by the back of the neck 'n' he gets away to a flyin' start fur the gate. the message is from buck harms. "'am at the st charles, meet me nine a. m. to-morrow,' it says. "this harms duck is named right, 'cause that's what he does to every guy he meets. he's so crooked he can sleep on a corkscrew. when there ain't nobody else around he'll take money out of one pocket 'n' put it in another. he's been ruled off twict 'n' there's no chance fur him to get back. i wouldn't stand fur him only i'm in so bad i has to do somethin'. "'if he takes any coin from me he'll have to be hermann,' i says to myself, 'n' i shows up at the hotel the next mawnin'. "harms is settin' in the lobby readin' the dope-sheet. i pipes him off 'n' he don't look good to me fur a minute, but i goes over 'n' shakes his mitt. "'well, blister, old scout, how're they breakin'?' he says. "'so, so,' i says. "'that right?' he says. 'i hears different. fishhead peters tells me they've got you on the ropes.' "'what th' hell does that gassy fishhead know about me?' i says. "'cut out the stallin',' he says. 'it don't go between friends. would you like to git a-holt of a new roll?' "'i don't mind tellin' you that sooner 'n have my clothes tore i lets somebody crowd a bundle of kale on to me,' i says. "'that sounds better,' he says. 'come on--we'll take a cab ride.' "'where we goin'?' i asks him, as we gets into a cab. "'goin' to look at a hoss,' he says. "'what fur?' i says. "'wait till we git there 'n' i'll tell you,' he says. "we rides fur about a hour 'n' pulls up at a barn out in the edge of town. we goes inside 'n' there's a big sorrel geldin', with a blaize face, in a box-stall. "'look him over,' says harms. i gets one pike at the hoss-- "'why! it's ole friendless!' i says. "'look close,' he says. 'wait till i get him outside.' "i looks the hoss over careful when he's outside in the light, 'n' i don't know what to think. first i think it's friendless 'n' then i think maybe it ain't. "'if it ain't friendless, it's his double!' i says at last. 'but i think friendless has a white forefoot.' "'well, it ain't friendless,' says harms as he leads the hoss into the barn. 'and you're right about the white foot.' "now, friendless is a bird that ain't started fur a year. harms or some of his gang used to own him, 'n' _believe me_, he can _ramble some_ if everythin' 's done to suit him. he's a funny hoss, 'n' has notions. if a jock'll set still 'n' not make a move on him, friendless runs a grand race. but if a boy takes holt of him or hits him with the bat, ole friendless says, 'nothin' doin' to-day!' 'n' sulks all the way. he'd have made a great stake hoss only he's dead wise to how much weight he's packin'. he'll romp with anythin' up to a hundred 'n' ten, but not a pound over that can you slip him. looks like he says to hisself, 'they must think i'm a movin' van,' 'n' he lays his ole ears back, 'n' dynamite won't make him finish better'n fourth. this little habit of his'n spoils him 'cause he's too good, 'n' the best he gets from a handicapper is a hundred 'n' eighteen--that kind of weight lets him out. "goin' back in the cab harms tells me why he sends fur me. this dog he's just showed me 's named alcyfras. he's been runnin' out on the coast 'n' he's a mutt--he can't beat a fat man. harms sees him one day at oakland, 'n' has a guy buy him. "harms brings this pup back east. he has his papers 'n' description all regular. the guy that buys him ain't wise--he's just a boob harms is stallin' with. what he wants me to do is to take the hoss in my string, get him identified 'n' start him a couple of times; then when the odds is real juicy i'm to start friendless under the dog's name 'n' harms 'n' his gang'll bet him to a whisper at the poolrooms in chicago 'n' new york. "'where's friendless now?' i asks him. "'they're gettin' him ready on a bull-ring up in illinois,' says harms. 'he's in good shape 'n' 'll be dead ripe time we get ready to ship him down here. i figure we'll put this gag across about christmas.' "'what does the boy wonder get fur swappin' mules with the association?' i says. 'i'm just dyin' to know what santa claus'll bring little alfred.' "'you get all expenses, twenty-five bucks a week, 'n' a nice slice of the velvet when we cleans up,' says harms. "'nix, on that noise!' says i. 'if you or some other benevolent gink don't crowd five hundred iron dollars on g. percival the day before the bird flies, he won't leave the perch.' "'don't you trust me?' says harms. "'sure,' i says, 'better'n cassie chadwick.' "he argues, but it don't get him nothin' so he says he'll come across the day before friendless brings home the bacon, 'n' i make him cough enough to pay what i owes. the next day a swipe leads alcyfras out to the track. "'what's the name of that dog?' peewee simpson yells, as i'm cross-tyin' the hoss at the stall door. "'alcyfras,' i says, as i pulls the blanket off. peewee comes over 'n' looks at the hoss a minute. "'alcy nothin'!' he says. 'if that ain't friendless, i never sees him.' "i digs up the roll harms give me. "i'll gamble this pinch of spinach his name is alcyfras,' i says. "'you kin name what you like far as i'm concerned, 'n' change it every mawnin' before breakfast,' says peewee. 'but if you starts him as anythin' but friendless we don't see your freckled face 'round here no more.' "by this time a bunch has gathered 'n' soon there's a swell argument on. one guy'll say it's friendless 'n' another 'll say it ain't. finally somebody says to send fur duckfoot johnson, who swiped friendless fur two years. they send for him. "when duckfoot comes he busts through the crowd like he's the paddock judge. "'lemme look at dis hoss,' he says. "everybody draws back 'n' duckfoot looks the hoss over 'n' then runs his hand under his barrel close to the front legs. "'no, sah, dis ain' frien'less,' he says. 'frien'less has a white foot on de off front laig and besides dat he has a rough-feeling scab on de belly whar he done rip hisself somehow befo' i gits him. dis dawg am smooth as a possum.' "that settles all arguments. you can't fool a swipe 'bout a hoss he's taken care of. he knows every hair on him. "one day i'm clockin' this alcyfras while a exercise-boy sends him seven-eights. when i looks at my clock i thinks they ought to lay a thousand-to-one against the mutt, after he starts a couple of times. just then somethin' comes 'n' stands in front of me 'n' begins to make little squeaky noises. "'are you mr. blister?' it says. "i bats my eyes 'n' nods. "'i've got 'em again,' i thinks. "'oh, what a relief!' it squeaks. 'i just thought i'd never find you. i've been looking all over the race course for you!' "'gracious! ferdy, you've had a awful time, ain't you?' i says. 'if you want to stay out of trouble, read your _ladies' home journal_ more careful.' "'my name is alcibides tuttle,' says pink toes, drawin' hisself up. 'and i am the owner of the horse called alcyfras. i purchased this animal upon the advice of my friend, mr. harms, whom i met in san francisco.' "say! i've worked fur some nutty owners, but this yap's the limit. "'well, alci, here comes alcy now,' i says, as the boy comes up with the dog, 'n' my new boss stretches his number three neck out of his number nine collar 'n' blinks at the hoss. "alcibides comes back to the stall with me 'n' from then on he sticks to me tighter 'n a woodtick. he's out to the track every mawnin' by nine 'n' he don't leave till after the races. he asks me eighty-seven squeaky questions a minute all the time we're together. i calls him 'n' his hoss both alcy fur a while, but i changes him to elsy--that was less confusin' 'n' it suits him better. "the next week i starts alcyfras among a bunch of crabs in a seven furlong sellin' race, 'n' the judges hold up his entrance till i can identify him. i hands them his papers 'n' they looks up the description of friendless in the stud-book, where it shows he's got one white foot. then they wire to the breeder of alcyfras 'n' to the tracks in california where the dog has started. the answers come back all proper 'n' to cinch it i produce elsy as owner. they look elsy over while he tells 'em he's bought the hoss. "'gentlemen,' says colonel king to the other judges, 'the mere sight of mr. tuttle has inspired me with full confidence in his entry and himself.' he bows to elsy 'n' elsy bows to him. the rest of the judges turn 'round 'n' look at somethin' over across the center-field. "i tells elsy his hoss is all to the merry, but we don't want him to win till the odds get right. he's standin' beside me at the race, 'n' alcyfras runs next to last. "'of course, i realize you are more familiar with horse racing than myself,' he says; 'but i think you should have allowed him to do a little better. what method did you employ to make him remain so far in the rear?' "'i tells the jock to pull him,' i says. the boy was usin' the bat half the trip, but elsy never tumbles. "'what do you say to a jockey when you desire him to lose?' elsy asks me. "'i just say--"grab this one,"' i says. "'what do you say when you require him to win?' he squeaks. "'i don't say nothin'. i hands him a ticket on the hoss 'n' the jock wins if he has to get down 'n' carry the dog home,' i says. "not long after this, friendless gets in from illinois. i look him over in the car 'n' i see he's not ready. he's not near ready. "'what kind of shoemakers give this hoss his prep.?' i asks harms. "'what's wrong with him?' he says. 'he looks good to me.' "'he ain't ready,' i says. 'look at him 'n' feel him! he'll need ten days more work 'n' a race under his belt 'fore he's safe to bet real money on.' "harms buys some stuff at a drug store, 'n' gets busy with the white fore-foot. "'only god a'mighty can make as good a sorrel as that!' he says when he's through. 'here's the can of dope. don't let her fade.' "'what are you goin' to do about this elsy person?' i says. 'while i ain't sayin' it's pure joy to have him around, i ain't got the heart to hand it to him. i don't mind trimmin' boobs--that's what they're for--but this elsy thing is too soft. he must be in quite a wad on this bum hoss of his'n.' "'who's elsy?' says harms. "i tells him, 'n' he laughs. "'is that what you call him?' he says. 'what's bitin' you--ain't friendless goin' to win a nice purse for him?' "about ten o'clock that night alcyfras goes out one gate 'n' friendless comes in another. i keeps the foot stained good, 'n' shuts the stall door whenever duckfoot shows up. in ten days the hoss is right on edge 'n' one race'll put the finish on him, so i enter him, in a bunch of skates, as alcyfras. i gives the mount to lou smith--he ain't much of a jock, but he'll ride to orders. just before the race i has a heart to heart talk with lou. "'fur this hoss to win you don't make a move on him,' i says. 'if you hand him the bat or take hold of him at the get-away he sulks.' "'all right, i lets him alone,' says lou. "'when i'm ready fur you to let him alone i slips you a nice ticket on this bird. you ain't got a ticket to-day, have you?' i says. "'not so's you could notice,' says lou. "'are you hep?' i says. "'i got-cha, bo,' says lou. "i see lou's arm rise 'n' fall a couple of times at the start 'n' ole friendless finished fifth, his ears laid back, sulkier 'n a grass widow at a married men's picnic. "'you let him do better to-day,' says elsy. 'isn't it time to allow him to win?' "'he wins his next out,' i says. "i tell harms we're ready fur the big show 'n' i looks fur a nice race to drop the good thing into. but it starts to rain 'n' it keeps it up a week. friendless ain't a mudder 'n' we has to have a fast track fur our little act of separating the green stuff from the poolrooms. i'm afraid the bird stales off if i don't get a race into him, so i enters him among a pretty fair bunch of platers, to keep him on edge. "three days before the race the weather gets good 'n' the track begins to dry out fast. i see it's goin' to be right fur my race 'n' i meets harms 'n' tells him to wire his bunch to bet their heads off. "'i don't like this race,' he says, when he looks at the entries. 'there's two or three live ones in here. this black-jack ain't such a bad pup, 'n' this here pandora runs a bang-up race her last out. let's wait fur somethin' easier.' "'well, if you ain't a sure-thing better, i never gets my lamps on one!' i says. 'don't you want me to saw the legs off the rest of them dogs to earn my five hundred? you must have forgot ole friendless. he's only got ninety-six pounds up! he'll tin can sure! he kin fall down 'n' roll home faster than them kind of hosses.' "but harms won't take a chance, so i goes back to the track 'n' i was sore. "'that guy's a hot sport, not!' i thinks. "i hates to tell elsy the hoss he thinks is his won't win--he'd set his little heart on it so. i don't tell him till the day before the race, 'n' he gets right sassy about it. i never see him so spunky. "'as owner, i insist that you allow alcyfras to win this race,' he says, 'n' goes away in a pet when i tells him nix. "the day of the race i don't see elsy at all. "'you ain't got a ticket to-day, 'n' you know the answer,' i says to lou smith as the parade starts. he don't say nothin' but nods, so i think he's fixed. "when i come through the bettin' ring i can't believe my eyes. there's alcyfras at four-to-one all down the line. he opened at fifty, so somebody has bet their clothes on him. "'where does all this play on alcyfras come from?' i says to a booky. "'a lost shrimp wanders in here and starts it,' says the booky. "'what does he look like?' i says. "'like a maiden's prayer,' says the booky, 'n' i beats it out to the stand. "elsy is at the top of the steps lookin' kind of haughty, 'n' say!--he's got a bundle of tickets a foot thick in his hand. "'what dead one's name is on all them soovenirs?' i says, pointin' to the tickets. "'mr. blister,' he says, 'after our conversation yesterday i made inquiry concerning the rights of a trainer. i was informed that a trainer, as a paid employee, is under the direction of the owner--his employer. you refused to allow my horse to win, contrary to my wishes. you had no right to do so. i intend that he _shall_ win, and have wagered accordingly--these tickets are on alcyfras.' he's nervous 'n' fidgity, 'n' his voice is squeakier 'n ever. "'well, mr. belmont,' i says, 'did you happen to give instructions to any more of your employees, your jockey, fur instance?' "'i have adopted the method you informed me was the correct one,' he says, swellin' up. 'i gave a ticket at fifty-to-one calling for one hundred and two dollars to mr. smith, and explained to him that i was the owner.' "before elsy gets through i'm dopey. i looks over his tickets 'n' he figures to win eight thousand to the race. i have two iron men in my jeans--i don't even go down 'n' bet it. "'what's the use?' i says to myself. "i can't hardly see the race, i'm so groggy from the jolt elsy hands me. friendless breaks in front and stays there all the way. lou smith just sets still 'n' lets the hoss rate hisself. that ole hound comes down the stretch a-rompin', his ears flick-flackin' 'n' a smile on his face. he wins by five len'ths 'n' busts the track record fur the distance a quarter of a second. "then it begins to get brisk around there. i figger to have alcyfras all warmed up outside the fence the day friendless wins. after the race i'd put _him_ in the stall 'n' send friendless out the gate. elsy, practisin' the owner act, has gummed the game--alcyfras is over in the other end of town. "ole friendless bustin' the track record is the final blow. i don't hardly get to the stall 'fore here comes the paddock judge 'n' his assistant. "'we want this hoss and you, too, over at the paddock,' he says. 'what's the owner's name?' "'alcibides tuttle,' i says. "'is that all?' says the paddock judge. 'go get him, billy!' he says to his assistant. 'you'll likely find him cashin' tickets.' "when we gets to the paddock, there's colonel king and the rest of the judges. "'take his blanket off,' says the colonel, when we leads in the hoss. "'he's red-hot, colonel,' i says. "'so am i,' says the colonel. 'who was caretaker for the horse friendless when he was racing?' he asks some of the ginnies. "'duckfoot johnson,' says the whole bunch at once. "'send for him,' says the colonel. "'i's hyar, boss,' says duckfoot, from the back of the crowd. "'come and look this horse over,' says the colonel. "'i done looked him over befo', boss,' says duckfoot, when he gets to the colonel. "'when?' says the colonel. 'when did you see him?' "''bout a month ago,' says duckfoot. "'did you recognize him?' says the colonel. "'yes, sah,' says duckfoot, 'i done recnomize him thoully fum his haid to his tail, but i ain' never seed him befo'.' "'recnomize him again,' the colonel tells him. "'boss,' says duckfoot, 'some folks 'low dis hoss am frien'less, but hit ain'. ef hits frien'less, an' yo' puts yo' han' hyar on his belly dey is a rough-feelin' scab. dis hoss am puffeckly smo-o--' then he stops 'n' begins to get ashy 'round the mouth. "'well?' says the colonel. 'what's the matter?' "'lawd gawd, boss! _dis am frien'less . . . hyar's de scah_!' says duckfoot, his eyes a-rollin'. then he goes 'round 'n' looks at the hoss in front. 'whar his white foot at?' he asks the colonel. "'that's what we are about to ascertain,' says the colonel. 'boy,' he says to a ginny, 'run out to the drug store with this dollar and bring me back a pint of benzine and a tooth-brush.' "the ginny beats it. "'you may blanket this horse now,' the colonel says to me. "when the ginny gets back, colonel king pours the benzine on the tooth-brush 'n' goes to work on the off-forefoot. it ain't long till it's nice 'n' white again. "'that is most remarkable!' says elsy, who's watchin' the colonel. "'in my opinion, mr. tuttle,' says the colonel, 'the only remarkable feature of this affair is yourself. i can't get you properly placed. the association will take charge of this horse until the judges rule.' "the next day the judges send fur me 'n' elsy. it don't take colonel king thirty seconds to rule me off--i don't get back fur two years, neither! then the colonel looks at elsy. "'mr. tuttle,' he says, 'if your connection with this business is as innocent as it seems, you should be protected against a further appearance on the turf. on the other hand, if you have acted a part in this little drama, the turf should be protected against you. in either case the judges desire to bring your career as an owner to a close; and we hereby bar you and your entries from all tracks of the association. this is final and irrevocable.' "three years after that i'm at hot springs, 'n' i drops into mcglade's place one night to watch 'em gamble. there's a slim guy dealin' faro fur the house, 'n' he's got a green eye-shade on. all of a sudden he looks up at me. "'blister,' he says, 'do you ever tumble there's two ringers in the new awlins deal? me 'n' buck harms has quite a time puttin' it over--without slippin' you five hundred.' "it's elsy! 'n' say!--_his voice ain't any squeakier 'n mine_!" wanted--a rainbow at our last meeting blister had told me of a "ringing" in years gone by that had ended disastrously for him. and now as we idled in the big empty grand-stand a full hour before it would be electrified by the leaping phrase, "they're off!" i desired further reminiscences. "ringing a horse must be a risky business?" i ventured. "humph!" grunted blister, evidently declining to comment on the obvious. then he glanced at me with a dry whimsical smile. "i see that little ole pad stickin' out of your pocket," he said. "ain't she full of race-hoss talk yet?" "always room for one more," i replied, frankly producing the note-book. "well, i guess i'm the goat," he said resignedly. "i _had_ figured to sick you on to peewee simpson to-day, but he ain't around, so i'll spill some chatter about ringin' a hoss among the society bunch one time, 'n' then i'll buy a bucket of suds." "_i'll_ buy the beer," i stated with emphasis. "all right--just so we get it--i'll be dryer'n a covered bridge," said blister. "this ringin' i mentions," he went on, "happens while i'm ruled off. "at the get-away i've got a job with a chicago buyer, who used to live in new york. this guy has a big ratty barn. he deals mostly in broken-down skates that he sells to pedlers 'n' cabmen. once in a while he takes a flier in high-grade stuff, 'n' one day he buys a team of french coach hosses from a breedin' farm owned by a millionaire. "believe me they was a grand pair--seal brown, sixteen hands 'n' haired like babies. they fans their noses with their knees, when get's the word, 'n' after i sits behind 'em 'n' watches their hock-action fur a while i feels like apologizin' to 'em fur makin' 'em haul a bum like me. "these dolls go east,' says the guy i works fur. 'they don't pull no pig-sticker in this burg. they'll be at the garden so much they'll head fur madison square whenever they're taken out.' "he ships the pair east 'n' sends me with 'em as caretaker. i deliver 'em to a swell sales company up-town in new york. "this concern has some joint--take it from me--every floor is just bulgin' with hosses that's so classy they sends 'em to a manicure parlor 'stead of a blacksmith's shop. "there's a big show-ring, with a balcony all 'round it, on the top floor. they take my pair up there 'n' hook 'em to a hot wagon painted yellow, 'n' the company's main squeeze, named brown, comes up to see 'em act. i'm facin' the door just as a guy starts to lead a hoss into the show-ring. the pair swings by, this hoss shies back sudden 'n' i see him make a queer move with his off rear leg. brown don't see it--he's got his back to the door. "the guy leads the hoss up to us. "'here's that hunter i phoned you about, mr. brown,' he says. the hoss is a toppy trick--bright bay, short backed, good coupled 'n' 'll weigh eleven hundred strong. but he's got a knot on his near-fore that shows plain. "'i thought you told me he was sound?' says brown, lookin' at the knot. "'what's the matter with you, mr. brown?' says the guy. 'that little thing don't bother him. any eight-year-old hunter that knows the game is bound to be blemished in front.' "'can you tell an unsound one when you look at him?' brown asks me. "'i can smell a dink a mile off,' i says. "'here's an outside party,' says brown; 'let's hear what he has to say. feel that bump, young man!' he says to me. "i runs my hand over the knot. "'that don't hurt him,' i says. 'it's on the shin 'n' part of it's thick skin.' "'there!' says the guy. 'your own man's against you.' "'he's not my man,' says brown, lookin' at me disgusted. "'this ain't my funeral,' i says to brown. ''n' i ain't had a call to butt in. if you tells me to butt--i butts.' "'go to it,' says brown. "'do you throw a crutch in with this one?' i says to the guy. "'what does he need a crutch for?' he says, givin' me a sour look. "i takes the hoss by the head, backs him real sudden, 'n' he lifts the off-rear high 'n' stiff. "'he's a stringer,' i says. "brown gives the guy the laugh. "'you might get thirty dollars from a jew pedler for him,' he says. 'he'll make a high-class hunter--for paper, rags and old iron.' "'how did you know that horse was string-halted so quick?' says brown to me when the guy has gone. "'i told you i can smell a dink,' i says. but i don't tell him what i sees at the door. "'i think we could use you and your nose around here,' he says. 'are you stuck on chicago?' "'me fur this joint,' i says, lookin' 'round. 'do i have to get my hair waved more 'n' twict a week?' "'we'll waive that in your case,' he says, laughin' at his bum joke. "'don't do that again,' i says. 'i've a notion to quit right here.' "'i'd hate to lose an old employee like you--i'll have to be more careful,' he says--'n' i'm workin' fur mr. brown. "about a week after this, i'm bringin' a hackney up to the showroom fur brown to look at, when a young chap dressed like a shoffer stops me. "'i wish to see mr. brown, my man,' he says. 'can you tell me where he is?' "no shofe can spring this 'my man' stuff on _me_, 'n' get away with it. but a blind kitten can see this guy's all the gravy. there's somethin' about him makes you think the best ain't near as good as he wants. i tells him to come along with me, 'n' when we gets up to the showroom he sticks a card at brown. "'yes, indeed--mr. van voast!' says brown, when he squints at the card. 'you're almost the only member of your family i have been unable to serve. i believe i have read that you are devoted to the motor game.' "'that's an indiscretion i hope to rectify--i want a hunter,' says the young chap. "'take that horse down and bring up sally waters,' says brown to me. "this sally waters is a chestnut mare that's kep' in a big stall where she gets the best light 'n' air in the buildin'. a lot of guys have looked at her, but the price is so fierce nobody takes her. "'is that the best you have?' says the young chap, when i gets back with her. "'yes, mr. van voast,' says brown. 'and she's as good as ever stood on four legs! she'll carry your weight nicely, too.' "'is she fast?' says the young chap. "'after racing at ninety miles an hour, anything in horse-flesh would seem slow to you, i presume,' says brown. 'but she is an extremely fast hunter, and very thorough at a fence.' "'do you know ferguson's macbeth?' says the young chap. "'i ought to,' says brown. 'we imported macbeth and mr. ferguson bought him from me.' "the young chap studies a minute. "'i might as well tell you that i want a hunter to beat macbeth for the melford cup,' he says at last. "'oh, oh!' says brown. 'that's too large an order, mr. van voast--i can't fill it.' "'you don't think this mare can beat macbeth?' says the young chap. "'no, sir, i do not,' says brown. 'nor any other hunter i ever saw. there might be something in england that would be up to it, but i don't know what it would be--and money wouldn't buy it if i knew.' "the young chap won't look at the mare no more, 'n' brown tells me to put her up. i hustles her back to the stall, 'n' goes down to the street door 'n' waits. there's a big gray automobile at the curb, with six guns stickin' out of her side in front--she looks like a battle-ship. pretty soon the young chap comes out 'n' starts to board her 'n' i braces him. "'i think i know where you can get the hoss you're lookin' fur,' i says. "he stares at me kind-a puzzled fur a minute. "'oh, yes, you are the man who brought the mare up-stairs,' he says. 'what leads you to believe you can find a hunter good enough to beat macbeth?' "'i ain't said nothin' about a hunter,' i says. 'would you stand fur a ringer?' "'i think i get your inference,' he says. 'be a little more specific, please.' "'if i puts you hep to a hoss that ain't no more a hunter than that automobile,' i says, 'but can run like the buzz-wagon 'n' jump like a hunter--could you use him in your business?' "'what sort of a horse would that be?' he says. "'a thoroughbred,' i says. 'a bang-tail.' "'oh--a runner,' he says. 'do you know anything about the runners?' "'a few,' i says. 'i'm on the track nine years.' "'what are you doing here?' he says. "'ruled off,' i says. "'hm-m!' he says. 'what for?' "'ringin',' i says. "'you seem to run to that sort of thing,' he says. 'what's your name?' he asks. "'blister jones,' i says. "'delightful!' he says. 'i'm glad i met you. who has this remarkable horse?' "'peewee simpson,' i says. "'equally delightful! i'd like to meet him, too,' he says. "'he's in loueyville,' i says. "'regrettable,' he says. 'what's the name of his horse?' "'rainbow,' i says. "'and i thought this was to be a dull day,' he says. 'jump in here and take a ride. i don't know that i care to go rainbow-chasing assisted by blisters, and peewees--but nefarious undertakings have always appealed to me, and i desire to cultivate your acquaintance.' "we goes fur a long ride in the battle-ship. he don't say much--just asks questions 'n' listens to my guff. at last i opens up on the rainbow deal, 'n' i tries all i know to get him goin'--i sure slips him some warm conversation. "'you heard what brown said of macbeth!' he says. 'why are you so certain this rainbow can beat him in a steeplechase?' "'why, listen, man!' i says. 'this rainbow is the best ever. he can beat any brush-topper now racin' if the handicapper don't overload him. _he's_ been coppin' where they race your eyeballs off. _he's_ been makin' good against the real thing. _he's a thoroughbred_! if _he_ turns in one of these here parlor races fur gents, with a bunch of hunters, _they won't know which way he went_!' "'the runners i have seen are all neck and legs. they don't look like hunters at all,' he says. "'you're thinkin' about these here flat-shouldered sprinters,' i says. 'this rainbow is a brush-topper. he's got a pair of shoulders on _him_ 'n' he's the jumpin'est thoroughbred ever i saw. course he's rangier 'n most huntin'-bred hosses, but with a curb to put some bow in his neck, he'll pass fur a hunter anywhere!' "'there is one sad thing i haven't told you,' he says. 'i must ride the horse myself.' "'what's sad about that?' i says. 'you ain't much over a hundred 'n' forty, at a guess.' "'the trouble is not with my weight--it's my disposition,' he says. 'i have not ridden for ten years. in fact i never rode much. to tell you the truth--i'm afraid of a horse.' "say--i'd liked that young chap fine till then! i think he's handin' me a josh at first. "'you're kiddin' me, ain't you?' i says. "'no,' he says. 'i'm not kidding you. i've fought my fear of horses since i was old enough to think. lately it has become necessary for me to ride, and i'm going to do it--it it kills me!' "we were back to my joint by this time 'n' he looks at me 'n' laughs. "'cheer up!' he says. 'i'll think over what you told me and let you know. i go over to philadelphia to-morrow to race in a "buzz-wagon," as you call it. i don't want you to think me entirely chicken-hearted--and i'll take you with me, if brown can spare you.' "the next day he shows up in the battle-ship. "'blister,' he says, 'i don't know just how far i'll be willing to go in the affair, but if you can get rainbow, i'll buy him.' "'now you've said somethin',' i says. 'head fur the nearest telegraph office 'n' i'll wire peewee.' "'they're likely to ask a stiff price fur this hoss,' i says when we gets to the telegraph office. "'buy him,' he says. "'_do you mean the sky's the limit_?' i says, 'n' he nods. "we cross on the ferry after sendin' the wire. he has the battle-ship under wraps till we hit the open country, 'n' then he lets her step. we gets to goin' faster 'n' faster. i can't see, 'n' i think my eyebrows have blowed off. i'm so scared i feel like my stumick has crawled up in my chest, but i hopes this is the limit, 'n' i grits my teeth to keep from yelpin'. just then we hits a long straight road, 'n' what we'd been doin' before seemed like backin' up. i can't breathe 'n' i can't stand no more of it. "'holy cats!' i yells. 'cut it!' "'what's the matter?' he says, when he's slowed down. "'holy cats!' i says again. 'is that what racin' in these things is like?' "'oh, no,' he says. 'my mechanic took my racing car over yesterday. this is only a roadster.' "'only a--what?' i says. "'only a roadster--a pleasure car,' he says. "'oh--a pleasure car,' i says. 'it's lucky you told me.' "'it's all in getting accustomed to it,' he says. "i spends the night at a hotel in philadelphia with a guy named ben, who's the mechanic, 'n' the next mawnin' i sees the race. say! prize-fightin', or war, or any of them little games is like button-button to this automobile racin'! they kills two guys that day 'n' why they ain't all killed is by me. the young chap finishes second to some eyetalian--but that dago sure knowed he'd been in a race. "''n' he's the guy that's afraid of a hoss!' i says to myself. 'now, wouldn't that scald you?' "when he leaves me at my joint in new york the young chap writes on a card 'n' hands it to me. "'here's my name and present address,' he says. 'let me know when you hear from our friend peewee.' "printed on the card is 'mr. william dumont van voast,' 'n' in pencil, 'union club, new york city.' "the next day i gets a wire from peewee in answer to mine. "'sound as a dollar. eighteen hundred bones buys him. p. w. simpson,' it says. "i phones mr. van, 'n' he says to go to it--so i wires peewee. "'check on delivery if sound. you know me. ship with swipe first express. blister jones.' "in two days duckfoot johnson leads ole rainbow into the joint, 'n' i tells brown it's a hoss fur mr. van. i looks him over good 'n' he's o. k. i gets mr. van on the phone 'n' he comes up 'n' writes a check fur eighteen hundred, payable to peewee. he gives this to duckfoot, slips him twenty-five bucks fur hisself, 'n' hands him the fare back to loueyville besides. "'what next?' says mr. van to me. 'do we need a burglar's kit, and some nitroglycerin, or does that class of crime come later?' "'we want a vet. right now,' i says. 'this bird has got to lose some tail feathers.' "'well, you are the chief buccaneer!' says mr. van. 'i'll serve as one of the pirate crew at present. when you have the good ship rainbow shortened at the stem and ready to carry the jolly roger over the high seas--i should say, fences--let me know. in the meantime,' he says, slippin' me five twenties, 'here are some pieces-of-eight with which to buy cutlasses, hand grenades and other things we may need.' "i has the vet. dock rainbow's tail, 'n' as soon as it heals i lets mr. van know. he tells me to bring the hoss to morrisville, new jersey, on the three o'clock train next day. "when i unloads from the express car at morrisville, there's mr. van and a shoffer in the battle-ship. "'just follow along behind, blister!' says mr. van, 'n' drives off slow down the street. "we go through town 'n' out to a big white house, with pillars down the front. mr. van stops the battle-ship at the gates. "'take the car to the williamson place--mr. williamson understands,' he says to the shofe. "i wonders why he stops out here--it's a quarter of a mile to the house. when we gets to the house there's an old gent, with gray hair, settin' on the porch. he gets up when he sees us, 'n' limps down the steps with a cane. "'don't disturb yourself, governor!' says mr. van. 'anybody here?' "'no, i'm alone,' says the old gent. 'your sister is with the dandridges. your man came this morning, so i was expecting you.' then he looks at rainbow. 'what's that?' he says. "'a horse i've bought,' says mr. van. 'i'm thinking of going in for hunting.' "'oh! _she's_ brought you to it, has she?' says the old gent. '_i_ never could. why do you bring the horse here?' "mr. van flushes up. "'you know what a duffer i am on a horse, governor,' he says. 'well, i want to try for the melford cup. i'd like to build a course on the place, and school myself under your direction.' "'ah, ha!' says the old gent. 'and then the conquering hero will descend on melford, to capture the place in general, and one of its fair daughters in particular!' "'something like that,' says mr. van. "'i'll be glad to help you all i can,' says the old gent, 'just so long as you don't bring one of those stinking things you usually inhabit on these premises!' "'it's a bargain. i've already sent the one i came in to ralph williamson,' says mr. van, 'n' we takes rainbow to the stables. "i liked mr. van's old man right away, 'n' when he finds out i knows as much about a hoss as he does, he treats me like a brother. "he gets busy quick, 'n' has the men fix up a mile course on the place with eight fences in it--some of 'em fierce. "'twice around, and you have the melford course to a dot,' he says. 'now, young man,' he says to me, 'you get the horse ready and i'll go to work on the rider.' 'n' believe me, he does it. "his bum leg won't let him ride no more, but he puts mr. van on a good steady jumper, 'n' drives besides the course in a cart, tellin' him what to do. he keeps mr. van goin' till i think he'll put him out of business--'n' say!--but he cusses wicked when things don't go to suit him! "'stick your knees in and keep your backbone limber! hold his head up now at this jump--_don't drag at his mouth that way_! why! damn it all! . . . you haven't as good hands as a cab-driver,' is the kind of stuff he keeps yellin' at poor mr. van. "i'm workin' rainbow each day, 'n' in three weeks i take him twice around the course at a good clip. "'the hoss'll do in another week,' i says to the old gent. "'i'll be ready fur you,' he says, shuttin' his mouth, 'n' that was the worst week of all for mr. van. but he improved wonderful, 'n' one mawnin' he takes rainbow over the course at speed. "'not half bad!' says the old gent when they come back. 'he's not up to his horse yet,' he says to me. 'but between 'em they'll worry that melford crowd some, or i miss my guess!' "a day or so after that we starts for melford. the old gent says good-by to me, 'n' then he sticks out his mitt at mr. van. "'god bless you, boy!' he says. 'i wish you luck both in the race and--elsewhere.' "say, this melford is the horsiest burg ever i saw! they don't do nothin' but ride 'em 'n' drive 'em 'n' chew the rag about 'em--men 'n' women the same. even the kids has toppy little ponies and has hoss shows fur their stuff. "they has what they call a hunt club, 'n' everybody hangs out there. this club gives the cup mr. van wants to win. the race fur it is pulled off once a year, 'n' only club members can enter. "the ferguson guy has won the race twice with the macbeth hoss 'n' if he wins it again he keeps the cup. the race is due in two weeks, but there ain't much talk about it--everybody knows ferguson'll win sure. "this ferguson has all the kale in the world. he lives in a house so big it looks like the waldorf. but from what i hear, the bloods ain't so awful strong fur him--except his ridin', they all take their hats off to that. "there's a girl named livingston 's the best rider among the dames, 'n', believe me, she's a swell doll--she's the niftiest filly i ever gets my lamps on--she's all to the peaches 'n' cream. "it don't take me long to see that mr. van is nutty, right, about this one, but it looks like ferguson has the bulge on him, 'cause her 'n' ferguson is always out in front when they chase the hounds, 'n' they ride together a lot. we're at mr. van's brother's place, 'n' when we first get there mr. van puts me wise. "'blister,' he says, 'you must now assume the disguise of a groom. while you and i know we are partners in crime, custom requires an outward change in our heretofore delightful relationship--keep your eyes open and act accordingly.' "i'm dead hep to what he means, 'n' when i'm rigged up like all the rest of the swipes around there, i touches my hat to him whenever he tells me anythin'. "everybody joshes mr. van about his ridin', but they get over that sudden--the first time he chases hounds with 'em ole rainbow 'n' him stays right at the head of the procession. i'm waitin' at the club to take the hoss home after the run. when mr. van is turnin' him over to me miss livingston comes up. "'i'm so _proud_ of you!' she says to him. 'it was splendid . . . i told you you could do anything you tried!' "'rainbow's the chap who deserves your approval,' says mr. van, pointin' to the hoss. "'indeed, he does--the old precious!' she says, 'n' rubs her face against rainbow's nose. just then ferguson rides up with a english gink who's a friend of mr. van's, 'n' the dame beats it into the club-house. this englishman is a lord or a duke or somethin', 'n' he's visitin' mr. van's brother. ferguson ain't on macbeth. he's rode a bay mare that day, 'n' rainbow has outrun 'n' out-jumped her. "'that's quite a horse you have there, van,' ferguson says. 'a bit leggy--isn't he?' "'perhaps he is,' says mr. van. 'but i like something that can get over the country.' "'going to enter him for the cup?' says ferguson. "'i don't know yet,' says mr. van, careless. 'i must see the committee, and tell them his antecedents--this horse rather outclasses most hunters.' "'he doesn't outclass mine, over the cup course, for five thousand!' says ferguson, gettin' red. "'done!' says mr. van, quiet-like. 'if the committee says i'm eligible we'll settle it in the cup race. if not, we can run a match.' "'entirely satisfactory,' says ferguson, 'n' starts to go. but he comes back, 'n' looks at mr. van wicked. 'by the way,' he says, 'money doesn't interest either of us at present. suppose we raise the stake this way--the loser will take a trip abroad, for a year, and in the meantime we both agree to let matters rest--in a certain quarter.' "'done!' says mr. van again. he looks at the other guy colder 'n ice when he says it. "ferguson nods to him 'n' rides off. "the english gink has heard the bet, 'n' when ferguson beats it he shakes his head. "'aw, old chap!' he says. 'that's a bit raw--don't you think? i'm sorry you let him draw you. it's a beastly mess.' "'i'm not afraid of him and his horse!' says mr. van. but i can see he ain't feelin' joyous. "'damn him and his hawss--and you too!' says the english gink. 'aw, it's the young girl you've dragged into it, billy!' "'it's a confidential matter, and no names were mentioned,' says mr. van. "'don't quibble, old chap!' says the english gink. 'the name's nothing. and as for its being confidential--ferguson is sure to tell that--aw--french puppy he's so thick with, and the viscawnt'll be--aw--tea-tabling it about by five o'clock!' "'you're right, of course,' says mr. van, slow. 'it was a low thing to do--a cad's trick. no wonder you english are so rotten superior. you don't need brains--the right thing's bred into your bones. your tempers never show you up. we revert to the gutter at the pinch.' "'oh, i say! that's bally nonsense!' says the english gink. 'i would have done the same thing.' "'not unless the fifteen hundred years it's taken to make you were wiped off the slate,' says mr. van. 'however, i'll have to see it through now.' "the guys that run the club say rainbow can start in the cup race. mr. van tells me, 'n' the next week i watch him while he sends the hoss over the course. we're comin' up towards the club-house, after the work-out, 'n' we run into miss livingston. she hands mr. van the icy stare 'n' he starts to say something but she breaks in. "'i wonder you care to waste any words on a mere racing wager,' she says. "'please let me try to explain . . .' says mr. van. "'there can be no explanation. what you did was the act of a boor--and a fool,' says the dame, 'n' walks on by. "i think over what she says. 'she's more sore cause she thinks he'll lose than anythin' else,' i says to myself. 'he ain't in so bad, after all.' but mr. van don't tumble. he's awful glum from then on. "there's a fierce mob of swells at the course the day of the race, classy rigs as far as you can see. the last thing i says to mr. van is: "'you've got the step of them any place in the route, but you're on a thoroughbred, 'n' he'll run hisself into the ground if you let him. you don't know how to rate him right--so stay close to the macbeth hoss till you come to the last fence, then turn rainbow loose, 'n' he'll make his stretch-run alone.' "there's six entries, but the race is between rainbow and macbeth from the get-away. macbeth is a black hoss, 'n' i never believed till then a hunter could romp that fast. he was three len'ths ahead of the field at the first fence, with rainbow right at his necktie. they gets so far ahead, nobody sees the other starters from the second fence on. mr. van rides just like i tells him, 'n' lets the black hoss make the pace. man!--that hunter did run! towards the end both hosses begin to tire, but the clip was easier fur the thoroughbred, 'n' i see rainbow's got the most left. "before they come to the last fence mr. van turns his hoss loose like i tells him, 'n' he starts to come away from macbeth. my! but those swells did holler! they never thought rainbow has a chance. at the last fence he's a len'th in front, 'n' right there it happens mr. van don't take hold of him enough to keep his head up, 'n' he blunders at the fence 'n' comes down hard on his knees. mr. van slides clear to the hoss's ears, 'n' the crowd gives a groan as macbeth comes over 'n' goes by. "'he's gone!' i says to myself, 'n' i can't believe it when he gets back in the saddle somehow 'n' starts to ride. but the black hoss has a good six len'ths 'n' now two hundred yards to go. "'he'll never reach . . .' i says out loud. 'he'll never reach . . .' "then rainbow begins his stretch-run with the blood comin' out of his knees, 'n' while he's a tired hoss, a gamer one never looks through a bridle. i ain't knockin' that hunter--there was no canary in him, but i think a game thoroughbred's the gamest hoss that lives! "ole rainbow is a straight line from his nose to his tail. his ears is flat 'n' his mouth's half open fur air. every jump he takes looks thirty feet long 'n' he's gettin' to the black hoss fast. i'm watchin' the distance to go 'n' all of a sudden i furgets where i am--. "'he wins sure as hell!' i hollers. "'oh, will he?' says a voice. i looks up 'n' there's miss livingston sittin' on her hoss, her fists doubled up 'n' her face whiter'n chalk. "about ten len'ths from the finish rainbow gets to the black 'n' they look each other in the eye. but them long jumps of the thoroughbred breaks the hunter's heart, 'n' rainbow comes away, 'n' wins by a len'th. . . . "after i've cooled rainbow out, 'n' bandaged his knees at the club stables, i starts fur home with him. "i'm just leavin' the main road, to take the short cut, when miss livingston gallops by, with a groom trailin'. she looks up the cross-road, sees me 'n' the hoss, 'n' reins in. she says somethin' to the groom 'n' he goes on. "miss livingston comes up the crossroad alone, 'n' stops when she gets to us. "'is that rainbow?' she says. "'yes'm,' i says. "'help me down, please,' she says. i tries to do it, but i don't make a good job of it. "'you're not a lady's groom?' she says, smilin'. "'no'm,' i says. "'i should like to pat the winner;' she says. 'may i?' "'go as far as you like,' i says. "'i beg pardon?' she says, lookin' at me funny. "'yes'm, you can pat him,' i says. "she takes rainbow by the head, 'n' sort of hugs it, 'n' rubs the tips of her fingers over his eyelids. then she whispers to him, but i hears it. "'old precious!' she says. 'i've always loved rainbows! do you bring a fair day, too?' "just then a black auto sneaks around the bend of the main road, 'n' mr. van's drivin' it. he sees us, stops, 'n' comes up the side road to where we are. she don't hear him till he's right close. then she backs away from rainbow. "'i thought you might become tired of your sudden interest in hunting, mr. van voast,' she says. 'and i should like to own this horse--i was just looking at him,' she tries to say it haughty, but it don't seem to scare him none. he looks at her steady. "'if i give you a rainbow, will you give me its equivalent?' he says. "'a pot of gold? yes-- how much will you take?' she says, but she don't look at him no more. "'a pot of gold is at the end,' he says. 'this is the beginning, dear. . . . i want a promise.' "'that would be a fair exchange, would it not?' she says, 'n' looks up at him. i never see eyes look like that before. they puts me in mind of when the band's playin' as the hosses go to the post fur the kentucky derby. "'blister,' says mr. van, 'show the horses the view over the hill; they'll enjoy it.' "i'm on my way in a hurry, but hears her say: "'oh, billy, not here!' "they don't come along fur half an hour. when they does, mr. van says to me: "'lead rainbow to the livingston stables, blister. he has a new owner.' "'does you get a good price fur him?' i says, like i don't tumble to nothin'. "'what a remarkable groom!' says miss livingston. "'isn't he?' says mr. van. then he comes 'n' grabs me by the mitt. 'don't worry about the price, old boy,' he says. 'no horse ever brought so much before!'" salvation at the invitation of blister jones i had come from the city's heat to witness the morning "work-outs". for two hours horse after horse had shot by, leaving a golden dust-cloud to hang and drift and slowly settle. it was fairly cool under the big tree by the track fence, and the click of blister's stop-watch, with his varied comments on what those clicks recorded, drifted out of my consciousness much as had the dust-clouds. even the thr-rump, thr-rump, thr-rump of flying hoofs--crescendo, fortissimo, diminuendo--finally became meaningless. "here's one bred to suit you!" rasped a nasal voice, and i sat up, half awake, to observe a tall man lead a thorough-bred on to the track and dexterously "throw" a boy into the tiny saddle. "why?" blister questioned. "he's by salvation," explained the tall man. "likely-lookin' colt, ain't he? think he favors the old hoss any?" "'bout the head he does," blister answered. "he won't girt as big as the old hoss did at the same age." "well, if he's half as good as his daddy he's some hoss at that," the tall man stated, as he started up the track, watch in hand. blister followed the colt with his eyes. "ever hear of salvation?" he finally asked. "oh, yes," i replied. "well, i brings out salvation as a three-year-old, 'n' what happens is quite a bunch of chatter--want to hear it?" "you know it," i said, dropping into blister's vernacular. "that's pretty good for you," he said, grinning at my slang. "well, to begin with, i'm in loueyville. it's in the fall, 'n' i'm just back from sheepshead. one way 'n' another i've had a good year. i'm down on two or three live ones when the odds are right, 'n' i've grabbed off a bundle i ain't ashamed to flash in any kind of company. "my string's been shipped south, 'n' i thinks i'll knock around kentucky fur a couple of weeks, 'n' see if i can't pick up some hosses to train. "one mawnin' i'm in the gait house, lookin' fur a hossman that's stoppin' there, 'n' i see peewee simpson settin' in the lobby like he'd just bought the hotel. "'who left the door open?' i says to him. "'it's still open, i see,' says peewee, lookin' at me. "we exchanges a few more remarks, 'n' then peewee tells me he's come to loueyville to buy some yearlin's fur ole man harris. "'there's a dispersal sale to-morrow at the goodloe farm,' says peewee. ''n' i hear there's some real nice stuff going under the hammer. general goodloe croaked this spring. they cleaned him in a cotton deal last year 'n' now their goin' to sell the whole works--studs, brood mares, colts--everything; plows, too--you want a plow? all you need is a plow 'n' a mule to put you where you belong.' "'where's this farm at?' i says. "'over in franklin county,' says peewee. 'i'm goin' over--want to go 'long?' "'you're on,' i says. 'i'm not particular who travels with me any more.' "we gets off the train next mawnin' at a little burg called goodloe, 'n' there's three or four niggers with three or four ratty-lookin' ole rigs to drive hossmen out to the sale. it's a fierce drive, 'n' the springs is busted on our rig. i thinks we'll never get there, 'n' i begins to cuss peewee fur bringin' me. "'what you got to kick at?' says peewee. 'ain't you gettin' a free ride? cheer up--think of all the nice plows you're goin' to see.' "'you take them plows to hell 'n' make furrows in the cinders with 'em,' i says, wonderin' if i can get a train back to loueyville anyways soon. "but when we gets to the farm i'm glad i come. man, that was some farm! miles of level blue-grass pasture, with white fences cuttin' it up into squares, barns 'n' paddocks 'n' sheds, all painted white, just scattered around by the dozen. there's a track to work hosses on, too, but it's pretty much growed up with weeds. the main house is back in some big trees. it's brick 'n' has two porches, one on top of the other, all the way around it. "the sale is just startin' when we get there. the auctioneer is in the judge's stand at the track 'n' the hosses is showed in the stretch. "the first thing to sell is brood mares, 'n' they're as good a lot as i ever looks over. i loses peewee in the crowd, 'n' climbs on to a shed roof to see better. "pretty soon here comes a real ole nigger leadin' a mare that looks to be about as old as the nigger. at that she showed class. her head's still fine, 'n' her legs ain't got so much as a pimple on 'em. "'number eleven in your catalogues, gentlemen!' says the auctioneer. 'mary goodloe by victory, first dam dainty maid by--what's the use of tellin' you _her_ breedin', you _all_ know _her_! gentlemen,' he says, 'how many of you can say you ever owned a kentucky derby winner? well, here's your chance to own one! this mare won the derby in--er-- "'eighty-three, suh--i saw her do it,' says a man with a white mustache. "'eighty-three, thank you, colonel. you have a fine memory,' says the auctioneer. 'i saw her do it, too. now, gentlemen,' he says, 'what am i offered for this grand old mare? she's the dam of six winners--three of 'em stake hosses. kindly start the bidding.' "'twenty dollahs!' says the ole nigger who has hold of the mare. "'fifty!' says some one else. "'hole on dah,' sings out the ole nigger. 'i'se just 'bliged to tell you folks i'se pu'chasin' dis hyar mare fo' miss sally goodloe!' "the auctioneer looks at the guy who bids fifty. "'i withdraw that bid,' says the guy. "'sold to you for twenty dollars, uncle jake,' says the auctioneer. 'bring on number twelve!' "'hyah's yo' twenty dollahs,' says the ole nigger, fishin' out a roll of raggedy bills and passin' 'em up to the stand. "'thank you, uncle jake. come to the clerk for your bill of sale this evenin',' says the auctioneer. "i watches the sale a while longer, 'n' then mooches into the big barn where the yearlin's 'n' two-year-olds is waitin' to be sold. they're a nice lot of colts, but i ain't interested in this young stuff--colts is too much of a gamble fur me. only about one in fifty'll make good. somebody else can spend their money on 'em at that kind of odds. "i goes out of the colt barn 'n' begins to ramble around, lampin' things in general. i comes to a shed full of plows, 'n' i has to laugh when i sees 'em. i'm standin' there with a grin on my face when a nigger comes 'round the shed 'n' sees me lookin' at them plows. "'fine plows, sah, an' vehy cheap,' he says. "'do i look like i needs a plow?' i says to him. "'no, sah,' says the nigger, lookin' me over. 'i cyant rightly say you favohs plowin', but howkum you ain' tendin' de sale?' "'i don't see nothin' over there that suits me,' i says. "the nigger is sore in a minute. "'you is suttanly hahd to please, white man,' he says. 'ain' no finah colts in kaintucky dan dem.' "'that may be so, but how about tennessee?' i says, just to get him goin'. "'tennessee! tennessee!' he says. 'what you talkin' 'bout? why, _we_ does de fahm wuck wid likelier colts dan _dey_ sends to de races.' "'i've seed some nifty babies down there,' i says. "'look-a-hyar, man!' he says, 'you want to see a colt what am a colt?' "'how far?' i says. "'no ways at all, jus' over yondah,' says the nigger. "'lead me to it,' i say to him, 'n' he takes me over to a long lane with paddocks down each side of it. all the paddocks is empty but two. in the first one is the ole mare, mary goodloe; 'n' next to her is a slashin' big chestnut colt. "'cast yo' eyes on dat one!' says the nigger. "i don't say nothin' fur five minutes. i just looks at that colt. i never sees one like him before, nor since. there's some dead leaves blowin' around the paddock 'n' he's jumpin' on 'em with his front feet like a setter pup playin'. two jumps 'n' he's clear across the paddock! his shoulders 'n' quarters 'n' legs is made to order. his head 'n' throat-latch is clean as a razor, 'n' he's the proudest thing that ever stood on four legs. he looks to be comin' three, but he's muscled like a five-year-old. "'how 'bout him, boss?' says the nigger after a while. "'well,' i says, 'they broke the mold when they made that one!' "'dar's de mold,' he says, pointin' to the ole mare in the next paddock. 'she's his mammy. dat's mahey goodloe, named fo' ole miss goodloe what's dade. dat mare win de derby. dis hyar colt's by impo'ted calabash.' "'when does this colt sell?' i asks him. "'he ain' fo' sale,' says the nigger. 'de estate doan own him. de general done gib him to miss sally when de colt's bohn.' "'where's she at now?' i says to the nigger. i had to own that colt if my roll could reach him--i knowed that 'fore i'd looked at him a minute. "'up to de house, mos' likely,' says the nigger. 'you'd better save yo' shoe leather, boss. she ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what happens.' "i beats it up to the big house, but when i gets there i see nobody's livin' in it. the windows has boards across 'em. i looks in between the cracks 'n' sees a whale of a room. hangin' from the ceilin' is two things fur lights all covered with glass dingles. they ain't nothin' else in the room but a tall mirror, made of gold, that goes clear to the ceilin'. i walks clean around the house, but it's sure empty, so i oozes back to the barns 'n' collars the sales clerk. "'i'm a-lookin' fur miss goodloe,' i tells him. 'a nigger says she's at the house, but i've just been up there 'n' they ain't even furniture in it.' "'no,' says the clerk; 'the furniture was sold to a new york collector two weeks ago. miss goodloe is livin' in the head trainer's house across the road yonder. she won't have that long, i don't reckon, though i did hear she's fixin' to buy it when the farm sells, with some money ole mrs. goodloe left her.' "i goes over to the little house the clerk points out, 'n' knocks. a right fat nigger woman, with her sleeves rolled up, comes to the door. "'what you want?' she says. "'i want to see miss goodloe,' i says. "'you cyant see her. she ain' seein' nobody,' says the nigger woman, 'n' starts to shut the door. "'wait a minute, aunty," i says. 'i got to see her--it's business, sure-enough business.' "'doan you aunty me!' says she. 'now, you take yo' bisniss with you an' ramble! bisniss has done sole off eve'y stick an' stone we got! i doan want to hyar no mo' 'bout bisniss long as i live'--'n' bang goes the door. "i waits a minute 'n' then knocks again--nothin' doin'. i knocks fur five minutes steady. pretty soon here she comes, but this time she's got a big brass-handled poker with her. "'ef i has to clout you ovah de haid wid dis pokah you ain' gwine to transack no mo' bisniss fo' a tollable long time!' she says. she's mad all right, 'n' she hollers this at me pretty loud. "'fore i can say anythin' a dame steps out in the hall 'n' looks at me 'n' the nigger woman 'n' the poker. "'what's the matter, liza?' she says to the nigger woman, 'n' her voice is good to listen at. you don't care what she says, just so she keeps a-sayin' it. she's got on a white dress with black fixin's on it, 'n' she just suits her dress, 'cause her hair is dark 'n' her face is white, 'n' she has great big eyes that put me in mind of--i don't know what! she ain't very tall, but she makes me feel littler'n her when she looks at me. she's twenty-four or five, mebby, but i'm a bum guesser at a dame's age. "'dis pusson boun' he gwine to see you an' i boun' he ain', miss sally,' says the nigger woman. the little dame comes out on the porch. "'i am miss goodloe,' she says to me. 'what do you wish?' "'i want to buy a hoss from you, ma'am,' i says to her. "'the horses are being sold across the way at that biggest barn,' she says. "'yes'm,' i says, 'i've just come from there. i--' "'have you been watching the sale?' she says, breakin' in. "'yes'm--some,' i says. "'liza, you may go to your kitchen now,' she says. 'can you tell me if they have sold the mare, mary goodloe, yet?' she says to me when the nigger woman's gone. "'yes'm, she was sold,' i says. "she flinches like i'd hit her 'n' i see her chin begin to quiver, but she bites her lip 'n' i looks off down the road to give her a chance. pretty soon she's back fur more. i'm feelin' like a hound. "'do you know who bought her?' she says. "'a nigger man they call uncle jake buys her,' i says. "'uncle jake!' she says. 'are you sure? was he an old man with poor eyesight?' "'he was old all right,' i says. 'but i don't notice about his eyes. he give twenty dollars fur her.' "'is that all she brought?' she says. "'well, she brings more,' i says, 'only the ole man makes a speech 'n' tells 'em he's buying her fur you. everybody quit biddin' then.' she stands there a minute, her eyes gettin' bigger 'n' bigger. i never see eyes so big 'n' soft 'n' dark. "'would you do me a favor?' she says at last. "'fifty of 'em,' i says. she gives me a little smile. "'one's all that's necessary, thank you,' she says. 'will you find uncle jake for me and tell him i wish to see him?' "'you bet i will,' i says, 'n' i beats it over to the barns. . . i finds uncle jake, 'n' he's got weak eyes all right--he can't hardly see. he's got rheumatism, too--he's all crippled up with it. when i gets back with him, miss goodloe's still standin' on the porch. "'i want to find out who bought old mary, uncle jake,' she says. 'do you know?' "'i was jus' fixin' to come over hyar an' tell you de good news, miss sally,' says uncle jake. 'when dey puts ole mahey up to' sale, she look pow'ful ole an' feeble. de autioneer jes 'seeches 'em fo' to make some sawt o' bid, but hit ain' no use. dey doan' nobody want her. hit look lak de auctioneer in a bad hole--he doan' know what to do zakly. hit's gittin' mighty 'bahassin' fo' him, so i say to him: "mr. auctioneer, i ain' promisin' nothin', but miss sally goodloe mought be willin' to keep dis hyar ole mare fo' 'membrance sake." de auctioneer am mighty tickled, an' he say, "uncle jake, ef miss sally will 'soom de 'sponsibility ob dis ole mare, hit would 'blige me greatly." dat's howkum ole mahey back safe in de paddock, an' dey ain' _nobody_ gwine to take her away fum you, honey!' "'uncle jake,' says miss goodloe, 'where is your twenty dollars you got for that tobacco you raised?' "'ain' i tole you 'bout dat, miss sally? dat mis'able money done skip out an' leave thoo a hole in ma pocket,' says uncle jake, 'n' pulls one of his pants pockets inside out. sure enough, there's a big hole in it. "'didn't i give you a safety-pin to pin that money in your inside coat pocket?' says miss goodloe. "'yess'm, dat's right,' he says. 'but i'se countin' de money one day an' a span ob mules broke loose an' stahts lickety-brindle fo' de bahn, an' aimin' to ketch de mules, i pokes de money in de pocket wid de hole. i ain' neber see dat no-'coun' money sence.' "miss goodloe looks at the ole nigger fur a minute. "'uncle jake . . . oh, uncle jake . . .' she says. '_these_ are the things i just _can't_ stand!' her eyes fill up, 'n' while she bites her lip agin, it ain't no use. two big tears roll down her cheeks. 'i'll see you in a moment,' she says to me, 'n' goes inside. "'bad times! bad times, pow'ful bad times!' says uncle jake, 'n' hobbles away a-mutterin' to hisself. "it's begun to get under my skin right. i'm feelin' queer, 'n' i gets to thinkin' i'd better beat it. 'don't be a damn fool!' i says to myself. 'you ain't had nothin' to do with the cussed business 'n' you can't help it none. if you don't buy this colt somebody else will.' so i sets on the edge of the porch 'n' waits. it ain't so long till miss goodloe comes out again. i gets up 'n' takes off my hat. "'what horse do you wish to buy?' she says. "'a big chestnut colt by calabash, dam mary goodloe,' i says. 'they tell me you own him.' "'oh, i _can't_ sell _him_!' she says, backin' towards the door. 'no one has ever ridden him but me.' "'is he fast?' i asks her. "'of course,' she says. "'is he mannered?' i asks. "'perfectly,' she says. "'he ain't never seen a barrier, i suppose?' i says. "'he's broken to the barrier,' she says then. "'who schools him?' i says. 'you tells me nobody's been on him but you--' "'i schooled him at the barrier with the other two-year-olds,' she says. "'whee!' i says. 'you must be able to ride some.' "'i'd be ashamed of myself if i couldn't,' she says. "'are you sure you won't sell him?' i asks her. "'positive,' she says, 'n' i see she means it. "'what you goin' to do with him?' i says. 'don't you know it's wicked not to give that colt a chance to show what he can do?' "'i know it is,' she says. 'but i have no money for training expenses.' "i studies a minute, 'n' all of a sudden it comes to me. 'you were just achin' to help this little dame a while ago,' i says to myself. 'here's a chance . . . be a sport!' the colt _might_ make good, 'n' she could use a thousand or so awful easy. "'miss goodloe,' i says out loud, 'i might as well tell you i'm in love with that colt.' she gives me a real sweet smile. "'isn't he a darling?' she says, her face lightin' up. "'that isn't the way i'd put it,' i says, 'but i guess we mean the same. now, i'm a race-hoss trainer. you read these letters from people i'm workin' fur, 'n' then i'll tell you what i want to do.' i fishes out a bunch of letters from my pocket 'n' she sets down on the steps 'n' begins to read 'em solemn as owls. "'why do they call you blister?' she asks, lookin' up from a letter. "'that's a nickname,' i says. "'oh,' she says, 'n' goes on readin'. when she gets through she hands the letters to me. 'they seem to have a lot of confidence in you, blis--mr. jones,' she says. "'stick to blister,' i says, ''n' i'll always come when i'm called.' "'very well, blister,' she says. 'now, why did you wish me to read those letters?' "'i asks you to read them letters, because i got a hunch that colt's a winner, 'n' i want to take a chance on him,' i says. 'i got a string of hosses at new awlins--now, you let me ship that colt down there 'n' i'll get him ready. i'll charge you seventy-five a month to be paid out his winnings. if he don't win--no charge. is it a go?' she don't say nothin' fur quite a while. 'i sees a dozen hossmen i knows over at the sale,' i says. 'if you want recommends i can get any of 'em to come over 'n' speak to you about me.' "'no, i feel that you are trustworthy,' she says, 'n' goes to studyin' some more. 'what i should like to know,' she says after while, 'is this: do trainers make a practise of taking horses at the same terms you have just offered me?' "'sure they do,' i lies, lookin' her in the eye. 'any trainer'll take a chance on a promisin' colt.' "'are you certain?' she asks me, earnest. "'yes'm, dead certain,' i says. she don't say nothin' fur maybe five minutes, then she gets up 'n' looks at me steady. "'you may take him,' she says, 'n' walks into the house. "i finds uncle jake 'n' eases him two bucks. it sure helps his rheumatism. he gets as spry as a two-year-old. he tells me there's a train at nine that evenin'. i sends him to the depot to fix it so i can take the colt to loueyville in the express car, 'n' he says he'll get back quick as he can. i hunts up peewee, but he's goin' to stay all night, 'cause the yearlin's won't sell till next day. . . . "the sun's goin' down when we starts fur the depot, uncle jake drivin', 'n' me settin' behind, leadin' the colt. the sunlight's red, 'n' when it hits that chestnut colt he shines like copper. say, but he was some proud peacock! "i sends word to miss goodloe we're comin', 'n' she's waitin' at the gate. the colt nickers when he sees her, 'n' she comes 'n' takes the lead strap from me. then she holds up her finger at the colt. "'now, boy-baby!' she says. 'everything depends on you--you're all mammy has in the world . . . will you do your best for her sake?' the colt paws 'n' arches his neck. 'see, he says he will!' she says to me. "'what's his name?' i asks her. "'oh, dear, he hasn't any!' she says. 'i've always called him boy-baby.' "'he can't race under that,' i says. "'between now and the time he starts i'll think of a name for him,' she says. 'do you really believe he can win?' "'they tell me his dam wins twenty thousand the first year she raced,' i says. "'he'd be our salvation if he did that,' she says. "'there's a name,' i says. 'call him salvation!' she says over it two or three times. "'that's not a bad racing name, is it?' she asks me. "'no'm,' i says. 'that's a good name.' "'very well, boy-baby,' she says to the colt. 'i christen thee _salvation_, with this lump of sugar. that's a fine name! always bear it bravely.' she puts her arms around the colt's neck 'n' kisses him on the nose. then she hands me the lead strap 'n' steps aside. 'good-by, and good luck!' she says. "when we turns the bend, way down the road, she's still standin' there watchin' us . . . "i sends the colt down with a swipe, 'n' he's been at the track a week when i gets to new awlins. the boys have begun to talk 'bout him already, he's such a grand looker. he don't give me no trouble at all. he's quiet 'n' kind 'n' trustin'. nothin' gets him excited, 'n' i begins to be afraid he'll be a sluggard. it don't take me long to see he won't do fur the sprints--distance is what he likes. he's got a big swingin' gallop that sure fools me at first. he never seems to be tryin' a lick. when he's had two months prep. i has my exercise-boy let him down fur a full mile. man! he _just gallops_ in _forty flat_! then i know i've got somethin'! "his first race i'm as nervous as a dame. i don't bet a dollar on him fur fear i'll queer it. anyway, he ain't a good price--you can't keep him under cover, he's too flashy-lookin'. "well, he comes home alone, just playin' along, the jock lookin' back at the bunch. "'how much has he got left?' i says to the jock after the race. "'him!' says the jock. 'enough to beat anybody's hoss!' "i starts him the next week, 'n' he repeats, but it ain't till his _third_ race that i know fur sure he's a great hoss, with a racin' heart. "sweeney has the mount, 'n' he don't get him away good--the colt's layin' a bad seventh at the quarter. banjo's out in front, away off--'n' she's a real good mare. that pin-head sweeney don't make a move till the stretch, then he tries to come from seventh all at once . . . 'n' by god, he does it! that colt comes from nowhere to the banjo mare while they're goin' an eighth! the boy on banjo goes to the bat, but the colt just gallops on by 'n' breezes in home. "'you bum!' i says to sweeney. 'what kind of a trip do you call that? did you get off 'n' shoot a butsy at the stretch bend?' "'if i has a match i would,' says sweeney. 'i kin smoke it easy, 'n' then _back_ in ahead of them turtles.' "i know then the colt's good enough fur the stakes, 'n' i writes miss goodloe to see if i can use the fourteen hundred he's won to make the first payments. she's game as a pebble, 'n' says to stake him the limit. so i enters him from new awlins to pimlico. "i've had all kinds of offers fur the colt, but i always tell 'em nothin' doin'. one day a lawyer named jack dillon, who owns a big stock farm near lexington, comes to me 'n' says he wants to buy him. "'he ain't fur sale,' i tells him. "'everything's for sale at a price,' he says. 'now i want that colt worse than i do five thousand. what do you say?' "'i ain't sayin' nothin',' i says. "'how does eight thousand look to you?' he says. "'big,' i says. 'but you'll have to see miss goodloe at goodloe, kentucky, if you want this colt.' "oh, general goodloe's daughter,' he says. 'does she own him? when i go back next week i'll drop over and see her.' "well, salvation starts in the crescent city derby, 'n' when he comes under the wire miss goodloe's five thousand bucks better off. he wins another stake, 'n' then i ship him with the rest of my string to nashville. the second night we're there, here comes jack dillon to the stall with a paper bag in his hand. "'you didn't get the colt?' i says to him. "'no,' he says. 'i didn't get anything . . . i lost something.' "'what?' i says. "'never mind what,' he says. 'here, put this bag of sugar where i can get at it. she told me to feed him two lumps a day.' "after that he comes every evenin' 'n' gives the colt sugar, but he's poor company. he just stands lookin' at the colt. half the time he don't hear what i say to him. "the colt wins the nashville derby, 'n' then i ships him to loueyville for the kentucky. we want him to win _that_ more'n all the rest, but as luck goes, he ketches cold shippin', 'n' he can't start. "miss goodloe comes over to loueyville one mawnin' to see him. she gets through huggin' him after while, 'n' sets down in a chair by the stall door. "'now, start at the beginning and tell me everything,' she says. "so i tells her every move the colt makes since i has him. "'how did he happen to catch cold?' she asks. "'constitution undermined,' i says. "'oh! how dreadful!' she says. 'what caused it?' "'sugar,' i says, never crackin' a smile. "she flushes up, 'n' i see she knows what i mean, but she don't ask no more questions. before she leaves, miss goodloe tells me she'll come to cincinnati if the colt's well enough to start in the latonia derby. "i ships to cincinnati. about noon derby day i'm watchin' the swipes workin' on the colt. he's favorite fur the latonia 'n' there's mebby a hundred boobs in front of the stall rubberin' at him. "'please let dis lady pass,' i hears some one say, 'n' here comes liza helpin' miss goodloe through the crowd. when liza sees me i ducks 'n' holds up my arm like i'm dodgin' somethin'. she grins till her mouth looks like a tombstone factory. "'i clean fohgot to bring dat pokah wid me,' she says. 'hyar you is, miss sally.' "i don't hardly know miss goodloe. there's nothin' like race day to get a dame goin'. her eyes are shinin' 'n' her cheeks are pink, 'n' she don't look more'n sixteen. "'why, boy-baby,' she says to the colt, 'you've grown to be such a wonderful person i can't believe it's you!' the colt knows it's race day 'n' he don't pay much attention to her. 'oh, boy-baby!' says miss goodloe, 'i'm afraid you've had your head turned . . . you don't even notice your own mammy!' "'his head ain't turned, it's full of race,' i says to her. he'll come down to earth after he gets that mile-'n'-a-quarter under his belt.' "when the bugle blows, miss goodloe asks me to stay in her box with her while the derby's run. there's twenty thousand people there 'n' i guess the whole bunch has bet on the colt, from the way it sounds when the hosses parade past. you can't hear nothin' but '_salva-a-tion! oh, you salva-a-tion_!' "they get a nice break all in a line, but when they come by the stand the first time, the colt's layin' at the rail a len'th in front, fightin' fur his head. "'_salva-a-tion_!' goes up from the stands in one big yell. "'_there he goes_!' hollers some swipe across the track, 'n' then everything is quiet. "miss goodloe's got her fingers stuck into my arm till it hurts. but that don't bother me. "'isn't it wonderful?' she says, but the pink's gone out of her cheeks. she's real pale . . . "they never get near the colt. . . . he comes home alone with that big easy, swingin' gallop of his, 'n' goes under the wire still fightin' fur his head. "then that crowd goes plumb crazy! men throws their hats away, 'n' dances around, yellin' till they can't whisper! miss goodloe is shakin' so i has to hold her up. "'isn't he _grand_? how would you like to own him?' a woman in the next box says to her. "'i'd love it,' says miss goodloe, 'n' busts out cryin'. 'you'll think i'm an awful baby!' she says to me. "'i don't mind them kind of tears,' i says. "'neither do i,' she says, laughin', 'n' dabbin' at her face with a dinky little hankerchiff. "i wait till they lead the colt out in front of the stand, 'n' put the floral horseshoe round his neck, then i takes miss goodloe down to shake hands with the jock. "'how do you like him?' she says to the jock. "'well, ma'am,' he says, 'i've ridden all the good ones, but he's the best hoss i ever has under me!' "'what's the record fur this race?' i yells across the track to the timer. he points down at the time hung up. "'that's it!' he hollers back. "'didn't he do it easy?' says the jock to me. "there's no use to tell you what salvation done to them eastern hosses; everybody knows about that. it got so the ginnies would line up in a bunch, every time he starts, 'n' holler: '_they're off--there he goes_!' they does it regular, 'n' pretty soon the crowds get next 'n' then everybody does it. he begins to stale off at pimlico, so i ships him to miss goodloe, 'n' writes her to turn him out fur three or four months. "it ain't a year from the time we leaves miss goodloe standin' in the road till then. salvation wins his every start. he's copped off forty thousand bucks. i guess that's goin' some! "when the season closes i goes through kentucky on my way south, 'n' i takes a jump over from loueyville to see the colt. miss goodloe's bought a hundred acres around her little house, 'n' the colt's turned out in a nice bluegrass field. we're standin' watchin' him, when she puts somethin' in my pocket. i fishes it out 'n' it's a check fur five thousand bucks. "'i've been paid what's comin' to me,' i says. 'nothin' like this goes.' "'oh, yes, it does!' she says. 'i have investigated since you told me that _story_. trainers do _not_ pay expenses on other people's horses. now, put that back in your pocket or i will be mortally offended.' "'i don't need it,' i says. "'neither do i,' she says. 'i haven't told you--guess what i've been offered for salvation?' "'i give it up,' i says. "'fifty thousand dollars,' she says. 'what do you think of that?' "'are you goin' to sell?' i asks her. "'certainly not,' she says. "'he'll earn twice that in the stud,' i says. 'who makes you the offer--mr. dillon?' "'no, a new york man,' she says. 'i guess mr. dillon has lost interest in him.' "i guess he hasn't,' i says. 'i seen him at pimlico, 'n' he was worse 'n ever.' "'did--did he still feed him sugar?' she says, but she don't look at me while she's gettin' it out. "'you bet he did,' i says. "'shall you see him again?' she asks me. "'yes'm, i'll see him at new awlins,' i says. "'you may tell him,' she says, her face gettin' pink, 'that as far as my horse is concerned i haven't changed my mind.' "on the way back to the house i gets to thinkin'. "'i'm goin' round to the kitchen 'n' say hello to aunt liza,' i says to miss goodloe. "liza's glad to see me this time--mighty glad. "'hyah's a nice hot fried cake fo' you, honey,' she says. "'this ain't no fried cake,' i says. 'this is a doughnut.' "'you ain' tryin' to tell _me_ what a fried cake is, is you?' she says. "'aunt liza,' i says to her while i'm eatin' the doughnut, 'i sees mr. jack dillon after he's been here, 'n' he acts like he'd had a bad time. did you take a poker to him, too?' "'no, sah,' she says. 'miss sally tended to his case.' "'it's too bad she don't like him,' i says. "'who say she doan' like him?' says liza. 'he come a sto'min' round hyah like he gwine to pull de whole place up by de roots an' transport hit ovah lexington way. fust he's boun' fo' to take dat hoss what's done win all dem good dollahs. den his min' flit f'om dat to miss sally, an' he's aimin' to cyar her off like she was a 'lasses bar'l or a yahd ob calico. who is dem dillons, anyway? de goodloes owned big lan' right hyar in franklin county when de dillons ain' nothin' but yankee trash back in maine or some other outlan'ish place! co'se we sends him 'bout his bisniss--him an' his money! ef he comes roun' hyar, now we's rich again, an' sings small fo' a while. miss sally mighty likely to listen to what he got to say--she so kindly dat a-way.' "at the depot in goodloe that night i writes a wire to jack dillon. 'if you still want salvation better come to goodloe,' is what the wire says. i signs it 'n' sends it 'n' takes the train fur new awlins. "the colt ruptures a tendon not long after that, so he never races no more, 'n' i ain't never been to goodloe since." blister yawned, lay back on the grass and pulled his hat over his face. "is salvation alive now?' i asked. "sure he's alive!" the words come muffled from beneath the hat. "he's at the head of judge dillon's stock farm over near lexington." "i'm surprised miss goodloe sold him," i said. "she don't . . . sell him," blister muttered drowsily. "mrs. dillon . . . still . . . owns him." a tip in time blister was silent as we left the theater. i had chosen the play because i had fancied it would particularly appeal to him. the name part--a characterization of a race-horse tout--had been acceptably done by a competent young actor. the author had hewn as close to realism as his too clever lines would permit. there had been a wealth of blister's own vernacular used on the stage during the evening, and i had rather enjoyed it all. but blister, it was now evident, had been disappointed. "you didn't like it?" i said tentatively, as i steered him toward the blazing word "rathskeller," a block down the street. "oh, i've seed worse shows," was the unenthusiastic reply. "i can get an earful of that kind of chatter dead easy without pryin' myself loose from any kale," he added. i saw where the trouble lay. the terse expressive jargon of the race track, its dry humor just beneath its hard surface, might delight the unsophisticated, but not blister. to him it lacked in novelty. "i ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while," said blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign. "do you go to shows much?" he asked, when two steins were between us on the flemish oak board. "not a great deal," i replied. "i did dramatics--wrote up shows--for two years and that rather destroyed my enjoyment of the theater." "i got you," said blister. "seein' so much of it spoils you fur it. that's me, too. i won't cross the street to see a show when i'm on the stage." had he suddenly announced himself king of the cannibal islands i would have looked and felt about as then. i gazed at him with dropping jaw. "no, i ain't bugs!" he grinned, as he saw my expression. "i'm on the stage quite a while. ain't i never told you?" "you certainly have not," i said emphatically. "i goes on the stage just because i starts to cuss a dog i owns one day," said blister. "it's the year they pull off one of these here panic things, and believe me the kale just fades from view! it you borrow a rub-rag, three ginnies come along to bring it back when you're through. if you happens to mention you ain't got your makin's with you, the nearest guy to you'll call the police. they wouldn't have a hoss trained that could run a mile in nothin'. "a dog out on grass don't cost but two bucks a month. it seems like the men i'm workin' fur all remembers this at once. when i'm through followin' shippin' instructions i'm down to one mutt, 'n' i owns him myself. he's some hoss--i don't think. he's got a splint big as a turkey egg that keeps him ouchy in front half the time, 'n' his heart ain't in the right place. i've filled his old hide so full of hop you could knock his eyes off with a club, tryin' to make him cop, but he won't come through--third is the best he'll do. "one day about noon i'm standin' lookin' in the stall door, watchin' him mince over his oats. they ain't nothin' good about this dog--not even his appetite. i ain't had a real feed myself fur three days, 'n' when i sees this ole counterfeit mussin' over his grub i opens up on him. "'why, you last year's bird's nest!' i says to him. 'what th' hell right have you got to be fussy with your eats? they ain't a oat in that box but what out-classes you--they've all growed faster'n you can run! the only thing worse'n you is a ticket on you to win. if i pulls your shoes off 'n' has my choice between you 'n' them--i takes the shoes. if i wouldn't be pinched fur it i gives you to the first nut they lets out of the bughouse--you sour-bellied-mallet-headed-yellow pup! you cross between a canary 'n' a mud-turtle!' "that gets me sort-a warmed up, 'n' then i begins to really tell this dog what the sad sea waves is sayin'. when i can't think of nothin' more to call him, i stops. "'outside of that he's all right, ain't he?' says some one behind me. "'no,' i says, 'he has other faults besides.' "i turns round 'n' there's a fat guy with a cigar in his face. he's been standin' there listenin'. he's got a chunk of ice stuck in his chest that you have to look at through smoked glasses. he's got another one just as big on his south hook. take him all 'n' all he looks like the real persimmon. "'do you own him?' says the fat guy. "'you've had no call to insult a stranger,' i says. 'but it's on me--i owns him.' "'i'm sorry you've got such a bad opinion of him,' he says. 'i was thinkin' of buyin' him.' "i looks around fur this guy's keeper--they ain't nobody in sight. "'this ain't such a bad hoss,' i says. 'them remarks you hears don't mean nothin'. they're my regular pet names fur him.' "'i'd like to be around once when you talk to a bad one,' says the guy. 'now look a-here,' he says. 'i'll buy this horse, but get over all thoughts of makin' a sucker out of me. what do you want for him? if you try to stick me up--i'm gone. the woods is full of this kind. let's hear from you!' "'fur a hundred i throws in a halter,' i says. "'you've sold one,' says the guy, 'n' peels off five yellow men from a big roll. "when i've got the kale safe in my clothes, i gets curious. "'what do you want with this hoss?' i says. "'he's to run on rollers in a racing scene,' he says. "'well,' i says, 'some skates has rollers on 'em, maybe they'll help this one. god knows he ain't any good with just legs!' "'he's plenty good enough for his act,' says the guy. 'and say, i want another one like him, and a man to go on the road with 'em. can you put me wise?' "'how much would be crowded towards the party you want, saturday nights?' i says. "'twenty dollars and expenses,' says he. "'make it thirty,' i says. 'travelin's hard on them that loves their home.' "'we'll split it,' he says. 'twenty-five's the word.' "'my time's yours,' i says. "'how about the other horse?' says the fat guy. "'you'll own him in eight minutes,' i says. 'stay here with edwin booth till i get back.' "i hustles down the line 'n' finds peewee simpson washin' out bandages--that's what he'd come to. "'you still got that sorrel hound?' i says to him. "'nope,' says peewee. 'he's got me. i'm takin' in washin' to support him.' "'brace yourself fur a shock,' i says. 'i'll give you real money fur him.' "peewee looks at me fur a minute like you done a while ago. "'don't wake me up!' he says. 'i must--' then he stops 'n' takes another slant at me. 'say!' he says, 'i'll bet you've got next! i ain't told you yet--who put you hep?' "'hep to what?' i says. "'why, this hoss works a mile in forty yesterday,' says peewee. 'i'm goin' to cop with him next week.' "'your work's coarse,' i says. 'the only way that dog goes a mile in forty is in the baggage coach ahead. i'm in a hurry! here's a hundred fur the pup. don't break a leg gettin' him out of the stall.' "i don't stop to answer peewee's questions, but leads the hoss back to the fat guy. "'here's salvini,' i says. 'he cost you a hundred.' "'s. r. o. for you,' says he, 'n' slips me the hundred. 'now, take him and edwin booth to the livery-stable round the corner from the alhambra theater. come to the gilsey house at six o'clock and ask for me. my name is banks.' "'there's class to that name,' i says. 'it sure sounds good to me.' "'keep on your toes like you've done so far and it'll be as good as it sounds,' says he. "that evenin' banks tells me the dogs he's bought is fur a show called _a blue grass belle_. a dame is to ride one of 'em in the show, 'n' i'm to ride the other. "'i've arranged to have the apparatus set up back of the livery-stable,' says banks, 'so you can rehearse the horses for their act. when they know their parts i'll bring pixley around and you can work the act together. she was a rube before she hit the big town and she says she can ride.' "say, this dingus fur the hosses to run on is there like a duck. the guy that thinks it up has a grand bean! you leads a hoss on to it 'n' when it's ready you gives him the word. he starts to walk off, nothin' doin', he ain't goin' nowhere. you fans him with the bat. 'i'll be on my way,' he says. but he ain't got a chance--the faster he romps the faster the dingus rolls out from under him. he can run a forty shot, 'n' he don't go no further 'n i can throw a piano! "after i've worked both dogs on the dingus fur a week or so, i tells banks they know the game--'n' believe me, they did! why, them ole hounds got so they begins to prance when they see the machine. they'd lay down 'n' ramble till they dropped if i lets 'em. they liked it fine! "'i'll send pixley around to-morrow,' says banks. 'i want you to teach her the jockey's crouch when she's on her horse.' "next mawnin' i'm oilin' up the dingus when a chicken pokes her little head out the back door of the livery-stable. "'hello, kid,' she says to me. "'hello, girlie,' i says back. "'_miss pixley_, if you _please_,' she says. "'all right,' i says. ''n' while we're at it mr. jones'll suit me.' "'fade away,' she says, 'n' i see she's got a couple of dimples. 'mr. jones don't suit you.' "'make it blister, then,' i says. "'you're on,' she says. 'and you can stick to girlie.' "say, she was a great little dame; she makes a hit with me the first dash out of the box. when it comes to ridin' she's game as a wasp. she has on a long coat, 'n' i don't see what's underneath. "'banks tells me you ride like a jock in the show,' i says. 'you can't cut the mustard with that rig on.' "'sure not, simple simon!' she says. 'do you think this grows on me?' she sheds the coat, 'n' i see she's got on leggins 'n' a pair of puffy pants. "i throws her on to salvini 'n' he begins to prance around, me holdin' him by the head. "'whoa, you big bum!' i says to him. "'quit knocking my horse,' she says. 'let go of him and see if i care.' "i turns him loose 'n' she lets him jump a few times 'n' then rides him on to the machine. i see she knows her business so i stands beside her 'n' makes her sit him like she ought. it don't take her no time to get wise. pretty soon she's clear over with a hand on each side of his withers, 'n' him goin' like a stake hoss. "'that's the dope!' i hollers. i has to yell 'cause the ole hound is makin' a fierce racket on the machine. "'i feel like a monkey on a stick,' she hollers back, but she don't look like one. her hair's shook loose, her eyes is shinin', 'n' them dimples of her's is the life of the party. "'so long, professor,' she says to me when she's goin'. 'much obliged for the lesson. our act will be a scream.' "not long after that they moves the dingus over to the theater, 'n' banks tells me to bring the hosses over at three o'clock the next day. i'm there to the minute, but nobody shows up 'n' i stands out in front with the dogs fur what seems like a week. all of a sudden a tall pale guy, who ain't got no coat on, comes bustin' out of the entrance. "'where in hell and damnation have you been with these skates?' he says. his hair is stickin' up on end 'n' he's got a wild look in his eye. "'batty as a barn,' i says to myself, 'n' gets behind edwin booth. "'speak up!' says the pale guy. 'before i do murder!' i looks up 'n' down the street--not a cop in sight. "'i'm a gone fawn skin,' i says to myself, but i thinks i'll try to soothe him till help comes. "'that's all right, pal, that's all right,' i says to him. 'these pretty hosses are in a show. did you ever see a show? i seen a show once that--' "'my poor boy,' he says, breakin' in. 'i didn't know! what got into banks?' he says, sort-a to hisself. 'try and remember,' he says to me, 'weren't you told to bring these pretty horses here at three o'clock?' "that puts me jerry, 'n' i sure am sore when i thinks how he gets my goat. "'why, you big stiff!' i says. 'ain't i been standin' here with these plugs fur a week? if you wants 'em, why don't you come 'n' tell me to lead 'em in? do you think i'm a mind-reader?' "his voice gets wild again. "'lead 'em in where?' he says. 'through the lobby? do you want to buy 'em tickets at the box-office? will you have orchestra chairs for 'em or will front-row balcony do? now beat it up that alley to the stage entrance, you doddering idiot!' he says. 'you've held up this rehearsal two hours!' "say, i've made some fierce breaks in my time, but that was the limit. it goes to show what a sucker anybody is at a new game. but at that, a child would have knowed those dogs didn't go in the front way. "when i gets on to the stage with the hosses, there's guys 'n' dames standin' around all over it. the chicken comes 'n' shakes my mitt. "'say, kid,' she says, 'you'll hit the street for this sure. where _have_ you been?' "before i can tell her, here comes the pale guy down the aisle. "'everybody off stage!' he hollers. the bunch beats it to the sides. 'now,' says the pale guy. 'we'll start the third act. pixley,' he says to the chicken, 'i'll read your lines. you explain to daniel webster his cue, lines and business for your scene. charlie, hold those horses.' "the chicken starts to wise me up like he tells her. i'm a jock in the play, 'n' i has one line to say. 'he'll win, sir, never fear,' is the line. what another guy says to me before i says it she calls a cue, 'n' i learns that, too. i don't remember much what goes on that first day. i gets through my stunt o. k., except what i has to say--somehow, i can't get it off my chest louder'n a he-mouse can squeak. "'if any one told me a horse would win, in that tone of voice,' says the pale guy to me, 'i'd go bet against him!' he keeps me sayin' it over 'n' over till pretty soon you can hear me nearly three feet away. 'that'll have to do for today,' says the pale guy. 'everybody here at two o'clock to-morrow. i'll have the lobby swept out for your entrance, daniel webster,' he says to me. "i tries the back door fur a change next day and they rehearse all afternoon. i'm here to say that pale guy is some dispenser of remarks. at plain 'n' fancy cussin' he's a bear. "he's got the whole bunch buffaloed, except the chicken. she hands it back to him when it comes too strong. "'pixley,' he says to her once, 'your directions call for a quick exit. the audience will be able to stand it if you get off stage inside of ten minutes. try and remember you are not stalling a johnny with a fond farewell in this scene.' "'that's a real cute crack,' says the chicken. 'but you've got your dates mixed. i can shoo a johnny, even if he's in the profession,' she says, lookin' at him, 'quicker than a bum stage manager can fire a little chorus girl.' "the pale guy's name is de mott. he looks at her hard fur a minute, then he swallers the dose. "'proceed with the act,' he says. "the show goes great the first night, far as i can see, but de mott ain't satisfied. "'it's dragging! it's dragging!' he keeps sayin' to everybody. "a minute before i has to walk out on the stage, leadin' edwin booth, i can't think of nothin' but what i has to say. i gets one look at all them blurry faces, 'n' i goes into a trance. "'more than life depends on this race!' i hears a voice say, about a mile off. that's my cue, but all i can remember is to tell him it's a cinch, 'n' say it loud. "'the dog cops sure as hell!' i hollers. "after the act de mott rushes over tearin' at his collar like it's chokin' him. "'don't you even know the difference between a horse and a dog?' he yells at me. "'if you sees this hound cough it up in the stretch often as i have, you calls him a dog yourself,' i says. "i don't furget again after that, 'n' things go along smooth as silk from then on. "the show runs along fur a week, but it don't make good. "'the waving corn for this outfit!' says the chicken to me, saturday night. 'the citizens of peoria, illinois, will have a chance to lamp my art before long.' "she's got it doped right. we hit the road in jig-time. banks makes a speech before we leaves. "'ladies and gentlemen,' he says, 'i thank you for your good work. mr. de mott will represent me on the road. i hope you will be a happy family, and i wish you success.' "outside of the chicken, i'm not stuck on the bunch. they're as cheap a gang as i'm ever up against. this de mott guy is a cheese right, but he sure thinks he's the original bell-wether. he's strong fur the chicken, 'n' this makes the others sore at her. they don't have much to do with me neither, 'n' she don't fall fur de mott, so her 'n' me sees each other a lot. "she's a bug over hosses 'n' the track. she wants me to tell her all about trainin' a hoss 'n' startin' a hoss 'n' fifty other things besides. "'i always lose,' she says. 'but then, i'm a rummy. can you tell which horse is going to win, blister?' "'sometimes,' i says. "'when you go back to the track will you put me wise so i can win?' she says. "'you bet i will, girlie!' i says. 'any time i cut loose a good thing you gets the info right from the feed-box.' "de mott keeps noticin' us stickin' together. he's talkin' to her once when i'm passin' by. "'he's on the square,' she says pretty loud. 'and that's more than you can say about a lot of people i know.' "'that big ham was trying to knock you,' she says to me afterwards. "we makes a bunch of towns. nothin' very big--burgs like erie 'n' grand rapids 'n' dayton. finally we hits st. louis fur a two weeks' stand. this suits me. i'm sure tired of shippin' the dogs every few days. "one night the chicken stops me as i'm takin' the pups to their kennel. "'come back for me, blister,' she says, 'when you get your horses put up. there's a johnny in this town that's pestering the life out of me. he wants me to go to 'frisco with him.' "when i gets back to the theater i sees a green buzz-wagon at the stage door with a guy 'n' a shofe in it. "the chicken has hold of my arm comin' out of the door, but she lets go of it 'n' then steps up straight to the buzz-wagon. "'i can't keep my engagement with you this evening,' she says. 'my brother's in town and i'm going to be with him.' "'bring your brother along,' says the guy, 'n' i know by that he's got it bad. "'i can't very well,' she says. 'we have some family matters to talk over. i'll see you some other evening.' "the very next night a bunch of scenery tumbles over. the race is goin' on, 'n' edwin booth is layin' down to it right. a piece of scenery either falls under his feet or else jims the machine, i never knows which, anyhow, all of a sudden the hoss gets real footin'. bingo! we're on our way like we're shot out of a gun. we go through all the scenery on that side 'n' edwin booth does a flop when he hits the brick wall at the end of the stage. the ole hound ain't even scratched. i ain't hurt neither. "the curtain rings down 'n' de mott comes a-lopin' to where i'm gettin' a painted grand-stand off of edwin booth's front legs. "'in heaven's name what were you trying to do?' he says. "'i was just practisin' one of them quick exits you're always talkin' about,' i says. "'all right,' he says. 'keep on practising till you come to that door! follow on down the street till you reach the river and then jump in!' "'i guess i'm fired--is that it?' i says. "'you're a good guesser,' says de mott. "the chicken has come over by this time. "'are you hurt, blister?' she says. "'not a bit, girlie,' i says, 'n' starts to go change my clothes. "'wait till i give you an order on the box-office for your money,' says de mott. "'well, get busy,' i says to him. 'i've stood it around where you are about as long as is healthy.' "'what's that?' says the chicken to de mott. 'you don't mean to tell me you fired him!' "'i don't mean to tell you _anything_ that's none of your business,' says de mott. 'go dress for the next act!' "'not on your life!' she says. 'you can't fire him; it wasn't _his_ fault! i'll write banks a _lot_ i know about you!' "de mott pulls out his watch. "'i'll give you just _one minute_ to start for your dressing-room,' he says to her. "the chicken knocks the watch out of his hand. "'_that_ for your old turnip and you, too!' she says. "'you're fired!' yells de mott. "'oh, no, i ain't!' says the chicken. 'that's my way of breaking a contract and a watch at the same time. you needn't write an order for me,' she says. 'i'm overdrawn a week now.' "when we're leavin', after we gets our street clothes on, de mott stops us. "'there's a way you can both get back,' he says to the chicken. "'when i sell out,' says she, 'it'll be to a real man for real money, not to a cheap ham-fat for a forty-dollar job.' "the chicken won't stay at the hotel where the bunch is that night, so we both moves over to another. when we pays our bill i have seven bucks left 'n' she has six. "'we'll decide what to do in the morning, blister,' she says. 'i've got a headache, so i think i'll hit the hay.' "she goes to her room 'n' i sets 'n' studies how this is goin' to wind up, till three o'clock. "we has breakfast together the next mawnin' about noon. "'well,' says the chicken, 'i've been up against it before, but this is tougher than usual. everybody i know is broke or badly bent.' "'same here,' i says. "'you poor kid!' she says. 'what'll you do?' "'don't worry none about me,' i says. 'i can get to new awlins somehow--they're racin' down there. but what about you?' "'if i could get back east,' she says, 'i know a floor-walker at macy's who'll stake me to a job till i can get placed.' "'you stick around here,' i says, when we're through eatin'. 'i'll go out 'n' give the burg a lookin' over.' "'i've got that johnny's phone number,' she says. 'i wonder if he'd stand for a touch without getting too fresh?' "i goes to the desk 'n' wigwags the clerk. he's a fair-haired boy with a alabaster dome. "'are they runnin' poolrooms in the village?' i says. "'yes, sir,' he says. 'pool and billiard room just across the street.' "'much obliged,' i says. i see the tomtit ain't got a man's size chirp in him, so i goes outside 'n' hunts up a bull. "'can you wise me up to a pony bazaar in this neck of the woods?' i says to him. "'go chase yourself,' he says. 'what do you think i am--a capper?' "'be a sport,' i says. 'come through with the info--i ain't a live one. i'm a chalker, 'n' i'm flat. i'm lookin' fur a job.' "he sizes me up fur quite a while. "'well,' he says at last, 'i guess if they trim you they'll earn it. go down two blocks, then half a block to your right and take a squint at the saloon with the buffalo head over the bar.' "i finds the saloon easy enough. "'make it a tall one,' i says to the barkeep. "while i'm lappin' up the drink, a guy walks in 'n' goes through a door at the other end of the booze parlor. "'where does that door go to?' i says to the barkeep. "'it's nothin' but an exit,' he says. "'that's right in my line,' i says. 'i'll take a chance at it.' "when i opens the door i hears a telegraph machine goin'. "'just like mother used to make,' i says out loud, 'n' follows down a dark hall to the poolroom. "i watches the new awlins entries chalked up 'n' i sees a hoss called tea kettle in the third race. now this tea kettle ain't a bad pup. he's owned by a couple of wise ikes who never let him win till the odds are right. eddie murphy has this hoss 'n' duckfoot johnson's swipin' him.' "'i wish i knew what they're doin' with that tea kettle to-day,' i says to myself, when i've looked 'em all over. "i've been settin' there fur quite a while when a nigger comes in. i don't pay no attention to him at first, but i happen to see him fish a telegram out of his pocket 'n' look at it. "'that ole nigger's got some dope,' i says to myself. 'i'll amble over 'n' try to kid it out of him.' "i mosies over to where he's settin'. he puts the wire in his pocket when he sees me comin'. i sets down beside him 'n' goes to readin' the paper. pretty soon i folds up the paper 'n' looks at the board. "'that tea kettle might come through,' i says to the ole nigger. "'dat ain' likely,' he says. 'he ain' won fo' a coon's aige.' "'i talks to his swipe not very long ago,' i says, ''n' he tells me he's good.' "the ole nigger looks at me hard. "'whar does you hol' dis convahsation at?' he says. "'sheepshead,' i says. "'does you reccomember de name ob de swipe?' says the ole nigger. "'sure!' i says, 'i've knowed _him_ all my life! his name is duckfoot johnson.' "'yes, suh!' he says. 'yes, suh--an' what mought yo' name be?' "'blister jones,' i says. "'why, man!' he says, 'i've heard ob you frequen'ly. ma name am johnson. duckfoot is ma boy; hyars a tellegam fum him!' "he pulls out the wire. 't. k. in the third,' it says. i looks up at the board--tea kettle's twelve-to-one. "i goes out of that poolroom on the jump 'n' runs all the way to the hotel. the chicken ain't in her room. i falls down-stairs 'n' looks all around--nothin' doin'. all of a sudden i sees her in the telephone booth. "'gimme that six bones quick!' i says when i've got the glass door open. she puts her hand over the phone. "'here, it's in my bag,' she says. "i grabs the bag 'n' beats it. i gets the change out on my way back to the poolroom. the third race is still open, 'n' i gets ten bucks straight 'n' two to show on tea kettle. then i goes over where ole man johnson's settin'. "'whar does you go so quick like?' he says. "'i'm after some coin,' i says, tryin' to ketch my breath. 'i've took a shot at the tea kettle hoss.' "'i has bet on him,' he says, 'to ma fullest reso'ses.' "'how much you got on?' i says. "'foh dollahs,' says ole man johnson. "just then the telegraph begins to click. "'they're off at new orle-e-e-ns!' sings the operator. 'king ja-a-ames first! eldorado-o-o second! anvil-l-l third!' "the telegraph keeps a stutterin' 'n' a stutterin'. "'eldorado-o-o at the quarter a length! anvil-l-l second a length! king ja-a-ames third!' sings the operator. "i looks at ole man johnson. he looks at me. "'eldorado-o-o at the half by three lengths! anvil-l-l second by two lengths! king ja-a-ames third!' sings the operator. "i looks at ole man johnson. he don't look at me. he looks up at the ceilin' 'n' his lips is goin' like he's prayin'. me? i'm wipin' the sweat off my face. "'eldorado-o-o in the stretch a half a length!' sings the operator. 'anvil-l-l second a nose! te-e-a kettle third and coming fast!' "if i gets a shock from that telegraph wire i don't jump any higher. "'howdy, howdy! _he's boilin now_,' yells ole man johnson loud enough to bust your ear. "then that cussed telegraph stops right off. "'wire trouble at new orleans,' says the operator. "i sure hopes i never spends no more half-hours like i does then waitin' fur the new awlins message. i thinks every minute ole man johnson's goin' to croak if it don't come soon. in about ten years the telegraph begins to work again. "'the result at new orle-e-ens!' sings the operator. 'te-e-ea kettle wins by five lengths! eldo--' "but ole man johnson lets out such a whoop i don't hear who finishes second 'n' third. "i hustles up to the chicken's room when i'm back to the hotel. the transom's open when i gets to the door 'n' i hears a guy talkin'. "'don't misunderstand me,' he's savin'. 'you know perfectly the money's nothing to me, but why should i cut my own throat? if you'll go west instead of east, everything i have is yours!' "'i don't misunderstand you,' says the chicken's voice. 'i have you sized up to a dot. i've met hundreds like _you_!' "i knocks on the door. "'come,' says the chicken, 'n' i walks in. she's standin' with the table between her 'n' a swell-lookin' guy. "'mr. chandler,' she says. 'let me introduce you to my brother.' "'how do you do?' says the swell guy. 'you have a charming sister.' "'she's a great kid,' i says. "'you don't look much alike,' says the swell guy. "'she's not my full sister,' i says. 'our mothers weren't the same.' "the chicken coughs a couple of times. "'that explains it,' says the swell guy. "'now,' i says to him, 'i hate to tie a can to one of sis's friend, but she's goin' east at six o'clock, 'n' she's got to pack her duds.' "'oh, blister, _am_ i?' says the chicken. "'yep, i hears from auntie,' i says, pullin' out the roll 'n' lay in' it on the table. "the chicken gives a shriek, 'n' starts to hug me right in front of the swell guy. "'i seem to be dee tro,' says he, 'n' backs out the door. "'where did you get the money?' says the chicken, countin' the roll. 'why! there's _over a hundred here_!' "i takes fifty bucks fur myself, 'n' hands her the rest. "'i cops it at a poolroom,' i says. 'a ten-to-one shot comes through fur me. now get busy. i'll send fur your trunk in ten minutes.' "the chicken won't hear of ridin' in a street-car, so we takes a cab like a couple of trust maggots. "'i'll buy your ticket 'n' check your trunk fur you,' i says, when we get to the station. 'where do you want to go? new york?' "'anywhere you say,' she says. . . "i'm standin' there lookin' at her, lettin' this sink into my bean, 'n' she begins to get red. "'don't stand there gawking at me!' she says, stampin' her foot. 'say something!' "'how about this st. louis guy?' i says. 'with all his--' "'oh, he was only a johnny,' she says. "'how about de mott?' i says. "'ugh!' she says, makin' a face. "i don't say nothin' after that till i has it all thought out. the start looks awful good, but i begins to weaken when i thinks of the finish. "'you act just suffocated with pleasure,' says the chicken. but i don't pay no attention. "'you'll be lucky if you gets a job swipin' fur your eats when you hit new awlins,' i says to myself. 'wouldn't you look immense with a doll on your staff?' "'now, listen,' i says to her, 'how long is this here panic goin' to last?' "'you can search me,' she says. "'well, how long is this hundred goin' to last?' i says. "'not long,' she says. "'that's the answer,' i says. 'now, you hop a deep sea goin' rattler fur new york while the hoppin' 's good.' "'but, blister,' she says, 'at new orleans you could win lots of money--think how much you've made already--and i could go to the races every day!' "'furget it,' i says. 'you think you're a wise girl. why, you ain't nothin' but a child! a break like i has to-day don't come but seldom. if i cops the coin easy, like you figgers, why am i chambermaid to two dogs in a bum show at twenty-five per? now slip me the price of a ticket to new york,' i says, 'or i goes 'n' buys it out of my own roll, 'n' then i ain't got enough left to get to new awlins.' "she don't say nothin' more, but hands me the dough. i buys her ticket 'n' checks her trunk fur her. she keeps real quiet till her rattler's ready. i kisses her good-by when they calls the train fur new york, 'n' still she don't say nothin'. "'what's on your mind, girlie?' i says. "'nothing much,' she says. 'only i'm letter perfect in the turnin'-down act, but when it's the other way--i ain't up in my lines.'" . . . blister waved to a waiter and i saw there was to be no more. "did you ever see her again?" i inquired. "now you're askin' questions," said blister. trÈs jolie the hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor. before attacking the day's editorial i tried to decide whether it was the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was taking the life out of my work. i was impartial in this, but gave it up. and then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and i recognized in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of blister jones. "dear friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes died out as i read. 'i guess you are thinking me dead by this time on account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. well, this is to show you i am alive and kicking. i guess you have read how good the mare is doing. she is a good mare, as good as her dam. i had some mean luck with her at nashville by her going lame for me, so she could not start in the big stake, but she is o. k. now. i note what you said about being sick. that is tough. why don't you come to louisville and see the mare run in the derby. if you would only bet, i can give you a steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. well, this is all for the present. "resp. "blister jones. "p. s. now, be sure to come as i want you to see the mare. she is sure a good mare." i laid the letter down with a sigh. the mare referred to was the now mighty très jolie favorite for the kentucky derby. i had seen her once when a two-year-old, and i remembered blister's pride as he told me she was to be placed in his hands by judge dillon. yes, i would be glad to see "the mare," and i longed for the free sunlit world of which she was a part, as for a tonic. but this was, of course, impossible. so long as hard undiscerning materialism demanded editorials--editorials i must furnish. "damn such a pen!" i said aloud, at its first scratch. "quite right!" boomed a deep voice. a big gentle hand fell on my shoulder and spun me away from the desk. "see here," the voice went on gruffly, "you're back too soon. we can't afford to take chances with _you_. get out of this. the cashier'll fix you up. don't let me see you around here again till--we have better pens," and he was gone before thanks were possible. "i'm going to churchill downs to cover the derby for a sunday special!" i sang to the sporting editor as i passed his door. "the _review of reviews_ might use it!" followed me down the hall, and i chuckled as i headed for the cashier's desk. "well, well, well!" was blister's greeting. "look who's here! i seen your ole specs shinin' in the sun clear down the line!" i sniffed luxuriously. "it smells just the same," i said. "horses, leather and liniment! where's très jolie?" "in the second stall," said blister, pointing. "wait a minute--i'll have a swipe lead her out. chick!"--this to a boy dozing on a rickety stool--"if your time ain't too much took up holdin' down that chair, this gentleman 'ud like to take a pike at the derby entry." like a polished red-bronze sword leaping from a black velvet scabbard the mare came out of her stall into the sunlight, the boy clinging wildly to the strap. she snorted, tossed her glorious head, and shot her hind feet straight for the sky. "you, jane, be a lady now!" yelled the boy, trying to stroke the arching neck. "why does he call her jane?" i asked. "stable name," blister explained. "don't get too close--she's right on edge!" and after a pause, his eyes shining: "can you beat her?" i shook my head, speechless. "neither can _they_!" blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of stalls that held somewhere within their big curve--the enemy. the boy at the mare's head laughed joyously. "they ain't got a chance!" he gloated. "all right, chick," said blister. "put her up! hold on!" he corrected suddenly. "here's the boss!" and i became aware of a throbbing motor behind me. so likewise did très jolie. "whoa, jane! whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the motor. the rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears thrown forward, and i remembered that blister had described mrs. dillon's voice as "good to listen at." "look, virginia, she knows me!" the velvet voice exclaimed. another voice, rather heavy for a woman, but with a fascinating drawl in it, answered: "perhaps she fancies you have a milk bottle with you. isn't this the one you and uncle jake raised on a bottle?" "yass'm, yass, miss vahginia, dat's her! dat's ma honey-bird!" came in excited tones from an ancient negro, who alighted stiffly from the motor and peered in our direction. as they approached, he held mrs. dillon by the sleeve, and i realized that for uncle jake the sun would never shine again. judge dillon, a big-boned silent man, i had met. and after the shower of questions poured upon blister had abated, and the mare had been gentled, petted and given a lump of sugar with a final hug, he presented me to his wife. "my cousin, miss goodloe," said mrs. dillon, and i sensed a mass of tawny hair under the motor veil and looked into a pair of blue eyes set wide apart beneath a broad white brow. it was no time for details. it developed that miss goodloe was from tennessee, that she was visiting the dillons at thistle ridge near lexington, and that she liked a small book of verses of which i had been guilty. it further developed that mrs. dillon had talked me over with an aunt of mine in cincinnati, that we were mutually devoted to blister, and that he had described me to her as "the most educated guy allowed loose." this last i learned as judge dillon and blister discussed the derby some distance from us. "i feel awed and diffident in the presence of such learning," said miss goodloe almost sleepily. "why did i neglect my opportunities at dobbs ferry!" "i would give a good deal to observe you when you felt diffident, virginia," said mrs. dillon, with a laugh like a silver bell. "uncle jake!" she called, "we are going now." "i have heard of uncle jake," i said, as the old man felt his way toward us. "yes?" said mrs. dillon. "he insisted upon coming to _see_ the derby." she dwelt ever so lightly upon the verb, and uncle jake caught it. "no, miss sally," he explained, "dat ain' 'zackly what i mean. hit's like dis--i just am boun' foh to hyah all de folks shout glory when ma honey-bird comes home!" "what if she ain't in front, uncle jake?" said blister, helping the old man into the motor. "don't you trifle with me, boy!" replied uncle jake severely. derby day dawned as fair as turquoise sky and radiant sun could make it. i had slept badly. until late the night before i had absorbed a haze of cigar smoke and the talk in the hotel lobby. despite blister's confidence i had become panicky as i listened. there had been so much assurance about several grave, soft-spoken horsemen who had felt that at the weight the favorite could not win. "nevah foh a moment, suh," one elderly well-preserved kentuckian had said, "will i deny the dillon mare the right to be the public's choice. but she has nevah met such a field of hosses as this, suh--and she lacks the bone to carry top weight against them." there had been many nods of approval at this statement, and i had gone to the dillon party for consolation. but when i reached their apartments i had found the judge more silent than ever, and mrs. dillon as nervous as myself. only miss goodloe appeared as usual. her drawl was soothingly indolent. she seemed entirely oblivious of any tenseness in the atmosphere, and i caught myself wondering what was behind those lazy-lidded blue eyes. back in the lobby once more i had found it worse than ever--so many were against the favorite. i had about decided that our hopes were doomed, when a call boy summoned me to the desk with the statement, "gentleman to see you, sir." there i had found blister and i fairly hugged him as he explained that he had dropped in on the way to his "joint," as he called his hotel. "listenin' to the knockers?" he asked, reading me at once. "furget it--them ole mint juleps is dead 'n' buried. you'll go dippy if you fall fur that stuff." "but the weight!" i gasped. "say, they've got you goin' right, ain't they?" blister exclaimed. "now listen! _she can carry the grand-stand 'n' come home on the bit_! get that fixed in your nut, 'n' then hit the hay." "thanks, i believe i shall," i said, and i had followed his advice, though it was long until sleep came to me. but now as the blue-gray housetops of louisville sparkled with tiny points of light, and the window-panes swam with pink-gold flame, i looked out over the still sleeping city and laughed aloud at my fears of the night before. "a perfect day," i thought. "the favorite will surely win, and blister and uncle jake and mrs. dillon will be made perfectly happy. a beautiful day, and a fitting one in which to fix the name of très jolie among the equine stars!" "we read some of your poetry last night after you had gone," said mrs. dillon, as we waited for the motor to take us to churchill downs. "i liked it, and i don't care for verse as a rule, except omar. i dote on _the rubaiyat_; don't you?" "yes, indeed," i replied. "i can't quite swallow his philosophy, but he puts it all so charmingly. some of his pictures are most alluring." "do learnéd persons ever long for the _wilderness_, and the _bough_, and--the other things?" miss goodloe asked innocently. "quite frequently," i assured her. she affected a sigh of relief. "that's such a help," she said. "it makes them seem more like the rest of us." a huge motor-car wheeled from the line at the curb and glided past us. a man in the tonneau lifted his hat high above his head as he saw judge dillon. "oh, you très jolie!" he called with a smile. "the best luck in the world to you, judge!" it was an excessively rich new yorker, who owned one of the horses about to run in the derby. "oh, you rob roy!" called back judge dillon, also raising his hat. "the same to you, henry!" and suddenly there was a tug at my nerves, for i realized that this was the _salut de combat_. but uncle jake, his faith in his "honey-bird" unshaken as the time drew near, rode in placid contentment on the front seat as we sped to the track. we passed, or were passed by, many motor-cars from which came joyous good wishes as the dillons were recognized. each packed and groaning street-car held some one who knew our party, and "oh, you très jolie!" they howled as we swept by. the old negro's ears drank all this in. it was as wine to his spirit. he hummed a soft minor accompaniment to the purring motor, and leaning forward i caught these words: "curry a mule an' curry a hoss, keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!" "luck to her, judge!" called the man at the gates, as he waved us through. "ah've bet my clothes on her!" "you'll need a barrel to get home in!" yelled a voice from a buggy. "the rob roy hoss'll beat her and make her like it!" "you-all are from the east, ah reckon," we heard the gateman reply. "ah've just got twenty left that says we raise 'em gamer in kentucky than up your way!" at the stables we found blister. "how is she?" asked judge dillon. "she's ready," was the answer. "it's all over, but hangin' the posies on her." "lemme feel dis mayah," said uncle jake, and mrs. dillon guided him into the stall. "i'd like to give her one little nip before she goes to the post, judge," i heard blister say in a low voice. "not a drop," came the quick reply. "if she can't win on her own courage, she'll have to lose." "judge dillon won't stand fur hop--he won't even let you slip a slug of booze into a hoss," blister had once told me. i had not altogether understood this at the time, but now i looked at the big quiet man with his splendid sportsmanship, and loved him for it. a roar came from the grand-stand across the center-field. "they're off in the first race," said blister. "put the saddle on her, boys;" and when this was accomplished: "bring her out--it's time to warm up." i had witnessed très jolie come forth once before and i drew well back, but it was mrs. dillon who led the thoroughbred from the stall. she was breathing wonderful words. her voice was like the cooing of a dove. très jolie appeared to listen. "she don't handle like that fur us, does she, chick?" said blister. "nope," said the boy addressed. "i guess she's hypnotized." "how do you do it?" i inquired of mrs. dillon as she led the mare to the track, the rest of us following. "she's my precious lamb, and i'm her own mammy," was the lucid explanation. "now you know," said blister to me. "pete!" he called to a boy, approaching, "i want this mare galloped a slow mile. breeze her the last eighth. don't take hold of her any harder'n you have to. try 'n' _talk_ her back." "i got you," said the boy, as blister threw him up. mrs. dillon let go of the bridle. très jolie stood straight on her hind legs, made three tremendous bounds, and was gone. we could see the boy fighting to get her under control, as she sped like a bullet down the track. "i guess pete ain't usin' the right langwige," said the boy called chick, with a wide grin. "maybe she ain't listenin' good," added another boy. "cut out the joshin' 'n' get her blankets ready," said blister with a frown. "i think we'd better start," suggested judge dillon. "aren't you terribly excited?" i asked miss goodloe curiously, as she walked cool and composed by my side. my own heart was pounding. "of course," she drawled. "this girl is made of stone," i thought. the band was playing _dixie_ as we climbed the steps of the grand-stand, and the thousands cheered until it was repeated. hands were thrust at the dillons from every side, and until we found our box, continued shouts of, "oh, you très jolie!" rose above the crash of the band. i had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. these people were kentuckians. the thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. through him many made their bread. over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all. once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegrass country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. this journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier i scanned their eager faces. and now three things happened. a bugle called, and called again. the crowd grew deathly still. and mrs. dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked: "where is blister?" "he'll be here," said judge dillon, patting her hand. and even as a megaphone bellowed: "_we are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the kentucky derby_!" blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box. he was a rock upon which we immediately leaned. "everything all right?" i asked. "fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "you'll see a race hoss run to-day! here they come! she's in front!" and held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate. at the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty--the proudest of them all. her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. she bore the number upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program i read: . très jolie--b. m. by hamilton--dam alberta. john c. dillon, lexington, kentucky. (manders--blue and gold.) "what sort of jockey is manders?" i asked blister. "good heady boy," was the reply. "virginia, oh, virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped mrs. dillon. "she's a stuck-up miss," said miss goodloe in an even tone, and i almost hated her. number i failed to see as they paraded past. number was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and shoulders, and with a long driving hip. he was handsome as the devil and awe-inspiring. applause from the stands likewise greeted him, though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite. "there's the one we've got to beat," blister stated. "good horse," said judge dillon quietly. . rob roy--bl. s. by tempus fugit--dam marigold. henry l. whitley, new york city. (dawson--green and white.) i read. i followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. he looked so overpowering--he and the millions behind him. . . . at last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting group. and the taut elastic webbing of the barrier that was to hold them from their flight a little longer, was stretched before them. they surged against it like a parti-colored wave, and then receding, surged again, but always the narrow webbing held them back. i found the blue and gold. it was almost without motion--it did not shift and whirl with the rest. "ain't she the grand actor?" said blister with delight. "the best mannered thing at the barrier ever i saw." then for a moment i lost the colors that had held my gaze. they were blotted out and crowded back by other colors. in that instant the wave conquered. it grew larger and larger. it was coming like the wind. but where was the blue and gold? i was answered by a heaven-cleaving shout that changed in the same breath to a despairing groan. it was as though a giant had been stricken deep while roaring forth his battle-cry. the thousands had seen what i had missed--their hopes in an instant were gone. in the stillness that followed, a harsh whisper reached me. "_she's left_! _she's left_!" then an uncanny laugh. the rock had broken. the wave was greeted by silence. a red bay thundered in the lead. then came a demon, hard held, with open mouth, and number shone from his raven side. followed a flying squadron all packed together, their hoofs rolling like drums. and then came aching lengths, and my eyes filled with tears and something gripped my heart and squeezed it as très jolie, skimming like an eager swallow, fled past undaunted by that hopeless gap. "whar my baby at?" asked uncle jake. he had heard the groan and the silence, and fear was in his voice. "oh--uncle jake--" began mrs. dillon. "they--" her voice broke. "dey ain' left her at de post? doan' tell me dat, miss sally!" mrs. dillon nodded as though to eyes that saw. uncle jake seemed to feel it. "how fah back? how fah back?" he demanded. "she ain't got a chance, uncle jake!" said blister, and dropped his head on his arm lying along the railing. "how fah back?" insisted the old negro. blister raised his head and gazed. "twenty len'ths," he said, and dropped it again. "doan' you fret, miss sally," uncle jake encouraged. "she'll beat 'em yet!" "not this time, old man," said judge dillon very gently. he was tearing his program carefully into little pieces, with big shaking hands. . . . the horses were around the first turn, and the battle up the back stretch had begun. the red bay was still leading. "mandarin in front!" said some one behind us. "rob roy second and running easy--the rest nowhere!" "jes' you wait!" called uncle jake. "you ole fool nigger!" came blister's muffled voice. even at that distance i could have told which one was last. the same effortless floating stride i had noticed long ago was hers as très jolie, foot by foot, ate up the gap. at the far turn she caught the stragglers and one by one she cut them down. "oh, gallant spirit!" i thought. "if they had given you but half a chance!" i lost her among a melee of horses, on the turn, as the leader swung into the stretch. it was the same red bay, but now the boy on the black horse moved his hands forward a little and his mount came easily to the leader's side. there was a short struggle between them and the bay fell back. "mandarin's done!" cried the voice behind us. "rob roy on the bit!" "i might have known it!" i thought bitterly. "he looked it all along." then a gentle buzzing sprang up like a breeze. it was a whisper that grew to a muttering, and then became a rumble and at last one delirious roar. the giant had recovered, and his mighty cry brought me to my feet, my heart in my throat--for "_très jolie_" he roared . . . and coming! . . . coming!! . . . coming!!! . . . i saw the blue and gold! a maniac rose among us and flung his fists above his head. he called upon his gods--and then that magic name--"_très jolie_," he shrieked: "_oh, baby doll_!" it was blister--and i marveled. [illustration: "très jolie!" he shrieked.] i had seen him stand and lose his all without a sign of feeling. but now he raved and cursed and prayed and plead with his "girlie!"--his "baby doll!", and with the last atom of her strength his sweetheart answered the call. she reached, heaven alone knows how, the flank of the flying black, and inch by inch she crept along that flank until they struggled head to head. "oh, you black dog!" howled blister, wild triumph in his voice. "you've got to beat a race hoss _now_!" as though he heard, the black horse flattened to his work. almost to the end he held her there, eye meeting eye. the task was just beyond him. even as they shot under the wire, he faltered. but it was very close, and the shrieking hysterical grand-stand grew still and waited. i glanced at blister. he was leaning forward, almost crouching, his face ashen, his eyes on the number board. then slowly the numbers swung into view, and "_ , , ,_" i read. there was a roar like the falling of ten thousand forest trees. these words flashed through my mind. "we'll know about _her_ when she goes the route, carryin' weight against class." . . . . yes, we knew about _her_--now! i saw mrs. dillon's lips move at uncle jake's ear. he raised his sightless eyes to the sky, his head nodding. it was as though he visioned paradise and found it good indeed. i saw blister's face turn from gray to red, from red to purple. the tenseness went out of his body, and suddenly he was gone, fighting his way through the crowd toward the steps. i saw judge dillon's big arm gather in his trembling wife, and he held her close while the heavens rocked. these things i saw through a blur, and then i felt miss goodloe sway at my side. she clutched at the railing, missed it and sank slowly into her seat. i but glimpsed a white face in which the eyes had changed from blue to violet, when it was covered by two slender gloved hands. "are you ill?" i called, as i bent above her. she shook her head. "it was too much," i barely heard. i stood bewildered, and then my stupid mind cast out a soulless image that it held and fixed the true one there. "i rarely make this kind of a fool of myself," she said at last. "that i can quite believe," i replied, smiling down at her. she returned the smile with one that held a fine good comradeship, and we seemed to have known each other long. . . . a crowd had packed themselves before the stall. as we reached it blister appeared in the doorway. "get back! get back!" he ordered, and pointing to the panting mare: "don't you think she's earned a right to breath?" the crowd fell away, except one rather shabby little old man. "no one living," said he, "appreciates what she has done moh than myself, suh, but i desiah to lay ma hand on a real race mayah once moh befoh i die!" blister's face softened. "come on in, mr. sanford," he invited. "why _you_ win the derby once, didn't you?" "thank you, suh. yes, suh, many yeahs ago," said the little old man, and removing his battered hat he entered the stall, his white head bare. mrs. dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and alight with a great tenderness. a boy dodged his way to where we stood. his face and the front of his blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt. "you shoe-maker!" was blister's scornful greeting. "honest to gawd it wasn't my fault, judge," the boy piped, sniffling. "honest to gawd it wasn't! that sour-headed bay stud of henderson's swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as i'm takin' back so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em go!" "all right, sonny," said the judge. "you rode a nice race when you did get away." "much obliged, sir. i just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he disappeared in the crowd as judge dillon joined those in the stall. i stayed outside watching the group about très jolie, and never had my heart gone out to people more. deeply i wished to keep them in my life. . . i wondered if we would ever meet again. but pshaw!--i was nothing to them. well, i would go back to cincinnati when they left in the morning. . . . "can't we have you for a week at thistle ridge?" mrs. dillon stood looking up at me. "why, that's very kind--" i stammered. "the north pasture is a _wilderness_ this year, the _loaf of bread, the jug of wine_ and the _bough_ are waiting. you can, of course, furnish your own _verses_." "the picture is almost perfect," i said, and glanced at miss goodloe. "virginia, dear--" prompted mrs. dillon. "as a _thou_--i always strive to please," drawled that blue-eyed young person. oh, that i had been warned by her words! our purring flight to louisville, when the day was done, became a triumph that mocked the dead caesars. of this the old negro on the front seat missed little. he was singing, softly singing. and leaning forward i listened. "curry a mule an' curry a hoss, keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!" sang uncle jake. ole man sanford "do you happen to notice a old duck that comes to the stalls at loueyville just after the derby?" asked blister. "was his name sanford, and did he wish to pat the mare?" i asked in turn. "that's him," said blister. "ole man sanford. it ain't likely you ever heard of him, but everybody on the track knows him, if they ever hit the loueyville meetin'. they never charge him nothin' to get into the gates. he ain't a owner no more, but way back there before i'm alive he wins the kentucky derby with sweet alice, 'n' from what i hears she was a grand mare. ole man sanford breeds sweet alice hisself. in them days he's got a big place not far from loueyville. they tell me his folks get the land original from the govament, when it's nothin' but timber. i hears once, but it don't hardly sound reasonable, that they hands over a half a million acres to the first ole man sanford, who was a grandaddy of this ole man sanford. if that's so, uncle sam was more of a sport in them days than since. "i don't know how they pry it all loose from him, but one mawnin' ole man sanford wakes up clean as a whistle. they've copped the whole works--he ain't got nothin'. so he goes to keepin' books fur a whisky house in loueyville, 'n' he holds the job down steady fur twenty years. the only time he quits pen-pushin' is when they race at churchill downs. from the first minute the meetin' opens till get-away day comes he's bright eyes at the rat hole. he don't add up no figgers fur nobody then. he just putters around the track. he's doped out as sort-a harmless by the bunch. "after the très jolie mare wins the derby fur me, ole man sanford makes my stalls his hang-out. i ain't kickin', all he wants to do is to look at the mare 'n' chew the rag about her. that satisfies him completely. "'of all the hosses, suh, who have been a glory to our state,' he says, 'but one otheh had as game a heart as this superb creature. i refer to sweet alice, suh--a race mayah of such quality that the world marveled. not in a boastful manner, suh, but with propah humility, let me say that i had the honor to breed and raise sweet alice, and that she bore my colors when she won the tenth renewal of our great classic.' "he tells this to everybody that comes past the stalls, 'n' it ain't long till he begins to bring people around to look the mare over. from that he gets to watchin' how the swipes take care of her. pretty soon he begins to call 'em if things ain't done to suit him. "'boy,' he'll say, 'that bandage is tighter than i like to see it. always allow the tendon a little play--do not impaieh the suhculation.' "the boys eat this stuff up--it tickles 'em. they treat him respectful 'n' do what he tells 'em. "'everything o. k. to-day, sir?' they'll say. "ole man sanford don't tumble they're kiddin' him. "'ah have nothing to complain of,' he says. "it ain't long till he's overseein' my whole string of hosses, just like he owns 'em. man, he sure does enjoy hisself! he won't trade places with august belmont. "i'm gettin' trampfast ready fur a nice little killin'. he's finished away back in two starts, but he runs both races without a pill. this hoss is a dope. he's been on it fur two seasons. he won't beat nothin' without his hop. but when he gets just the right mixture under his hide he figgers he can beat any kind of a hoss, 'n' he's about right at that. he furgets all about his weak heart with the nutty stuff in him. he thinks he's a ragin' lion. he can't wait to go out there 'n' eat up them kittens that's goin' to start against him. "one mawnin' my boy pete takes the trampfast hoss out fur a trial. "'if he'll go six furlongs in about fourteen,' i says to pete, 'he's right. if he tries to loaf on you, shake him up; but if he's doin' his work nice, let him suit hisself 'n' keep the bat off him. i want to see what he'll do on his own.' "'i think he'll perform to-day,' says pete. 'he's felt real good to me fur the last week.' "ole man sanford's standin' there listenin'. when the work-out starts he ketches the time with a big gold stop-clock that he fishes out of his shiny ole vest. the clock's old, too--it winds with a key--but at that she's a peach! "'that's a fine clock,' i says to him. he don't take his eyes off the hoss comin' round the bend. "'he's running with freedom and well within himself,' he says. 'that quatah was in twenty-foh flat! yes, suh, this watch was presented to me by membahs of the breedah's association to commemorate the victory of sweet alice in the tenth renewal of our classic. you have heard me speak of sweet alice?' "'yes, you told me about her, mr. sanford,' i says. 'that's sure some clock.' "'if he does not faltah in the stretch, suh,' says ole man sanford, 'i will presently show you the one minute and fohteen seconds you desiah upon its face.' "the ole man's a good judge of pace,--trampfast comes home bang in the fourteen notch. "when pete gets down at the stalls, ole man sanford walks up to him. "'hyah is a dollah foh you, boy,' he says, 'n' hands pete a buck. 'that was a well-rated trial.' "pete looks at the silver buck 'n' then at ole man sanford 'n' then at me. "'what the hell--' he says. "'you rough neck!' i says to pete. don't you know how to act when a gentleman slips you somethin'?' "'but look a-here,' says pete. 'he ain't got--' i gives pete a poke in the slats. 'much obliged, sir,' he says, 'n' puts the bone in his pocket. "'you are entirely welcome, mah boy,' says ole man sanford, wavin' his hand. "'say,' pete says to me, 'i think this hoss'll cop without shot in the arm. he's awful good!' "'not fur mine,' i says. 'he can run fur sweeney when he ain't got no hop in him. just let some sassy hoss look him in the eye fur two jumps 'n' he'll holler, "please, mister, don't!" yea, bo',' i says, 'i know this pup too well. when he's carryin' my kale he'll be shoutin' hallelooyah with a big joy pill under his belt.' "i furgets all about ole man sanford bein' there. you don't talk about hoppin' one with strangers listening but he's around so much i never thinks. all of a sudden he's standin' in front of me lookin' like there's somethin' hurtin' him. "'what's the matter, mr. sanford?' i says. "'i gathah from yoh convahsation,' says he, 'that it is yoh practise to supplement the fine courage that god has given the thoroughbred with vile stimulants. am i correct in this supposition, suh?' "'why, yes--' i says, kind-a took back. 'when they need it i sure gives it to 'em.' "ole man sanford draws hisself up 'n' looks at me like i'm a toad. "'suh,' he says, 'the man who does that degrades himself and the helpless creature that providence has placed in his keeping! not only that, suh, but he insults the name of the thoroughbred and all it stands for, still tendahly cherished by some of us. ah have heard of this abhorant practise that has come as a part of this mercenary age, and, suh, ah abominate both it and the man who would be guilty of such an act!' "'why, look-a here, mr. sanford,' i says. 'they're all doin' it. if you're goin' to train hosses you've got to get in the band wagon. if _you_ can't give the owner a run fur his money he'll find somebody to train 'em who can!' "'do you mean to tell me, suh, the wonderful courage displayed by that mayah when the time came, was false?' says ole man sanford, pointin' at très jolie's stall. 'ah saw strong men, the backbone of this state, suh,' he says, 'watch that mayah come home with tears in their eyes. were their natures moved to the depths by an insulting counterfeit of greatness?' "'why, sure not!' i says. 'but all hosses ain't like this mare.' "'they are not, suh!' says ole man sanford. 'noh were they intended to be! but few of us are ordained foh the heights. however,' he says, puttin' his hand on my shoulder, 'ah should not censure you too strongly, young man. in fohcing yoh hawsses to simulate qualities they do not possess, you are only a part of yoh times. this is the day of imitation--i find it between the covahs of yoh books--i hear it in the music yoh applaud--i see it riding by in motah-cars. imitation--all imitation!' "i ain't hep to this line of chatter--it's by me. but i dopes it out he's sore at automobiles, "'what's wrong with 'em?' i says to him. "'ah don't feel qualified to answer yoh question, suh,' he says. 'ah believe the blind pursuit and worship of riches is almost entirely responsible. it has bred a shallowness and superficiality in and towahds the finah things of life. but the historian will answer yoh question at a later day. he can bring a calmness to the task which is impossible to one surrounded and bewildered by it all.' "i ain't any wiser'n i was, but i don't say nothin'. the old man acts like he's studyin' about somethin'. "'who owns the hawss that just trialed three-quahtahs in fohteen?' he says, after while. "'jim sigsbee up at cynthiana,' i says. "'is mr. sigsbee awaheh of the--method you pursue with regahd to falsely stimulating his hawss?' says ole man sanford. "'well, i guess yes!' i says. 'jim won't bet a dollar on him unless he's got the hop in him.' "'ah shall write to him,' says ole man sanford, 'n' beats it down the track toward the gates. "i don't see him fur over a week. i figger he's sore at me fur dopin' hosses. it's a funny thing but, i'm a son-of-a-gun if i don't miss the ole duck. from the way they talk i see the boys kind-a miss him, too. "'i wonder where ole pierpont's at?' i hears chick say to skinny. 'gone east to see one of his hosses prepped fur the brooklyn, i guess.' "'naw,' says skinny; 'you got that wrong. he's goin' to send a stable to urope, 'n' todd sloan's tryin' to get a contrac' from him as exercise-boy. ole pierpont's watchin' todd work out a few so he kin size up his style.' "i've wrote jim sigsbee trampfast's ready, but i don't enter the hoss 'cause i know jim wants to come over 'n' bet a piece of money on him. i don't hear from jim, 'n' i wonder why. "one day i'm settin' in front of the stalls 'n' here comes ole man sanford down the line. "'why, hello, mr. sanford!' i says. 'we sort-a figgered you'd quit us. things ain't gone right since you left. the boys need you to keep 'em on their toes.' "'ah have not deserted you intentionally, suh,' he says. 'since ah saw you last an old friend of mine has passed to his rewahd. the hono'able james tullfohd fawcett is no moh, suh--a gallant gentleman has left us.' "'that's too bad,' i says. 'did he leave a family?' "'he did not, suh,' says ole man sanford. 'ah fell heir to his entiah estate, only excepting the silvah mug presented to his beloved mothah at his birth by andrew jackson himself, suh. this he bequeathed to the public, and it will soon be displayed at the rooms of the historical society named in his last will and testament.' "'did you get much out of it?" i says. "'he had already endowed me with a friendship beyond price, suh,' he says. 'his estate was not a large one as such things go--some twelve hundred dollahs, i believe.' "'that's better'n breakin' a leg,' i says. "'you will, perhaps, be interested to learn,' he says, 'that ah have pu'chased the hawss trampfast with a po'tion of the money. hyah is a lettah foh you from mr. sigsbee relative to the mattah.' he hands me a letter, but i can't hardly read it--his buyin' this hop-head gets my goat. "'what you goin' to do with him?' i says. 'race him?' "'that is ma intention, suh,' he says. 'ah expect to keep him in yoh hands. but, of co'se, suh, the hawss will race on his merits and without any sawt of stimulant.' "i ain't stuck on the proposition. the trampfast hoss can't beat a cook stove without the hop. i hate to see the ole man burn up his dough on a dead one. "'now, mr. sanford,' i says, 'times has changed since you raced. if you'll let me handle this hoss to suit myself i think i can make a piece of money fur you. the game ain't like it was once, 'n' if you try to pull the stuff that got by thirty years ago, they'll trim you right down to the suspenders. they ain't nothin' crooked about slippin' the hop into a hoss that needs it.' "'as neahly as i can follow yoh fohm of speech,' says ole man sanford, 'you intend to convey the impression that the practise of stimulating a hawss has become entirely propah. am i correct, suh?' "'that's it,' i says. ''n' you can gamble i'm right.' "'is the practise allowed under present day racing rules?' says ole man sanford, 'n' i think i've got him goin'. "'why, sure not,' i says. 'but how long would a guy last if he never broke a racin' rule?' "'out of yoh own mouth is yoh augument condemned, suh,' says ole man sanford. 'even in this day and generation the rules fohbid it--and let me say, suh, that should a trainah, a jockey, or any one connected with a stable of mine, be guilty of wilfully violating a racing rule, ah would discharge him at once, suh!' "'_you goin' to race on the level all the time_?' i says. "'if by that expression you mean hono'ably and as a gentleman--yes, suh!' "'_good night, nurse_!' i says. 'you'll go broke quick at that game!' "'allow me to remind you that that is ma own affaih, suh,' says ole man sanford, 'n' the argument's over. his ideas date back so far they're mildewed, but i see i can't change 'em. he don't belong around a race track no more'n your grandmother! "'all right, mr. sanford!' i says. 'you're the doctor! we'll handle him just like you say.' "peewee simpson has come over to chew the rag with me, 'n' he hears most of this talk. "'wait till i call the boys,' he says, when ole man sanford goes in to look at the hoss. "'what fur?' i says. "'family prayers,' says peewee. "i throws a scraper at him, 'n' he goes on down the line singin', _onward, christian soldiers_. "ole man sanford orders a set of silks. he's got to send away fur the kind he wants 'n' he won't let me start his hoss till they come. nobody but big stables pays attention to colors, so i tries to talk him out of the notion,--nothin' doin'! "'ma colors were known and respected in days gone by, suh,' he says. 'ah owe it to the public who reposed confidence in the puhple and white, to fly ma old flag when ah once moh take the field. yes, suh.' "'purple 'n' white!' i says. 'them's the colors of the mcvay stable!' "'ah was breeding stake hawsses, suh,' says ole man sanford, 'when his mothah's milk was not yet dry upon the lips of young mcvay.' "when the silks come, i picks out a real soft spot for trampfast. it's a six furlong ramble fur has-beens 'n' there's sure a bunch of kioodles in it! most of 'em ought to be on crutches. my hoss has showed me the distance in fourteen, 'n' that's about where this gang'll stagger home. with the hop in him the trampfast hoss'll give me two seconds better. he ought to be a swell bet. but the hop puts all the heart in him there is--he ain't got one of his own. if he runs empty he'll lay down sure. i can't hop him, so i won't bet on him with counterfeit money. "the mawnin' of the race ole man sanford's at the stalls bright 'n' early. he's chipper as a canary. he watches chick hand-rub the hoss fur a while 'n' then he pulls out a roll 'n' eases chick two bucks. i pipes off the roll. the ole man sees me lookin' at it. "'ah intend to wageh moderately today,' he says. 'and ah have brought a small sum with me foh the puhpose.' "'what you goin' to bet on?' i says. "'ma own hawss, of co'se, suh,' he says. 'it is ma custom to back only ma own hawsses or those of ma friends.' "i don't say nothin'. i'm wise by this time, he plays the game to suit hisself, but it sure makes me sick. i hate as bad to see the ole man lose his dough as if it's mine. "i goes over 'n' sets down on the track fence. "'when you train a hoss fur a guy you do like he says, don't you?' i says to myself. 'you don't own this hoss, 'n' the owner don't want him hopped. they ain't but one answer--don't hop him.' "'but look-a here,' i says back to myself. 'if you sees a child in wrong, you tells him to beat it, don't you? it ain't your child, is it? well, this ole man ain't nothin' but a child. if he was, he'd let you hop the hoss, 'n' make a killin' fur him.' i argues with myself this way, but they can't neither one of us figger it out to suit the other. "'i wish the damned ole fool had somebody else a-trainin' his dog!' i thinks after i've set there a hour 'n' ain't no further along 'n i was when i starts. "when it's gettin' towards post time, ole man sanford hikes fur the stand. "'skinny,' i says, 'amble over to the bettin' shed 'n' watch what the ole man does. as soon as he's got his kale down, beat it back here on the jump, 'n' tell me how much he gets on 'n' what the odds are.' "in about ten minutes here comes skinny at a forty shot. "'he bets a hundred straight at fifteen-to-one! what do you know about that?' he hollers. "'that settles it!' i says. 'chick, get them two bottles that's hid under the rub-rags in the trunk! now, ole holler-enough,' i says to the tramp, 'you may be a imitation hoss, but we're goin' to make you look so much like the real thing your own mother won't know you! . . .' "when trampfast starts fur the paddock, his eyes has begun to roll 'n' he's walkin' proud. "'he thinks he's the zar of rushy,' says chick. 'he'll be seein' pink elephants in a minute.' "i don't find ole man sanford till they're at the post. he's standin' by the fence at the wire. "the start's bein' held up by the tramp. he's sure puttin' on a show--the hop's got him as wild as a eagle. it's too far away fur the ole man to see good, so i don't put him hep it's his hoss that's cuttin' the didoes. "just then chick comes up. "'i hear you get a nice bet down on your hoss, mr. sanford,' he says. 'i sure hope he cops.' "'thank you, ma boy,' says ole man sanford. 'i only placed a small wageh, but at vehy liberal odds. ah shall profit materially should he win his race.' "'if he gets away good he'll roll,' says chick. 'there's no class to that bunch, 'n' he's a bear with a shot in him. but he's a bad actor when he's hopped--look at the fancy stuff he's pullin' now!' "'you are mistaken, ma boy,' says ole man sanford. 'this hawss has had no stimulant _to-day_.' "like a nut i've furgot to tell the boys the ole man ain't on. i tries to give chick the high sign, but he's watchin' the hosses, 'n' before i can get to him he belches up the glad news. "'if _he_ ain't hopped one never was!' he says. 'we put a fierce shot in him. look at him act if you don--' "i kick his shin off right there, but it's too late, ole man sanford gets pale as a rag. "'how dare you--' he says, 'n' stops. 'but ah shall prevent it!' he says, 'n' starts fur the judge's stand. he ain't got a chance--just then they get away, 'n' he turns back to me when he hears the crowd holler, 'they're off!' "'young man,' he says, pointin' at me, 'n' he's shakin' like he's cold. 'what have ah evah done to you to merit such treatment at yoh hands?' "i see there's no use to lie to him, so i gives it to him straight. "'mr. sanford,' i says, 'the hoss can't win without it, 'n' i don't want to see you lose your money.' "ole man sanford sort-a wilts. he seems to get smaller. i've never noticed how old he is till now. he stands a-lookin' at me like he never sees me before. "the crowd begins to yell as the hosses hit the stretch. the tramp is out in front, 'n' he stays there all the way. "the ole man never even looks towards the track. "'he wins easy,' says chick as they go under the wire, 'n' all you can hear is 'trampfast! trampfast!' but ole man sanford still keeps a-starin' at me. "'you want to cheer up, mr. sanford,' i says. 'you win a nice bet on him.' "he pulls the tickets out of his pocket 'n' looks at 'em. they call fur sixteen hundred bucks. "'as ah have told you once befoh, young man,' he says, a-lookin' at the tickets. 'ah can not blame you greatly, because you are paht of yoh times. this is the excuse ah find foh you in thinking ah would value money moh than the spohtsmanship of a gentleman. yoh times are bad, young man!' he says. 'they have succeeded in staining the puhple and white at the vehy end. ah would neveh have raced afteh to-day. it was a whim of an old man to see his colohs once moh among a field of hawses. ah knew ah was not of this day. ah should have known bettah than to become a paht of it even foh a little time. ah have learned ma lesson,' he says, lookin' up at me. 'but you have made it vehy bittah.' "he looks down at the tickets again fur a minute. . . then he tears 'em across three ways 'n' drops 'em on the ground." class "what do you like in the handicap?" i asked, looking up from the form sheet. blister reached for the paper. "indigo's the class," he said, after a glance at the entries. "if they run to form, he'll cop." "there you go again--with your _class_!" i exclaimed. "you're always talking about class. what does class mean?" "long as you've been hangin' 'round the track 'n' not know what class means!" blister looked at me pityingly. "there's no _class_ to that," he added, with a grin. "seriously now," i urged. "explain it to me. class, as you call it, is beaten right along. just the other day you said exponent was the class and should have won, but he didn't." "he has the most left at that," said blister. "he wins in three more jumps. you can't beat class. it'll come back fur more." "molly s. beat him," i insisted. "yep, she beat him that one race," blister admitted. "but how does she beat him? do you notice the boy gets her away wingin' 'n' keeps her there all the trip? . . . why? because he knows she can't come from behind 'n' win. if the old hoss gets to her any place in the stretch she lays down to him sure. she ain't got the class 'n' he has. she can win a race now 'n' then when things break right fur her, but the exponent hoss'll win anyway--on three legs if he has to. he's got the class." "how can you get horses with class?" i inquired. "by breeding?" "if you want it you lay down big coin fur it," blister answered. "it follows blood lines some, but not all the time. i've seed awful dogs bred clear to the clouds. then again it'll show in a weanlin'. i've seed sucklin' colts with class stickin' out all over 'em. kids has it, too. it shows real young sometimes." "how can a child show anything like that?" i remonstrated. "he has no opportunity. class, as i understand it, is deep-seated--part of the very fiber. it takes a big situation to bring it out. where did you ever see a child display this quality?" "i've seed it many a time in little dirty-faced swipes," blister stated. "i've seed exercise-boys so full of class they put the silks on 'em before they can bridle a hoss, 'n' they bawl like you've took away their apple when they lose their first race. you've heard of hamilton?" "i have been told he is the best sire in america," i replied, wondering where this question led. "i won't say that," said blister. "there's a lot of good hosses at stud in this land-of-the-free-when-you-pay-fur-it, but he's up there with the best of 'em. did you know i owns him once myself?" "not the great hamilton?" i protested. "yep, the great all-the-time, anyhow-'n'-any-place hamilton," blister assured me. "'n' speakin' of class in kids 'n' colts, lemme tell you about it." he reached for his "makin's" and i waited while he rolled a cigarette, this process being a necessary prelude to a journey into his past. "the year seattle sam goes down 'n' out," the words came in a cloud of cigarette smoke, "i'm at saratoga. this seattle is one of the big plungers, his nod's good with the bookies fur anything he wants to lay, 'n' he sure bets 'em to the sky. he owns a grand string of hosses, 'n' when one of 'em's out to win, believe me, he carries the coin!" "all the same they get him at last 'n' there ain't nothin' else talked about fur a couple of days when the word goes 'round that he's cleaned. the bunch acts like somebody's dead. they whisper when they tell it. it's got 'em dazed. "in them days there's a little squirt called micky that hangs around the track. he ain't got a regular job; he just picks up odd mounts on a work-out now 'n' then. he don't weigh eighty pounds, but he's fresher'n a bucket of paint. his right name's vincent mulligan, 'n' his mother's a widow woman. i learns that 'cause the old lady sends a truant officer out to the track after him one day, 'n' the cop puts me wise after micky has clumb through a stall window, 'n' give him the slip. "'why, you big truck hoss,' says micky to the bull as he skidoos through the window, 'you couldn't catch a cold at the north pole in yer dirty undershirt!' "'why don't you go to school like you'd ought, vincent?' i says to micky, when he shows up the next day. "'aw, you go to hell!' says micky. 'say, are you ever goin' to let me work one of yer dogs out in place of that smoke?' he says, pointin' at snowball, my exercise-boy. "'who you callin' a smoke?' says snowball, startin' fur micky. 'i'll slap the ugly i'ish mouth off you!' "micky picks up a pitchfork. "'go awn, you black boob!' he says. 'if i reaches fer yer gizzard with this tickler, i gets it!' "snowball backs up. i grabs the fork from the little shrimp. "'now, you beat it!' i says to him. "'aw, you go to hell!' says micky. he lays down on a bail of straw 'n' pulls his hat over his face. 'if any guy bothers me while i'm gettin' my rest,' he says, 'call a hearse. don't wake me up till some guy wants a hoss worked out.' "one day i goes to lay a piker's bet in ike rosenberg's book. "'all across on tantrum,' i says to ike. "'hello, blister,' says ike, when he goes to hand me the ticket. 'i like that one myself. go over 'n' lay me a hundred 'n' fifty the same way,--here's the change.' "when i bring ike his ticket he tells me to wait a minute, 'n' pretty soon he puts a sheet-writer on the block 'n' steps down. "'come over here,' he says, 'n' i trails him out of the bettin' shed. 'i've took a two-year-old for a thousand dollar marker of seattle's,' says ike, swingin' 'round on me. 'you want him?' "'to train, you mean?' i says, 'is that it?' "'sure,' says ike. 'you can have him on shares if you want.' "'tell me about him,' i says. "'well,' says ike, 'he's a big little hoss made good all over. he ain't never started yet, but he's been propped for two months. he's by edgemont. first dam, cora, by musketeer. second dam, débutante, by peddler. third dam, daisy dean, by salvation. fourth dam, iole, by messenger. he's registered as hamilton, 'n' that's all i know.' "'that's sure some breedin',' i says. 'but i never takes a colt on shares. i'll handle him fur you as careful as i know how 'n' it'll cost you fifty a month. that's the best i can do.' "'i'll send him over this evenin',' says ike. 'let me know what you think of him after he works out for you.' "i like this hamilton colt the minute i gets my lamps on him. he ain't over fifteen hands, but he's all hoss. he'll weigh right at nine hundred, 'n' that's quite a chunk of a two-year-old. he's got a fine little head on him 'n' his eye has the right look. a good game hoss'll look at you like a eagle. i don't want nothin' to do with a sheep-eyed pup. this colt has a eye like a game cock. "peewee simpson is at my stalls when they brings the colt over, 'n' after we've sized him up i asks peewee what he thinks of the little rooster. "'him?' says peewee. 'he's a bear-cat. i'll bet he entertains you frequent 'n' at short notice. i don't figger him related to mary's lamb, not any. you better keep your eye on little hamilton. hammy's likely to be a naughty boy any time.' "peewee's got the correct hunch--the first time snowball takes him out hamilton runs off 'n' the boy don't get him stopped till he romps five miles. "'can't you stop him sooner'n that?' i says to snowball when he's back. "micky's at the stalls that mawnin', 'n' he butts in, as usual. "'stop him!' he says. 'that black boob couldn't stop a hoss in a box stall. lemme me have him next work-out!' "'i'll let you have a slap on the ear,' i says. "'aw, you go to hell!' says micky. "next work-out day hamilton pulls off the same stunt. he's feelin' extra good that mawnin', i guess, 'cause he makes a nine mile trip of it. micky stands there with me, watchin' the colt go round 'n' round the track. "'why don't you can that choc'lit drop,' he says, ''n' put a white man up?' "'meanin' you?' i says. 'you'd holler fur your milk bottle before he goes a eighth with you.' "'aw, you go to hell!' says micky. "i borrows a curb 'n' chain from eddy murphy--he's been usin' it on ole dandelion. it's fierce--you can bust a hoss's jaw with it. i puts it on hamilton next work-out. "'i guess that'll hold little hammy,' i says, when snowball's up. but it don't. the colt ain't any more'n felt the curb when he bolts into the fence 'n' chucks snowball off. i starts to catch the hoss, but micky gets to him first 'n' grabs him. "'lemme give him a whirl,' he says. 'come on--be a sport fur a change!' "snowball rolls away from the colt 'n' picks hisself up. "'he is shoh welcome to him,' he says. 'i got no moh use foh him.' "i studies a minute, lookin' at micky. he don't come much above hamilton's knee. he's lookin' at me like a pup beggin' fur a bone. "'go to it, you ornery little shrimp!' i says at last. 'if a worse pair ever gets together i've never seed it!' "micky gives a yelp like a terrier. "'take off this bit 'n' put a straight bar on him,' he says. "'why, you couldn't hold one of his ears with a bar bit,' i says. "'who's ridin' this hoss?' says micky. 'go awn, get the bit!' "'get him what he wants,' i says to snowball. "we leads the colt on to the track, when the bits is changed, 'n' just as i throws micky up i see he's got a bat. "'what you goin' to do with that?' i says. 'you need a parachute, not a whip!' "'_i_ always ride 'em with a bat. turn him loose,' says micky. "well, it's the same thing over again, the colt runs off. all micky does is to keep him in the track. i see he ain't pullin' a pound. they've gone about six mile 'n' hamilton begins to slow a little. just then micky lights into him with the bat. "'look at dat!' says snowball. 'he's los' his min'.' "'_no, he ain't_!' i says. '_he's there forty ways_!' i've just begun to tumble the kid's wise as owls. 'oh, you micky!' i hollers. 'go to it, you white boy!' "i hate to tell you how far that kid works the hoss. he keeps handin' him the bat every other jump. it gets so i can run as fast as they're movin' 'n' hamilton's just prayin' fur help. i'm afraid he'll jim the colt fur good, so i yells at micky to cut it out, when he comes by. "'come down off of that, you squirt!' i says. 'do you want to kill the colt?' "'aw, you go to hell!' he says, 'n' 'round they go again. when hamilton ain't got more'n a good stagger left, micky rides him through the gate to the stall. "'now, pony,' he says to hamilton, 'don't start nothin' you can't finish.' "the trip kills a ordinary hoss, but they ain't nothin' ordinary about this hamilton. i learns _that_ then. we cools him out good 'n' in three days he's kickin' the roof off the stall. "come work-out day micky goes up on hamilton. say, the colt eats out of his hand. micky's got him buffaloed right. he gallops hamilton a nice mile 'n' pulls up at the gate. "'what do you want him to do now? stand on his head?' he says. 'times is dull.' "'shoot him three furlongs,' i says. "'shoot is the word,' says micky. "hamilton romps the three furlongs in nothin' flat--i'm tickled sick. "'he's a bear!' i says to micky at the stalls. ''n' as fur you--you're on the pay-roll.' "'why, you're a live one, ain't you?' says micky. 'wait till i go chase the smoke!' the next thing i see is snowball goin' down the line like a quarter hoss, 'n' micky's proddin' at him with a pitchfork. "'he won't be back,' says micky, when he's puttin' up the fork. "'now, look-a here,' i says, 'you got to cut this rough stuff, if you works fur me.' "'aw, you go to hell!' says micky to me. "right then i gets him by the collar, 'n' takes a bat from the rack. i works on him till the bat's wore out 'n' then reaches fur another. micky ain't opened his face. i wears that one out 'n' grabs another. micky looks up at the rack--there's four more bats left. "'nix on number three!' he yells. 'i'm listenin' to you!' "'all right,' i says, hangin' up the bat. 'now, listen good. _cut out this rough stuff_--you got me?' "'i got you,' says micky. "i tells ike he's got a good colt, but only one boy can ride him. ike comes over to the stalls with me to see the boy 'n' hamilton. "'not that kid?' he says, when he takes a slant at micky. 'a hobby-hoss lets him out.' "micky goes straight up. "'why, you fat-headed kike!' he says. 'the only thing you can tell me about a hoss is how much the nails cost to hold his shoes on.' "ike turns to me. "'don't never let that boy throw a leg over a hoss of mine again,' he says. 'enter this colt in the two-year-old scramble friday. i'll get whitman to ride. i guess _he'll_ hold him.' "'now, look at that!' i says to micky when ike's gone. 'you _will_ shoot off your face, won't you? ain't you _never_ goin' to learn to keep that loud trap of yours closed?' "'aw, you go--' micky stops there. "i takes a step towards the whip rack. "'come on--' i says, 'let's hear from you!' "'--to hell with the big kike!' says micky. "'does that let me in?' i says. "micky studies a minute lookin' at me 'n' the bats in the rack. "'naw--just the kike,' he says at last. "when whitman's up on hamilton, before they goes to the post, i tries to put him wise. "'you're on a bad actor, whitty,' i says. 'if you ain't on your toes, he runs off with you sure.' this whitman's a star, 'n' nobody knows it better'n him. "'what do _you_ hire a jock fur?' he says. 'why don't you train 'n' ride both?' "'all right,' i says. 'i'm _tellin'_ you now!' "'if this hoss is ready,' says whitman, 'you've earned your money--don't work overtime.' "i goes through the paddock 'n' out on the lawn. before i'm there i hears the crowd yellin'. when i can see the track, there's the field at the post all but hamilton. he 'n' whitty has made a race all to theirselves. it turns out to be a six mile ramble with only one entry. "i goes to the stand 'n' scratches hamilton while he's still runnin'. the field waits at the post till they get a clear track. "'i didn't know this was a distance race,' i says to whitty when he gets down. whitty's sore as a crab, the bunch'll mention it to him the rest of the season. "'you don't want a jock on this thing,' he says. 'a engineer is what he needs.' "'sell him,' is the first words ike says to me when i sees him. "'_sell him_?' i says. 'you must be drunk! why, he don't bring a ten case note. everybody's hep he's a bolter. now listen! this is a real good colt, 'n' i know it; but the bunch don't. that boy of mine can ride him. if you gives the colt another chance with my boy up, he shows 'em somethin'. then you can get a price fur him.' "'do what you like with him,' says ike. 'but i don't pay out another simoleon on him! i'm through right now!' "'give me half what he wins his next out 'n' _i'll_ take a chance with him,' i says. "'you're on,' says ike. 'but you pay the entrance.' "'surest thing you know,' i says, 'n' goes over to the stalls. "in two weeks there's to be a handicap fur two-year-olds. it's worth three thousand to the winner. it's the best baby race at the meetin'. hamilton'll come in awful light 'n' he'll get five pounds apprentice allowance fur micky; but it'll put a big crimp in my roll to pay the entrance. i studies over it some 'n' i gets cold feet. it takes three hundred bones to sit in. i've about decided it's too rich fur my blood, when next work-out day comes 'n' hamilton works four furlongs, with micky up, like a cyclone. that gets my circulation goin' 'n' i takes a shot at it. "'who's burning this up on the ten mile wonder?' says the sec. to me, when i'm payin' the entrance. 'the work seems a little coarse for my old friend ike.' "'i'm smiling faces this load of poles,' i says. "'why, blister,' says the sec. 'i never thought it of you! but we're much obliged to you just the same.' "there's eight starters in the handicap besides hamilton. one of 'em's a big clumsy colt named hellespont. the bunch calls him the elephant, 'n' he's sour as lemons. i see his eyes a-rollin' in the paddock, 'n' i know he's hopped. just as the parade starts he begins to cut the mustard. he rears 'n' tries to come down all spraddled out on the colt ahead of him in the line, but the jock runs him into a stall 'n' they take hold of him till the rest is out on the track. "micky ain't had no experience at the post. i've borrowed a pair of glasses 'n' i'm watchin' the get-a-way pretty anxious. hamilton's actin' fine, but the elephant is holdin' up the start. all of a sudden he rears clear up 'n' comes down across hamilton. the colt does a flop 'n' i see the elephant rear 'n' stamp him a couple a times before the assistant drives him off with the bull whip." [illustration: "i see the elefant stamp him."] "'good-by, three hundred!' i says to myself, i can't see good fur the dust, but they pulls micky out from under the colt, 'n' when i gets another slant, hamilton's on his feet 'n' the starter's talkin' at micky. i can see micky shakin' his head. it ain't long till they puts him up again. "'that's the good game kid!' i says out loud. 'oh, you 'micky boy!' also out loud. "they get off to a nice start. when they hit the stretch i throws my hat away. hamilton's in front two lengths. a eighth from home i see there's somethin' wrong with micky. he's got his bat 'n' lines in his left mitt. his right hook is kind-a floppin' at his side, but hamilton's runnin' true 'n' strong. the colt looks awful good to the sixteenth 'n' then his gait goes clear to the bad. i see he's all shot to pieces behind, 'n' he's stoppin' fast. i'm standin' at the inner rail ten len'ths from the wire, 'n' the elephant colt gets to hamilton right in front of me. "'i gotcha, jock!' yells the boy on the elephant. "'they don't pay off here,' says micky, 'n' sticks the lines in his face. then he goes to the bat with his south hook 'n' hamilton lays back his ears 'n' runs true again. . . . he out-games the elephant a nod at the wire 'n' i'm twelve hundred to the clear. "when i gets to 'em, micky's standin' in the track leanin' against hamilton. the colt's shakin' all over 'n' his hind feet's in a big pool of blood. i gives a' look 'n' the left rear tendon is tore off from hock to fetlock. "'good god, look at that!' i says to micky. "micky turns 'n' looks. "'aw, pony . . .' he says, 'n' busts out cryin'. he leans up against the colt again 'n' he's shakin' as bad as hamilton. "just then the boy gets down from the elephant. "'i'd a beat that dog in another jump,' he says to micky. "'you?' says micky. 'i'm goin' to _kill you_!' he starts fur the boy, but he turns kind-a greeny white 'n' does a flop on the track. "when i goes to pick him up i see a bone comin' through the flesh just above the wrist on his right hook. "we puts him in a blanket 'n' the swipes start to carry him off. "'what's the matter with the kid?' says ike comin' up. "'arm broke, i guess,' i says." "ike sees the blood 'n' walks behind hamilton. "'i wish it was his neck,' he says, pointin' at the tendon. 'that's what you get fur puttin' a pin-headed apprentice on a good hoss! get him so he can hobble, 'n' sell him to a livery if you can. if not, have him shot.' "hamilton's standin' there a-shakin'. his eyes has the look you always sees in a hoss just after he's ruined. "'what'll you take fur him?' i says to ike. "'take fur him?' he says. 'whatever he'll bring. i ain't out nothin' on him. i splits three thousand with you to the race.' "'you owe me a hundred 'n' thirty fur trainin',' i says. 'i calls it off 'n' keeps the hoss.' "'you've bought him,' says ike, 'n' goes back to the bettin' shed. "they take micky to the hospital. the doc says his arm's broke 'n' he's hurt inside. he comes to before they puts him in the ambulance. "'why didn't you let another boy ride?' says the assistant starter, who's helpin' the doc. "'ride hell!' says micky. 'he runs off with them other boobs.' "me 'n' peewee simpson gets hamilton to the stall. it takes him just one hour to do that hundred yards, but i've got a tight bandage above the hock 'n' he don't bleed so bad. "'can you get him so he can walk?' i says to the vet. when he's looked at the colt. "'yes,' he says; 'but that'll be about all for him. i advise you to have him destroyed. what hoss _is_ this?' "'hamilton,' i says. 'he just wins the colt race.' "'so?' he says. 'i didn't see it. when did _this_ happen?' "'at the post,' i says. 'another colt jumped on him.' "'at the post?' he says. 'i thought you said he won?' "'he did,' i says. "'on _that_?' he says, pointin' to the leg. 'what you tryin' to do, kid me?' "'i'm tellin' it to you just as she happens,' i says. 'it don't matter a damn to me whether you believe it or not!' "'why, you _ain't_ kiddin', are you?' he says. 'wait a minute--' "he goes outside 'n' i see him talkin' to several. "'it's straight,' he says, when he comes back. 'but it ain't possible!' "'who owns this colt?' he says, after he's looked at the leg some more. "'i do,' i says. 'i just give a hundred 'n' thirty fur him.' "'what did you ever buy _him_ for?' he says. "i studies a minute, a-lookin' at hamilton. "'i've got softenin' of the brain, i guess,' i says. "'he's a nice made thing,' says the vet. 'how's he bred?' "i tells him, 'n' he looks at the leg some more, 'n' then walks 'round the colt a couple a times. "'i tell you what i'll do,' he says after while. 'i'll take him off your hands at just what you paid. i'm givin' it to you straight--_this hoss wont never do more than walk_. but he's bred out a sight 'n' i like his looks. there's a chance somebody could use him in the stud. i'm willin' to get him in some sort-a shape 'n' see if i can't make a piece of money on him. what do you say?" "'well,' i says, 'you're fixed better to get him in shape'n me. i just wanted to give the little hoss a show. if _you'll_ give it to him, he's yours.' "'here's your money,' says the vet. 'i'll send my wagon for him to-morrow. let me have a lantern till i get this leg so it won't hurt him so bad to-night.' "the next day every paper i picks up has a great big write-up in it about micky 'n' the colt. until the wagon comes fur him there's a regular procession to the stall to look at hamilton, 'n' when i goes to the hospital that night you can't see micky fur flowers around his bed. "'hell!' says micky. 'do they think i'm a stiff?' "'sh-h-h!' says the sister that's nursin' him. "i don't see hamilton fur a month. one day i goes over to the big eastern sale at new york, just to hear ole pappy danforth sell 'em. pappy's stood on a block all his life. he knows every hoss-man in the country. when _he_ tells you about a hoss, it's right; 'n' everybody takes his tip. he just about sells 'em where they ought to go. "there's a fierce crowd at the sale 'n' some grand stuff goes under the hammer. pappy kids the crowd along 'n' sells 'em so fast it makes you dizzy. they don't more'n lead a hoss out till he's gone. "all of a sudden pappy climbs clear up on the desk in front of him 'n' stands there a minute, pushin' back his long white hair. "'na-ow, boys!' he says. 'i'm goin' to sell you a three-legged hoss! an'--listen to the ole man--he's wuth more'n any four-legged hoss, livin' or dead!' "i rubbers hard to get a look at a hoss pappy boosts like that, 'n' i nearly croaks when they lead hamilton into the ring. the colt's a dink, right. he's stiff as a poker behind, but he's still got that game-cock look to his eye. "'na-ow, boys!' sings out pappy, 'there's the biggest little hoss ever you saw! don't look at him--any of you fellahs that wants a yellah dawg to win a cheap race with! _he_ ain't in _that_ class. step forwahd, you breeders, an' grasp a golden opportunity! send the best brood mares you've got to this little hoss . . . he's a giant! _you hear me--a giant_! ed tumble, i'm talkin' to you! i'm talkin' to you, bill masters--an' harry scott there . . . an' judge dillon . . . an' all you big breeders! you've _read_ what this little hoss done in the newspapers. you can _see_ his breedin' in your catalogues. you can _look him over_ as he stands there! but best of all--_listen to the old man_! when he tells you he never held a hammer over a better one in fifty years. na-ow, boys! i'm goin' to sell him for the high dollah, an' the man who gets him at any price . . . _you hear me--at any price_! . . . is goin' to have the laugh on the rest of you fellahs! aw-l-l right--_what do i hear_?' "'five hundred!' says some guy. "'why, frank, five hundred won't buy a hair out of his tail . . . _what do i hear_?' says pappy. "'two thousand!' yells somebody. "'na-ow listen, tom, if you want the little hoss, cut out this triflin' an' bid for him,' says pappy. '_what do i hear_?' "'five thousand!' some guy hollers. "'that's just a nice little start . . . _what do i hear_?' says pappy, 'n' i goes into a trance. "i don't come to till i hears pappy sing out: "'so-o-ld to you for sixteen thousand dollahs, mr. humphrey, _an' you never bought a cheaper one_!' "it's a wonder i ain't run over gettin' to the depot. i don't know where i'm at. i just keeps sayin' 'sixteen thousand--sixteen thousand--' over 'n' over to myself. i beats it out to the hospital when i gets back, to tell micky. they're goin' to let him out in a day or so 'n' micky's settin' up in a chair with wheels to it. "'give a guess what hamilton brings in the big eastern,' i says to him. "'i dunno,' says he. 'how much?' "'sixteen thousand bucks!' i says. 'how does that lay on your stummick?' "'hell!' says micky. 'that ain't nothin'--look-a-here!' "he shoves a paper at me he's been holdin' in his mitt. it's a ridin' contract fur two years with the ogden stable at ten thousand a year. "so you see, just like i tells you," blister wound up, "they lay down real money fur _class_." "the man who bought the horse," i said, "certainly got what he paid for--everybody knows _now_ that hamilton has class. but how about the boy?" "did you ever see vincent ride?" blister looked at me inquiringly. "i saw him ride once in the english derby," i replied. "why?" "well," said blister, "his mother lives in new york in a brownstone house he bought her, with two swede girls to do as much work as she'll let 'em. when he comes home, she calls him 'micky.' is there class to him?" "yes," i said, "there's class to him." exit butsy "what's all them rubes got ribbons on 'em fur?" asked blister. i followed his gaze to a group of variously garbed men and women who had just rounded the paddock, and who slowly bore down upon us as they drifted from stall to stall in a haphazard inspection of the great racing plant at latonia. prominent upon the person of each member of this party was a bountiful strip of yellow ribbon. the effect was decidedly gay. i had encountered similar ribbons in every nook and cranny of the queen city during the last few days, and i knew that each bore in thirty-six point gothic condensed, the words, "ohio state grange." "those are ohio farmers and their wives who are attending a convention in cincinnati," i explained. "the ribbons are convention badges." blister allowed the saddle girth he was mending to lie unnoticed across his knees as the delegates by twos and threes straggled past. each female member of the party carried a round paper fan with a cane handle, and talked unceasingly. these streams of conversation were entirely regardless of one another. it was as though many brooks babbled onward side by side, but never joined. one fragment that reached us, i preserved. "an' i sez to the doctor when he come, sez i, 'doctor, i ain't held a bite on my stummick these three livelong days!'" this was delivered by a buxom dame, fanning vigorously the meanwhile, and was noteworthy since the lady was closely followed by a little man whose frailty suggested dissolution, and who bore a large lunch box under one arm and a heavy child upon the other. the men appeared somewhat interested in the pampered nervous-looking thoroughbreds, but made few comments. as compared to their women folk they seemed more silent than the very tomb itself. long after the grangers had drifted out of our sight, blister's thoughts seemed devoted to them. several times he chuckled to himself. "every time i see a bunch of rubes," he said at last, "it puts me in mind of butsy trimble 'n' the new stalls at lake minnehaha park." "lake minnehaha park," i repeated. "i never heard of such a place." "it's up at mount clinton," blister explained. "it's ohio's beauty spot." "get out!" i scoffed. "fact!" said blister. "it says so right over the gates." "tell me about it," i demanded. "this ain't been so long ago," said blister. "the meetin' here at latonia is about over. ole whiskers has put the game on the fritz in new york, so everybody's studyin' where to ship when get-away day comes, 'n' the whole bunch is sore as bears--you can't get a pleasant word from nobody. "all i got in my string is some two-year-olds of judge dillon's. they go back to the farm when the meetin' closes, so i ain't worried none--not about where to ship. "one night me 'n' peewee simpson is playin' pitch on a bale of hay with a lantern. butsy trimble is settin' beside the bale readin' a hoss paper. "'gimme high, jack, game--' says peewee, after a hand. "'i'll give you a poke in the nose!' i says. 'what you got fur game?' "'i s'pose you want to count fur game--don't you?' says peewee. 'i'll give it to you sooner'n argue with you.' "'you're right, you'll give it to me,' i says. "'well, i said i'd give it to you, didn't i?' says peewee. 'you'd rather argue'n eat, wouldn't you?' "'all that's wrong with you,' i says, 'is you're sore 'cause you can't hog game!' "peewee lays down his cards. "'now, look a here, you freckle-faced shrimp!' he says. 'get off this bale of hay--it'll _poison_ a hoss if _you_ set on it much longer!' "'whose bale of hay do you think this is?' i says. 'you tryin' to hog _it_ like you does game?' "'gimme my lantern 'n' i'll be on my way,' says peewee. "'i puts the oil in that lantern,' i says, ''n' she sets right where she is till she makes her last flicker.' "'cut it! cut it!' says butsy, spreadin' out his hoss paper. 'act like you has some sense, 'n' i puts you hep to a hot scheme i gets out of this paper--us three can pull it off to a finish!' "'i don't want in on no scheme with that lantern snatcher!' says peewee then to me. "'if you don't age some,' i says to peewee, 'nursie'll come around here, 'n' put a nice fresh panty-waist on you!' "then butsy goes ahead 'n' tells us the frame-up. he shows us an ad in his paper askin' fur entries to race over the ohio short ship circuit. this circuit is a bunch of race meets that's held on the bull rings at county fairs up through the state. they're trottin' races mostly, but they give one runnin' race at a different town each week. "'now,' says butsy, 'i'm born 'n' raised in mount clinton, ohio. i sees the race meet there frequent 'n' she's a peach. you can have a hoss lay down 'n' go to sleep on the track if you don't want him to win 'n' then tell the judges he's got spring fever. everything goes except murder. we'll take that black stud of mine 'n' peewee's bay geldin' 'n' hit this punkin circuit. we can win a purse each week fur travelin' expenses, 'n' what we cops on the side is velvet.' "'what do you want me fur?' i says. "'why,' says butsy, 'at these county fairs there ain't no bookies. they just bets from hand to hand. while me 'n' peewee rides, you sashay out among the rubes 'n' get the coin down on whichever hoss we frames to win.' "we sets there 'n' talks over the proposition most all night. butsy says it's a cinch 'n' it ain't long till me 'n' peewee figgers he's got it doped right. "'let's go against it, blister,' peewee says to me. 'what do you say, old pal?' "'i'm there with bells on,' i says, 'n' that settles it. i ships my colts to judge dillon, 'n' the next week we start. "these punkin races is all half-mile dashes, best two out of three. peewee's geldin' is a distance hoss--he don't get goin' good under a mile. in a bull-ring sprint he ain't got a chance with this black stud of butsy's. "our game is to have butsy turn his dash-hound loose the first heat. then i ambulates out among the rubes 'n' acts like i'm willing to bet on the bay geldin'. if i finds a live one, butsy takes his hoss up in his lap the last two trips 'n' peewee comes on 'n' grabs the gravy. "we figger the rubes'll eat it up after seein' that nice-lookin' black stud romp away with the first heat. but right there the dope falls down--the rubes ain't as dead as they look. "in the first town we strike i eases up to a tall jasper after the black hoss has grabbed the opener on the bit. "'say, pardner,' i says, 'do you ever bet a piece of money on a race?' "this jasper is just a adam's apple surrounded by arms 'n' legs. "'well, i should say as much,' he says. 'but most ginrally they wan't nobody bet with me. up in liberty township the boys call me lucky andy.' "'it's a crime to do this!' i says to myself. 'i'll make a little bet with you, pardner,' i says out loud. 'not much though--you're too lucky!' "'how was ye calkewlatin' to bet?' says the jasper. "'this black hoss acted kind-a tired to me,' i says. 'i'll just bet you twenty bucks he don't win the race.' "'you look like a smart little cuss,' he says. 'what's good enough fer you is good enough fer me.' he beats it over to where another rube is settin' in a buggy. 'hi, bill!' says my jasper, 'i'll just bet ye fifty cents the black hawse dun't win the race--even if i do lose!' "that's the way it goes right along--the rubes stay away from it. once in a while i finds a mark but not often. we win a purse though in every town 'n' this just about pays expenses. we ain't makin' nothin' much, but we ain't losin' nothin' neither. we're eatin' regular 'n' enjoyin' ourselves, except butsy. _he_ wouldn't enjoy hisself at a dog fight. "this butsy trimble is a thin solemn gink 'n' he almost never cracks a smile. he's got it doped out that everybody's agin him. peewee 'n' me has knocked around together so much we knows each other's ways, but we ain't never had much to do with this butsy, so we ain't wise to him at first. "it ain't long till butsy begins to figger we're tryin' to hand it to him. he gets sour-balled about everythin' we does. we try to kid him, but he ain't hep to a kid 'n' he don't stand fur it like he'd ought. his favorite stunt is to say he'll take his hoss 'n' quit. he springs this right along. "from the start this trip gets to peewee's funny bone. he don't do nothin' but laugh. butsy don't see nothin' funny about it, 'n' he gets to thinkin' peewee's laughin' at him. "peewee'll lay in the stall at night 'n' laugh 'n' laugh. pretty soon he'll get me goin', 'n' then we'll lay 'n' snort fur a hour. butsy can't go to sleep 'n' he gets wild. "'what th' hell are you laughin' at?' he says. 'if you don't cut this out 'n' let me get my rest i'll quit the game tomorrow!' "it gets so i don't dare look at peewee fur fear we'll get started 'n' butsy'll quit. "at a burg called mansfield i finds a good bunch of live ones 'n' we grabs off three hundred life-savers. it seems to help butsy a lot--he acts more cheerful right away. "'cherries are ripe,' he says. 'our next town's mount clinton. i know every boob in it. we'll sift some change out of them knox county plow-pushers.' "we ships over the b. & o. to mount clinton. it's rainin' when we unloads, 'n' butsy ain't as cheerful as he was. "'how far is it to the track?' peewee says to him. "'about three miles 'n' all hills,' says butsy. "'how do you get out?' says peewee. "'we could take the street-car if it wasn't fur the hosses,' says butsy. 'as it is we'll have to hoof it through the mud.' "'look-a here,' i says to butsy, 'there's no sense in three of us gettin' wet. you know the way 'n' we don't. you take the hosses 'n' we'll come out on the street-car.' "'i thought it 'ud be like that,' says butsy. 'you two always pick out the soft stuff fur yourselves 'n' hand me the lemons. i guess i'll just put my hoss back in the freight car 'n' be on my way.' "'now, butsy,' i says, 'have some sense! we ain't slippin' you nothin'. i'd take the dogs 'n' leave you 'n' peewee ride if i knew the way. what do you want to make a crack about quittin' fur just as the game's gettin' good?' i says. 'we cops a neat little bundle at our last stop, 'n' we'll grab a nice piece of change here. i feel it in my bones.' "'all right,' says butsy. 'i'll be the goat just once more--but take it from me this is the last time!' "'send a wagon fur the trunk when you get up-town,' i says to butsy when he's goin'. "'furget it!' he says. 'put her on the street-car. the car runs right into minnehaha park 'n' you can unload her in front of the stalls.' "'you can't take a trunk on a street-car,' i says. "'wait till you see this street-car,' says butsy. "'ain't they but one?' says peewee. "'that's all,' says butsy. 'orphy shanner runs it.' "me and peewee stands a-waitin' fur the street-car fur thirty minutes, then i goes into the freight depot office. "'is the street-car runnin'?' i says to the old gazink at the desk. "'ye can't rightly call it runnin',' he says. 'it ain't been settled yet. some claims she dun't, some claims she do. them that claims she dun't is those who've rid on her.' "'well, whatever she does,' i says, 'will she get here this mawnin'? i got to get to the race track.' "'i'll call up orphy an' see,' says the old gazink. 'hello, tessie,' he says, after he grinds away at the telephone handle fur a while. 'git a-holt of orphy shanner fer me out to th' park--that's a good girl.' in about ten minutes somebody begins to talk over the phone. 'say, orphy, this is ed at the b. & o. freight,' says the old gazink. 'i got a passenger down here fer ye.' then he listens at the phone. 'i don't know who he is. he's a stranger tu me,' he says, 'n' listens some more. 'all right, i'll tell him,' he says, 'n' hangs up the phone. "'orphy says fer me to tell ye thet he's comin' in to get mrs. boone at the public square at eleven o'clock,' he says to me. 'he's goin' to take her out high street to a whisk party at mrs. pucker's, an' he'll come down here an' git ye then.' "'why, it ain't ten o'clock yet,' i says. "'well, you kin set in here out of the rain an' wait,' he says. "i thinks we better walk 'n' then i remembers that cussed trunk. "'much obliged,' i says. 'i'll go out 'n' get my friend.' "'be they two of ye?' says he. 'jeerusalem, i told orphy they wa'n't but one.' "when i gets back with peewee, the old gazink pushes a couple of chairs at us. "'set right down, boys,' he says, ''n' make yourselves mis'able.' then he puts a chew in his face that would choke a he-elephant 'n' begins to ask us questions. the only thing he don't ask us he don't think of. he'll stop right in the middle of a word 'n' say, 'pit-too-ee,' 'n' hit a flat box full of sawdust dead center. i don't see him miss once.' "after he's got us pumped dry he begins to tell us what _he_ knows, 'n' believe me he's got a directory beat to a custard. he hands us some info about everybody who's alive in mount clinton 'n' then starts in on the cemetery. he works back till he's talkin' about some 'dead an' gone these twenty year,' as he says. "i happens to look at peewee--peewee's in a trance. he can't look away. he's noddin' his head 'n' his eyes has got a glassy stare. i goes outside quick 'n' lays up against the side of the buildin'. "when i get back the old gazink is still workin' on peewee, but all of a sudden he stops 'n' listens. "'pit-too-ee--there's your car, boys!' he says, 'n' then i begins to hear a groanin' sound. "man! they ain't no way to tell you about that street-car! she falls to pieces only they wraps all the upper parts together with wire till she looks like a birdcage. a big freckled guy with red hair is runnin' her 'n' i know just by lookin' at him it's orphy. "'howdy, boys,' he says to us when he gets to where we're standin'. 'jump aboard! i'm goin' down far as the pumpin' station an' the brakes ain't workin' just like they'd ought-a this mornin'.' "'we've got a trunk,' i says. "'oh!' he says, 'n' spins the whirligig. she keeps right on goin'. then he runs back 'n' yanks the trolley off, 'n' she begins to slow down. 'git your trunk an' fetch it to where i stop at!' he hollers. 'the cut-off ain't workin' just like it ought-a this mornin'.' "we lugs the trunk down to the car 'n' puts her on the back platform. "'that's the way things goes!' says orphy. 'i hadn't figgered on no trunk. ed never tells me nothin' about it. you better set on it,' he says. 'the seats ain't just in first-class shape this mornin'.' i looks inside at the seats, 'n' he's got it doped right--some chickens has spent the night on 'em. "after we gets to goin' orphy pokes his head in the door. "'the company don't allow me to handle the money,' he says. 'but my friends most gen'ally drop the fare down the right-hand side of the slot.' "me 'n' peewee goes forward 'n' looks at the money box. the front of the car has warped till there's a big crack in the right-hand side of the box you can see the platform through. i drops two nickels in on that side, 'n' bing! they go down the shoot 'n' out the crack. they falls on the platform 'n' orphy picks 'em up 'n' goes south with 'em. "'that's what i call a live guy!' says peewee. 'i'm proud to know him.' "pretty soon orphy comes back 'n' jerks the trolley off 'n' we stop on a big square with a monument in the middle. "'we got to wait here at the public square fer mrs. boone,' he says. "in about twenty minutes here comes a dame across the square. she's sixteen hands high 'n' will girt according. she belongs in the heavy-draft class 'n' she's puffin' some. "'how-dee-do, orphy,' she says. 'i'm a mite late, but i didn't get shet of my peach butter as quick as i aimed to.' "'that's all right, missus boone,' says orphy. 'the company allows me a liberal schedool. set right down on the trunk, missus boone. i wouldn't resk the seats this mornin' if i was you.' "'what's wrong with 'em?' says mrs. boone, 'n' pokes her head in the door. 'land a liberty!' she says. 'i shall certainly write to the _banner_ about this! i call it disgraceful!' then she sets down on the trunk. "i'm standin' up, but peewee's still on it. she covers the whole trunk, but a little corner, 'n' peewee tries to set on that. "'why don't you give the lady some room?' i says to peewee, 'n' he gets up 'n' leaves her have the trunk. "'you're a real polite young man,' says mrs. boone to me. "we ain't more'n got started when the dame lets out a holler. "'orphy!' she yells, 'stop! wait a minute! whoa!' orphy comes 'n' yanks off the trolley. "'i declare to goodness!' says mrs. boone. 'i've furgot my rubbers. run up and get them for me, orphy--they're behind the door in the front hall.' "'i'd like to oblige you real well, mrs. boone,' says orphy, 'but the company don't allow me to leave the car when i'm on duty--' "'well, i call lookin' after your customers bein' on duty,' says mrs. boone. 'now, you skip an' get my rubbers, orphy shanner!' "orphy beats it fur the rubbers. "while he's gone mrs. boone goes 'n' drops a nickel down the chute, but she don't put it in the right side 'n' it trickles down into the box. when orphy gets the car started after he's back, he turns 'round 'n' gives a sad look at the nickel in the box. "'stung!' says peewee, 'n' i think he's goin' to fall off the car. "'what ails that young man?' says mrs. boone to me. 'he seems to be havin' a spell.' "'it ain't nothin',' i says. 'he'll be all right in a minute.' "we lets mrs. boone off after while 'n' keeps on goin' fur a mile or so till we come to some gates. in gold letters over the gates is 'ohio's beauty spot,' 'n' below that in bigger letters yet is 'lake minnehaha park.' we goes through these gates 'n' there's the track. more'n half the center-field is took up by a baseball diamond. in the other half is a pond with a shoot-the-chutes runnin' down into it. "'where's the lake?' peewee says to orphy. "'right in front of your nose,' says orphy, pointin' at the pond. "'she's some body of water,' says peewee. 'if you ain't careful a big rough guy'll come along here with a tin cup some dark night 'n' go south with her.' "'i guess not,' says orphy. 'she's four feet deep--in spots.' "when we come in sight of the stalls, there's butsy standin' in the rain with the hosses. a big bunch of jaspers is holdin' a meetin' out in front of a row of bran'-new stalls that's just been put up. there's a hot argument goin' on 'n' they don't pay no attention to the rain. "'you gone dippy?' i says to butsy. 'what are you standin' out in the rain with the dogs fur? why don't you put 'em up?' "'no chance,' says butsy. 'all the stalls is took except these new ones, 'n' the guy who furnished the lumber fur 'em won't unlock 'em till he's paid.' "i looks at the stalls--there's a great big padlock on each door. "'why don't they slip him the coin?' i says. "'you can search me,' says butsy. 'that's what they're chewin' the rag about now.' "me 'n' peewee slides over to where the crowd is. "'i'll have the law on ye sure!' a old jasper is sayin'. he's got on a long-tailed coat 'n' a white string tie. "'edge right in!' whispers peewee to me. 'it ain't goin' to cost you a cent!' "'you ain't got no right to lock them stalls, jim burns!' says the old jasper. 'they belong to the knox county agricultural society!' "'not till i'm paid fer the lumber, they don't!' says the guy he calls jim burns. 'gimme eighty-six dollars, kurnel, if you want to use them stalls.' "'i'll have the law on ye sure as my name's hunter!' says the old jasper. "'i guess you won't,' says burns. 'my lawyer tells me to lock them stalls.' "'who's your lawyer?' says the old jasper. "harry evans," says burns. "'well, why ain't he here?' says the old jasper. "'that's right--he'd ought to be here!' says several in the crowd. "'i told him to come two hours ago,' says burns. 'say, orphy! telephone in an' find out why harry ain't here!' "orphy climbs off the car 'n' goes in a shed 'n' we hears the telephone bell jingle. pretty soon he comes back. "'missus evans says harry's fixin' a clock,' says orphy. 'he's purty nigh through, an' he aims to git out here soon as she'll strike right. he's comin' in his autymobile.' "the crowd gives a groan. burns throws up his hands. "'he'd a damn sight better walk,' he says. "the argument sort-a dies down while they're waitin' fur this harry evans. "'come on!' peewee says to me. 'i got to tell butsy the good news.' "i see the rain tricklin' off butsy's nose when we get close to him. "'stay with it, butsy!' says peewee. 'they got a lawyer comin' in a auto--' "'come 'n' hold these dogs fur a while!' says butsy. "'i'd like to,' says peewee, 'but i can't. i might miss somethin',' 'n' he goes back to where the crowd is. "we waits fur about a hour. "'why don't ye git a lawyer that ain't got no autymobile?' says somebody to burns. "'they've all got 'em,' says burns. 'i'll give ye a dollar fer every lawyer in mount clinton ye can name who ain't got one of the blame things!' "'how about sam koons?' says somebody. "'got one just the other day,' says burns. 'it's made up to bucyrus. it's called the speeding queen. he give three hundred and twenty dollars cash fer it.' "not long after that i begins to notice a noise. it ain't like any other sound i ever hears before. it gets right into my system. it's gettin' closer 'n' pretty soon i think i'll go find a nail 'n' bite on it. "'what's that?' says peewee. "'it's him,' says burns. 'it's harry. if he don't have no bad luck he'll be here in twenty minutes. he ain't over a half a mile away right now.' "'i hope they ain't no children on the road,' says peewee. "i figgers this harry evans is sure ridin' a threshin'-machine with its insides loose, but when he comes through the gates i gets a shock. say,--his machine ain't much bigger'n a good-sized sardine can! it's painted red 'n' smoke's comin' out of the front of it. i can roll faster'n it's movin', but it keeps a-shakin' so he can't hardly set in the seat. "when it's pretty close i see he's a little guy with specs 'n' a yellow coat on, but he's bein' shook so i can't hardly see what he does look like. "'how-dee-do!' he says, when he gets her stopped. 'er,--it occurs to me that i may be a little late. . . . will any of you gentlemen indulge in a cuban beauty?' he fishes some long black stogies out of his pocket, but they don't nobody go against 'em, except him--he lights one. "then the crowd shows him the locked stalls 'n' everybody takes a shot at tellin' him what ought to be did. "'er,--it occurs to me,' says this harry evans, 'that there is a simple way out of the--er--difficulty.' "'there's class to him,' says peewee. "'how's that?' says some one in the crowd. "'if colonel hunter here will tender me--er--eighty-six dollars in behalf of my client,' says harry evans, 'i'll instruct my client to unlock the stalls.' "'there you are!' says peewee. "the big jasper lets out a fierce roar. "'not by a damn sight!' says he. 'we leased these grounds with the full use an' privilege of all buildin's an' other fixtures an' appurtenances fur the purpose of holdin' a fair. we weren't aimin' to get skinned out of eighty-six dollars by no lumber concern, 'n' we ain't a-goin' to neither!' "'let's see your lease?' says harry evans. "'it's back in town at my office,' says the old jasper. "'who signed it?' says harry evans. "'judge tate signed it,' says the old jasper. "'er,--if that's the case,' says harry evans, 'get him out here. he's receiver for the park company and you can make him pay this claim.' "the whole bunch says that's a good idea. so they tell orphy to go in 'n' get this judge tate. "'i got to go 'n' tell butsy there's a judge comin'!' says peewee. "'butsy's sore about somethin',' he says when he gets back. "this judge tate unloads hisself from the car when orphy brings him, like he's the most important piece of work fur miles around. he has little side-whiskers 'n' a bay-window with a big gold chain stretched across it. he holds a umbrella over hisself with one hand 'n' wiggles the watch-chain with the other. "'ahem--gentlemen, what can i do for you?' he says. "'something doing now!' says peewee to me. 'this is god-a'mighty's right-hand man!' "'er--judge,' says harry evans, 'we are having a dispute concerning certain buildings on these premises, and--er--it occurred to me you could settle the matter.' "'settle is the word,' says peewee to me. "'as receiver for the park company, judge,' says harry evans, 'can you tell us--er--who the buildings on these premises belong to?' "'why--ahem--' says the judge, 'it is my understanding that all the buildings of every sort and description belong to the park company, irrespective of any improvements that the--ahem--lessees may see fit to make.' "'now yer talkin',' says burns. 'just hand me eighty-six dollars due fer lumber on them new stalls--you claim to own em. "'a-he-m!' says the judge. 'that's a different matter. the agricultural society is responsible for those stalls. the man you should see about your claim is alf dingle. i happen to know there is a certain sum of money in the treasury and i kind of think alf will pay this claim. why don't you try to get him to come out here?' "they argue a while 'n' then it's thought best to send fur alf dingle. but orphy has took the street-car 'n' went. "'that's the way it goes,' says the old jasper they call colonel. 'he's a-chasin' around town with that car instead of stayin' here tendin' to his business!' "'i'll go in and get alf,' says harry evans, startin' fur his machine. "nobody says nothin'. "'i ain't got the heart to tell butsy,' says peewee. "harry evans begins to turn the handle on his machine. he turns it fur ten minutes. when he's all in, he straightens up. "'somebody'll have to help me crank her,' he says. "the crowd goes to work. they all take turns. but she don't start. "'er--it occurs to me there may be something wrong with her,' says harry evans, 'n' starts to lift off the cover where the machinery is. peewee gives me a poke in the ribs. "'i expect he's right,' he says. "'i'm gettin' all-fired tired of this putterin' around,' says the old jasper. 'tom', he says to a guy in overalls, 'get a crowbar an' knock them padlocks off.' "'if you do that i'll put ye in jail!' yells burns. 'that's a criminal act! it's destruction of property with burglarious intent! ain't it, harry?' "harry comes up out of the machinery. there's grease even on his specs. "'it's the carbureter,' he says. "'i'll leave it to the judge!' hollers burns. 'ain't that a criminal act?' "'a--hem!' says the judge, 'i am not prepared to say you have the right to those stalls, but i wouldn't advise breaking a lock. as you say, it's a criminal act.' "just then here comes orphy rollin' through the gates. "'you hustle in an' git alf dingle!' says the old jasper to him. 'an' when you git back, you stay here where you're needed!' "the crowd has moved 'round back of the stalls to watch harry evans work on his machine. i stands with 'em fur a while, but peewee has left. all of a sudden i see him poke his head 'round the end of the new stalls 'n' give me the high sign. "'what you standin' out in the rain fur?' he says, when i gets near him. "'what else can i do?' i says. "'come on 'n' i'll show you,' says peewee. "he leads me round in front of the stalls. in two of 'em is the hosses all bedded down nice. butsy is settin' in the stall with his stud. he makes a puddle wherever he sets. "'how did you get 'em open?' i says. "'they ain't locked,' says peewee. 'none of 'em are. the padlocks is closed, _but not locked_.' "_no_,' i says. "'it's the truth!' says peewee, 'n' we rolls in the straw a-holdin' to each other till i feel like i'd been stepped on by a draft hoss. "butsy gets up. "'just one more snicker out of either of you,' he says, ''n' i lead my hoss to the depot!' "i see he means it 'n' i gets my head down in the straw 'n' holds my breath. butsy stands there a-lookin' at us. "'has alf come yet?' says peewee, but he don't look at me. "'not yet, but he's expected,' i says, 'n' peewee sticks his head down in the straw 'n' makes a noise like harry evans' machine. i does the same. "as soon as i can see again, there's butsy leadin' his hoss fur the gate. "'now you've done it,' i says to peewee. "peewee sets up 'n' takes a look. "'hi, butsy!' he yells, 'come on back here! we weren't laughin' at you!' "but butsy keeps right on a-goin'." the big train the moon had acted as a stimulant to my thoughts, and the contented munching sound as the "string" of horses consumed their hay was not sedative enough to calm my utter wide-awake-ness. "why have you put bars across the door of that stall?" i asked blister jones, trying to rouse him from his placid mood. he pulled a straw from the bale upon which we sat, before replying. "the big train's in there," he said quietly. "no; is that a fact?" i cried, as i jumped to my feet and walked to the door across which were the heavy wooden bars that had attracted my attention. peering through these i could see nothing, nor was there any sound toward which i might have strained my eyes. "i guess he's not at home," i said. "i can't see him." "stick around that door 'n' you'll see him all right!" blister assured me. scarcely had he finished when the straw rustled and a huge head shot forward into the planes of moonlight that slanted between the bars into the black mystery of the stall. never had i seen anything so malevolent as this head. its eyes were green flame, holding the hate of hell in their depths. the mouth was open, and the great white teeth closed with a snap on one of the bars and shook it in its socket. so this was the noted man-killer, nicknamed because of his size and his astonishing ability to carry weight--the big train! his fame had been borne by leaded column beyond the racing, and to the more general public; for on several occasions he had succeeded in furnishing the yellow newspapers with gory copy. he had begun his career as a man-killer in his three-year-old form. an unscrupulous owner had directed the jockey to carry an electric battery during an important race. under the current the big train had run like a wild thing, and despite a staggering load placed on him by the handicapper, had won by many lengths. after the race the stallion had reached back, and getting the jockey's leg between his teeth, had torn him from the saddle. then before a screaming, horror-stricken grand-stand he had stamped the boy into a red waste. this was his first and last public atrocity. he had killed men since, but always when they were alone with him. no one had seen him at his murders. he would have been destroyed when his racing days were over, but he possessed the ability to transmit a large measure of his stamina and speed to his offspring, and was greatly in demand as a sire. i stood before the big train's stall, fascinated by his wicked attempts to get at me until blister's attention was attracted by the thud of the stallion's hoofs against the lower door. "come on back here 'n' set down 'n' let that hoss get his rest,' he ordered. i obeyed. "why on earth did you take him?" i asked, when once more seated on the bale of straw. "well, ole prindle says he'd give fifty bucks a week to the guy who'll handle him 'n' i needs the money . . . fur certain reasons." "fur certain reasons" was added diffidently, i thought. this was an altogether new quality in blister. and i remembered the pretty, spoiled-looking, young girl i had seen with him quite often of late. she was rosy, pouty, slim, enticing and thoroughly aware of how desirable she appeared. blister had told me she was his landlady's daughter, and i knew she lived but a block from the race track. i thought of the head i had seen, and felt certain that fifty _thousand_ a week would not tempt me into an intimate relationship with its owner. "i can't tell you how sorry i am you've taken him--it's a fearful risk," i said. "get out!" said blister. "he won't even muss my hair. i never go in to him alone 'n' he don't like company fur his little stunts. he's a regular family hoss in a crowd." two stable-boys now climbed the track fence and came toward us rather hastily. "been on a vacation?" was blister's greeting to them. "playin' seven-up 'n' tried to finish the game," one of them explained as they started with buckets for the pump. "that's good. it don't matter whether these hosses get watered, just so you swipes enjoy yourselves," blister commented. i watched languidly while the buckets were filled and brought to the horses, until this process reached the barred stall. then i became interested. one of the boys approached the stall with a bucket in one hand and a pitchfork held near the pronged end in the other. he swung open the lower door and whacked the fork handle back and forth inside, yelling harsh commands in the meantime. he succeeded in getting the bucket where the horse could drink, but the pitchfork was seized and twisted and the boy had difficulty in wrenching it away. it was all he could do to regain possession of it. "little pink toes is feelin' like his ole sweet self again," said blister. "i been worried about him--he's seemed so pie-faced here lately." "don't worry none about him," said the boy who had watered the big train. "mama's lamb ain't forgot his cute ways." then he addressed the other boy. "say, chic, you snored somethin' fierce last night! why don't you sleep in here with bright eyes, so's not to disturb me?" "would, only i might thrash around in my sleep 'n' hurt him," promptly replied the other boy. two figures had come from the street, through the gate and strolled down the line of stalls. one of them was feminine, and in white, and as they drew nearer, "good evening, mister jones," floated to us in an assured though girlish voice. it was the landlady's daughter, attended by a cavalier in the person of a stolid young man of german extraction, as i thought at first glance, and this was confirmed by blister's, "let me make you acquainted with miss malloy," and "shake hands with mister shultz." then began the by no means unskilful playing of one lover against the other. she sat, a queen--the bale of straw a throne--and dispensed royal favors impartially; a dimple melting to a smile, a frown changed by feminine magic into a delicious pout. in the moonlight she was exceedingly lovely. she seemed unapproachable, elusive, mysterious, and yet her art touched the material. she contrived to bring out how successful mister shultz was in the bakery business, and in the next breath told nonchalantly of the vast sums acquired by a race-horse trainer. she appealed to blister to corroborate this. "isn't that so, mister jones? didn't you tell me you get fifty dollars a week for training one horse?" blister was not above impressing his rival, it seemed. he nodded to this deceptive question. and since he had nine horses in his "string," the worthy german's eyes bulged. at last i rose to go and our little circle broke up. the girl, with a coquettish good night to me, moved away from us and stood with her back to the stalls, her face lifted to the moon. "good night, ole four eyes!" said blister, and gave my hand a friendly pressure, just as a rattling sound attracted my eyes to the barred stall. the lower door was swinging open. a powerful neck had tossed the bars from their sockets. this was the rattle i had heard, as death came out of that stall, huge and terrible, to rear above the unconscious white figure in the moonlight. my look of horror swung blister about. i saw him dive headlong, and the white figure was knocked to safety as the man-killer's forefeet struck blister down. the rest was a dream . . . i found myself beating with futile fists the giant body that rose and fell as it stamped upon that other body beneath. i knew, but dimly, that the night was pierced by shriek on shriek. and still i felt the rise and fall of the beast. how long it lasted i do not know. . . . . . . a helmeted figure swept me aside, i saw a gleam in the moonlight--a flash, and felt that a shot was fired, although i can not remember hearing it. the big train ceased to rise and fall. he swayed, staggered and crumpled to the ground. "an ambulance--quick!" i said to the heaven-sent policeman; and saw him start for the gate on a lumbering trot. then i stooped to the figure, lying with its head in what the moonlight had changed to a pool of ink. suddenly i felt a woman's soft form beneath my hands. it was in white and it covered that other dreadful figure with its own . . . and moaned. "this won't do," i said to the girl. "let me see how badly he's hurt." she took blister's head in her arms. "go 'way from here! he's dead," she said. "he saved me . . . he's mine! go 'way from here!" a crowd was forming. i sent a stableboy for a blanket, put it under blister's head, despite the girl's protests, and pulled her roughly to her feet. "go over to that bale and sit down!" i ordered, giving her a shake; and to my surprise she obeyed. "sit with her!" i said to the german, and i heard her repeat, "go 'way from here!" as he approached. . . . the ambulance clanged through the gate. the young surgeon put his ear to blister's heart, picked the limp body up unaided and placed it in the somber-looking vehicle. "beat it, max!" he said to the driver. "what hospital?" i called after him. "saint luke's!" he shouted, as they gathered speed. "you had better take her home now," i suggested to mr. shultz. "i am going to the hospital." "so am i," said the girl. "tell mother," she directed at the german, as she started for the gate. "you'd better not go," i remonstrated. "i'll let you know everything as soon as i hear." she paid not the slightest attention. when we reached the street she stopped on the wrong corner waiting for a car that would have taken her away from, instead of toward, the hospital. "you can't go down-town like this!" i said, making a last effort. "look at your dress!" and i pointed to the front of her gown--a bright crimson under the electric light. she looked down at herself and shuddered. "i'll go if it's the last thing i do," she said. "you can save your breath." the car was all but empty. the girl sat staring, dry-eyed, straight before her. a dirty old woman, seeing the set face and blood-stained dress, leaned eagerly across the aisle. "has the young lady been hurt?" she wheezed. "none of your business," said miss malloy. and the old woman subsided at this shaft of plain truth. our ride was half completed when my companion began to speak, in a broken monotone. she addressed no one in particular. if was as though conscience spoke through unconscious lips. "and i've been foolin' with him just like all the rest--i thought it was smart! i never knew, for sure, till back there, and now _he'll_ never know . . . he'll not hear me when i tell it to him." suddenly the monotone grew shrill. "_he'll never hear nothing of what eve found out_!" "quiet! quiet!" i said, and took her hand. "he's only hurt. the doctors will bring him around all right." "no," she said. "i've been foolin' with him. i've been wicked and mean, and it's been sent to punish me." a house surgeon and the engulfing odor of iodoform met us at the door of the emergency ward, whither we were led by a nurse. "we can't tell anything before tomorrow," answered the surgeon to my question. "the pulse is fairly strong, and that means hope." "i must see him," the girl stated. "sorry," said the surgeon, shaking his head. "no visitors allowed in this ward at night." two eyes, big and dark and beseeching, were raised to his. they shone from the white face and plead with him. "oh, doctor . . . _please_!" was all she said, but the eyes won her battle. the nurse joined forces with the eyes. she looked past the surgeon. "very few in here to-night, doctor brandt," she urged. "i wonder what would become of hospital rules if we left it to you nurses!" he protested, as he stepped aside and gently drew the girl within. down the dim aisle between the snowy beds we went, until the surgeon stopped at one, beside which sat a nurse, her fingers on the wrist of the bandaged occupant. one bloodless hand picked feebly at the covering. the girl took this in both her own and pressed it to her cheek. then stooping even lower, she cooed to the head on the pillow. "the big train's pulled in . . ." muttered a far voice from between the bandages. "railroad man--isn't he?" inquired the surgeon of me. "no. a horseman," i replied. "he talks about trains. was it a railroad accident?" "he was injured by a horse called the big train," i explained. "oh--that one," he said, enlightened. "why don't they shoot him?" "they did," i said. "good!" exclaimed the surgeon. "that is fine!" after taking the girl to her home, i sent telegrams to "mr. van," as i had heard blister call him--one to morrisville, new jersey, and one to the union club, new york. judge and mrs. dillon were abroad. when i had telephoned to the hospital the next morning, i went to the office and found a message on my desk. it read: "have everything possible done. send all bills to me. he must come here to convalesce." it was headed morrisville, and was signed, "w. d. van voast." that same day blister was taken to a big, airy, private room with two nurses in attendance. for a time it seemed hopeless. and then the fates decided to spare that valiant whimsical spirit and death drew slowly back. the stallion had been unshod, and to this and the semi-darkness blister owed his life. i had met the girl frequently at the hospital and at last they told us we could see blister for a moment the next day. ten o'clock was the time set and as we sat in the visitor's room together, waiting, she seemed worried. "you should be more cheerful," i said. "the danger is past, or we would not be allowed to see him." "it isn't that," she replied. "i used to like horses. now every horse i see scares me to death." then she hesitated and looked at me timidly. "well," i encouraged, "that's natural, what of it?" "i've been thinking--" she said slowly, "every girl should like what her husb--" she stopped and blushed till she looked like a rose in confusion. "oh, i see what you mean," i said in a matter-of-fact tone. "since you care for blister, you feel that you should also be interested in his profession." "that's it! you say things just right!" she exclaimed gratefully. "you will get over this dread of horses," i assured her. "because there are murderers in the world you do not fear all men. occasionally there are bad horses, just as there are bad people. you shouldn't judge all the splendid faithful creatures who spend their lives serving us, by one vicious brute." "oh, i know that!" she said. "and i'll try as hard as ever i can to get over it." "this is quite a little woman . . . she has developed," i thought. an unknown blister with strange cavernous eyes, lay in the room to which we were presently taken. i stood at the foot of the bed, directly in his line of vision, but he did not seem to recognize me. he looked through and beyond me. at last-- "hello, four eyes!" came feebly from him. slowly he became conscious of the girl's face, looking down into his own. "you here, too?" he questioned. "yes, dear," she said tremblingly. the sight of the poor sick face was too much for her and she knelt hastily to hide the tears. then the round curve of her young bosom was indented by his wasted shoulder as she bent and kissed him on the mouth. a woeful scar across his cheek reddened against the white skin. a flash of the old blister appeared in the hollow eyes. "there's class to that!" he said. the end old man curry race track stories by charles e. van loan * * * * * the books of charles e. van loan _memorial edition_ old man curry stories of the race track with introduction by l. b. yates * * * * * old man curry race track stories by charles e. van loan introduction by l. b. yates new york george h. doran company mcmxix copyright, , by george h. doran company copyright, - , by p. f. collier & son, incorporated printed in the united states of america my dear "purdue" mccormick:-- it is customary to dedicate a book, the author selecting a good natured person to stand sponsor for his work. there are , , people in this country, and i have selected you as old man curry's godfather. when you reflect upon this statistical statement, the size of the compliment should impress you. then too, you love a good horse--i have often heard you say so. you love a good horse in spite of the fact that you once harnessed colonel jack chinn's thoroughbred saddle animal to a trap, the subsequent events producing a better story than any you will find in these pages. nevertheless, my dear sir, they are respectfully, even firmly dedicated to you. yours very sincerely, charles e. van loan to e. o. mccormick, san francisco, cal. introduction by l. b. yates it is one of life's tragedies that as we go along we realize the changes that come upon almost everything with which we used to be associated. and this is noticeable not only in ordinary affairs, whether it be in business or in the home, but it obtrudes itself upon the sports or pastimes which we most affected in the days when some of us had more time or a greater predilection to indulge in them. we so often go back to an old stamping ground expecting to find old friends or to meet the characters which to a great extent added to the charm of local coloring, and nothing disappoints us more than to find that they have all either gone the way of the earth or changed their manner of living and habitat. i think this is brought more forcibly to mind when we view the turf activities of an earlier generation as compared with those more modern, because nowadays the game is played differently all around and doesn't look the same from the viewpoint of one who loved the spectacular and quaint figures that so distinguished what we might call the victorian era of american racing. the sport of emperors has to a great extent become the pastime of king moneybags. and there is no place for ancient crusaders like old man curry, so he has taken the remnants of his stable and gone back to the farm or merged into the humdrum and neutral tinted landscape which always designates the conventional and ordinary. he doesn't fit in any more. the cost of maintaining a racing stable is almost ten times greater than it was in the days when he and his kind went up and down the country making the great adventure. racing has been systematized and ticketed and labeled in such a way that it is only very rich men who can afford to indulge in it. the tracks west of louisville are all closed. the skeleton hand of the gloom distributor has put padlocks on the gates. even if old man curry was with us to-day, his sphere of action would be limited, unless he elected to play a game where the odds would be so immeasurably against him that he would be beaten long before he started. so it is that when charlie van loan went away, he bequeathed to us the records of a peculiar nomadic people which are now almost like the argonauts and whose manner of living and happy-go-lucky ways are but a memory. it is strange that although the turf has always formed a prolific medium for writing people and has lent itself admirably to fiction, very few authors seem to have taken advantage of the opportunities offered. as in other branches of sport, van loan was quick to see this and he gave us story after story of the kind that men love to read and chuckle over and retail to the first man they meet. and so when you peruse the pages of old man curry's book, you will find charlie van loan at his very best. when one says that it means you will follow a trail blazed by one of the most masterly short story writers we ever had. better yet, he writes about real people and they do real believable things. you are not asked to stretch your imagination or endeavor to form an excuse for the happening as portrayed. you will find it all logical and you will be able to follow the old man and the biblically named horses from track to track and from adventure to adventure, until you finally lay the book aside and tell yourself what a bully time you had reading it and how humorous and human and wholly entertaining every page of it was. and to all this i might perhaps add something of my regard for the charlie van loan i knew and how we foregathered and enjoyed the old days when we were brother carpenters on a western newspaper, and how out of the close association of many years i formed an affectionate regard for him and realized how thoughtful and kindly and big in heart and brain he really was. but in life he was not the kind that sought or cared for adulation or fulsome expression of regard either spoken or written. so i had better hark back to the narratives of old man curry and his connections, bidding you enjoy them to the limit, and assuring you that they need no eulogy from me or any one else. they speak for themselves. contents page levelling with elisha playing even for obadiah by a hair the last chance sanguinary jeremiah eliphaz, late fairfax the redemption handicap a morning workout egyptian corn the modern judgment of solomon old man curry levelling with elisha the bald-faced kid shivered as he roosted on the paddock fence, for the dawn was raw and cold and his overcoat was hanging in the back room of a pawnbroker's establishment some two hundred miles away. circumstances which he had unsuccessfully endeavoured to control made it a question of the overcoat or the old-fashioned silver stop watch. the choice was not a difficult one. "i can get along without the benny," reflected the kid, "because i'm naturally warm-blooded, but take away my old white kettle and i'm a soldier gone to war without his gun." in the language of the tack rooms, the bald-faced kid was a hustler--a free lance of the turf, playing a lone hand against owner and bookmaker, matching his wits against secret combinations and operating upon the wheedled capital of the credulous. he was sometimes called a tout, but this he resented bitterly, explaining the difference between a tout and a hustler. "a tout will have six suckers betting on six different horses in the same race. five of 'em have to lose. a tout is guessing all the time, but a hustler is likely to know something. one horse a race is my motto--sometimes only one horse a day, but i've got to know something before i lead the sucker into the betting ring.... what is a sucker? huh! he's a foolish party who bets money for a wise boy because the wise boy never has any money to bet for himself!" picking winners was the serious business of the kid's life, hence the early morning hours and the careful scrutiny of the daybreak workouts. bitter experience had taught the kid the error of trusting men, but up to a certain point he trusted horses. he depended upon his silver stop watch to divide the thoroughbreds into two classes--those which were short of work and those which were ready. the former he eliminated as unfit; the latter he ceased to trust, for the horse which is ready becomes a betting tool, at the mercy of the bookmaker, the owner, and the strong-armed little jockey. "which one are they going to bet on to-day?" was the kid's eternal question. "which one is going to carry the checks?" across the track, dim in the gray light, a horse broke swiftly from a canter into the full racing stride. something clicked in the kid's palm. "got you!" he muttered. his eye followed the horse up the back stretch into the gloom of the upper turn where the flying figure was lost in the deep shade of the trees. one shadow detached itself from the others and appeared at the head of the straightaway. the muffled thud of hoofs became audible, rising in swift crescendo as the shadow resolved itself into a gaunt bay horse with a tiny negro boy crouched motionless in the saddle. a rush, a flurry, a spatter of clods, a low-flying drift of yellow dust and the vision passed, but the bald-faced kid had seen enough to compensate him for the early hours and the lack of breakfast. he glanced at his watch. "old elisha, under wraps and fighting for his head," was his comment. "the nigger didn't let him out any part of the way.... oh, you prophet of israel!" "what did that bird step the three-quarters in?" asked a voice, and the kid turned to confront squeaking henry, also a hustler, and at times a competitor. "dunno; i didn't clock him," lied the kid. "that was old man curry's nigger mose," continued squeaking henry, so-called because of his plaintive whine, "and i was wondering if the horse wasn't elijah. i didn't get a good look at him. maybe it was obadiah or nehemiah. did you ever hear such a lot of names in your life? they tell me old man curry got 'em all out of the bible." the kid nodded. "bible horses are in fine company at this track," chuckled squeaking henry. "i been here a week now, and darned if i can get onto the angles. i guess old man curry is the only owner here who ain't doin' business with some bookmaker or other. look at that king william bird yesterday! he was twenty pounds the best in the race and he come fifth. the jock did everything to him but cut his throat. what are you goin' to do when they run 'em in and out like that?... say, kid, was that elijah or was it another one of them bible beetles? i didn't get a good look at him." the bald-faced kid stole a sidelong glance at squeaking henry. "neither did i," said he. "why don't you ask old man curry which horse it was? he'd tell you. he's just foolish enough to do it." halfway up the back stretch a shabby, elderly man leaned against a fence, thoughtfully chewing a straw as he watched the little negro check the bay horse to a walk. he had the flowing beard of a patriarch, the mild eye of a deacon, the calm, untroubled brow of a philosopher, and his rusty black frock coat lent him a certain simple dignity quite rare upon the race tracks of the jungle circuit. in the tail pocket of the coat was something rarer still--a well-thumbed bible, for this was old man curry, famous as the owner of isaiah, elijah, obadiah, esther, ezekiel, jeremiah, elisha, nehemiah, and ruth. in his spare moments he read the psalms of david for pleasure in their rolling cadences and the proverbs of solomon for profit in their wisdom, which habit alone was sufficient to earn for him a reputation for eccentricity. old man curry clinched this general opinion by entering into no entangling alliances with brother owners, and the bookmaker did not live who could call him friend. he attended strictly to his own business, which was training horses and racing them to win, and while he did not swear, drink liquor, or smoke, he proved he was no puritan by chewing fine-cut tobacco and betting on his horses when he thought they had a chance to win and the odds were to his liking. for the latter he claimed scriptural precedent. "wasn't the children of israel commanded to spile the egyptians?" said he. "wasn't they? well, then! the way i figger it times has changed a lot since then, but the principle's the same. there's some children of israel making book 'round here that need to be spiled a heap worse'n pharaoh ever did." then, after thought: "but you got to go some to spile bad eggs." as the little negro drew near, the blackness of his visage was illuminated by a sudden flash of ivory. elisha snorted and shook his head from side to side. old man curry stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle. "well, mose?" said he. the small rider gurgled as he slipped from the saddle: "nothin' to it, nothin' to it a-a-atall. 'is 'lisha bird, he's ready to fly. yes, suh, he's prepaihed to show all 'em otheh hawsses which way 'is track runs!" "went good, did he, mose?" "good! he like to pull my ahms off, 'at's how good he went! yes, suh, he was jus' buck-jumpin' all 'e way down 'at stretch. 'ey kin all be in front of him tuhnin' fo' to-morreh, an' he'll go by 'em so fas' 'ey won't know which way he went!" old man curry nodded. "elisha ain't no front runner," said he. "he's like his daddy--does all his running in the last quarter. he comes from behind." "sure does!" chirped mose. "all i got to do is fetch him into 'e stretch, swing wide so he got plenty of room to ambulate hisse'f, boot him once in 'e slats, an'--good night _an'_ good-by! ol 'lisha jus' tip his to 'em otheh hawsses an' say: ''scuse me, gen'elmen an' ladies, but i got mos' uhgent business down yondeh 'bout quahteh of a mile; 'em judges waitin' faw me.' 'at's what he say, boss. nothin' to it a-a-atall." "give him plenty of room, mose." "sutny will. won't git me nothin' stickin' on 'at rail. 'em white bu'glahs don't seem to crave me nohow, no time; 'ey jus' be tickled to death to put me an' 'lisha oveh 'e fence if we git clost 'nough to it. yes, indeed; i 'low to give 'is hawss all 'e room whut is on a race track!" old man curry led elisha toward his barn, the little negro trailing behind, addressing the horse in terms of endearment. "you ol' wolf, on'iest way to beat you to-morreh is to saw all yo' laigs off. you as full of run as a hydrant, 'at's whut you are, ain't you, 'lisha?" two horsemen were standing in the door of a feed room as the queer procession passed. they interrupted a low-toned conversation to exchange significant glances. "speak of the devil," said one, "and there he goes now. been working that horse for the last race to-morrow." "it won't get him anything," said the other. "you can forget that he's entered." the first speaker was short and stout, with no personal beauty to be marred by the knife scar which ran from the lobe of his left ear to the point of his chin, a broad, red welt in the blackish stubble of his beard. this was martin o'connor, owner of the sunrise racing stable, sometimes know as grouchy o'connor. his companion was a smooth-faced, dapper, gold-toothed blond, apparently not more than twenty-five years of age. innocence circled his sleek towhead like a halo; good cheer radiated from him in ceaseless waves. his glance was direct and compelling and his smile invited confidences; he seemed almost too young and entirely too artless for his surroundings. the average observer would have pitied him for a lamb among wolves, and the pity would have been misplaced, for al engle was older than he looked by several sinful semesters and infinitely wiser than he had any honest right to be. his frank, boyish countenance was at once a cloak and an asset; it had beguiled many a man to his financial hurt. he was shrewd, intelligent, unscrupulous, and acquisitive; the dangerous head of a small clique of horse owners which was doing its bad best to remove the element of chance from the sport of kings. in his touting days he had been given the name of the sharpshooter and in his prosperity it clung to him. "forget that he's entered, eh?" repeated o'connor. "elisha--elisha--i don't seem to place that horse." "his name used to be silver star," said the sharpshooter. "that dog?" said o'connor, disgustedly. "let's see; wasn't he at butte last season?" "yes. cricket caley owned him." "the little old jock that died last spring?" "same one. this horse silver star was all he had and cricket used to ride him himself. rank quitter. i've seen caley boot and kick and slash this bird until he wore himself out; he'd quit just the same. wouldn't run a lick after he got into the stretch. "then one day cricket slipped him over at a long price. don't know how he did it. hop, most likely. got somebody to bet on silver star at to and took quite a little chunk of money out of the ring. that was caley's last race; he'd been cheating the undertakers for years. before he died he gave the horse to old man curry. they'd been friends, but if a friend of mine gave me a horse like that and didn't throw in a dog collar, he couldn't run fast enough to get away from me. curry put in an application to the jockey club and had the name changed from silver star to elisha. won't have anything but bible names, the old nut! "curry hasn't won with him yet, and i'd hate to be hanging by the neck until he does, because if ever there was a no-account hound masquerading with a mane and tail, it's the one you just saw go by here. he won't gather anything to-morrow. forget him." o'connor hesitated a moment; he was a cautious soul. "might tell grogan and merritt to look after him," he suggested. "no need to. and that bullet-headed little nigger wouldn't like anything better than a chance to holler to the judges. the horse ain't got a chance, i tell you. wouldn't have with the best rider in the world. forget him." "well--just as you say, al. broadsword's good enough to beat him, i reckon." "of course he is! forget this elisha. go on and figure just the same as if he wasn't in the race." the sharpshooter and his friends, through their betting commissioners, backed broadsword from to to even money. the horse was owned by o'connor and ridden by jockey grogan. bald eagle, amphion, and remorseful were supposed to be the contenders, but their riders jogged blithely to the post with broadsword tickets in their bootlegs and riding orders of a sort to make those pasteboards valuable. jockey moseby jones, on elisha, was overlooked when these favours were surreptitiously distributed, but his bootleg was not empty. there was a ticket in it which called for twenty-two dollars in case elisha won--a two-dollar bet at to . it was put there by old man curry just before the bugle blew. "bring him home in front, mose," said the old man. "sutny will!" grinned the negro. "you betting much on him, boss?" "i visited a while with the children of israel," said curry gravely. "remember now--lots of room when you turn for home." "yes, suh. i won't git clost 'nough to 'em scound'els faw 'em do nothin' but say 'heah he comes' an' 'yondeh he goes.' won't slam me into no fence; i'm comin' back by ovehland route!" later o'connor, who had been bidden to forget elisha, remembered him. broadsword led into the stretch by four open lengths, hugging the rail. mose trailed the bunch around the upper turn, brought elisha smartly to the outside, kicked the bay horse in the ribs with his spurs and said: "whut yo' doin' heah? go 'long about yo' business!" jockey grogan, already spending his fifty-dollar ticket, heard warning yells from the rear and sat down to ride, but it was too late. elisha, coming with a tremendous rush, was already on even terms with broadsword. three strides and daylight showed between them. it was all over but the shouting, and there was very little of that, for elisha had few friends in the crowd. "hah!" ejaculated the presiding judge, tugging at his stubby grey moustache. "old man curry put one over on the boys, or i miss my guess. yes, sir, he beat the good thing and spilled the beans. elisha, first; broadsword, second; that thing of engle's, third. serves 'em right! hah!" martin o'connor standing on the outskirts of the betting ring, searching a limited vocabulary for language with which to garnish his emotions, felt a nudge at his elbow. it was the sharpshooter. "go away from me! don't talk to me!" sputtered o'connor. "you make me sick! i thought you said that dog couldn't run! you're a swell prophet, you are, you--you----" al engle smiled as he slipped his binoculars into the case. "i may not be a prophet," said he, "but i'll have one in my barn to-night." "huh?" "oh, nothing, only that's too good a horse for curry to own. i'm going to take elisha away from him." "going to run him up?" "as far as the old man will go." "well, look out you don't start a selling-race war." the sharpshooter sneered. "curry hasn't got nerve enough to fight us," said he. now the "selling race" is an institution devised and created for the protection of owners against owners, the theory being to prevent the running of horses out of their proper class. an owner, entering a selling race, must set a price upon his horse--let us say five hundred dollars. should the horse win, it must be offered for sale at that figure, the owner being given the right to protect his property in a bidding contest. in case the animal changes hands, the original owner receives five hundred dollars, and no more. if the horse has been bid up to one thousand dollars, the racing association shares the run-up with the owner of the horse which finished second. it will readily be seen that this system discourages the practice of entering a two-thousand-dollar horse in a five-hundred-dollar selling race, but it also permits a disgruntled owner to revenge himself upon a rival. some of the bitterest feuds in turf history have grown out of "selling-race wars." little mose brought elisha back into the ring, saluted the judges, and, dismounting, began to unsaddle. old man curry came wandering down the track from the paddock gate where he had watched the race. he was chewing a straw reflectively, and the tails of his rusty black frock coat flapped in the breeze like the garment of a scarecrow. mose, with the saddle, bridle, blanket, and weight pad in his arms, disappeared under the judges' stand where the clerk of the scales weighed him together with his tackle. the associate judge came out on the steps of the pagoda with a programme in his hand. mose bounced into view, handed his tackle to shanghai, curry's hostler, and started for the jockeys' room, singing to himself out of sheer lightness of heart. he knew what he would do with that twenty-two-dollar ticket. there was a crap game every night at the o'connor stable. "all right, judge!" called the clerk of the scales. "shoot!" the associate judge cleared his throat, nodded to old man curry, fingered his programme, and began to speak in a dull, slurring monotone, droning out the formula as prescribed for such occasions: "elisha--winner'v this race--entered to be sold--four hundred dollars---- any bids?" "five hundred!" old man curry, leaning against the top rail of the fence, started slightly and turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. the sharpshooter flashed his gold teeth at him in a cheerful smile. old man curry shrugged his shoulders and rolled the straw from one corner of his mouth to the other. the associate judge looked at him, asking a question with his eyebrows. there was a stir in the crowd about the stand. a bidding contest is always an added attraction. "friend, you don't want this hoss," expostulated old man curry, addressing engle. "he ain't a race hoss; he's a _trick_ hoss. you don't want him." "what about you, curry?" asked the associate judge. "oh, well," said the old man, slowly. "_and_ five." "six hundred!" old man curry seemed annoyed. he combed his beard with his fingers. "_and_ five," said he. "seven hundred!" old man curry took time for reflection. then he sighed deeply. "maybe you want him worse'n i do, friend," said he. "_and_ five." "eight hundred!" old man curry smothered an impatient ejaculation, threw away his straw and ransacked his pockets for his packet of fine-cut. "might as well make it a good one while we're at it," said he. "_and_ five." "one thousand!" said the sharpshooter, his smile broadening. "pretty fair price for a trick horse, eh, curry?" the old man paused with a generous helping of tobacco halfway to its destination. he regarded engle with unblinking gravity. "'the words of his mouth were smoother than butter,' he quoted, 'but war was in his heart.' that's from psalms, young man.... now, it's this way with a trick hoss: a lot depends on whether you know the trick or not.... one thousand!... shucks! now i _know_ you want him worse'n i do!" old man curry hoisted the tails of his coat, thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his trousers, hunched his shoulders level with his ears and turned away. "you ain't quitting, are you?" demanded the sharpshooter. "friend," said old man curry, "i ain't even started yet. it appears upon the face of the returns that you have bought one big, red hoss.... a trick hoss. to show you how i feel about it, i'm going to throw in a bridle with him.... good-by, elisha. the philistines have got ye ... for a thousand dollars." it was dusk and old man curry paced up and down under his stable awning, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed at a meditative angle. the bald-faced kid recalled him to earth by his breezy greeting, and what it lacked in reverence it made up in good will. old man curry and the hustler were friends, each possessing trait which the other respected. "well, old-timer, you put airing your lace curtains a little?" "eh? what? oh, good evening, frank, good evening! i been walking up and down some. you know what it says in ecclesiastes: 'in the day of prosperity be joyful, but in the day of adversity consider.' i been considering." "uh, huh," said the bald-faced kid, falling into step, "and you sure reached out and grabbed some adversity in that third race to-day, what? i had a finnif bet on friend isaiah--my own money, too; that's how good i thought he was. they pretty near bumped the shoes off him in the back stretch and they had him in a pocket all the way to the paddock gate, and even so, he was only beat about the length of your nose. adversity is right!" old man curry nodded. "say," said the kid, lowering his voice, "i just wanted to tell you that next tuesday the engle bunch will be levelling with elisha." curry paused in his stride and eyed the youth intently. "who told you?" said he. "never you mind," said the kid, airily. "i'm a kind of a private information bureau and detective agency 'round this track, and my hours are from twelve to twelve, twice a day. i shake hands with the night watchman when he comes on duty and i'm here to give the milkman the high sign in the morning. they tell me things they've seen and heard. i've got a drag with the bartenders and the waiters in the track café and the telegraph operator is my pal. "now engle has had elisha for two weeks. he's started him three times and elisha hasn't been in the money once. people are saying that when engle bought the horse he didn't buy the prescription that goes with him.... don't interrupt me; everybody knows you never had a hop horse in your barn.... it's my notion that elisha can win any time they get ready to cut him loose for the kopecs. engle has been cheating with him to get a price and using the change of owners for an alibi. they'll get their price the next time out and clean up a barrel of money. you can gamble on this tip. it's straight as gospel." "that's pretty straight, son." old man curry squared his shoulders and looked over the kid's head toward the track, where the empty grand stand loomed dark against the evening sky. "next tuesday!" said he. "just about what i thought ... but tell me, son, why did you bring this to me?" the bald-faced kid laughed harshly. "well, maybe it's because you're the only man 'round here that calls me frank--it's my name and i like to hear it once in a while. maybe it's because you staked me once when i was broke and didn't take my right eye for security. maybe it's because i figure we can both get something out of it for ourselves. if engle is going to cut a melon, we might as well have a knife in it too." "ah!" said old man curry, and he paced the entire length of the barn before he spoke again. "well, you see, son, it's this way about cutting a melon. you want to be sure it ain't green ... or rotten." "huh?" old man curry placed his hand on the kid's shoulder. "my boy," said he, kindly, "you make a living by--by sort of advising folks what to bet on, don't you? if they're kind of halting between two opinions, as the book says, you sort of--help 'em out, eh!" the bald-faced kid grinned broadly. "i guess that's about the size of it," said he. "well, if you've got any reg'lar customers, don't invite 'em to have a slice of engle's melon next tuesday. it might disagree with 'em." "but i don't see how you're going to get away from elisha! he's fit and ready and right on edge. you can throw out his last three races. he's good enough to win without any framing." "i know he is, son. didn't i train him? now you've told me something that i've been trying to find out, and i've told you something you never could find out. don't ask me any more.... no use talking, frank, solomon was a great man. some time i hope to have a race hoss fit to be named after him. i've never seen one yet." "where does solomon get in on this proposition?" demanded the youth. old man curry chuckled. "you don't read him," he said. "solomon wrote a lot of advice that hossmen can use. for instance: 'a prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on and are punished.' i've told you this engle melon ain't as ripe as they think it is. you be prudent and don't ask me how i know." "if the frame-up goes wrong, what'll win?" asked the kid. "well," said the old man, "my hoss elijah's in that same race, but it's a little far for him. i ain't going to bet anything. sometimes it comes handy to know these things." "you spoke an armful then!" said the kid. "well, i've got to be going. i'll keep this under my hat." "so do, son," said old man curry. "so do. good night." the bald-faced kid reflected aloud as he departed. "and some people think that old fellow don't know the right way of the track!" he murmured. "gee! i'd give something to be in with what he's got up his sleeve!" old man curry was still tramping up and down when little mose returned from his nightly foray upon the crap games of the neighbourhood. the boy approached silently and with lagging gait, sure signs that fortune had not been kind to him. when the dice behaved well it was his habit to return with songs and improvised dance steps. "talk 'bout luck!" said he, morosely. "you know 'at flat-foot swede whut swipes faw mist' o'conneh? hungry hanson, 'ey calls him. well, he goes crazy 'ith 'e heat an' flang 'em bones jus' like he's got 'em ejicated. done tossed out nine straight licks, boss. seems to me 'at's mo' luck 'an a swede ought to have!" "mose," said old man curry suddenly, "job was no hossman." "i neveh 'cused him of it," replied mose sulkily. "a hossman wouldn't have wanted his adversary to write a book. if he'd said _make_ a book, now ... but the best way to get square with an adversary is to have him start a hoss in the same race with you, mose." "i'll take yo' word faw it, boss," said mose. "when you go talkin' 'bout job an' sol'mun an' 'em bible folks, you got me ridin' on a track i don't know nothin' 'bout. nothin' a-a-atall." it was tuesday afternoon and little mose was struggling into his riding boots. the other jockeys dressed in the jockeys' room at the paddock inclosure, but mose found it pleasanter to don the silks in the tack room of old man curry's barn, which also served him as a sleeping apartment. the old man sat on the edge of mose's cot, speaking earnestly and slapping the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right, as if to lend emphasis to his words. "the big thing is to get him away from the post. i want elijah out there in front when you turn for home. with his early speed, he ought to be leading into the stretch. elisha will come from behind; engle is smart enough for that. he'll have to pass you somewhere, because elijah will begin to peter out after he's gone half a mile. pull in as close to elisha as you can, but not so close that merritt can claim a foul, and--you know the rest." mose nodded soberly. "sutny do, boss. but i neveh knowed 'at ol' 'lisha----" "that'll do," said old man curry sternly. "there's lots of things you don't know, mose." "yes, suh," said the little negro, subsiding. "quite a many." later the bald-faced kid came to old man curry in the paddock. "elisha looks awful good," said he, "and they're commencing to set in the checks. he opened at to , went up to , and they've hammered him down to to now. i hear they're playing the bulk of their money in the pool rooms all over the coast.... elisha looks as if he could win, eh?" old man curry combed his beard. "you can't always tell by the looks of a melon what's inside it, my son." "engle is telling everybody that the horse ain't quite ready," persisted the hustler. "of course they don't want everybody betting on him and spoiling the price." "he's doing 'em a kindly act without knowing it," said old man curry. "that's 'bout the only way he'll ever do one, frank, unbeknownst like." "you're not betting on this one?" asked the kid. "not a thin dime's worth. it's too far for him." "i give it up." the kid shook his head, hopelessly. "you're too many for me." the presiding judge came out on the platform in front of the stand and watched the horses dance along the rail on their way to the post, coats glistening, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring--one of the prettiest sights the turf offers to its patrons. "merritt on elisha again," said the judge. "merritt. hm-m-m. that young man is entirely too strong in the arms to suit me. it struck me the last three times he rode this horse. but somebody is betting on elisha to-day. that may make a difference, and if it does, we may have to ask mr. sharpshooter engle a few questions." "leave it to him to answer 'em," said the associate judge. "it's the best thing he does. that fellow is like a hickory nut--smooth on the outside, but hard, awfully hard, to get anything out of.... old man curry is in this race with elijah. little far for him, isn't it?" in the very top row of the grand stand grouchy martin o'connor waited for al engle. just as the horses reached the post, the sharpshooter slipped in, breathless and fumbling at the catch of his binocular case. "he was to when i came through the betting ring," said engle. "well, any old price is a good price. he'll roll home." "he better. he owes me something," growled o'connor. "this is where he pays you." "i hope so." "i saw old man curry out in the paddock," and engle smiled at the recollection. "what do you think the old coot said to me?" "what do i care what an old nut says?" "nobody cares, of course, but this was kind of funny. after the horses started for the post he came up to me, solemn as a judge, and says he: 'remember, i told you this was a trick horse.' just like that. they ought to have a look at his head. he's got an attic for rent, sure." "must have. but what does he mean by that trick-horse stuff? he pulled it on you a couple of times when you ran elisha up on him." "darned if i know. i guess that's just his way of kidding.... hello! they're off!" "yes, and that thing of curry's got away flying." "he'll quit about the time he hits the head of the stretch," said engle. "he gets his mail there.... merritt has got elisha in on the rail, taking it easy, as i told him to. believe me, that baby is some stretch runner!" "it cost me enough to find it out!" said o'connor shortly. engle peered through his binoculars. "unless he breaks a leg, or something"--here o'connor hastily knocked wood--"we'll clean up," said engle, critically. "elisha is fighting for his head--wants to run. i don't care where he is, turning for home. he'll run over that bunch in the last quarter." "yes, but look at that elijah go!" muttered o'connor. "let him go!" said engle, with a trace of irritation. "he'll come back; he always does. bet you fifty he's last!" "got you!" snapped o'connor. "you may not know any more about this one than you did about elisha last month!" the dots of colour skimmed around the upper turn, one of them so far ahead that it seemed lonely. this was elijah, burning his early speed, jack-rabbiting ten lengths in front of his field, but beginning to notice his exertions and feel the swift pace. "'lijah," remarked little mose, looking back over his shoulder, "if eveh you finds a race track whut's got a short home stretch in it, you'll be 'notheh roseben. sutny will. on'iest trouble 'ith you, 'lijah, 'em stretches built too _long_ faw you. put 'e judges' stand up heah whah we is now, an' yo' neveh lose a race!... uh, huh! heah come 'lisha now; 'em otheh jocks lettin' him th'ough on 'e rail.... come on, honey blossom! we's waitin' faw you. come on!" said the presiding judge: "that thing in front is quitting to nothing ... and here comes elisha through on the rail.... yes, he's a real race horse to-day. better see engle about this. have to teach him that he can't run his horses in and out at this track!" said al engle: "what did i tell you? running over horses, ain't he? he'll have that elijah grabbed in a few more jumps.... take it easy, merritt! don't win too far with him!" martin o'connor heaved a great sigh of relief. like all cautious souls, he never ceased to worry until the last doubt was dispelled. the weary, staggering elijah was the only barrier between elisha and the goal. o'connor's practiced eye saw no menace in that floundering front runner; no danger in a shaft already spent. "he wins! he wins easy!" breathed martin. "just rolls home, i tell you!" said the sharpshooter, putting away his binoculars. "i knew he would." by leaps and bounds the stretch-running elisha overhauled his former stable companion. poor, tired elijah was rocking in his gait, losing ground almost as fast as elisha was gaining it; his race was behind him; he could do no more. mose, keeping watch out of the tail of his eye, saw the bay head bobbing close behind. now it was at elijah's heels; the next stride would bring it level with the saddle.... the next stride. all that anyone ever saw was that jockey moseby jones leaned slightly toward the flying elisha as merritt drew alongside, and very few spectators saw this much. who cares to watch a loser when the winner is in sight? old man curry, waiting at the paddock gate, saw the movement and immediately began to search his pockets for tobacco. jockey merritt, strong of arm but weak of principle, was first to realize that something had happened. elisha's speed checked with such suddenness that the rider narrowly escaped pitching out of the saddle.... had the horse stumbled ... or been frightened?... what in the world was it?... merritt recovered his balance and quite instinctively drove the spurs home; the only response was a grunt from elisha. the long racing stride shortened to a choppy one. the horse was not tired, nor was he quitting in the general acceptance of the term; he was merely stopping to a walk with all possible speed. merritt was seized with panic. he drew his whip and began slashing savagely. elisha answered this by waving his tail high in the air, a protest and a flag of truce--but run he would not. his pace grew slower and slower and at the paddock gate he was on even terms with the drooping elijah. "what ails that horse?" demanded the presiding judge. "he won't run a lick! acts as if he's taken a sulky streak all at once!" "yes," said the associate. "the bible horses are having a contest to see which one of 'em can quit the fastest.... queer-looking race, judge. and they bet on elisha this time, too." "i'm glad of it!" exploding the other. "it serves 'em right. i like to see a frame-up go wrong once in a while!" side by side elijah and elisha fell back toward the field, little mose grinning from ear to ear, but industriously hand riding his mount; jockey merritt cursing wildly and plying rawhide and steel with all his strength. the other horses, coming on with a closing rush, enveloped the pair, passing them and continued on toward the wire. only one remark of martin o'connor's is fit for quotation. it came when his vocabulary was bare of vituperation, abusive epithet, and profanity. "you can slip me fifty, engle. that darned trick horse of yours was last!" an inquisitive soul is an itching thing and the gathering of information was the bald-faced kid's ruling passion. he called at old man curry's stable that evening with a bit of news which he hoped to use as the key to a secret. "greetings!" said he at the tack-room door. "thought you'd like to know that engle has sold elisha. pete lawrence bought him for three hundred dollars. engle says that's two-ninety-five more than he'd bring at a soap works." old man curry had been reading by the light of the tack-room lantern; he pushed his glasses back on his forehead and smiled at his informant. "oh, elisha!" said he. "yes, if you look in the second stall to the right, you'll find him. he's been straying among the publicans and sinners, but he's home again now where he belongs. i asked pete to go over and buy him for me." "good work!" said the kid, seating himself. "there's quite a mass meeting over at engle's barn." "so?" said old man curry. "yes indeed! they've got jock merritt up on the carpet and they haven't decided yet whether to hang him to a rafter or boil him in oil. some of 'em think he pulled elisha to-day. merritt is giving 'em a powerful argument. says he never rode a harder finish in his life, but that the horse took a sudden notion to quit and did it. didn't seem to be tired or anything, but just stopped running. o'connor gets the floor once in a while and rips and raves about that 'trick-horse thing.' he thinks you know something. engle says you don't and never did, but that elisha is a dog, same as he said at first. wouldn't surprise me none if they got into a free-for-all fight over there because they're all losers and all sore. jock merritt is sorer'n anybody; he bet some of his own money and he thinks they ought to give it back to him.... now, just between friends, what happened to that horse to-day? you told me he wouldn't win, but at the head of the stretch he looked like a to chance. i thought he'd walk in. then all at once he quit running. he wasn't pulled, but something stopped him and stopped him quick. what was it?" old man curry stroked his beard and regarded the bald-faced kid with a tolerant expression. "well, now," said he at length, "seeing as how you know so much, i'm going to tell you something more 'bout that 'lisha hoss. he used to have another name once." "silver star," nodded the kid. "i looked him up in the form charts." old man curry nodded. "eddie caley--him they called the cricket--owned the hoss in the first place. raised him from a yearling. now understand, i ain't excusing the cricket for what he done, and i ain't blaming him neither. he was sick most of the time, and a sick man gets his notions sort of twisted like. maybe he figured the race track owed him something for taking away his health. i don't know. he wasn't no hand to talk. "anyhow, he had this one hoss and always the one idea in his head--to slip him over at such a long price that he could clean up enough to quit on. caley was doing his own training and riding. i kept an eye on the hoss, and it seemed to me silver star worked good enough to win, but every time he got in a race he'd quit at the head of the stretch. that struck me as sort of queer because he come from stretch-running stock. his daddy was a great one to win from behind. well, six or seven times silver star quit that way, and from the head of the stretch home the cricket would lay into him, whip and spur both. wouldn't make the slightest difference to the hoss, but everybody could see that caley was doing his best to make him run. folks got kind of sorry for him, sick that way, only one hoss and him such a dog. "then one day caley came to me and wanted the loan of some money. he said the price had got long enough to suit him, but that he didn't have anything to bet. happened i had the bank roll handy and i let him have two hundred. i can see the little feller now, with the red patches on his cheeks and his eyes kind of shining with fever. "'this is the biggest cinch that ever came off on a race track!' he says to me, coughing every few words. 'don't let the price scare you. don't let anything scare you. he'll be a good hoss to-day. win something for yourself.' "it's this way 'bout me: i've heard that kind of talk before. when i bet, it's got to be on my own hoss. i thought two hundred was plenty to lose. silver star was and to all over the ring and a friend of caley's unloaded the two hundred in little driblets so's nobody would get suspicious and cut the price too far. the cricket got out of a sick bed to ride the race and silver star came from behind and won by seven lengths. could have made it seventeen easy as not. i reckon everybody was glad to see caley win--everybody but the bookmakers, but they hadn't any right to kick, seeing as he beat a red-hot favourite. "caley went to bed that night and didn't get up any more. i used to read to him when he couldn't sleep. maybe that's how he come to give me the hoss, along with a little secret 'bout him." old man curry paused, tantalisingly, and rummaged in his pockets for his fine-cut. the bald-faced kid squirmed on his chair. "it was a trick that nobody but a jockey would ever have thought of, son. caley taught the colt to stop whenever a certain word was hollered in his ear. dinged it into him, morning after morning, until silver star got so's he'd quit as soon as he heard it, like a buggy hoss stops when you say 'whoa' to him. best part of the trick, though, was that all the whipping and spurring in the world couldn't get him to running again. caley taught him that for his own protection. it gave him an alibi with the judges. couldn't they see he was riding the hoss as hard as he knew how? i don't say it was exackly _honest_, but----" "oho!" interrupted the bald-faced kid, "now i know why you had a front runner in that race! between friends, old-timer, what was it mose hollered at elisha when he came alongside?" "well," said old man curry, "that's the secret of it, my son, and it's this way 'bout a secret: you can't let too many folks in on it. i reckon it was a word spoken in due season, as solomon says. elisha, he won't hear it again unless he changes owners." playing even for obadiah old man curry, owner of race horses, looked out of his tack-room door at a streaming sky and gave thanks for the rain. other owners were cursing the steady downpour, for a wet track would sadly interfere with their plans, but curry expected to start the chestnut colt obadiah that afternoon, and obadiah, as jockey moseby jones was wont to remark, was a mud-running fool on any man's track. the bald-faced kid, who lived by doing the best he could and preferred to be called a hustler rather than a tout, spoke from the tack-room interior. he was a privileged character at the curry barn. "how does she look, old-timer? going to clear up by noon?" old man curry shook his head. "well, no," said he. "i reckon not. looks to me like reg'lar noah weather, frank. if a man's got a mud hoss in his barn, now's the time to start him." the bald-faced kid grunted absently. he was deep in a thick, leather-backed, looseleaf volume of past performances, technically known as a form book, generally mentioned as "the dope sheets"--the library of the turf follower, the last resort and final court of appeal. the kid's lower lip had a studious droop and the pages rustled under his nervous fingers. an unlighted cigarette was behind his ear. "what you looking for, son?" "i'm trying to make gaspargoo win his race to-day. he's in there with a feather on his back, and there'll be a price on him. he's been working good, too. he quits on a dry track, but in the mud he's liable to go farther. his old feet won't get so hot." curry peered over the kid's shoulder at the crowded columns of figures and footnotes, unintelligible to any but the initiated, and supposedly a complete record of the racing activities of every horse in training. "hm-m-m. some folks say solomon didn't write ecclesiastes. some say he did--after he got rid of his wives." the bald-faced kid laughed. "you and your solomon! well, get it off your chest! what does he say now?" "i think it must have been solomon, because here's something that sounds just like him: 'of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.' it would weary a mule's flesh to study them dope books, frank. there's so many things enter into the running of hosses which ought to be printed in 'em and ain't. for instance, take that race right in front of you." the old man put his finger upon the page. "i remember it well. here's engle's mare, sunflower, the favourite and comes fourth. ab mears wins it with the black hoss, anthracite. six to one. what does the book say 'bout sunflower's race?" the kid read the explanatory footnote. "'sunflower, away badly, and messed about the first part of the journey; had no chance to catch the leaders, but closed strong under the whip.'" "uh-huh," said old man curry. "good as far as it goes, but that's all. might as well tell a lie as part of the truth. why not come right out with it and say that engle was betting on anthracite that day and the boy on sunflower rode the mare to orders? that's what happened. engle and mears and o'connor and weaver and some of the rest of 'em run these races the night before over in o'connor's barn. they get together and then decide on a caucus nominee. why not put that in the book?" "speaking of mears," said the bald-faced kid, "he thinks he'll win to-day with whitethorn." "well," said the old man, "i'll tell you, frank; it's this way 'bout whitethorn; he'll win if he can beat obadiah. the colt's ready and this weather suits him down to the ground. he surely does love to run in the slop. only bad thing 'bout it, engle and weaver are both in that race, and since i trimmed that gang of pirates with elisha they've had it in for me. their jockeys act like somebody's told 'em there's an open season on my hosses. they bump that little nigger of mine every chance they get. pretty near put him into the fence twice last week." "why don't you holler to the judges?" "they haven't done any real damage, son. and here's another angle: these judges won't give a nigger any the best of it on a claim of foul agin a white boy. my mose is the only darky rider here, and the other boys want to drive him out. between engle and his gang after me, and the jockeys after mose, we got our hands full." "i'll bet. going to gamble any on obadiah to-day?" "if i like the price. none of the bookmakers here will ever die of enlargement of the heart. if obadiah is shorter than three to one, he'll run for the purse alone. the hoss that beats him on a sloppy track will know that he's been going some." it happened just beyond the half-mile pole, in a sudden flurry of wind and rain. the spectators, huddling under the grand-stand roof, saw the horses dimly as through a heavy mist. the colours were indistinguishable at the distance, drenched and sodden. "hello!" said the presiding judge, who had been wiping his field glasses. "one of 'em went down! what happened?" "don't know," replied the associate judge. "i was watching that thing in front--whitethorn.... yes, and that horse is hurt, major.... the boy is all right, though. he's on his feet." "it's old man curry's horse," said the other. "obadiah--and i sort of figured him the contender in this race, too.... the boy has got him.... looks like a broken leg to me.... too bad.... better send an officer over there." before the judges knew that anything had happened a shabby, bearded old man in a rusty black frock coat dodged across the track from the paddock gate and splashed hurriedly through the infield. old man curry never used binoculars; he had the eyes of an eagle. "been looking for it to happen every day!" he muttered. "and a right likely colt, too. the skunks! the miserable little skunks!" whitethorn, the winner of the race, was back in the ring and unsaddled before the old man reached the half-mile pole. jockey moseby jones, plastered with mud from his bullet head to his boots, shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt, clung to obadiah's bridle. "now, honey, you jus' stan' still!" he was saying. "jus' stan' still an' we git yo' laig fixed up in no time; no time a-a-a-tall." the colt stood with drooping head, drumming on the ground with the crippled foreleg; from time to time the unfortunate animal shivered as with a violent chill. old man curry knelt in the mud, but rose almost immediately; one glance at the broken leg was enough. he looked at the little negro. "how did it happen, mose?" "jockey murphy done it, boss. he was on 'at thing of weaver's." "a-purpose?" "sutny he done it a-purpose. he cut in on us an' knocked us agin the rail. come from 'way outside to do it." old man curry began to take the saddle off the colt. a tall man in a rubber coat, gum boots, and a uniform cap arrived on the scene, panting after his run from the grand stand. he looked at obadiah's leg, sucked in his breath with a whistling sound more expressive than words, and faced old man curry. "want the 'vet' to see him?" asked the newcomer. "no use in him suffering that long," said the old man dully. "he's ruined. might as well get it over with." jockey moseby jones wailed aloud. "oh, don' let 'em shoot obadiah, boss!" he pleaded. "i'll take keer o' him; i'll set up nights 'ith him. can't you splint it? ain't there nothin' we kin do fo' him?" "only one thing, mose," said old man curry. "it's a kindness, i reckon." he passed the bridle to the uniformed stranger. "don't be too long about it," said he. the colt, gentle and obedient to the last, hobbled off the track toward a sheltering grove of trees near the upper turn. custom decrees that the closing scene of a turf tragedy shall not be enacted within sight of the grand stand. two very young stableboys followed at a distance. "run away, kids," said the tall man, fumbling at his hip pocket. "you don't want to see this." old man curry strode along the track, his shoulders squared, his face stern and his eyes blazing with the cold rage which sometimes overtakes a patient man. little mose trailed at his heels, whimpering and casting scared glances behind. after a time they heard the muffled report of a pistol. "he's out of his misery, sonny," said the old man. "it's the best way--the best way--and now i want you to tell them judges just how it happened." but jockey murphy had already told his story, ably seconded by his friends, grogan and merritt. these boys had been interviewed by racing judges before and, consequently, were not embarrassed. "judges--gentlemen," said murphy, cap in hand--a vest-pocket edition of a horseman, freckled, blue-eyed, and bow-legged--"this was how it happened: that little nigger nearly spilled the whole bunch of us, tryin' to cut acrost to the rail goin' into the turn. we yelled at him, and he kind of lost his head--tried to yank his hoss around and down he went. awful slippery over there, judges. i had to pull up with fieldmouse, and couldn't get her to going again. she's a mean, skulking mare, and won't run a lick after she's been interfered with.... who else saw it? why, merritt was right there somewheres, and so was grogan. they're all that i'm sure of. you might ask 'em whether the nigger cut acrost or not. he's an awful reckless little kid, and he'll kill somebody yet if he ain't more careful." grogan and merritt, called in support of this statement, perjured themselves like jockeys, and there was no conflicting note in the testimony. mose, coming late, told his story, but the judges were swayed by the preponderance of evidence. it was three against one, and that one a very poor witness, for mose was overawed by his surroundings and contradicted himself several times out of pure fright. in the end he was allowed to go with a solemn warning to be more careful in the future. when this word was brought to old man curry he lumbered heavily up the steps and into the judges' stand, where he refused a chair and delivered himself standing, the water dripping in tiny puddles from the skirt of his long black coat. "gentlemen," said he, "you're barking up the wrong tree. i've been expecting something like this ever since the meeting opened. my little boy can't ride a race 'thout interference from these rascals that take their orders from engle and his bunch. they've tried a dozen times to put him over the fence, and now they've killed a good hoss for me. i ain't going to stand it. i----" "but the other boys all say----" "great king!" interrupted the old man wrathfully. "of course they do! told you the same identical story, didn't they? ain't that proof they're lying? did you ever see three honest people that could agree when they was trying to tell the truth 'bout an accident? did you?" quite naturally the judges were inclined to regard this as a reflection upon their official conduct. old man curry was reprimanded for his temerity, and descended from the stand, his beard fairly bristling with righteous indignation. little mose followed him down the track toward the paddock; he had to trot to keep up with the old man's stride. "might have knowed they'd team up agin us," said the negro. "them irish jockeys had a story all cooked to tell." old man curry did not open his mouth until he reached his tack-room, and then it was only to stuff one cheek with fine-cut tobacco--his solace in times of stress. after reflection he spoke, dropping his words slowly, one by one. "weaver and murphy and engle.... it says in ecclesiastes that a threefold cord is not easily broken, but i reckon it might be done, one cord at a time.... well, mose, they've made us take the medicine!" "sutny did!" chirped the little negro. "but they'll never git us to lick the spoon!" the bald-faced kid often boasted that everybody's business was his business--a large contract on any race track of the jungle circuit. his stop watch told him what the horses were doing, and stableboys, bartenders, and waiters told him what their owners were doing, the latter vastly more important to the kid. at all times he used his eyes, which were sharp as gimlets. thus it happened that he was able to give old man curry a bit of interesting information. "considering what these birds, weaver and murphy, did to you last week," said the kid, "i don't suppose you'd fight a bulldog for 'em, or anything like that?" "eh? what bulldog?" old man curry could never keep abreast of the vernacular. "getting down to cases," said the kid, "you're laying for weaver and murphy, ain't you?" "i ain't said so in that many words," was the cautious response. "you ain't going to let 'em kill a good colt for you and get away with it, are you? weaver was only in that race to take care of obadiah. eagle's gang was down hook, line, and sinker on whitethorn, and they cleaned up. obadiah was the one they was leery of, so weaver put fieldmouse in the race and told murphy to take care of you. it's simple as a, b, c. wouldn't you get back at 'em if you had a chance?" "i ain't signed any peace documents as i know of," said the old man, a smouldering light in his eye. "now you're talking!" said the kid. "if you want to catch weaver and murphy dead to rights, i can tell how to go about it." "so do, frank," said old man curry. "so do. my ear is open to your cry." "in the first place," said the kid, lighting a cigarette, "i don't suppose you know that weaver has been stealing weight off his horses ever since this meeting opened." "with parker, the clerk of the scales?" ejaculated the old man. "i've heard that couldn't be done." the bald-faced kid chuckled. "a smart owner can do anything," said he, "and weaver's smart. at these other tracks, stealing weight off a horse is the king of indoor sports, and they mostly work it through a stand-in with the clerk of the scales; but you're right about this fellow parker. he's on the level, and they can't get at him. a jock has got to weigh in and weigh out on the dot when parker is on the job. he won't let 'em get by with the difference of an ounce." "then how----" began old man curry. "there you go, busting through the barrier! weaver is pulling the wool over parker's eyes. now here's what i saw yesterday: weaver had exmoor in the third race, supposed to be carrying one hundred and ten pounds. jock murphy ain't much bigger'n a rabbit--tack and all, he won't weigh ninety-five. that would make, say, fifteen pounds of lead in the weight pad. murphy got on the scales and was checked out of the jock's room at one hundred and ten, all square enough, but when weaver saddled exmoor he left the weight pad off him entirely--slipped it to that big nigger swipe of his--chicken liver pete, they call him." "i know him," said old man curry. "everybody knows him," said the kid. "well, chicken liver put the weight pad under the blanket that he was carrying to throw over the horse after the race. exmoor won yesterday, but he didn't carry an ounce of lead." "but how did murphy make the weight after he finished?" demanded the old man. "easiest thing in the world!" said the kid. "while murphy was unsaddling the horse, chicken liver was right at his elbow, and both of 'em had their backs to the judges. it looked natural enough for the nigger to be there--waiting to blanket the horse the minute the saddle came off of him. all murphy had to do was grab under the blanket with one hand while he jerked the saddle off the horse with the other--and there he was, ready to weigh one hundred and ten. i'll bet those two fellows have rehearsed that switch a thousand times. they pulled it off so slick that if i hadn't been watching for it i could have been looking right at 'em and never noticed it. and the judges didn't have the chance that i did, because they couldn't see anything but their backs. murphy pranced in, hopped on the scales, got the o. k., and that was all there was to it. pretty little scheme, ain't it? and so darned simple!" old man curry combed his beard with both hands--with him a sign of deep thought. "frank," said he at length, "where does this chicken liver nigger go while the race is being run?" "across the track to the infield. that was where he went yesterday. i was watching him." "the infield.... hm-m-m.... thank you, frank." "you could tip it off to the judges," suggested the kid, "and they'd have chicken liver searched. like as not they'd rule weaver off for life and set murphy down----" "there's a better way than searching that nigger," said old man curry. "you'll have to show me!" "son," said the aged owner, "according to solomon--and, oh, what a racing judge he would have made!--'he that hath knowledge spareth his words.' i'm sparing mine for the present, but that won't keep me from doing a heap of thinking.... engle, weaver, and murphy.... maybe i can bust two of these cords at once--and fray the other one a little." four men sat under the lantern in martin o'connor's tack-room on a wednesday night. they spoke in low tones, for they were engaged in running the fourth race on thursday's programme. "i've let it be known in a few places where it'll do the most good that the mare can't pack a hundred and fifteen pounds and win at a mile." this was weaver speaking, a small, wiry man with a drooping moustache. "you know how talk gets around on a race track--tell the right man and you might as well rent the front page of the morning paper. as a matter of fact, fieldmouse _can't_ pack that weight and win." "that's the way the form students will dope it out," said al engle, otherwise the sharpshooter, the smiling, youthful, gold-toothed blond who directed the campaigns and dictated the policy of the turf pirates. "that much weight will stop most of 'em, but let her in there under ninety pounds and fieldmouse is a cinch. that little sleight-of-hand stunt between murphy and your nigger is working fine. they not only put it over on the judges, but none of the other owners are wise. i'd try it myself some day if i wasn't afraid somebody would fumble and give the snap away." "huh!" growled the saturnine o'connor. "needn't worry about tipping anything off to them judges. they're both blind. here's what bothers me: old man curry is in that same race with isaiah." "well, what of that?" said engle. "that old fool is all same as a nightmare to you, ain't he?" "call him a fool if you want to," was the stubborn rejoinder, "but he made an awful sucker out of you with that trick horse of his. an awful sucker. if old man curry is a fool, there's a lot of wise people locked up in the bug houses. that's all i've got to say!" "he's had your goat ever since the meeting opened," grinned the sharpshooter. "that's all right," said o'connor. "that's a whole lot better than my buying a goat from him--for a thousand dollars." this by way of reminding the sharpshooter of something which he preferred to forget. engle reddened. "aw, what's the good of chewing the fat?" interrupted the fourth man briskly. this was ab mears, of whom it was said that he trained his horses to look into the betting ring on their way to the post and to run in accordance with the figures they saw upon the bookmakers' slates. "let's not have any arguments, boys. all little pals together, eh?... now, getting down to business, as the fellow said when he was digging the well, isaiah is a pretty shifty old selling plater when he's at himself; but you know and i know that the best day he ever saw he couldn't beat fieldmouse at a mile with a feather on her back. she'll walk home alone. the most isaiah can do is to come second----" "he'll be lucky if he does that well," interrupted engle. "the mare will be in front of him all the way.... same old stuff; wait for the closing betting. weaver, you keep on hollering your head off about the weight; it'll scare the outsiders and they won't play her. then, at the last minute, cut loose and load up the books with all they'll take." "just the same," muttered o'connor, "i'd feel a lot more comfortable if curry wasn't in the race. that old boy is poison, that's what he is. the last couple of times----" "oh, shut up!" rasped engle. "elisha was the horse he trimmed us with--elisha! get that through your head. this is isaiah. there's as much difference in horses as there is in prophets. what you need is one of those portable japanese foot warmers." the paddock is the place to go for information, particularly after the saddling bell rings. the owners are usually on exhibition at that time. nearly every owner will answer a civil question about his horse; once in a great while one of them may answer truthfully. in this particular race we are concerned with but two owners, one of whom told the truth. weaver, rat-eyed and furtive, answered all questions freely--almost too freely. "ye-es, she's a right nice little mare, but they've weighted her out of it to-day. she can't pack a hundred and fifteen and win.... that much lead will stop a stake horse. better stay off her to-day. some other time." old man curry, grave and polite, also answered questions. "isaiah? oh, yes. well, now, sir, i'll tell you 'bout this hoss of mine. i figure he's got a stavin' good chance to come second--a stavin' good chance.... no, he won't be first." just before the bugle blew, mose received his riding orders. "if that mare of weaver's gets away in front, don't you start chasing her. no use in running isaiah's head off trying to ketch her. i want you to finish second, understand? isaiah can beat all these other hosses. don't pay no 'tention to the mare. let her go." little mose nodded. "'at fieldmouse is sutny a goin' fool when 'ey bet stable money on huh," said he. "let 'at ole mare go, eh?" "exackly," said the old man, "but be sure you beat the rest of 'em." "fieldmouse an' murphy," said mose. "huh-uh! 'at's a bad combination fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'membeh obadiah?" the bald-faced kid strolled into isaiah's stall. "chicken liver's got it," he whispered. "i saw weaver pass it to him." "that's what i've been waiting for, frank," said old man curry. "here, shanghai! you lead him out on the track. i've got business with the children of israel." the fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and the block men were busy with their erasers. each time the mare's price went down, isaiah's price went up a little. old man curry drew out a tattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting on his horse at four to one. "think you've got a chance to-day, old man?" it was the sharpshooter, smiling like a cherub. "well, now," said curry, "i'll tell you 'bout me; i'm always trying, so i've always got a chance. looks like the weight ought to stop the mare." "that's so," said engle. "betting much?" "quite considerable for me, yes. isaiah ain't a trick hoss, but he----" "oh, you go to the devil!" said engle. but old man curry crossed the track instead. his first care was to locate the negro known as chicken liver; this done, he watched the start of the race. nine horses were lined up at the barrier, and at least six of the jockeys were manoeuvring for a flying start. the official starter, a thick-set man with a long twisted nose, bellowed loudly from time to time. "no! no! you can't break that way!... you, murphy! i'll fine you in a minute!... get back there, grogan! what did i tell you, murphy?... bring that horse up slow! _bring him up!_ no! no! you can't break that way!" isaiah stood perfectly still in the middle of the track; on either side of him the nervous animals charged at the barrier or whirled away from it in sudden, wild dashes. the starter's voice grew husky and his temper hot, but at last the horses were all headed in the right direction, if only for the fraction of a second. jockey murphy, scenting a start, had fieldmouse in motion even as the elastic webbing shot into the air; she was in her racing stride as the starter's voice blared out: "you're off! go on! _go on!_" the mare, always a quick breaker, rushed into the lead, murphy taking her on an easy slant to the inner rail. isaiah, swinging a bit wide on the first turn, settled down to work, and at the half-mile pole was leading the pursuit, taking the dust which fieldmouse kicked up five lengths in front. chicken liver, watching murphy skim the rail into the home stretch, shuffled his feet in an ecstasy of exultation. "come home, baby!" he shouted. "come 'long home! you de bes' li'l ole hawss--_uh!_" something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of chicken liver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt. old man curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of a forty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the third button of chicken liver's vest would have been had he owned such a garment. "drop that weight pad, nigger, or i'll blow you inside out! _drop it!_" chicken liver leaped backward with a howl of terror. the next instant he was well on his way to the weaver barn, supplication floating over his shoulder. "don't shoot, misteh! fo' de lawd's sake, don't shoot!" old man curry picked up the weight pad and started for the gate. he arrived in time to see the smile on murphy's face as he swung under the wire, three lengths in front of isaiah, the other horses trailing far in the rear. murphy was still smiling broadly when he brought fieldmouse back into the chalked circle, a privileged space reserved for winners. "judges!" piped the jockey shrilly, touching the visor of his cap with his whip. receiving the customary nod, murphy slid to the ground and attacked the cinch. it was then that chicken liver should have stepped forward with his blanket--then that the deft transfer should have taken place, but chicken liver, where was he? murphy's anxious eyes travelled around the wide circle of owners and hostlers, and his smile faded into a nervous grin. now, after each race a few thousand impatient people must wait for the official announcement--the one, two, three, without which no tickets can be cashed--and the official announcement must wait upon the weighing of the riders. for this reason no time is wasted in the ceremony. "hurry up, son," said the presiding judge. "we're waiting on you." murphy fumbled with the strap, playing desperately for time. as he tugged, his eyes were searching for the missing negro. he caught one glimpse of weaver's face, yellow where it was not white; he, too, was raking the horizon for chicken liver. "what's the matter with you, murphy?" demanded the judge. "do you want help with that tack?" "no, sir," faltered the jockey. "th-this thing sticks somehow. i'll git it in a minute. i----" old man curry marched through the ring and up the steps to the platform of the judges' stand, and when weaver saw what he carried in his hand he became a very sick man indeed--and looked it. al engle backed away into the crowd and martin o'connor followed him, mumbling incoherently. "maybe this is what murphy is waiting for, judges," said old man curry with marked cheerfulness. "maybe he don't want to git on the scales without it." "eh?" said the presiding judge. "what is that?" "looks like a weight pad to me," said old man curry, "with quite a mess of lead in it. yes, it _is_ a weight pad." "where did you get it?" "well," said the old man, "i'll tell you 'bout that: weaver's nigger had it smuggled under a blanket, but he dropped it and i picked it up. maybe weaver thought the nigger was a better weight packer than the mare. i don't know. maybe----" "young man," commanded the presiding judge, "that'll do you. take your tackle and get on the scales. lively now!" murphy cast one despairing glance about him and slouched to his undoing. the judge, weight pad in hand, followed him into the weighing room underneath the stand. he was back again almost instantly, and his voice had an angry ring. "change those numbers!" said he. "the mare is disqualified. isaiah, first; rainbow, second; put the fourth horse third. mr. weaver, come up here, sir! and where's that nigger? i want him too. murphy, i'll see you later.... don't go away, mr. curry. i need you." "that's what i call getting hunk with a vengeance, old-timer." thus the bald-faced kid, at the door of old man curry's tack-room. "you cleaned up right, didn't you? weaver's ruled off for life, and his horses with him--he can't even sell 'em to another stable. murphy's lost his license. chicken liver's out of a job. engle and his bunch are in the clear, but they lost a lot of money on the mare. regular old blunderbuss, ain't you? didn't miss anybody." "son," said old man curry, removing his spectacles, "solomon had it right. he says: 'whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.' weaver dug one big enough to hold his entire stable. and that reminds me: i bet fifty dollars for you to-day, and here's the two hundred. run it up if you can, but remember what solomon says about that: 'he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.'" "i'll take a chance," said the bald-faced kid, reaching for the money. by a hair "son," said old man curry, "what's on your mind besides your hat? you ain't said a word for as much as two minutes, and any time you keep still that long there must be something wrong." the bald-faced kid's glance rested for an instant upon the kindly features of the patriarch of the jungle circuit, then flickered away down the line of stables where other horsemen and race-track followers were sunning themselves and waiting the summons to the noon meal. old man curry, his eyes half closed, a straw in the corner of his mouth, and the brim of his slouch hat resting upon the bridge of his nose, seemed not to be conscious of this brief but piercing scrutiny. as usual with him, there was about this venerable person a beguiling air of innocence and confidence in his fellow man, a simple attitude of trustfulness not entirely borne out by his method of handling a racing stable. certain dishonest horsemen and bookmakers were beginning to suspect that old man curry was smarter than he looked. the bald-faced kid had never entertained any doubts upon this subject. he remained silent, the thin edge of a grin playing about his lips. "i hope you ain't been trying to show any tinhorn gamblers the error of their ways by ruining 'em financially," said the old man, one drowsy eye upon the kid's face. "that's one of the things what just naturally can't be done. steady growth is the thing to fat a bank roll, frank. i'm about to tell you how you can multiply yours considerable. last time you was here you had two hundred dollars, spoiled egyptian money----" "oh, i guess it wasn't so darn badly spoiled at that!" interrupted the kid. "i didn't have any trouble getting rid of it." he grinned sheepishly. "your friend solomon called the turn on the get-rich-quick stuff. 'he that maketh haste'--what's the rest of it, old-timer?" "'he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent,'" quoted old man curry, rolling out the syllables in sonorous procession. "but i reckon not being rich is worrying you more than not being innocent. who took the roll away from you?" "squeaking henry got a piece of it," admitted the kid. "did you ever play twenty-one--black jack, old-timer?" old man curry shook his head. "i never monkeyed much with cards," said he, "but i've seen the game played some--when i was younger." "well," said the kid mournfully, "squeaking henry and a couple of his friends rung in some marked cards--on my deal. of course those burglars could take one flash at the top of the deck and know just when to draw and when not to. i sat up there like a flathead and let 'em clean me. what tipped it off was that when i was down to my last smack, with a face card in sight and a face card in the hole, henry drew to twenty and caught an ace. the mangy little crook! oh, well, easy come, easy go. i'd have lost it some other way, i guess. but, say, what was this proposition of yours about fattening the bank roll? i've got seven dollars between me and the wolf, and he's so close that i can smell his breath." "seeing that you ain't got any more judgment than that," was old man curry's comment, "i don't know as i ought to tell you." "oh, all right," said the kid, "if that's the way you feel about it--but maybe i've got some information i could trade you for it." "i never swapped hosses blind," said old man curry. "i won't ask you to," said the bald-faced kid. "it's no news that engle's bunch is out for your scalp, is it?" "no-o," said the old man. "i kind of suspicioned as much." "they're after you strong, old-timer. first you walloped 'em with elisha, then you double-crossed 'em with elijah, and then you got weaver and murphy ruled off. at first engle thought you was only ignorant but shot full of blind luck. lately he ain't been so sure about the ignorance. engle hates to give anybody else credit for being wise to the angles around this track." "solomon said something about him," remarked old man curry gravely. "go ahead; pull it!" said the kid. "'seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? there is more hope of a fool than of him.' that's what solomon thought about the engle family, son." "well, if i was you i wouldn't lay any fancy odds that engle is a fool," warned the kid. "there's one baby that you've got to figure on every minute. you've got a horse in your barn that engle is watching like a hawk." "elisha?" "elisha. when does he start the next time?" "in the handicap." "the handicap, eh? you must think pretty well of him. some good horses in that race. well, there won't be a price on him worth taking; you can bet on that." old man curry opened his eyes wide for the first time. "no price on him! nonsense! he's a selling plater going up agin so-called stake horses! no price! huh!" "even so, nevertheless, notwithstanding, and but," said the kid with exasperating calmness, "you won't get a price on him. i can quote some myself. the voice of wisdom is speaking to you." "but he ain't never done anything that would justify starting him with stake hosses," argued old man curry, feeling in his pockets for his fine-cut. "is there any law to prevent 'em figuring that he might?" "but why is engle worrying about the price on my hosses?" demanded curry. "maybe to get even for what you've done to him. maybe because he's got some sort of an agreement with abe goldmark. you know abe?" "by sight, son, by sight. and that's the only way i want to know him." "you and me both," said the kid quickly. "i don't like that fellow's face or the way he wears it, but you can't afford to overlook him any more than you can overlook a rattlesnake. goldmark is another one of the wise boys. he runs one book, but he's under cover with an interest in five or six more. he comes pretty near being a combination in restraint of trade, goldmark does. the handicap is going to be the big betting race of the meeting. goldmark has been tipped to keep his eye out for elisha. on elisha's record he ought to be or to ." "longer than that!" said old man curry. "i'm figuring these syndicate books," said the kid. "he'll open around to and stay there whether there's a dollar bet on him or not. false odds? certainly, but they're taking no chances on you. they figure you won't be trying at that price. and another thing: this same squeaking henry, this marked-card gambler, has gone to work for goldmark. three dollars a day for what he can find out. is this information worth anything to you?" "it might be, son," said old man curry. "it might be. i'll let you know later on." "on the level," said the kid, "you don't figure that elisha has got a chance to win that race--not with regulator and black bill and miss amber in it? they're no salvators, i admit, still they're the best we ever see in this part of the country. black bill is a demon over a distance, old-timer. he won that two-mile race last winter at santa anita. elisha has never gone more than a mile and an eighth, and this is a mile and a half. honest, now, you don't think he can beat horses like black bill and regulator, do you?" "son," said old man curry, "i never think anything about a race until the night before. that's time enough." "but suppose they make him a short price? you wouldn't cut him loose and let him make a showing that would spoil him as a betting proposition?" "well, maybe he won't be a short price," said the old man. "you can't tell a thing about it. it's this way with bookmakers: once in a while they change their minds, and that's where an honest hossman gets a crack at 'em. yes, they get to fooling with their little pieces of chalk. i don't reckon elisha will be less'n to . there goes the gong at the boarding house. might as well eat with me and nurse that seven dollars all you can." the bald-faced kid rose with alacrity and bowed low, his hand upon his heart. "you are the ideal host," said he, "and i am the ideal hostee! i could eat a horse and chase the driver. lead the way, old-timer!" the money which squeaking henry won by reason of the marked cards did him very little good, remaining in his possession barely long enough to cause his vest pocket to sag a trifle. he lost it in a friendly game with the friends who were clever enough to plan the raid on the bald-faced kid's bank roll, using henry as a tool, much as the coastwise chinaman uses a cormorant in his fishing operations. stripped of his opulence, squeaking henry found himself flat on the market again. henry was a tout, hence an easy and extemporaneous liar, but, alas, a clumsy one. he lacked the bald-faced kid's finesse; lacked also his tireless energy, his insatiable curiosity, and the thin vein of pure metal which lay underneath the base. there was nothing about squeaking henry which was not for sale cheap; body and soul, he was on life's bargain counter among the remnants, and abe goldmark, examining the lot, found a price tag labelled three dollars a day. "uh-huh," said henry. "i get you, mr. goldmark. you want me to stick around old man curry's barn and pump him." "never mind the pumping," said goldmark. "the less you talk and the fewer questions you ask the better. curry is no fool, understand. he might be just as smart as you are. judging by the number of good things he's put over at this meeting, he's smarter. i want to know who calls on him, who his stable connections are, who he----" "aw, he ain't got no stable connections!" said squeaking henry in great disgust. "he plays the game alone, and when he wants to bet he walks into the ring and goes to it. never had a betting commissioner in his life, and if you want to know when the stable money is down, all you've got to do is watch curry. cinch!" "oh, a cinch is it?" sneered goldmark. "then i'm making a big mistake to hire you to find out things. you know everything already, eh?" "well, i guess not _everything_," mumbled the abashed henry. "that's my guess, too!" snapped goldmark. "i'm paying you to watch that curry stable; get me? and i want you to _watch_ it! i want to know everything that happens around there from now on, understand? particularly, i want a line on this elisha horse. know him when you see him?" "s-s-sure!" said squeaking henry. "sure i do! big, leggy bay with a white spot on his forehead about the size of a nickel. do i know him? well!" "i want to know when curry works him--how far and how fast. i want to know what the old man thinks of his chances in the handicap. you can get me at the hotel every night after dinner. better use the telephone. in case you slip up or miss me, send word by al engle." "all right," said henry. "and say," goldmark actually grinned, "i hear this curry is a soft-hearted old fellow. why couldn't you tell him a hard-luck story and get to sleep in his tack-room nights? then you'd be right on the ground. try a hard-luck story on him. the one you sprang on me wasn't so bad." "h-m-m-m," mused henry. "i might, and that's a fact. he ain't a bad guy, old man curry ain't. he stakes the hustlers every once in a while." "well," said goldmark insinuatingly, "if he should be such a sucker as to stake you, don't forget you was on my pay roll _first_; that's all i ask." "aw, whadda you take me for?" growled squeaking henry, virtuously indignant at the barest hint of duplicity. "i ain't that kind of a guy." since the tout lives by his wits and his tongue, he is never without a hard-luck story--a dependable one, tried, but seldom, if ever, true. he circles human nature, searching for the weak point and, having found it, delivers the attack. squeaking henry knew the armour plate to be thinnest on man's sympathetic side, and the hard-luck story which he told old man curry would have melted the heart of a golf club handicapper. the story was overworked and threadbare in spots, but it brought an immediate result. "and that's how i'm fixed," whined squeaking henry in conclusion. "i think i can rustle the eats all right enough--one meal a day anyway--and if i just had a place to sleep----" he paused and regarded old man curry expectantly. "come in, son," said the patriarch. a wiser man than squeaking henry might have found curry's manner almost too friendly. "come in. there's a spare cot here and you're welcome to it. mose, my little nigger, sleeps here too, but i reckon you won't mind him. he's clean." strange to say, it was jockey moseby jones who minded. he minded very much, in plain english, waylaying old man curry as he made the rounds of the stalls that night, lantern in hand. "this yer squawkin' henry, boss, he's a no-good hound. he's no good a-a-atall. they ketched him at butte last year ringin' in hawss dice on 'e crap game 'mong friends an' 'ey jus' nachelly sunk his floatin' ribs an' kicked him out on his haid. thass all they done to him, mist' curry. betteh watch him clost, else he'll steal 'em gol' fillin's outen yo' teeth!" "you know him, do you, mose?" asked old man curry. "do i knows him!" ejaculated the little negro. "i knows him well 'nough to wish yo' hadn't 'vited him to do his floppin' in yo' tack-room!" "ah-hah!" said old man curry reflectively. "mose, i reckon you never heard what job said?" jockey moseby jones heaved a deep sigh. "heah it comes again!" he murmured. "no, boss; he said such a many things i kain't seem to keep track of 'em all. whut he say now?" "something about the wise being taken in their own craftiness; i've forgotten the exact words." "umph! sho'lly yo' don't call squawkin' henry _wise_?" "no-o, but he may have wise friends. somehow i've sort of been expecting this visitor, mose. you heard him tell about how bad off his mother is. it seems a shame not to accommodate him, when all he wants is a place to sleep--and some information on the side." "info'mation, boss?" "well, i can't exactly swear to it, mose, but i think the children of israel have sent this henry person among us to spy out the land. that's a trick they learned a long time ago, after they got out of egypt. joshua taught it to 'em. ever since then they don't take any more chances than they can help. they always want to know what the other fellow is doing--and it's a pretty good system at that. being as things are the way they are, a spy in camp, etcetry, mebbe what hoss talk is done had better be done by me. you _sabe_, mose?" "humph!" sniffed the little jockey. "i got you long ago, boss, lo-ong ago!" al engle, sometimes known as the sharpshooter, horse owner and recognised head of a small but busy band of turf pirates, was leaving his stable at seven-thirty on a wednesday evening, intending to proceed by automobile to the brightly lighted district. sleek, blond, youthful in appearance, without betraying wrinkle or line, engle's innocent exterior had been his chief dependence in his touting days. he seemed, on the surface, to be everything which he was not. as he stepped forth from the shadow of the stable awning a hand plucked at his sleeve. "it's me--henry," said a voice. "i've got a message for goldmark--couldn't catch him on the phone." "shoot it!" said engle. "tell him that elisha has gone dead lame--can't hardly rest his foot on the ground." "that'll do for sweeney!" said the sharpshooter. "elisha worked fine this morning. i clocked him myself." "but that was this morning," argued squeaking henry. "he must have bowed a tendon or something. his left foreleg is in awful shape." "are you sure it's elisha?" demanded engle. "come and see for yourself. you know the horse. owned him for a few weeks, didn't you? curry is working on his leg now. you can peek in at the door of the stall and see for yourself. he won't even know you're there." together they crossed the dark space under the trees, heading for a thin ribbon of light which streamed from beneath the awning of curry's barn. somewhere, close at hand, a piping voice was lifted in song: _"on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy line;_ _rise an' shine an' pay my fine;_ _rise an' shi-i-ine an' pay my fi-i-ine,_ _ridin' on 'e dummy, on 'e dummy, dummy line."_ "what's that?" ejaculated engle, pausing. "aw, that's only curry's little nigger, mose. he's always singing or whistling or something!" "i hope he chokes!" said engle, advancing cautiously. the stall door was almost closed, but by applying his eye to the crack engle could see the interior. old man curry was kneeling in the straw, dipping bandages in a bucket of hot water. the horse was watching him, ears pricked nervously. "if this ain't tough luck, i don't know what is!" old man curry was talking to himself, his voice querulous and complaining. "tough luck--yes, sir! tough for you, 'lisha, and tough for me. job knew something when he said that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. yes, indeed! here i had you right on edge, and ready to--whoa, boy! stand still, there! i ain't goin' to hurt ye, 'lisha. what's the matter with ye, anyway? _stand still!_" the horse backed away on three legs, snorting with indignation. engle had seen enough. he withdrew swiftly, nor did he pause to chuckle until he was fifty yards from curry's barn. "well," said squeaking henry, "it was him, wasn't it?" "sure it was him, and he's got a pretty badly strained tendon, too. at first i thought the old fox might be trying to palm off one of his other cripples on you, but that was elisha all right enough. yes, he's through for about a month or so." "that's what i figure," said henry. "the old man, though, he's got his heart set on starting elisha in the handicap next saturday. he thinks maybe he can dope him up so's he won't feel the soreness." "in a mile and a half race?" said engle. "i hope he tries it! he'll just about ruin that skate for life if he does. five-eighths, yes, but a mile and a half? no chance!" "you'll tell goldmark?" "yes, i'll tell him. so long." engle swung away through the dark and squeaking henry watched him until he was swallowed up in the gloom. "that being the case," said he, "and elisha on the bum, i guess i'll take a night off. this sherlock holmes stuff is wearing on the nerves." al engle delivered the message, giving it a strong backing of personal opinion. "no, abe, it's all right, i tell you. it's straight. i've seen the horse myself, ain't i? know him? man alive, i had the skate in my barn for nearly a month! i ought to know him. why, there's no question about it. he's so lame he can hardly touch his foot to the ground. if he starts, he's a million to one to win; a hundred to one he won't even finish. certainly i'm sure! you can go broke on it. don't talk to me! haven't i seen strained tendons before? next to a broken leg, it's the worst thing that can happen to a race horse." while engle was closeted with goldmark, old man curry was entertaining another nocturnal visitor. it was the bald-faced kid, breathless, his brow beaded with perspiration. "just got the tip that elisha has gone lame," said the kid. "i was in the crap game over at devlin's barn when squeaking henry came in with the news. i ran all the way over here." "oho, so it was henry, eh?" old man curry rumbled behind his whiskers--his nearest approach to a laugh. "henry, eh? well, now, it's this way 'bout henry. he's better than a newspaper because it don't cost a cent to subscribe to him. he's got the loosest jaw and the longest tongue in the world." "but on the level," said the kid earnestly, "is elisha lame?" "come and see for yourself," said old man curry, taking his lantern from the peg. after an interval they returned to the tack-room, the bald-faced kid shaking his head commiseratingly. "that would have been rotten luck if it had happened to a dog!" said he. "and the handicap coming on and all." "there'll be a better opening price than to now, i reckon," said old man curry grimly. "opening price!" ejaculated the kid, startled. "say, what are you talking about? you don't mean to tell me you're thinking of starting him with his leg in this shape, old-timer?" "'m--well, no, not in this shape, exackly." "but lordy, man, the handicap is on saturday and here it is wednesday night already. you can't fix up a leg like that in two days. you're going some if you get it straightened out in two weeks. of course, you can shoot the leg full of cocaine and he'll run on it a little ways, but asking him to go a mile and a half--confound it, old-timer! that's murdering a game horse. you're liable to have a hopeless cripple on your hands when it's over. i tell you, if elisha was mine----" "you'd own a real race hoss, son," said old man curry. "now run along, frank, and don't try to teach your grandad to suck aigs. i was doctoring hosses before you come to this country at all, and i'm going to doctor this one some more and then go to bed." shortly thereafter the good horse elisha entertained a visitor who brought no lantern with him, but operated in the dark, swiftly and silently. later a door creaked, there were muffled footfalls under the stable awning and one resounding thump, as it might have been a shod hoof striking a doorsill. still later squeaking henry, returning to his post of duty, saw a light in elisha's stall and looked in at old man curry applying cold compresses to the left foreleg of a gaunt bay horse with a small splash of white in the centre of the forehead. "how they coming, uncle?" asked henry. "oh, about the same, i reckon," was the reply. "you might as well hit the hay. you've been fooling with that leg since dark, but you'll never get the bird ready to fly by saturday." "'wisdom crieth without,'" quoted old man curry sententiously. "'she uttereth her voice in the street.'" "quit kidding yourself," argued henry, "and look how sore he is. you're in big luck if he ain't lame a whole month from now." "well," said old man curry, "solomon says that the righteous man regardeth the life of his beast." "he does, eh?" squeaking henry chuckled unpleasantly. "there's a whole lot of things solomon didn't know about bowed tendons. that leg needs something besides regards, i'm telling you." "and i'm listening," said old man curry patiently. "wisdom will die with you, i reckon, henry, so take care of yourself." if the jungle circuit knew an event remotely approaching a turf classic, it was the northwestern handicap, by usage shortened to "the handicap." it was their metropolitan, suburban, and brooklyn rolled into one. the winner was crowned with garlands, the jockey was photographed in the floral horseshoe, and the fortunate owner pocketed something more than two thousand dollars--a large sum of money on any race track in the land, but a princely reward to the average jungle owner. the best horses in training were entered each year and while a scornful eastern handicapper would doubtless have rated them all among the cheap selling platers, they were still the kings of the jungle tracks, small toads in a smaller puddle, and their annual struggle was anticipated for weeks. each candidate appeared in the light of a possible winner because the purse was worth trying for and each owner was credited with an honest desire to win. the handicap was emphatically the "big betting race" of the season. this year black bill, famed for consistent performance and ability to cover a distance of ground, was a pronounced favourite. black bill had been running with better horses than the jungle campaigners and winning from them and it was popularly believed that he had been shipped from the south for the express purpose of capturing the handicap purse. his single start at the meeting had been won in what the turf reporters called "impressive fashion," which is to say that jockey grogan brought black bill home three lengths in front of his field and but for the strength in his arms the gap would have been a much wider one. regulator, a sturdy chestnut, and miss amber, a nervous brown mare, were also high in public esteem, rivals for the position of second choice. "it's a three-horse race," said the wiseacres, "and the others are outclassed. whatever money there is will be split by black bill, miss amber, and regulator. if anything happens to bill, one of the others will win, but the rest of 'em won't get anything but a hard ride and a lot of dust." from his position on the block abe goldmark looked down on a surging crowd. he was waiting for the official announcement on the third race. the crowd was waiting for the posting of the odds on the handicap, waiting, money in hand, ready to dash at bargains. al engle forced his way through the press and goldmark bent to listen. "the old nut is going to start him sure enough," whispered the sharpshooter. "no--he won't warm him up. would you throw a gallop into a horse with his leg full of coke? curry is crazy, but he ain't quite as crazy as that." "the old boy was putting bandages on him at midnight last night," grinned goldmark. "dang it, al, a man ought to be arrested for starting a horse in that condition." "the coke will die out before he's gone half a mile," said engle. "might not even last that long--depends on how long they're at the post. i saw a horse once----" the melodious bellow of the official announcer rose above the hum of the crowd and there was a sudden, tense shifting of the nervous human mass. a dozen bookmakers turned leisurely to their slates, a dozen pieces of chalk were poised aggravatingly--and a hoarse grunt of disappointment rose from the watchers. black bill the favourite, yes, but bet fives to win threes? hardly. wait a minute; don't go after it now. maybe it'll go up. regulator, to --holy moses! what kind of booking is this, anyway? miss amber, to . "make 'em _all_ odds on and be done with it!" sneered the gamblers. "talk about your syndicate books! beat five races at this track and if your money holds out you may beat the sixth, too. huh!" one bookmaker, more adventurous than his fellows, offered to on black bill and was immediately mobbed. then came the prices on the outsiders. simple simon, to ; pepper and salt, to ; ted mitchell and everhardt, to ; and so on. last of all, the chalk paused at elisha-- to . "aw, be game!" taunted al engle. "only --with what you know about him? he ought to be , , and ! be game!" "who's doing this?" demanded goldmark. "come on, gentlemen! make your bets! we haven't got all day. black bill, to . simple simon, to . thank _you_, sir." out in the paddock old man curry rubbed the red flannel bandage on elisha's leg, stopping now and then to answer questions. "eh? yes, been a little lame. will he last? well, it's this way; you can't never tell. if it comes back on him--no, i didn't warm him up. why not? that's _my_ business, young man." the bald-faced kid came also, alert as a fox, eager for any scrap of information which might be converted into coin. he shook his head reprovingly at old man curry. "i didn't think you'd have the heart, old-timer," said he. "honest to pete, i didn't! don't you care what happens to this horse or what?" "son," said the patriarch simply, "i care a lot. i care a-plenty. if you've got any of that seven dollars left, you might put it on his nose." "him? to win? you're daffy as a cuckoo bird! why, last night he couldn't put that foot on the ground!" "well, of course, frank, if you know that much about it, don't let me advise you. if i had seven dollars and was looking for a soft spot i'd put it square on 'lisha's nose." "you've been losing too much sleep lately," said the kid, edging away. "you want to win this race so much that you've bulled yourself into thinking that you can." "mebbe so, frank, mebbe so," was the mild response, "but don't let me influence you none whatever. go play black bill. what's his price?" "three to five. one to two in some books." "false price!" said the old man. "he ain't got no license to be odds on." "see you later!" said the bald-faced kid, and went away with a pitying grin upon his face. the pity was evenly divided between elisha and his owner. old man curry heaved little mose into the saddle. "mind now, son. ride just like i told you. stay with that black hoss. he'll lay out of it the first mile. when he moves up, you move up too. we've got a big pull in the weights and that'll count in the last quarter. stay with him, just like his shadow, mose." "yes, suh," said jockey jones. "if i'm goin' to be his shadder, he'll sho' think the sun is settin' behind him when he starts down at stretch!" abe goldmark craned his neck to see the parade pass the grand stand. elisha was fifth in line, walking sedately, as was his habit. "not so very frisky, but at that he looks better than i thought he would," was goldmark's mental comment. "they must have shot all the coke in the world into that old skate. as soon as he begins to run the blood will pump into that sore leg and he'll quit. black bill looks like the money to me. he outclasses these other horses." goldmark passed the eraser over his slate. black bill, to . elisha, , , and . a dozen restless, high-strung thoroughbreds and a dozen nervous, scheming jockeys can make life exceedingly interesting for an official starter, particularly if the race be an important one and a ragged start certain to draw a storm of adverse criticism. the boys on the front runners were all manoeuvring to beat the barrier and thus add to a natural advantage while the boys on the top-weighted horses were striving to secure an early start before the lead pads began to tell on their mounts. as a result the barrier was broken four times in as many minutes and the commandment against profanity was broken much oftener. the starter grew hoarse and inarticulate; sweat streamed down his face as he hurled anathemas at horses and riders. "keep that miss amber back, dugan! go through that barrier again and it'll cost you fifty! ---- ---- ----!!" "i can't do nothing with her!" whined dugan. "she's crazy; that's what she is!" through all the turmoil and excitement two horses remained quietly in their positions waiting for the word. these were black bill and elisha, stretch runners, to whom a few yards the worst of the start meant nothing. out of the corner of his eye little mose watched jockey grogan on the favourite. the black horse edged toward the webbing, the line broke, wheeled, advanced, broke again and a third time came swinging forward. as it advanced, mose drove the blunt spurs into elisha's side. a roar from the starter, a spattering rain of clods, a swirl of dust--and the handicap was on. "nice start!" said the presiding judge, drawing a long breath. across the track, the official starter mopped his brow. "not so worse," said he. "go on, you little devils! it's up to you!" away went the front runners, their riders checking them and rating their speed with an eye to the long journey. simple simon, pepper and salt, and ted mitchell engaged in a brisk struggle for the pace-making position and the latter secured it. miss amber and regulator were in fifth and sixth places respectively, and at the tail end of the procession was black bill, taking his time, barely keeping up with the others. a distance race was no new thing to black bill. he had seen front runners before and knew that they had a habit of fading in the final quarter. beside him was elisha, matching him, stride for stride. down the stretch they came, ted mitchell gradually increasing the pace. jockey jones heard the crowd cheering as he passed the grand stand and his lip curled. "we eatin' it now, 'lisha hawss," said he, "but nex' time we come down yere they'll be eatin' _ow'_ dust an' don't make no mistake! take yo' time, baby. it's a long way yit, a lo-ong way!" entering the back stretch there was a sudden shifting of the coloured jackets. the outsiders, nervous and overeager, were making their bids for the purse, and making them too soon. the flurry toward the front brought about a momentary spurt in the pace followed immediately by the steady, machine-like advance of regulator, but as the chestnut horse moved up the brown mare went with him, on even terms. "there goes regulator! there he goes!" "yes, but he can't shake miss amber! she's right there with him! oh, you amber!" "what ails black bill? he's a swell favourite, he is! he ain't done a thing yet." "he always runs that way," said the wise ones. "wait till he hits the upper turn." abe goldmark, standing on a stool on the lawn, wrinkled his brow in perplexity. "about time for that bird to quit," said he to himself. "he ain't got any license to run a mile with a leg like that!" jockey moseby jones was also beginning to wonder what ailed black bill. grogan sat the favourite like a statue, apparently unmoved by the gap widening in front of him. "we kin wait 'long as he kin, baby," said mose, comfortingly, "but i sut'ny don't crave to see 'em otheh hawsses so far ahead!" at the end of the mile black bill and elisha were still at the end of the procession. miss amber had managed to shove her brown nose in front, with regulator at her saddle girth. many an anxious eye was turned on black bill; many saw his transformation but none was better prepared for it than jockey moseby jones. he saw the first wrap slide from grogan's wrists. "come on, baby!" yelled mose, bumping elisha with his spurs. "come on! we got a race here afteh all! yes, suh, 'is black hawss wakin' up! show him something, baby! show him ow' _class_!" jockey grogan laughed and flung an insult over his shoulder. "class? that skate?" said he. "stay with us as long as you can. this is a-a-a horse, nigger, a-a-a horse!" black bill was beginning to run at last, as the grand stand acknowledged with frenzied yells. yes, he was running, but a gaunt bay horse was running with him, stride for stride. old man curry, at the paddock gate, tugged at his beard with one hand and fumbled for his tobacco with the other. side by side the black and the bay swept upon the floundering outsiders, overwhelmed them, and passed on. side by side they turned into the home stretch, and only two horses were in front of them--regulator and miss amber. the mare was under the whip. "you say you got a-a-a hawss there!" taunted mose. "show me how much hawss he is!" grogan shook off the last wrap and bent to his work. not until then did he realise that the real race was beside him and not with the chestnut out in front. "show him up, 'lisha! show him up!" shrilled mose, and the bay responded with a lengthened stride which gave him an advantage to be measured in inches, but black bill gamely fought his way back on even terms again. miss amber dropped behind. the boy on regulator was using his whip, but he might just as well have been beating a carpet with it. third money was his at the paddock gate. seventy-five yards--fifty yards--twenty-five yards--and still the two heads bobbed side by side. jockey michael grogan, hero of many a hard finish; cool, calculating, and unmoved by the deafening clamour beating down from the packed grand stand, measured the distance with his eye--and took a chance. his rawhide whip whistled through the air. black bill, unused to punishment, faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, and came on again, but too late. the presiding judge, an unprejudiced man with a stubby grey moustache, squinted across an imaginary line and saw the bay head before he saw the black. "_jee-roozalum, my happy home!_" said he. "that was an awful tight fit, but the curry horse won--by a whisker. hang up the numbers. lord! but that elisha is a better horse than i gave him credit for being!" "yeh," said the associate judge, "and the nigger outrode grogan, if anybody should ask you. he had a chance--if he hadn't let that horse's head flop to go the bat!" "it wasn't that," said the other quickly. "the horse flinched when he hit him." "i been photographed and interviewed till i'm black in the face," complained old man curry, "and now you come along. you're worse than them confounded reporters!" "you bet i am," was the calm response of the bald-faced kid, "because i know more. and yet i don't know enough to satisfy me. somebody played elisha, and it wasn't me. you never went near the betting ring. i watched you." "my money did. quite a gob of it." "and you--you thought he'd win?" "didn't i tell you to bet on him?" "hell!" wailed the bald-faced kid. "he was _lame_--he couldn't walk the night before! bet on him? how could i after i'd seen him in that fix?" "frank," said the old man, "you believe everything you see, don't you?" the bald-faced kid sat down and took his head in his hands. "tell it to me, old-timer," said he humbly. "i'm such a wise guy that it hurts me; but something has come off here that's a mile over my head. tell me; i'm no mind reader." old man curry combed his beard reflectively and gazed through the tack-room door into the dusk of the summer evening. "son," said he at length, "you never swapped hosses much, did you?" "never owned any to swap," was the muffled response. "too bad. you would have learned things. for instance, there's a trick that can be worked when you want to buy a hoss cheap and can get at him for a minute. it's done with a needle and thread and a hair from the hoss's tail. there's a spot in the leg where the tendons come together, and the trick is to pass that hosshair in between the tendons and trim off the ends just long enough so's you can find 'em again. best part of the trick is it don't hurt the hoss none, but he knows it's there and he won't hardly rest his foot on the ground till it's pulled out. then he's as good as new again." "lovely!" groaned the kid. "what makes you so close-mouthed, old-timer?" "experience, son, experience. 'he that hath knowledge spareth his words.' i spared quite a-many. i knew there was a spy in camp, and i sewed up elisha on wednesday and let henry see him. al engle came over and peeked to make sure. i had the little nigger watching for him. you saw elisha that same night, and the whole kit and boiling of you got a couple of notions fixed in your heads--first, that it _was_ elisha; second, that he was a tol'able lame hoss. you expected, when you looked in that stall again, you'd see a big red hoss with a white spot on his forehead--lame. well, you did, but it wasn't the same one." "elijah!" said the kid. "and you lamed him too?" "i had to do it. people expected to see a lame hoss; i had to have one to show 'em, didn't i? but nobody got a look at him in bright daylight, son. after you went away wednesday night i pulled out the hosshair, put elisha in elijah's stall, and vice versey, as they say. then i worked on elijah, and when henry came along he didn't know the difference. them hosses look a lot alike, anyway; put a little daub of white stuff on elijah's forehead, keep him blanketed up pretty snug, and--well, i reckon that's about all they was to it." "fifty and sixty to one--going begging!" mourning the kid. "why didn't you tell me what was coming off?" "because henry was watching both of us," was the reply. "and, speaking of henry, it was you told me the sons of belial had gone into the spy business, so i p'tected your interests the best i could. here's a little ticket calling for quite a mess of money. it's on the abe goldmark's book, and i didn't cash it because i wanted you to have a chance to laugh at him when he pays off. last i seen of him he was sore but solvent." the last chance it was the bald-faced kid who christened him little calamity because, as he explained, jockey gillis was a sniffling, whining, half portion of hard luck and a disgrace to the disreputable profession of touting. "every season," said the bald-faced kid, "is a tough season for a guy like that. he carries his hard luck with him. he's cockeyed something awful; his face was put on upside down; you can't tell whether he's looking you in the eye or watching out for a policeman, and drunks shy clear across the betting ring to get away from him. that's the tip-off; when a souse won't listen to your gentle voice, it's time to change your system of approach. this little calamity person has only got one thing in his favour, and that's an honest face; he _looks_ like a thief, and, by golly, he _is_ one. he couldn't sell a twenty-dollar gold piece for a dime or make a sucker put down a bet with the winning numbers already hanging on the board in front of him. they all give him the once over and holler for the police. and as for his riding, he's about as much help to a horse as a fine case of the heaves. i'm darned if i know how he manages to live!" little calamity sometimes wondered about this himself. of course there were the rare occasions when he was able to persuade a weak-minded owner to give him a mount on a hopeless outsider or a horse entered only for the sake of the workout, but the five-dollar jockey fees were few and far between. they could not be stretched to cover the intervening periods, so little calamity did his best to be a petty larcenist with indifferent success. he infested the betting ring with a persistence almost pitiful, but he had neither the appearance nor the manner which begets confidence in unlikely tales, and in his mouth the truth itself sounded like a fabrication. he was a willing but an unconvincing liar, and the few who lingered long enough to listen to his clumsy attempts went away smiling. little calamity was nearer thirty than twenty, wrinkled and weazened and bow-legged. worse than everything else, he was cross-eyed. the direct and compelling gaze is an absolute necessity in the touting business because the average man believes that the liar will be unable to look him in the eye. little calamity could not look any man in the eye without first undergoing a surgical operation. he had few acquaintances and no friends; he ate when he could slept where he could, and life to him was just a continued hard-luck story. imagine, then, the incredulous amazement of the bald-faced kid when old man curry informed him that jockey gillis had secured steady employment. "that shrimp?" said the kid. "why, if he had the ice-water privilege in hell he'd starve to death!" "frank," said the old man, "i wish you wouldn't be so blame keerless with your figures of speech. there won't be any ice water for the wicked, it says in the book, and, anyway, it ain't a fit subject to joke about. it don't sound pretty." the bald-faced kid took this reproof with a sober countenance, for he respected the old man's principles even if he did not understand them. "all right, old-timer. i'll take your word for it. got a steady job, has he? for heaven's sake, what doing?" "running a racing stable for a man named hopwood." "running a stable! what does calamity know about training horses?" "a heap more than hopwood, i reckon, and, anyway, he'll only have one hoss to experiment on. hopwood was over here this morning, visiting around and getting acquainted, he said. awful gabby old coot. he's got a grocery store up in butte, and used to go out to the race track once in a while. some of those burglars got hold of him and sold him something with four legs and a tail. they told him it was a sure enough race hoss, and now he's down here to make his fortune. gillis saw him first, i reckon. hopwood has hired him by the month--and a percentage of what he wins." at this the bald-faced kid laughed long and loud. "there's one of 'em born every minute," said he, "but i didn't think the supply was big enough to reach as far as calamity. didn't you tell this poor nut what he was up against, trying to horn his way into the jungle circuit with one lonely lizard and a human jinx to handle him?" "no-o," said old man curry, "i didn't. what would be the use! you know what solomon says about that sort of thing, don't you?" "i do not," answered the kid promptly, "but i'll be the goat as usual. what does he say?" "'answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him,'" quoted old man curry, "and that's sound advice, my son. when a fool gets an idea crossways in his head, nothing but a cold chisel will get it out again, and, anyway, people don't thank you for pointing out their mistakes. it's human nature to get mad at a man that can prove he knows more than you do. this hopwood has got it all whittled down to a fine point how he's going to do right well at the racing game, and the best way is to let him try it a while. it'll cost him money to find out that a grocery store is a safer place for him than a race track. 'a whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back.' that's solomon again. hopwood has got the gad coming to him for sure." "ain't that the truth!" exclaimed the kid. "by the way, did he mention the name of the beetle that's going to do all this heavy work?" "that's the best joke of all," said old man curry. "hopwood stables down at the end of the line, where gilfeather used to be. go take a look at what they sold him for five hundred dollars." "i'll do that little thing," said the kid, rising. "if he's got any dough left, i may want to sell him something myself!" little calamity was in the box stall, industriously grooming a tall, wild-eyed chestnut animal with four white stockings and a blaze, and as he worked he hummed a tune under his breath. the tune stopped when he became aware of a head thrust in at the open door. the bald-faced kid glanced at the horse and his jaw dropped. "well, by the limping lazarus!" he ejaculated. "if they haven't gone and slipped him last chance! yes, i'd know that darned old hay hound if he was stuffed and in a museum, and, by golly, that's where he ought to be! last chance!" "what's it _to_ you?" growled little calamity sullenly. "can't you mind your own business?" "your boss is in big luck," continued the visitor, pleasantly ignoring calamity's manner. "the worst horse and the worst jock in the world--a prize package for fair! last chance! his name ought to be no chance!" "now looka here," whined calamity, "i never tried to queer anything for you, did i? live and let live; that's what i say, and let a guy get by if he can. if you was right up against it and had a chance to grab off eating money, you wouldn't want anybody around knocking, would you? on the level?" he looked up as he finished, and the bald-faced kid's heart smote him. little calamity's face was thinner than ever, there were hollows under his wandering eyes, and in them the anxious, wistful look of a half-starved cur which has found a bone and fears that it will be taken away from him. it occurred to the kid that even a rat like gillis might have feelings--such feelings as may be touched by hunger and physical discomfort. and there was no mistaking the desperate earnestness of his plea. "things have been breaking awful tough for me around here," he went on. "awful tough. you don't know. and then this hopwood came along. it ain't my fault if the sucker thinks he's got another roseben, is it? he wanted a trainer and a jockey, and somebody else would have picked him up if i hadn't. it's the first piece of luck i've had this year. all i want is a chance to string with this fellow as long as he lasts and get a piece of change for myself. that ain't hurting you any, is it? he's my only chance to eat regular; don't go scaring him away." the kid was about to reply when a short, fat gentleman waddled around the corner of the barn and paused, wheezing, at the door of the stall. a new owners' badge dangled prominently from his buttonhole, and this he fingered from time to time with manifest pride. he peered in at last chance and beamed upon the bald-faced kid with the utmost friendliness, his thick eyeglasses giving him the appearance of a jovial owl. "well," said he heartily, "i see you're looking him over, young man. he's mine; i just bought him, and i think i got him cheap. pretty fine-looking horse, eh?" the kid nodded gravely. "you bet your life!" said he with emphasis. "take it from me, he is _some_ horse!" "some horse is right!" chimed in little calamity fervently. "just wait till i get him in shape, boss, and i'll show you how much horse he is!" "and that," said the bald-faced kid, "is no idle statement." "frank," said old man curry, "you're making more of a fool of that hopwood than the lord intended him to be, and it's a sin and a shame. why can't you let him alone?" "because he hands me many a laugh," said the bald-faced kid, "and laughs are good for what ails me. he is a three-ring circus and concert all by himself, but he doesn't know it, and that's what makes him so good. and innocent? say, the original babes in the wood haven't got a thing on him. if he stays around here these sharpshooters will have his shirt." "and you're helping them to get it with your lies. first thing you know you'll have him betting on that hoss when he starts, and last chance never won a race in his life and never will. he can quit so fast that it looks like he's going the wrong way of the track. hopwood was around here to-day all swelled up with the stories you've been feeding him. it ain't right, my son, and, what's more, it ain't _honest_. you might just as well pick his pockets and give the money to the bookmakers." "the bookmakers won't get fat on what they take away from him," was the careless rejoinder. "this fellow has got a groceryman's heart. he can squeeze a dollar until the eagle screams for help, and he never heard of riley grannan. if he bets at all it won't be more than a ten-dollar note. last chance goes in the second race to-morrow--nonwinners at the meeting--and i'm going down to the stable now to have a conference and give calamity his riding orders." "i wash my hands of you," said the old man. "fun is all right in its place, but fun that hurts somebody else has a way of coming home to roost. don't forget that, my son." "aw, who's going to hurt him?" was the sulky rejoinder. "i'm only helping the chump to buy some of the experience that you spoke about the other day." "solomon says----" began old man curry, but the kid beat a hasty retreat. "put him on ice till to-morrow!" he called back over his shoulder. "this is my busy day!" for a horse that had never won a race, last chance made a gay appearance in the paddock. little calamity, conscious of his shortcomings as a trainer, had done his best to offset them by extra activities in his capacity as stable hand. the big chestnut had been groomed and polished until his smooth coat shone like satin and blue ribbons were braided in his mane. the other nonwinners were a sorry-looking lot of dogs when compared with last chance, and the owner's bosom swelled with proud anticipation. "look at the fire in his eye!" said hopwood to the bald-faced kid. "see how lively he is!" "uh-huh," said the kid, who was present in the rôle of adviser. "he seems to be full of pep to-day." as a matter of fact, last chance was nervous. he knew that a trip to the paddock was usually followed by a beating with a rawhide whip and a prodding with blunt spurs, hence the skittishness of his behaviour and the fire in his eye. given a decent opportunity he would have jumped the fence and gone home to his stall. when the bell rang little calamity came out of the jockeys' room, radiant as a butterfly in his new silks; he had the audacity to wink when he saw the kid looking at him. "what do we do now?" demanded hopwood, all in a flutter. "this is new to me, you know." "well," said the kid, "i'd say it would be a right pious idea to get this fiery steed saddled up, unless calamity here is figuring on riding him bareback, which i don't think the judges would stand for." later it was the kid who gave calamity his riding orders. "all right, boy," said he. "nothing in here to beat but a lot of lizards. never look back and make every post a winning one. he can tow-rope this field and drag 'em to death!" "_pzzt!_" whispered the jockey. "not so strong with it, not so strong!" while the horses were on their way to the post the bald-faced kid escorted hopwood to a position in front of the grand stand. "you want to be handy in case he wins," said the kid. "you'll have to go down in the ring if he does. it's a selling race and they might try to run him up on you." "in the ring, eh?" said hopwood, straightening his collar and plucking at his tie. "do i look all right?" but the kid was coughing so hard that he could not answer the question. "i can't see very far with these glasses," said hopwood, "and you'll have to tell me about it. where is he now?" "at the post," said the kid. "the starter won't fool away much time with those ... there they go now! good start." hopwood pawed at the kid's arm. "i can't see a thing! where is he? how's he doing?" "he broke flying and he's right up in front." "that's good! that's fine!... and now? where is he now?" "still up in front and winging, just winging. it's an exercise gallop for him. how much did you bet?" hopwood took off his glasses and fumbled at them with his handkerchief. "where is he now?" "second, turning for home. he ought to win all by himself. they're choking to death behind him." "and i didn't bet a cent!" wailed the owner. "but i said he was a good horse, remember?" "sure you did, and he ... oh, tough luck! well, if that ain't a dirty shame!" "what is it?" chattered hopwood. "what happened?" "they bumped him into the fence, i think.... yes, he's dropping back. and it looked like a cinch for him, too!... i'm afraid he won't get anything this time.... too bad! well, that's racing luck for you. it's to be expected in this game. sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. good thing you didn't bet." "i--i suppose so," gulped the unhappy owner. "well, next time, eh?" "that's the proper spirit! keep after 'em!" hopwood put on his glasses in time to see the finish of the race. first came four horses, well bunched; after them the stragglers. last of all a chestnut with four white stockings and a blaze galloped heavily through the dust, snorting his indignation. last chance had been hopelessly last all the way in spite of a rawhide tattoo on his flanks. the bald-faced kid, wishing to forestall a conflict of evidence, made it his business to have the first word with the principal witness. he walked beside little calamity as that dispirited midget shuffled down the track from the judges' stand, saddle and tackle on his arm. close behind them was hopwood, leading the horse. "pretty tough luck," said the kid, "getting bumped in the stretch when you had the race won." little calamity stared from under the peak of his cap in blank, uncomprehending amazement. "huh?" he grunted. "bumped?... aw, quitcha kiddin'!" "well," said the kid, "the boss couldn't see and i was telling him about the race. it looked to me as if they bumped him." a gleam of intelligence lighted the straying eyes; instantly the jockey took his cue. "oh!" said he, loudly, "you mean in the _stretch_! yeh, he had a swell chance till then--goin' nice, and all, but the bumping took the run out of him. he'll beat the same bunch like breakin' sticks the next time." then, under his breath: "_you're a pretty good guy after all!_" "well," was the ungracious rejoinder, "don't kid yourself that it's on your account." since it was his practice never to accept the obvious but to search diligently for the hidden motive behind every deed, good or bad, little calamity gave considerable thought to the matter and at last believed that he had arrived at the only possible explanation of the kid's conduct. "boss," said he that evening, "did you bet any money to-day?" "not a nickel," was the answer. "or give anybody any money to bet for you?" "no." "did anybody ask to be your bettin' commissioner?" "no. why?" "oh, nothing. i just wanted to know." before little calamity went to sleep that night he reviewed the situation somewhat as follows: "my dope was wrong, but it's a cinch a hustler like the kid ain't hangin' around the boss for his _health_.... and he didn't kick in wit' that alibi because he loves _me_ any too well.... i can't figure him at all." if he could have heard a conversation then going on in old man curry's tackle-room, the figuring would have been easier. "frank," said the old man, "i had my eye on you to-day. you ain't got designs on that fool's bank roll, have you?" the bald-faced kid blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and watched it float to the rafters before he answered question with question. "how long have you known me, old-timer?" "quite a while, my son." "you know that i get my living by doing the best i can?" "yes." "did you ever know me to steal anything from a blind man? or even one that was near-sighted?" "no-o." "then don't worry about this hopwood." "but he ain't blind--except in the scriptural sense." "think not, eh? listen! that bird can't see as far as the sixteenth pole. somebody has got to watch the races and tell him how well his horse is going or else he'll never know. think what he'd miss! i'm his form chart and his eyes, old-timer, and all i charge him is a laugh now and then. cheap enough, ain't it?" old man curry found his packet of fine-cut and thrust a large helping into his left cheek. "'for as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" he quoted, "'so is the laughter of a fool.'" the end of the meeting was close at hand; the next town on the jungle circuit was preparing to receive the survivors. the owners were plotting to secure that elusive commodity known as get-away money; some of them would have been glad to mortgage their chances for a receipted feed bill. last chance had started five times and each time hopwood had listened to a thrilling description of the race; the chestnut's performances had been bad enough to strain the kid's powers of invention. on the eve of the final struggle of the nonwinners, the kid sat in grave consultation with hopwood and little calamity and the rain drummed on the shingle roof of the tackle room. the fat man was downcast; he had been hinting about selling last chance at auction and returning to butte. "you don't mean to say that you're going to _quit_?" demanded the kid, incredulously. "just when he's getting good?" "what's the use?" was the dreary reply. "luck is against me, ain't it?" "but he's always knocking at the door, ain't he? he's always right up there part of the way. you can't get the worst of it every time, you know. be game." "i've had the worst of it every time so far," said hopwood, with a dejected shake of his head. "every time. i swear i don't know what's wrong with that horse. he _looks_ all right and he _acts_ all right, but every time he starts something happens. they bump him into the fence or pocket him or he gets a clod in his eye and quits. he's been last every time but one and then he was next to last. i--i'm sort of discouraged, boys." "aw, never mind, boss!" chirped little calamity, one eye on the kid and the other wandering in the general direction of the owner. "to-morrow is another day and there ain't a thing left in the nonwinner class for him to beat. all the good ones are gone. he worked fine this morning, and----" "you've said that every time." "yes, but you're overlooking the muddy track!" hopwood blinked in perplexity as the kid came to the rescue with a new story. "the muddy track? what difference will that make?" "listen to him! all the difference in the wide world!" "yeh," chimed in calamity. "you bet it makes a difference!" "you're forgetting that last chance is by a mudder out of a mudder," suavely explained the kid. "his daddy used to win stakes kneedeep in it. his mother liked mud so well they had to mix it with her oats to get her to eat regular. what difference will it make? huh! wait and see!" the owner rose, grunting heavily. "i hope you're right this time," said he. "lord knows i've had disappointments enough. when i bought this horse they guaranteed him to win at least every other time he started----" "with an even break in the luck, of course," interrupted the kid. "you've got to have luck too." "they didn't mention anything about luck when they took my money." hopwood was positive on this point. "they told me it was a sure thing and i wouldn't be in this mess if i hadn't thought it was.... you boys talk it over between you. i'm going to ask mr. curry if he wants to buy a horse. he can have him for half what he cost me." hopwood turned up his collar and departed; the two conspirators listened until his footsteps died away down the row of stables. "will curry split on us?" asked little calamity, anxiously. "not in a thousand years!" was the confident reply. "the old man is a sport in his way. it's a queer way, but he's all right at that. he plays his own string and lets you play yours. hopwood will find out what solomon says about buying strange horses, but the old man won't tip your hand or mine. queer genius, curry is.... well, your sucker has lasted longer than i thought he would." "and now he's getting onto himself," said calamity mournfully. "he's not. he's getting cold feet." "to-morrow is the last crack we'll get at him.... _can_ this beagle run in the mud?" "how do i know? i was only stringing him." little calamity sighed and the kid rose to take his departure. "wait a minute!" said the other. "don't go yet. maybe this horse _will_ do better in the mud. you don't know and i don't know, but he _might_." "what he might do ain't worrying me," said the kid. "listen a second. maybe you won't believe it, but i've been on the up and up with the boss. honest, i have. i could have tipped one of the other hustlers to tout him and sink the money for a split, but--well, i didn't do it, that's all. he was white to me and i tried to be white too, see? i even told him not to bet on the horse until i gave him the office, and so far we've been running for nothing but the purse. you haven't touted him either----" "draw your bat and make a quick finish!" said the kid shortly. "what's it all about?" "suppose i should talk him into putting a bet down to-morrow?" "a bet on what?" "on last chance. it ain't no crime for a man to bet on his own horse, is it? he told me he'd give me a percentage of what he won. maybe the old crowbait will go better in the mud, and i'll ride him until his eyes stick out a foot. we might accidentally get down there to the judges' stand in front, and----" "and still you haven't said anything," interrupted the kid. "you want something; what is it?" "i want you not to queer the play. hopwood won't bet much; like as not he won't bet anything without putting it up to you first. it's my last chance to pick up a piece of change----" "last chance on last chance," mused the kid, "and that's a hunch, but i wouldn't play it with counterfeit confederate money." "but if he comes to you, you won't knock it, will you?" "i'll tell him that as an owner he ought to use his own judgment. if he wants to bet, i'll see that he gets the top price." "you _are_ a good guy!" said little calamity. "i think last chance will be a better horse to-morrow--somehow." the bald-faced kid shot a keen glance at the jockey. "what do you mean, a better horse? a powder on his tongue, maybe?" calamity shook his head. "i never hopped a horse; i wouldn't know how to go about it. if i got to fooling with them speed powders i might give him too much and have him climbing a tree on the way to the post.... cheese it! here comes the boss!" hopwood entered, shaking the water from the brim of his hat, his lower lip sagging and an angry light in his eye. "well," asked the kid from the doorway, "what did curry say?" "umph!" grunted the fat man, disgustedly. "he read me a chapter out of proverbs. it was all about the difference between a wise man and a fool. confound it! he needn't have rubbed it in!" it was the last race of the day and from their sheltered pagoda the judges looked out upon the river of mud which had been the home stretch. forty-eight hours of rain had turned it into a grand canal. the presiding judge scowled as he examined the opening odds. "nonwinners, eh? same old bunch of hounds. grayling, to ; ivy leaf, to ; montezuma, to ; bluestone, to ; alibi, to ; stuffy eaton, to --and here's last chance again! i wonder where hopwood got that horse? remember him, two years ago at butte? i thought he was pulling a junk wagon by now. last chance, to . jockey gillis; hm-m-m. there's a sweet combination for you! a horse that can't untrack himself, a jockey that never rode a winner, and a half-witted grocer! why couldn't the chump stick to the little villainies that he knows about--sanding the sugar and watering the kerosene? i declare, sir, if i had half an excuse i'd refuse the entry of that horse and warn hopwood away from here! it would be an act of christian charity to do it." the bald-faced kid, faithful to the bitter end, assisted in the paddock as usual. last chance, his tail braided in a hard knot and minus the ribbons in his mane, submitted to the saddling process with unusual docility. his customary attitude of protest seemed to be swallowed up in a gloomy acquiescence to fate. it was as if he said: "you can do this to me again if you want to, but i assure you now that it is useless, quite useless." calamity leaned down from the saddle and whispered in the kid's ear: "you can get and to on him! the boss said he'd make a bet. don't let him overlook it!" when the bugle sounded, hopwood grasped the bridle and led the horse through the chute to the track. the rain beat hard upon his hunched shoulders and his feet plowed heavily through the puddles. repeated failure had robbed him of the pride of ownership and all confidence in horseflesh. he was, as the bald-faced kid said to himself, "a sad looking mess." hopwood spoke but once, wasting no words. "make good if you're going to," said he tersely, "because win or lose i'm _through_!" "yes, boss, and don't forget what i told you. to-day's the day to bet on him. go to it!" last chance splashed away down the track and hopwood turned on his heel with a growl. "come along!" said he to the kid. "i might as well be all the different kinds of fool while i'm about it!" "where to now?" asked the kid innocently. "to the betting ring," was the grim response. "i said i'd bet on him this time and i will! come along!" from his perch on the inside rail the official starter eyed the nonwinners with undisguised malevolence. some of them were cantering steadily toward the barrier, some were walking and one, a black brute, seemed almost unmanageable, advancing in a series of wild plunges and sudden sidesteps. "ah, hah," said the starter, with suitable profanity. "old alibi has got his hop in him again! i'll recommend the judges to refuse his entry." then, to his assistant: "jake, take hold of that crazy black thing and lead him up here. don't let go of his head for a second or he'll be all over the place! lively now! i want to get out of this rain.... walk 'em up, you crook-legged little devils! _walk 'em up, i say!_" last chance advanced sedately to his position, which was on the outer rail. grayling, the favourite, had drawn the inner rail. jake, obeying orders, swung his weight on alibi's bit and dragged the rearing, plunging creature into the middle of the line. at that instant the starter jerked the trigger and yelled: "_come on! come on!_" the whole thing happened in the flicker of an eyelid. as jake released his hold, alibi whirled at right angles and bolted for the inner rail, carrying grayling, ivy leaf, satsuma, and jolson with him. they crashed into the fence, a squealing, kicking tangle, above which rose the shrill, frightened yells of the jockeys. this left but four horses in the race, and one of them, old last chance, passed under the barrier with a wild bound which all but unseated his rider. it was not his habit to display such unseemly haste in getting away from the post and, to do him justice, last chance was no less surprised--and shocked--than a certain young man of our acquaintance. "well, look at that lizard go!" gasped the bald-faced kid. _"look--at--him--go!_" "honest injun?" asked hopwood. "is he going--really?" "is he going! he's going crazy! and listen to this! that black thing carried a big bunch of 'em into the fence and they're out of it! only four in the race and we're away flying! do you get that? flying!" "honest?" "can't you hear the crowd hissing the rotten start?" "well," said hopwood, "it--it's about time i had a little luck." "that skate has got something besides luck with him to-day!" exclaimed the kid. "i wonder now--did he try a powder after all? but no, he was quiet enough on the way to the post." seeing nothing ahead of him but mud and water, jockey gillis steered last chance toward the inner rail. "don't you quit on me, you crab!" he muttered. "don't you quit! keep goin' if you don't want me to put the bee on you again! hi-ya!" montezuma, bluestone, and stuffy eaton were the other survivors--bad horses all. their riders, realizing that something had happened to the real contenders, drove them hard and on the upper turn jockey gillis, peering over his shoulder, saw that he was about to have competition. he began to boot last chance in the ribs, but the aged chestnut refused to respond to such ordinary treatment. "all right!" said jockey gillis, savagely. "if you won't run for the spurs, you'll run for _this_!" and he drove his clenched fist against the horse's shoulder. last chance grunted and did his best to leap out from under his tormentor. failing in this he spurted crazily and the gap widened. "there it goes again!" muttered the kid, under his breath. "he's pretty raw with it. now if the judges notice the way that horse is running they may frisk calamity for an electric battery and if they find one on him--good night!" "where is he now?" demanded hopwood. "still in front--if he can stay there." "honest--is he?" "_ask_ anybody!" howled the kid, in sudden anger. "you don't need to take my word for it!" at the paddock gate last chance was rocking from side to side with weariness and the pursuit was closing in on him. jockey gillis measured the distance to the wire and waited until montezuma and bluestone drew alongside. twenty-five feet from home his fist thumped last chance on the shoulder again. the big chestnut answered with a frenzied bound and came floundering under the wire, a winner by a neck. "he won!" cried hopwood. "that--that was him in front, wasn't it?" "that was what's left of him," was the response. "maybe we'd better not cheer until the judges give us the 'official' on those numbers. i've got a hunch they may want to see jock gillis in the stand." and to himself: "the fool! he handed it to him again right under their noses! does he think the judges are cockeyed too?" "here's our chance to get rid of the grocer," said the presiding judge to his associate. "did you notice the way that horse acted? the boy's got a battery on him, sure as guns!" one hundred yards from the wire last chance checked to a walk and as jockey gillis turned the horse he tossed a small, dark object over the inside fence. it fell in a puddle of water and disappeared from sight. when the winner staggered stiffly into the ring, gillis flicked the visor of his cap with his whip. "judges?" he piped. the presiding judge answered the salute with a nod, but later when the rider was leaving the weighing room, he halted him with a curt command. "bring that tack up here, boy!" the investigation, while brief, was thorough. the judges examined the saddle carefully for copper stitching, looked at the butt end of the whip, ran their hands over calamity's thin loins and last of all felt in his bootlegs for wires connected with the spurs. all this time jockey gillis might have been posing as a statue of outraged innocence. "nothing on him," said the presiding judge shortly. "hang up the official." jockey gillis bowed and saluted. "judges, can i go now?" said he. "yes," said the presiding judge, "and don't come back. you're warned off, understand?" "judges," whined jockey gillis, "i ain't done a thing wrong. that old horse, he----" "git!" said the presiding judge. "now where is that man hopwood? if he bet much money on this race----" the bald-faced kid was waiting at the paddock gate. he greeted little calamity with blistering sarcasm. "you're a sweet little boy, ain't you? a _nice_ little boy! here i stall for you for weeks and you didn't even tell me that the old skate was going to have the thomas a. edison trimmings with him to-day!" "honest," said the jockey, "i didn't think there was enough 'lectricity in the world to make it a cinch. i took a long chance myself, that's all. i had to do it." "and got caught with the battery on you, too. didn't you know any better'n to slip him the juice right in front of the wire? think those judges are blind?" "well," said little calamity, "i don't know how good their eyes are, at that. jock hennessey, he's been riding with a hand buzzer every time the stable checks are down. this morning he loaned it to me." "oh, it was a hand buzzer, eh?" "sure. i chucked it over the fence when i was turning him around after the race." "fine work. what did the judges say to you?" "they warned me away from the track. i should worry. there's other tracks. only thing is, they've got hopwood in the stand now, and he'll be fool enough to tell 'em this was the first time he bet on the horse. somehow, i'd hate to see the old bird get into trouble.... say, by the way, how much did he bet?" the bald-faced kid began to laugh. he laughed until he had to lean on the rail for support. "don't worry," said he, at last. "the judges won't be too hard on him. he hunted all over the ring until he found some to and then he bet the wad--two great big iron dobey dollars--all at once, mind you!" "two dollars!" gasped little calamity. "_two dollars?_" "it serves you right for not letting me know about the buzzer! i'd have made him bet more. as it stands, your cut will be seventy-five--if he splits with you, and i think he will. that's a lot of money--when you haven't got it." "bah! chicken feed!" this with an almost lordly scorn. "it's a good thing those judges didn't take off my boots. then they _would_ have found something!" he fumbled for a moment and produced eight pasteboards. "i had sixteen dollars saved up and one of the boys bet it for me--every nickel of it on the nose. seventy-five dollars! i'm over eight hundred winner to the race!" "holy mackerel!" ejaculated the kid. "what are you going to do with all that money?" "i'm goin' to buy a diamond pin and a gold watch and a ring with a red stone in it and a suit of clothes and an overcoat and a derby hat and a pair of silk socks and a porterhouse steak four inches thick and a----" "e--nough!" said the kid. "sufficient! if there's anything left over, you better erect a monument to the guy that discovered electricity!" this happened long ago. hopwood's grocery store still does a flourishing business. over the cash register hangs a crayon portrait of a large yellow horse with four white stockings and a blaze. the original of the portrait hauls the hopwood delivery wagon. irritated teamsters sometimes ask mr. hopwood's delivery man why he does not drive where he is looking. sanguinary jeremiah it was not yet dawn, but old man curry was abroad; more than that, he was fully dressed. it was a tradition of the jungle circuit that he had never been seen in any other condition. the owner of the "bible horses," in shirt sleeves and bareheaded, would have created a sensation among his competing brethren, some of whom pretended to believe that the patriarch slept in his clothes. others, not so positive on this point, averred that old man curry slept with one eye open and one ear cocked toward the o'connor barn, where his enemies met to plot against him. summer and winter, heat and cold, there was never a change in the old man's raiment. the rusty frock coat--black where it was not green, grey along the seams, and ravelled at the skirts--the broad-brimmed and battered slouch hat, and the frayed string tie had seen fat years and lean years on all the tracks of the jungle circuit, and no man could say when these things had been new or their wearer had been young. old man curry was a fixture, as familiar a sight as the fence about the track, and his shabby attire was as much a part of his quaint personality as his habit of quoting the wise men of the old testament and borrowing the names of the prophets for his horses. the first faint golden glow appeared in the east; the adjoining stables loomed dark in the half light; here and there lanterns moved, and close at hand rose the wail of a sleepy exercise boy, roused from slumber by a liberal application of rawhide. from the direction of the track came the muffled beat of hoofs, swelling to a crescendo, and diminishing to a thin tattoo as the thoroughbreds rounded the upper turn. old man curry squared his shoulders, turned his face toward the east, and saluted the dawn in characteristic fashion. "'a time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away,'" he quoted. "solomon was framin' up a system for hossmen, i reckon. 'a time to get and a time to lose.' only thing is, solomon himself couldn't figure which was which with some of these rascals! _oh, mose!_" "yessuh, boss! comin'!" jockey moseby jones emerged from the tackle-room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and tugging at his sweater with the other. later in the day he would be a butterfly of fashion and an offence to the eye in loud checks and conflicting colours; now he was only a very sleepy little darky in a dingy red sweater and disreputable trousers. "seem like to me i ain't had no sleep a-a-a-tall," complained mose, swallowing a tremendous yawn. "this yer night work sutny got me goin' south for fair." shanghai, the hostler, appeared leading elisha, the star of the curry barn. "send him the full distance, mose," said the aged owner, "and set him down hard for the half-mile pole home." "_hard_, boss?" "as hard as he can go." "but, boss----" there was a note of strong protest in the jockey's voice. "you heard me," said old man curry, already striding in the direction of the track. "extend him and let's see what he's got." "extend him so's _eve'ybody_ kin see whut he's got!" mumbled mose rebelliously. "huh!" in the shadow of the paddock old man curry came upon his friend, the bald-faced kid, a youth of many failings, frankly confessed. the kid sat upon the fence, nursing an old-fashioned silver stop watch, for he was "clocking" the morning workouts. "morning, frank," said old man curry. "you're early." "but not early enough for some of these birds," responded the kid. "you galloping something, old-timer?" "'lisha'll work in a minute or two." "uh-huh. i kind of figured you'd throw another work into him before to-morrow's race. confound it! if i didn't know you pretty well, i'd say you ought to have your head examined! i'd say they ought to crawl your cupola for loose shingles!" "and if you didn't know me at all, frank, you'd say i was just plain crazy, eh?" old man curry regarded his young friend with thoughtful gravity. here were two wise men of the turf approaching truth from widely varying standpoints, yet able to meet on common ground and exchange convictions to mutual profit. "spit it out, son," said old man curry. "i'd sort of like to know how crazy i am." "fair enough!" said the bald-faced kid. "elisha's a good horse--a cracking good horse--but to-morrow's the end of the meeting and you've gone and saved him up to slip him into the toughest race on the card--on a day when all the burglars at the track will be levelling for the get-away money! you could have found a softer spot for him to pick up a purse, and, take it from me, the winner's end is about all you'll get around here. the bookmakers lost a lot of confidence in human nature when you pulled that horsehair stunt on 'em, and they wouldn't give you a price now, not even if you started a nice motherly old cow against stake horses. as for elisha--the bookies begin reaching for the erasers the minute they hear his name! you couldn't bet 'em diamonds against doughnuts on that horse. they've been stung too often." "maybe i wasn't aiming to bet on him," was the mild reply. "then why put him up against such a hard game?" "oh, it was a kind of a notion i had. i know it'll be a tough race. engle is in there, and o'connor and a lot more that have been under cover. 'lisha is goin' a mile this morning. better catch him when he breaks. he's off!" whatever jockey moseby jones thought of his orders, he knew better than to disobey them. he sent elisha the distance, driving him hard from the half-mile pole to the wire, and the bald-faced kid's astounded comments furnished a profane obbligato. "take a look at that!" said he, thrusting the watch under old man curry's nose. "pretty close to the track record for a mile, ain't it? and every clocker on the track got him too! if i was you i'd peel the hide off that nigger for showing a horse up like that!" "no-o," said old man curry, "i reckon i won't lick mose--this time. you forgot that jeremiah is goin' in the last race to-morrow, didn't you?" "jeremiah!" the bald-faced kid spoke with scorn. "why, he bleeds every time out! it's a shame to start him!" "maybe he won't bleed to-morrow, frank." "he won't, eh?" the bald-faced kid drew out the leather-backed volume which was his constant companion, and began to thumb the leaves rapidly. "you're always heaving your friend solomon at me. i'll give you a quotation i got out of the fourth reader at school--something about judging the future by the past. look here: '_jeremiah bled and was pulled up.' 'jeremiah bled badly._' why, everybody around here knows that he's a bleeder!" "there you go again," said old man curry patiently. "you study them dad-burned dope sheets, and all you can see is what a hoss _has_ done. you listen to me: it ain't what a hoss did last week or last month--it's what he's goin' to do to-day that counts." "a quitter will quit and a bleeder will bleed," said the kid sententiously. "and jeremiah says the leopard can't change his spots," said old man curry. "have it your own way, frank." exactly twenty-four hours later the bald-faced kid, peering across the track to the back stretch, saw old man curry lead a black horse to the quarter pole, exchange a few words with mose, adjust the bit, and stand aside. "what's that one, kid?" the question was asked by shine mcmanus, a professional clocker employed by a bookmaker to time the various workouts and make a report on them at noon. "that's jeremiah," said the kid. "the old man hasn't worked him much lately." "good reason why," said shine. "i wouldn't work a horse either if he bled every time he got out of a walk! there he goes!" jeremiah went to the half pole like the wind, slacked somewhat on the upper turn, and floundered heavily into the stretch. "bleeding, ain't he?" asked shine. "he acts like it--yes, you can see it now." as jeremiah neared the paddock he stopped to a choppy gallop, and the railbirds saw that blood was streaming from both nostrils and trickling from his mouth. "ain't that sickening? you wouldn't think that old man curry would abuse a horse like that!" the bald-faced kid went valiantly to the defence of his aged friend. he would criticise old man curry if he saw fit, but no one else had that privilege. "aw, where do you get that abusing-a-horse stuff! it don't really _hurt_ a horse any more'n it would hurt you to have a good nosebleed. it just chokes him up so't he can't get his breath, and he quits, that's all." "yes, but it looks bad, and it's a shame to start a horse in that condition." the argument waxed long and loud, and in the end the kid was vanquished, borne down by superior numbers. the popular verdict was that old man curry ought to be ashamed of himself for owning and starting a confirmed bleeder like jeremiah. on get-away day the speculative soul whose financial operations show a loss makes a determined effort to plunge a red-ink balance into a black one. on get-away day the honest owner has doubts and the dishonest owner has fears. on get-away day the bookmaker wears deep creases in his brow, for few horses are "laid up" with him, and he wonders which dead one will come to life. on get-away day the tout redoubles his activities, hoping to be far away before his victims awake to a sense of injury. on get-away day the program boy bawls his loudest and the hot-dog purveyor pushes his fragrant wares with the utmost energy. on get-away day the judges are more than usually alert, scenting outward indications of a "job." on get-away day the betting ring boils and seethes and bubbles; the prices are short and arguments are long; strange stories are current and disquieting rumours hang in the very air. "now, if ever!" is the motto. "shoot 'em in the back and run!" is the spirit of the day, reduced to words. in the midst of all this feverish excitement, old man curry maintained his customary calm. he had seen many get-away days on many tracks. elisha was entered in the fourth race, the feature event of the day, and promptly on the dot, elisha appeared in the paddock, steaming after a brisk gallop down the stretch. soon there came a wild rush from the betting ring; the prices were up and elisha ruled the opening favourite at to . did mr. curry think that elisha could win? wasn't the price a little short? in case mr. curry had any doubts about elisha, what other horse did he favour? the old man answered all questions patiently, courteously, and truthfully--and patience, courtesy, and truth seldom meet in the paddock. we-ell, about 'lisha, now, he was an honest hoss and he would try as hard to win at to as any other price. 'lisha was trained not to look in the bettin' ring on the way to the post. ye-es, 'lisha had a chance; he always had a chance 'count of bein' honest and doin' the best he knowed how. the other owners? well, now, it was this way: he couldn't really say what they was up to; he expected, though, they'd all be tryin'. himself person'ly, he only bothered about his own hosses; they kept his hands full. was engle going to bet on cornflower? well, about engle--hm-m-m. he's right over there, sonny; better ask him. after little mose had been given his riding orders--briefly, they were to do the best he could and come home in front if possible--old man curry turned elisha over to shanghai and went into the betting ring. elisha's price was still to . the old man paused in front of the first book, a thick wallet in his fingers. the bookmaker, a red-eyed, dyspeptic-looking person, glanced down, recognised the flowing white beard under the slouch hat, took note of the thick wallet, and with one swipe of his eraser sent elisha to even money. "that's it! squawk before you're hurt!" grunted elisha's owner, shouldering his way through the crowd to the next stand. this bookmaker was an immensely fat gentleman with purplish jowls and piggy eyes which narrowed to slits as they rested upon the corpulent roll of bills which old man curry was holding up to him. "don't want it," he wheezed. "what ails it?" old man curry's voice rose in a high, piping treble, shrill with wrath. "it's good money. i got some of it from you. your slate says to , 'lisha." "don't want it," repeated the bookmaker, his eyes roving over the crowd. "get it next door." "that's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "i can't bet on my own horse--at a short price, too!" word ran around the betting ring that old man curry was trying to bet so much money on elisha that the bookmakers refused his wagers, and there was an immediate stampede for the betting booths and a demand for elisha at any figure. the third bookmaker forestalled all argument by wiping out the prophet's price entirely, while the crowd jeered. "does a bet scare you that bad?" asked old man curry with sarcasm. "any bet from you would scare me, professor. any bet at all. try the next store." old man curry worked his way around the circle, elisha's price dropping before his advance. his very appearance in the ring had been enough to encourage play on the horse, and the large roll of bills which he carried so conspicuously added a powerful impetus to the rush on the favourite. "curry's betting a million!" "elisha's a cinch!" "the old coot's got 'em scared!" elisha dropped to even money, then went to odds on. at to and even at to the crowd played him, and sheet and ticket writers were kept busy recording bets on the curry horse. somewhere in the maelstrom old man curry encountered the bald-faced kid plying his vocation. he was earnestly endeavouring to persuade a whiskered rustic to bet more money than he owned on cornflower at to . though very busy, the young man was abreast of the situation and fully informed of events, as indeed he usually was. retaining his interest in the rustic by the simple expedient of thrusting a forefinger through his buttonhole, the kid leaned toward the old man. "see what your little nigger did, riding that horse out yesterday morning? you might have got or to on him if mose hadn't tipped him off to every clocker at the track!" old man curry digested this remark in silence. "i hear that engle is sending the mare for a killing," whispered the kid. "know anything about it?" "everything is bein' sent for a killing to-day," said old man curry. "well, she'll have 'lisha to beat, i reckon. and all he's runnin' for is the purse, frank, like you said. i did my best to bet 'em until the price got too plumb ridiculous, but the children of israel wouldn't take my money." the bald-faced kid glanced at the roll of bills which the old man still held in his hand. "well, no wonder!" he snorted. "don't you know that ain't any way to do? you come in here and wave a chunk like that under their noses, and--by golly, you ought to have your head examined!" "i reckon you're right," said the old man apologetically. "all i ask is please don't have me yanked up before the lunacy board till after the last race, because----" "aw, rats! beat it now till i land this sucker!" "frank," whispered the old man, "tell him to save a couple of dollars to bet on jeremiah!" it was a great race. cornflower, lightly weighted, able to set a pace or hold one, did not show in front until the homestretch was reached. then the mare suddenly shot out of the ruck and flashed into the lead. but she soon had company. honest old elisha had been plugging along in the dust for the first half mile, but at that point he began to run, and the curry colours moved up with great celerity. merritt, glancing over his shoulders, shook out the last wrap on the mare just as elisha thundered into second place. gathering speed with every awkward bound, the big bay horse slowly closed the gap. at the paddock there was no longer daylight between them, and old man curry stopped combing his beard. he knew what that meant. so did jockey merritt, plying whip and spur. so did al engle and those who had been given the quiet tip to play cornflower for a killing. so did the bald-faced kid, edging away from the rustic who, with a cornflower ticket clutched in his sweating palm, seemed to be trying to swallow the thyroid cartilage of his larynx. so did jockey moseby jones, driving straight into the hurricane of cheers which beat down from the packed grand stand. "_elisha! elisha! come on, you elisha!_" now the gaunt bay head was at the mare's flank, now at the saddle girth, now it blotted out the shoulder, now they were neck and neck; one more terrific bound, an ear-splitting yell from the grand stand, and elisha's number went slowly to the top of the pole. the judges were examining the opening betting on the last race of the meeting. "ah, we have old man curry with us again!" said the presiding judge. "jeremiah. if the meeting had another two weeks to run i'd ask him not to start that horse again. i'm told he bled at his workout this morning. by the way, the old man acted sort of grouchy after the elisha race. did you notice it?" "yes, and i know why," said the associate judge. "he tried to bet a barrel of money and the bookmakers laughed at him. as a general thing he bets a few dollars in each book; this time he went at 'em too strong. the bookies are a little leary of that innocent old boy." "call him innocent if you want to. he's either the shrewdest horseman on this circuit--or the luckiest, and i be damned if i can tell which! hm-m-m. jeremiah, to . if he bled this morning, he ought to be a thousand!" so, also, thought the employer of shine mcmanus, none other than the fat gentleman with the purple jowls, otherwise izzy marx, known to his friends as "easy marks." mcmanus was a not unimportant cog in the secret-service department maintained by the bookmaker. "listen, mac!" wheezed marx. "i want you to tail old man curry from now until the barrier goes up, understand? yes, yes, you _told_ me the horse bled this morning, but that old fox has got the miracle habit; i'd hate to give him too long a price on a _dead_ horse, understand, mac? if curry is going to bet a plugged nickel on this here jeremiah, i'll hold him out and not take a cent on him. stick around close and shoot me back word by abie. the rest of these fellows have got to on him; he's to in this book until i hear from you. hurry, now!" there were ten horses entered in the final race of the meeting, and nine of them were strongly touted as "good things." the tenth was jeremiah and the most reckless hustler at the track refused to consider the black horse as a contender for anything but sanguinary honours. "him? nix! didn't you hear about him? why, he bled this morning in his workout! no chance!" of course there were those who did not believe this, so they asked jeremiah's owner and old man curry stamped up and down the paddock stall and complained querulously. they asked him if jeremiah had a chance and he replied that elisha was a good hoss, a crackin' good hoss, but they wouldn't let him bet his money. they asked him if jeremiah was likely to bleed and he told them that a bookmaker who wouldn't take a bet when it was shoved under his nose ought to be run off the track. they asked him what the other owners were doing and were informed that he had a tarnation good mind to make a holler to the judges. word of this condition of affairs soon reached mr. marx. "the old nut is ravin' all over the place about how he couldn't get a bet down on elisha. says if he wasn't allowed to bet on the best horse in his barn he certainly ain't goin' to bet on the worst one. oh, yes, and he's talkin' about makin' a holler to the judges!" "fat chance!" chuckled marx, and jeremiah went to to . clear and high above the hum of the betting ring rose the notes of a bugle. the last field of the season was being called to the track and instead of the usual staccato summons the bugler blew "taps." "there she goes, boys!" bellowed the bookmakers. "that's good-by for a whole year, you know! bet 'em fast! they're on the way to the post! only a few minutes more!" the final attack closed in around the stands. men who had solemnly promised themselves not to make another bet caught the fever and hurled themselves into the jam, bent on exchanging coin of the realm for pasteboard tickets and hope of sudden prosperity. it was the last race of the season, wasn't it, and good-bye to the bangtails for another year! during this mad attack abie squirmed through the mob and plucked at marx's sleeve. it was his third report. "the old bird is settin' out there in the corner of the stall all by himself, chewin' a straw. says he's so disgusted he don't care if he sees the race or not. i started to kid him about bein' such a crab and, honest, i was afraid he'd bite me!" mr. marx grinned and chalked up to on jeremiah. "now let him bleed!" said he. the distance of the final event was three-quarters of a mile and the crowd in the betting ring continued to swarm about the stands until the clang of the gong warned them that the race was on. then there was a wild rush for the lawn; even the fat mr. marx climbed down from his perch and waddled out into the sunshine, blinking as he turned his small eyes toward the back stretch. now little mose had been watching the starter carefully and had thrown his mount at the barrier just as it rose in the air, but there were other jockeys in the race who had done the same thing, and jeremiah's was not the only early speed that sizzled down to the half-mile pole. at least four of the "good things" were away to a running start--fireball, sky pilot, harry root, and resolution. jeremiah trailed the quartet, content to kick clods at the second division. on the upper turn fireball and harry root found the pace too warm for them and dropped back. jeremiah found himself in third place, coasting along easily under a strong pull. the presiding judge turned his binoculars upon the black horse and favoured him with a searching scrutiny. "ah, hah!" said he, wagging his head. "i thought as much. jeremiah may have bled this morning, but he ain't bleeding _now_ and that little nigger is almost breaking his jaw to keep him from running over the two in front!... old man curry again! oh, but he's a cute rascal!" "i'd rather see him get away with it than some of these other owners, at that," said the associate judge. "so would i ... i kind of like the old coot.... now what on earth do you suppose he's done to that horse since this morning?" a few thousand spectators were asking variations of the same question, but one spectator asked no questions at all. the bald-faced kid was reduced by stuttering degrees to dumb amazement. he had ignored old man curry's kindly suggestion and had persuaded all and sundry to plunge heavily on fireball. it really was not much of a contest. sky pilot, on the rail, swung wide turning into the stretch and carried resolution with him. like a flash little mose shot the black horse through the opening and straightened away for the wire, an open length away for the wire, an open length in the lead. "come git him, jocks!" shrilled mose. "come git ol' jeremiah to-day!" the most that can be said for the other jockeys is that they tried, but little mose hugged the rail and jeremiah came booming down the home stretch alone, fighting for his head and hoping for some real competition which never quite arrived. the black horse won by three open lengths, won with wraps still on his jockey's wrists, and, as the form chart stated, "did not bleed and was never fully extended." "well, anyhow," said mr. marx, as he wheezed back to his place of business, "curry won't get anything but the purse again and that'll help some. if he brought a dead horse around here in a wagon, the best he'd get from me would be to !" the judges, of course, were curious. they invited old man curry into the stand to ask him if he had bet on jeremiah. "gentlemen," said he, removing his battered slouch hat, "i give you my word, i never went near that betting ring but once to-day, and that was to bet on a _real_ hoss. 'elisha!' i says, and i shoved it at 'em. judges, they laughed at me. they wouldn't take a cent. not a cent! and i was so mad----" "yes, yes," said the presiding judge, soothingly, "but how do you account for jeremiah bleeding in his work this morning and running such a good race this afternoon?" "gentlemen," said old man curry, "i don't account for it. solomon was the smartest man that ever lived, i reckon, and there was a lot of things he never figured out. i reckon now, if he'd been in this business----" "good-bye, mr. curry," said the presiding judge, "and good luck!" the bald-faced kid might see miracles with his eyes, but there was that about him which demanded explanation. chastened in spirit, utterly humble and cast down, he called upon old man curry. he found him seated in his tackle-room, reading the old testament by the light of a lantern. "come in, frank.... got the lunacy board with you?" "don't rub it in. and if you can spare the time, i wish you'd tell me what you've been up to with jeremiah." "oh, jeremiah. well, now, he's a better hoss than some folks think. there wasn't anything wrong with him but just them little bleedin' spells. when i got him cured of those----" "cured! was he cured this morning? didn't i see him bleed all over the place?" "you saw some blood, yes ... frank, i wish't you wouldn't interrupt me when i'm talkin'.... well, about three weeks ago i met up with a man that claimed he had a remedy to cure bleeders. i let him try his hand on jeremiah and he done a good job. since then we've been workin' the black rascal at two in the mornin' when all you wise folks was in bed.... of course, i didn't want anybody to know it was jeremiah i was figurin' on, so i gave 'em something else to think about. i started 'lisha the same day and i tried to get as many folks interested in him as i could. i had the little nigger send him a mile so fast that a wayfarin' man and a fool couldn't help but see he was ready. and then i kind of distracted 'em some more by goin' into the bettin' ring with a big mess of one dollar bills with a fifty on the outside. i held the money up where everybody could see it and i carried on scandalous when the bookmakers wouldn't take it, i'd have carried on a lot worse if one of them children of israel had called my bluff. and then i got so mad because they wouldn't let me bet on 'lisha that they thought i'd lost interest in jeremiah.... i've heard that jeremiah wasn't played. he was played all over the ring, two dollars at a time and it was my money that played him. but of course those bookmakers knew i was sulkin' out in the paddock and took the sucker money.... anything else you want to know?" "yes!" the bald-faced kid had reached the bursting point. "was jeremiah bleeding this morning or not?" old man curry stroked his beard thoughtfully. "well, it was real _blood_, if that's what you want to know," said he. "it took me some time to study that out. last week mose came around here, squawkin' on one of them little toy balloons. i took it away from him for fear it would make the hosses nervous--and then i got to studying how it was made. last night i done some shopping. i bought a nice, fat hen and a glass pumping arrangement from a drug store.... the hen, she passed away this mornin' about daybreak. she bled quite a lot, but i got most of it in that rubber bag, and when jeremiah was ready for his gallop----" "you put it in his mouth?" old man curry nodded. "oh, why didn't you tell me?" wailed the bald-faced kid. "i could have cleaned up!" "i started in to tell you, son, and you said i ought to have my head examined. and then, i kind of like to surprise folks, frank. i knew you wouldn't have the nerve to bet on a bleeder like jeremiah, so i had some bettin' done for you." old man curry fumbled in his pocket and produced a roll of bills. "solomon says there's a time to get, and i don't know of any better time than get-away day!" eliphaz, late fairfax when old man curry's racing string arrived at the second stop on the jungle circuit the bald-faced kid met the horse car in the railroad yards and watched the thoroughbreds come down the chute into the corral. one by one he checked them off: elisha, the pride of the stable; elijah, isaiah, ezekiel, esther, nehemiah, ruth, and jeremiah. the aged owner, straw in mouth and hands clasped behind him, watched the unloading process narrowly giving an order now and then and sparing no more than a nod for his young friend. this sort of welcome did not discourage the kid. he was accustomed to the old man's spells of silence, as well as his garrulous interludes. "they look all right, old-timer," said the kid, making conversation for its own sake. "yes, sir, they look good. the trip didn't bother 'em much. elisha, now, i'd say he was ready to step out and bust a track record as soon as he gets the cinders out of his ears. shouldn't wonder if he----" the aimless chatter died away into amazed silence. shanghai, the hostler, appeared at the head of the chute leading a large, coal-black horse. "well, for heaven's sake!" muttered the kid, moving nearer the fence, his eyes glued on the black stranger. "where did you pick up that fellow?... one white forefoot. h-m-m!... say, you don't mean to tell me this is fairfax?" old man curry nodded. "fairfax!" ejaculated the bald-faced kid disgustedly. "well, how in the name of all that is good, great, and wise did you get that crowbait wished on you?" old man curry threw away his straw and reached for his packet of fine cut, a sure sign that he was about to unburden himself. "he wa'n't wished on me, frank. jimmy miles was stuck with a feed bill, and at the last minute, just as i was loadin' my hosses, he----" "he stuck you with _that_," finished the kid, pointing at the black horse. "well, i dunno's i'd say _stuck_," remarked old man curry, looking critically at fairfax. "jimmy sold him to me for next to nothing." "and you can bet he didn't misrepresent the goods any!" said the kid. "that's exactly what fairfax is--next to nothing. he's so near nothing that a lot of folks can't tell the difference. if you said to me: 'this is a black horse named fairfax and that over there is nothing,' i couldn't tell which was which. old-timer, you're in bad." "mebbe i am." old man curry's tone was apologetic and conciliating in the extreme. "mebbe i am. you ought to know 'bout hosses, frank. you most gener'ly do." "cut out the sarcasm, because here's one i _do_ know.... you made a sucker of me on jeremiah, but don't rub it in. this fairfax looks like a stake horse and on his breeding he ought to run like one, but he simply can't untrack himself in any kind of going. if hay was two bits a ton and this black fellow had an appetite like a humming bird, he wouldn't be worth feeding. i'm telling you!" "i hear you, frank." old man curry pretended to reflect deeply, but there was a shifting light in his eye. "ah, hah! your advice, then, would be to take him out and shoot him to save expense?" "oh, quit your kidding, old-timer. you've bought a race horse; now go ahead and see what you can do with him." "well, ain't that queer?" ejaculated the old man. "ain't it? great minds run in the same channels, for a fact. you know, that's exackly what i was figgerin' to do! i ain't had time to look this black hoss over yet--i bought him just before we pulled out of the railroad yards--but i've been expectin' to see what i could do with him. whenever i get hold of a hoss that ought to run--a hoss that looks as if he could run, but ain't doin' it--the next thing i want to find out is _why_. if i thought there was a cold strain in fairfax, i wouldn't waste a minute on him, but i know he's bred right. his daddy was sure a go-getter from 'way up the creek and his mother was a nice, honest little mare and game as a badger.... and, speakin' about breeding, frank, i don't know's you ever thought of it, but when it comes to ancestors, a real thoroughbred hoss has got something on a human being. even fairfax over there had his ancestors picked out for him by folks who knew their business and was after results--go back with him as far as you like and that'll be true. a hoss or a mare without class can't ring in on a family tree, whereas humans ain't noways near that partickler. son, good looks has made grandfathers out of lots of men that by rights should have been locked up instead of married. did you ever think of that?" the bald-faced kid laughed. "i think that you're putting up a whale of an argument to excuse yourself for shipping that black hay burner around the country. you'd save breath by admitting that miles slipped one over on you." "mebbe he did and mebbe he didn't. jimmy miles don't know all there is to be knowed about hosses--coming right down to it, i'd say he's pretty near ignorant. like as not he's overlooked something about this fairfax. i tell you, on his breeding, the hoss ought to run." "and al engle ought to be in jail, but he ain't. he's here, big as life." "and aspreading himself like a green bay tree, i reckon," said the old man. "i've lopped a few branches off that rascal in my time, and if i have any luck i'll lop off a few more at this meeting.... ole maje pettigrew is still the presiding judge here, ain't he?" "sure. they can't get rid of him." "a lot of crooks would like to." there was a trace of grimness in the old man's tone. "pettigrew won't stand for no monkey business, pullin' a boss's head off on monday and cuttin' him loose on tuesday. they've got to be middlin' consistent p'formers to get by the major, and if al engle goes runnin' 'em in and out he'll get his jacket dusted good; you mark what i say!" the bald-faced kid shook his head. "that's your hope talking now," said he, "and not your common sense. these race-track judges have been after the sharpshooter a long time, but i notice he's still wearing an owner's badge and coming in at the free gate. he's a crook--no getting away from it--but he's got high-up friends." "let him have 'em!" snapped old man curry. "you know what solomon says? 'though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished.' let engle have his pull; it won't buy him a nickel's worth with ole maje pettigrew. when he starts dealin' out justice, the cards come off the top of the deck and they lay as they fall. the major will get him, i tell you!" "i won't go into deep mourning if he does," said the kid. "al engle is no friend of mine, old-timer. if he was overboard in fifty feet of water and couldn't swim a lick, i'd toss him a bar of lead--that's how much i think of him. he did me a mean trick once and i haven't got over it yet. he--say! don't you feed that black horse, or what?" "huh? _feed_ him? of course we feed him! why?" "you don't feed him enough or he wouldn't be trying to eat up the top rail of the fence. take a look, will you?" sure enough, fairfax was gnawing at the pine board; the grating rasp of his teeth became audible in the silence. after a time the horse dropped his head and gulped heavily. "suffering mackerel!" ejaculated the kid. "he ain't really _swallowing_ those splinters, is he?" the time came when the bald-faced kid recalled that old man curry's next remark was not a direct reply to his question. after a careful survey of the black horse the patriarch of the jungle circuit spoke. "what jimmy miles don't know about hosses would fill a big book!" ten days later fairfax, running in old man curry's colours and under the name of eliphaz, won a cheap selling race from very bad horses--won it in a canter after leading all the way. the bald-faced kid, a student to whom past performance was a sacred thing, was shocked at this amazing reversal of form and sought old man curry--and information. "i don't know how you do it!" said the youth. "all i can say is that you're a marvel--a wizard. this fairfax----" "eliphaz, son," said the old man. "eliphaz. i got his name changed." "and his heart too," said the kid. "and maybe you got him a new set of legs, or lungs, or something? well, eliphaz, then--do you know how fast that bird stepped the first half mile?" old man curry nodded. "i reckon i do," said he simply. "i bet quite a chunk on him." "but of course you wouldn't open up and tell a friend!" the bald-faced kid was beginning to show signs of exasperation. "you're the fellow that invented secrets, ain't you, old-timer? you're by a clam out of an oyster, you are! never mind! don't say it! i can tell by the look in your eye that solomon thought the clam was the king of beasts. what i want to know is this: how did that black brute come to change his heart at the same time with his name?" "i dunno's there was ever anything wrong with his _heart_," said old man curry. "lots of folks make that mistake and think a man's heart is bad when it's only his habits that need reformin'. now eliphaz, on his breeding, he ought to----" "yes, yes! i know all about his breeding--by stormcloud out of frippery--but he never ran to his breeding before. the way he ran for jimmy miles you'd have thought he was by a steam roller out of a wheelbarrow. what in sam hill have you been doing to him--sprinkling powders on his tongue?" the old man's eyes flashed wrathfully. "you know better'n that, frank. all the help the black hoss had was what little bit mose give him after the barrier went up. ketch me handing the drug habit to a dumb critter! i guess _not_!" "keep your shirt on," was the soothing reply. "i'm only telling you what they say. they think jimmy miles didn't know the right prescription." "a lot of things he don't know besides p'scriptions!" retorted old man curry, still nettled. "hosses, for one!" "but you're getting away from the subject, old-timer. ain't you going to tell me what you've done to this horse to make him win?" "some day, frank--some day." the aged horseman combed his white beard with his fingers and regarded his impatient young friend with benign tolerance. "you--got many clients, so far?" thus tactfully did old man curry recognise the fact that the bald-faced kid was what another man might have called a tout. "a few, yes," said the kid. "pikers." "well, sort of whisper to 'em that eliphaz'll be a good bet the next time out." "if it's a dog race, there won't be any price on him," was the sulky response. "it won't be a dog race," said old man curry. "it'll be a hoss race." a few days afterward the bald-faced kid picked up the overnight entry slip and there found something which caused him to emit a long, low whistle. "well, the poor old nut!" murmured the kid. "just because he thinks well of the black horse, he's got no license to slip him in against the real ones.... too much class here for eliphaz. he may be able to beat dogs and nonwinners, but topaz and miss louise will run the eyeballs out of him. let's see--topaz won his last start----" and the bald-faced kid fell to thumbing his form charts. topaz and miss louise did not run the eyeballs out of eliphaz; the supposed contenders never got near enough to the black horse to give him a race. eliphaz burst out in front when the barrier rose and stayed there, triumphantly kicking clods in the faces of his pursuers. to quote from the form chart notes: "eliphaz much too good; surprised the talent by winning as he pleased." he certainly surprised the bald-faced kid, and grieved him too, for that youth had persuaded a most promising client to bet his last dollar on topaz. topaz was second, which was some consolation, but the horse without any license to start in such company passed under the wire with three lengths to spare, his mouth wide open because of a strong pull. that night old man curry poured vinegar into the wound. "well, son," said he, "i hope and trust you remembered what i said and cashed in on the black hoss to-day. they was offerin' to on him in the openin' betting. he's an improved hoss, ain't he?" "he's _another_ horse!" grunted the kid. "mose had to choke him all the way down the stretch to keep him from breaking a track record! what on earth have you done to him?" "that's what they'd all like to know," chuckled the old man. "'a word spoken in due season, how good it is!' i spoke one a few days ago. did you heed it, frank?" "how in hell could i figure him to beat topaz?" snarled the kid. "on his past performance he ain't even in the same class with horses like he beat to-day!" old man curry smiled and returned to solomon. "'a scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not, but knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.'" "yes--'unto him that understandeth!' that's the point; i don't understand. nobody understands. here's a dead horse come to life and he's got everybody guessing. miracles are all right, but i'm never going to bet on one until i know how it's done. say, old-timer, ain't you going to tell me what's happened to eliphaz?" "no, but i'll tell you what solomon says 'bout a loose tongue, my son." old man curry paused, for he was addressing the vanishing coat tails of a much-disgusted young man. the bald-faced kid took himself off in a highly inflamed state of mind, and the patriarch, looking after him, shook his head sorrowfully. "'how much better is it to get wisdom than gold,'" he quoted, "but frank, now--he wants 'em both at the same time!" there were others who were earnest in their search for information, which became acute when eliphaz, late fairfax, won his fourth race, a brilliant victory over the best horses at the track. among the seekers after knowledge, were al engle and martin o'connor, horsemen and turf pirates with whom old man curry had been at war for some time. engle, sometimes called the sharpshooter, was the chief conspirator; o'connor was his lieutenant. engle, who was responsible for the skirmishes with curry, had begun operations with the theory that old man curry was a harmless, brainless individual, "shot full of luck," he expressed it. circumstances had caused him to alter his opinion somewhat; he no longer pitied the owner of eliphaz and elisha; he suspected him. o'connor went even farther. he respected and feared everything bearing the curry tag, the latter feeling amounting almost to superstition. these two unworthies discussed the resurrection of fairfax, the place of the confab being o'connor's tackle-room and the time being the night following the fourth straight victory of the curry colours as borne by eliphaz. "if it ain't hop he's using on that horse," said o'connor, "i wish you'd tell me what it is. a month ago fairfax was a bum; now he's pretty near a stake horse and getting better every time he starts. why couldn't we have a smart 'vet' look him over on the sly before he goes to the post the next time? then we could send word to the judge that curry was stimulating the horse and----" "and create a lovely precedent," sneered engle. "use your head a little more; that's what it's for. a man that hops his horses as often as you do can't afford to start any investigations along that line. if you must throw something at curry, throw a brick, not a boomerang.... and somehow i don't believe it's hop. fairfax was probably a good horse all the time, but jimmy miles didn't know it; and, as for training, jimmy couldn't train a goat for a butting contest, let alone a thoroughbred for a race! curry is a wise horseman--i'll give the old scoundrel that much--and he's got this bird edged up. take it from me, he's a cracking good selling plater. i'd like to have him in my barn." o'connor laughed unpleasantly. he resented engle's easy and arrogant assumption of mental superiority, and was thankful for a chance to remind the sharpshooter of one skirmish in which all the honours had gone to old man curry. "g'wan, run him up like you did elisha," said o'connor. "grab him out of a selling race. my memory ain't what it used to be, al, but seems to me you took one of curry's horses away from him and framed him up for a killing. did i dream it, or did the skate run last? go on and grab another horse away from the old boy!" "will you ever quit beefing about the money you lost on that race?" snapped engle. "will i ever forget who got me into it?" countered o'connor. "and if you'll take a tip from me--which you won't because you think you're smarter than i am--you'll let old man curry's horses alone. it ain't in the cards that you or me can monkey with those bible horses without getting hurt. grab this fairfax, or whatever they call him now, but count me out." "no-o," said the sharpshooter, his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled. "i don't want to grab him. i'd rather get him some other way." "buy him, then." engle shook his head. "curry wouldn't sell--not to me, anyway. he might to some one else. i saw jimmy miles this afternoon, and he was crying about what a wonderful horse he'd sold for nothing. i wonder where i could get hold of jimmy?" the following evening the bald-faced kid called upon his aged friend and interrupted a heart-to-heart session in old man curry's tackle-room. "hello, old-timer! hello, jimmy! am i butting in here?" jimmy miles, a thin, sandy-haired man with pale-blue eyes and a retreating chin, answered for both. "no, nothing private. i've been tryin' to tell curry here that he kind of took a mean advantage of me when he bought fairfax so cheap." "eliphaz," corrected the old man, "and it wa'n't no advantage because you was crazy to sell." "i'd been drinkin' or i wouldn't have been such a fool," whined miles. "booze in--brains out: the old story. if i hadn't been right up against it, i wouldn't have sold the horse at all--attached to him the way i was. i'd worked with him a long time, gettin' him ready to win, and it was a mistake to let him go just when he was shapin' up. i--i'd like to buy him back. put a price on him, old man." miles stooped to extinguish a burning match end which the kid had thrown on the floor, and in that instant the bald-faced kid caught old man curry's eye and shook his head ever so slightly. "he ain't for sale," said the owner of eliphaz. "not for cash--and your own figure?" persisted miles. again a wordless message flashed across the tackle-room. this time the kid, yawning, stretched one hand high over his head. "two thousand dollars!" said old man curry promptly. miles gulped his astonishment. "why--why, you _got_ him for a hundred and fifty!" he cried. "he's a better hoss than when i got him," said the old man, "and he's won four races. maybe he'll win four more. you asked for my figure. you got it. two thousand. not a cent less." miles argued and pleaded, but the old man was firm. "it ain't as if i was wantin' to sell," he explained. "i never want to sell--when the other man wants to buy. that's business, ain't it? two thousand--take it or leave it." "i'll see you later," said miles. "you might come down some." hardly was he out of the room before old man curry turned to his remaining guest. "well, frank," said he, "you know something. what is it?" "i know miles is trying to buy the black horse for al engle." old man curry's fist thumped upon his knee. "engle! how did you find that out, son?" the bald-faced kid grinned. "everybody ain't as close-mouthed as you are, old-timer. engle, o'connor, and jimmy miles split a quart of wine in the restaurant under the grand stand after the last race to-day and the waiter hung around and got an earful. o'connor was against the deal from the jump. he says nobody can win any money on a bible horse without queering his luck. engle knows you wouldn't sell to him so he sent miles after you and told him what to say. he'd like to run that horse in his colours next saturday and win the handicap with him." "you're sure he ain't intending to lay him up with the books and have him pulled, or something?" "not at this track, old-timer. you see, engle is just the least little bit leery of pettigrew. they talked it all over and decided that it wouldn't be healthy for him to buy a four-time winner and make a bad showing with him the first time out. he wants the horse for a gambling tool, all right enough, but he won't be foolish enough to do any cheating with eliphaz at this track. engle says himself that he don't dare take a chance--not with old pettigrew laying for him--on general principles. engle thinks that if he buys the black horse and wins a good race with him first time out it may pull the wool over pettigrew's eyes. he says eliphaz is a cinch in the handicap next saturday." old man curry fingered his beard for some time in silence. "blast the luck!" said he suddenly. "why didn't i know miles was arepresentin' al engle?" "you'd have said three thousand, eh?" "no," said old man curry. "no, son. fifteen hundred." "_fifteen hundred!_ you're crazy!" "mebbe i am, but solomon, he says that even a fool, if he keeps his mouth shut tight enough, can pass for a wise man.... frank, i wish you'd go out and find jimmy miles. sort of hint to him that if he comes back here he won't be throwed out on his head. do that for me, and mebbe you won't lose nothing by it." the negotiations for the purchase of eliphaz were long drawn out, but on friday evening at dusk old man curry went into the stall and said good-bye to his four-time winner. "don't be so skittish!" said the old gentleman. "i ain't come to put the strap on ye.... habit is a great thing, black hoss, a great thing. in this case i'm kind of dependin' on it. you know what the dog done, don't ye? and the sow that was washed, she went wallerin' in the mire, first chance she got. that's in the new testament, but peter, he got the notion from solomon and didn't give him credit either.... good-bye, black hoss, and whatever happens, good luck!" this was at dusk, but it was close to eleven o'clock when the transaction was completed by transfer of a fat roll of bills, which old man curry counted very carefully. "four hundred--five hundred--jimmy, this hoss has got a engagement for the handicap to-morrow--seven hundred--seven-fifty--was you thinkin' of startin' him?" "m--well, yes. i think he's got a chance," said miles. "a royal chance--'leven hundred--twelve hundred.... in that case, price bein' satisfactory and all, i oughtn't to hold out any info'mation. this black hoss shouldn't be worked to-morrow mornin'. he got his last workout to-day; the full distance, and he's ready. i wasn't even goin' to warm him up before takin' him to the paddock. some hosses run better hot; some run better cold.... fourteen hundred--fifteen hundred, and o. k.--better not forget that, jimmy." "i won't, old-timer. guess i better take him now, eh?" "as well now as any other time. he's your hoss." major ewell duval pettigrew was an early riser, but he was barely into his trousers when a bell boy tapped at his door. the major was small and plump, with a face like a harvest moon, if you can imagine a harvest moon wearing a bristling moustache and goatee. horsemen knew to their sorrow that the major owned a long memory, a short temper, and strong prejudices. consistent racing was his cry and woe to the in-and-outer. "somebody to see me, eh?" sputtered the major. "blankety blank it to blank! man can't even get his breakfast in peace! oh, mr. curry. show the gentleman up, boy." "judge," said old man curry, after shaking hands, "there's something you ought to know. i bought that eliphaz hoss from jimmy miles--bought him cheap." "and a good bargain, suh," remarked major pettigrew. "mebbe. well, miles has been pesterin' me for a week wantin' to buy the hoss back. said he never would have sold him if he hadn't been in licker. he kind of thought i took advantage of him, he said, but it wa'n't true, judge, not a word of it. so last night i let him buy the hoss back--for cash. this mornin' the hoss is in al engle's barn." "ah!" major pettigrew twisted his goatee until it stuck out straight from his chin. "engle, eh?" "he knew i never would have sold that hoss to him, so he sent miles," explained old man curry. "i--i've had some trouble with engle, judge. i beat him a few times when he wasn't lookin' for me to win. in case anything happens, i thought i better see you and explain how engle got hold of the hoss--through another party." "yes, suh," said major pettigrew. "i understand yo' position perfectly, suh. suppose, now, you had not sold the animal. would you say he had a chance to win the handicap?" "judge," said old man curry earnestly, "i would have bet on him from hell to breakfast. now i don't know's i would put a nickel on him." "neither would i, suh. and, speaking of breakfast, mr. curry, will yo' join me in a grilled kidney?" "thank you just the same, judge, but i reckon i better be gettin' back to the track. i had my breakfast at sunup. i thought you ought to know the straight of how this black hoss come to change owners." "i am indebted to you, suh," said the major, with a bow. jockey merritt, wearing engle's colours, stood in the paddock stall eyeing eliphaz and listening to the whispered instructions of the new owner. "get him away flying, jock, and never look back. he's a fast breaker. keep him in front all the way, but don't win too far." "bettin' much on him?" asked merritt. "not a nickel. he opened at even money and they played him to to . i don't fancy the odds, but you ride him just the same as if the last check was down--mind that. on his workout yesterday morning he's ready for a better race than any he's shown so far, so bring him home in front." the bugle blared, the jockeys were flung into the saddles and the parade began. the race was at seven-eighths, and as the horses passed the grand stand on the way to the post jockey merritt heard his name called. major pettigrew was standing on the platform in front of the pagoda, bawling through a megaphone. "boy, bring that black hoss over here!" merritt reined eliphaz across the track, touched the visor of his cap with his whip, and looked up inquiringly. "son," said major pettigrew, "you're on the favourite, so don't make any mistakes with him. i want to see you ride from start to finish--and i'm goin' to be watchin' you. that's all." "i'll do my best, judge," was merritt's answer. "you see that the hoss does his best," warned the major. "proceed with him, son." the handicap was a great race, but we are concerned with but one horse--eliphaz, late fairfax. when the barrier rose jockey merritt booted the spurs home and tried to hurl the big black into the lead. he might as well have tried to get early speed out of a porpoise. eliphaz grunted loudly and in exactly five lumbering jumps was in last place; the other horses went on and left the favourite snorting in the dust. jockey merritt raked the black sides with his spurs and slashed cruelly with his whip--the favourite would not, could not get out of a slow, awkward gallop. "blankety blank it!" exclaimed major pettigrew to the associate judge. "what did i tell you, eh? sure as a gun, engle laid him up, and the books made him favourite and took in a ton of money! look at him, will you? ain't that pitiful?" "he runs like a cow," said the major's assistant. "merritt is certainly riding him, though. he's whipping at every jump." it was a long way around the track, and probably only one man was really sorry for eliphaz. old man curry, at the paddock gate, shook his head as the black horse floundered down the stretch, last by fifty yards, the blunt spurs tearing at his sides and the rawhide raising welts on his shoulders. the winning numbers had dropped into position before eliphaz came under the wire. major pettigrew took one look at the horse and called to the official messenger. "find engle and tell him i want to see him!" "well, old-timer, here we are again with our hat in our hand!" it was the bald-faced kid, at the door of old man curry's tackle-room. "this time you've put one over for fair! major pettigrew has just passed out his decision to the newspaper boys." "ah, hah!" said the old man, looking up from the book of proverbs. "his decision, eh? was he--kind of severelike?" "oh, no--o! not what you'd call severe. i suppose he could have ordered engle boiled in oil or hung by the neck or something like that, but the major let him down light. all he did was to rule him off the turf for life!" "gracious peter! you don't tell me!" "yes, and his horses too. the whole bunch! engle is almost crazy. he swears on his mother's grave that he's in-no-cent and he's going to appeal to the jockey club and have eliphaz examined by a 'vet' and the lord knows what all. oh, he's wild! it seems that pettigrew wanted him to prove that he'd backed the horse and he couldn't produce the losing tickets. if merritt hadn't half killed the horse, pettigrew would have got him too." "well, well!" said the old man, turning back to proverbs. "i was just readin' something here. 'he that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto him.' engle has been seekin' mischief a long time now and look what he's got." "too true, old-timer," said the bald-faced kid, "but who was it ordered the mischief wrapped up and delivered to him? come through!" "hold up your right hand!" said old man curry. "cross my heart and hope to die if i ever tell!" said the kid. "now then, come clean." "frank," said the old man, "do you remember when we was unloadin' the hosses and ketched eliphaz bitin' at the fence?... you do? then you ought to be ashamed to ask any questions, because if you know hosses like you should know 'em--in your business--you wouldn't need to ask questions. "eliphaz is a cribber, and a cribber is a hoss that sucks itself full of wind like a balloon. i knew the minute i see him drop his head and swallow that way that cribbin' was what ailed him. that explained his bein' such a bad race hoss. jimmy miles probably never done a thing to correct that habit--didn't know he had it, likely. "well, the first thing i did was to keep the hoss's head tied high in the daytime, because no hoss will crib unless he can get his head down. then at night i put on a cribbin' strap and buckled it tight around his neck. he could get his head down all right, but he couldn't suck any air. with that habit corrected, eliphaz was a great hoss. "when i found out that engle wanted to buy him, i let eliphaz crib all day friday, after he'd been worked, and when i sold him i didn't sell the strap. that's all, frank. when he went to the post he was so full of air that if merritt hadn't been settin' on him he'd have gone up like a balloon. that's why i warned you not to let anybody bet on him.... did you do pretty well, frank?" "i got a toothful while some other folks was getting a meal," answered the kid. "just one thing more: where did you get that name--eliphaz?" "that was a sort of a joke," confessed the old man. "once there was a party named job, and he had all sorts of hard luck. some of that hard luck was in not bein' able to lose his friends. they used to come and see him and hold a lodge of sorrow and set on the ground and talk and talk--whole chapters of talk--and the windiest one of 'em all----" "i get you!" chuckled the bald-faced kid. "that was eliphaz!" old man curry nodded. "'knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth,'" he quoted. "yes, but an inside tip now and then never hurt anybody," said the bald-faced kid. "declare me in on the next miracle, will you?" the redemption handicap "well, old sport, are you going to slip another one over on 'em to-day?" "what do you think of jeremiah's chances, mr. curry?" "can this black thing of yours beat the favourite?" "there's even money on jeremiah for a place; shall i grab it?" old man curry, standing at the entrance to a paddock stall, lent an unwilling ear to these queries. he was a firm believer in the truth, but more firmly he believed in the fitness of time and place. the whole truth, spoken incautiously in the paddock, has been known to affect closing odds, and it was the old man's habit to wager at post time, if at all. those who pestered the owner of the "bible stable" with questions about the fitness of jeremiah and his chances to be first past the post went back to the betting ring with their enthusiasm for the black horse slightly abated. old man curry admitted, under persistent prodding, that if jeremiah got off well, and nothing happened to him, and it was one of his good days, and he didn't get bumped on the turn, and the boy rode him just right, and he could stay in front of the favourite, he might win. pressed further, a note of pessimism developed in the patriarch's conversation; he became the bearded embodiment of reasonable doubt. curry's remarks, rapidly circulating in the betting ring, may have made it possible for curry's betting commissioner, also rapidly circulating at the last minute, to unload a considerable bundle of curry's money on jeremiah at odds of and to . one paddock habitué, usually a keen seeker after information, might have received a hint worth money had he come after it. old man curry noted the absence of the bald-faced kid, and when the bugle sounded the call to the track he turned the bridle over to shanghai, the negro hostler, and ambled into the betting ring in search of his young friend. the betting ring was the kid's place of business--if touting is classed as an occupation and not a misdemeanour--but old man curry did not find him in the crowd. it was not until the horseman stepped out on the lawn that he spied the kid, his elbows on the top rail of the fence, his chin in his hands, and his back squarely turned to the betting ring. he did not even look around when the old man addressed him. "well, frank, i kind of expected you in the paddock." the kid was staring out across the track with the fixed gaze of one who sees nothing in particular; he grunted slightly, but did not speak. "jeremiah--he's worth a bet to-day." "uh-huh!" this without interest or enthusiasm. "i saw some to on him just now." the kid swung about and glanced listlessly toward the betting ring. then he looked at the horses on their way to the post. the old man read his thought. "you've got a couple of minutes yet," said he. "mebbe more; there's some bad actors in that bunch, and they'll delay the start." the kid looked again at the betting ring; then he shook his head. "aw, what's the use?" said he irritably. "what's the use?" old man curry's countenance took on a look of deep concern. "what ails you, son? ain't you well?" "well enough, i guess. why?" "because i never see you pass up a mortal cinch before." the kid chuckled mirthlessly. "old-timer," said he, "i'm up against a cinch of my own--but it's a cinch to lose." he returned to his survey of the open field, but old man curry lingered. he stroked his beard meditatively. "son," said he at length, "solomon says that a brother is born for adversity. i don't know what a father is born for, but i reckon it's to give advice. where you been the last week or ten days? it's mighty lonesome round the stable without you." "i'm in a jam, and you can't help me." "mebbe not, but it might do some good to talk it all out of your system. you know the number, frank." "you mean well, old-timer," said the kid; "and your heart's in the right place, but you--you don't understand." "no, and how can i 'less you open up and tell me what's the matter? if you've done anything wrong----" "forget it!" said the kid shortly. "you're barking up the wrong tree. i'm trying to figure out how to do right!"... that night the door of old man curry's tack room swung gently open, and the aged horseman, looking up from his well-thumbed copy of the old testament, nodded to an expected visitor. "set down, frank, and take a load off your feet," said he hospitably. "i sort of thought you'd come." for a time they talked horse, usually an engrossing subject, but after a bit the conversation flagged. the kid rolled many cigarettes which he tossed away unfinished, and the old man waited in silence for that which he knew could not long be delayed. it came at last in the form of a startling question. "old-timer," said the kid abruptly, "you--you never got married, did you?" old man curry blinked a few times, passed his fingers through his beard, and stared at his questioner. "why, no, son." the old man spoke slowly, and it was plain that he was puzzled. "why, no; i never did." "did you ever think of it--seriously, i mean?" old man curry met this added impertinence without resentment, for the light was beginning to dawn on him. he drew out his packet of fine cut and studied its wrappings carefully. "i'm not kidding, old-timer. did you ever think of it?" "once," was the reply. "once, son, and i've been thinking about it ever since. she was the right one for me, but she got the notion i wasn't the right one for her. sometimes it happens that way. she found the man she thought she wanted, and i took to runnin' round the country with race horses. after that she was sure i was a lost soul and hell-bent for certain. this was a long time ago--before you was born, i reckon." after a silence, the kid asked another question: "well, at that, the race-track game is no game for a married man, is it?" "m-m-well," answered the patriarch thoughtfully, "that's as how a man's wife looks at it. some of 'em think it ain't no harm to gamble s'long's you can win, but the average woman, frank, she don't want the hosses runnin' for her bread and butter. you can't blame her for that, because a woman is dependent by nature. if the lord had figured her to git out an' hustle with the men, he'd have built her different, but he made her to be p'tected and shelteredlike. a single man can hustle and bat round an' go hungry if he wants to, but he ain't got no right to ask a woman to gamble her vittles on any proposition whatever." "ain't it the truth!" ejaculated the bald-faced kid, with a depth of feeling quite foreign to his nature. "you surely spoke a mouthful then!" old man curry raised one eyebrow slightly and continued his discourse. "for a man even to figger on gettin' married, he ought to have something comin' in steady--something that bad hosses an' worse men can't take away from him. he oughtn't to bet at all, but if he does it ought to be on a mortal cinch. there ain't many real cinches on a race track, frank; not the kind that a married man'd be justified in bettin' the rent money on. yes, sir, a man thinkin' 'bout gettin' married ought to have a job--and stick to it!" "and that job oughtn't to be on a race track either," supplemented the kid, his eyes fixed on the cigarette which he was rolling. "but that ain't all i wanted to ask you about, old-timer. suppose, now, a fellow had a girl that was too good for him--a girl that wouldn't wipe her feet on a gambler if she knew it, and was brought up to think that betting was wrong. and suppose now that this fellow wasn't even a gambler. suppose he was a hustler--a tout--but he'd asked the girl to marry him without telling her what he was, and she'd said she would. what ought that fellow to do?" old man curry took his time about answering; took also a large portion of fine cut and stowed it away in his cheek. "well, son," said he gently, "it would depend a lot on which the fellow cared the most for--the race track or the girl." the kid flung the cigarette from him and looked up, meeting the old man's eyes for the first time. "i beat you to it, old-timer! win or lose, i'm through at the end of this meeting. there's a fellow over in butte just about my age. he was a hustler too, and a pal of mine, but two years ago he quit, and now he's got a little gents' furnishing-goods place--nothing swell, of course, but the business is growing all the time. he's been after me to come in with him on a percentage of the profits, and last night i wrote him to look for me when they get done running here. that part of it is settled. no more race track in mine. but that ain't what i was getting at. have i got to tell the girl what i've been doing the last five years?" "would you rather have her find out from some one else, frank?" "no-o." "if you want to start clean, son, the best place to begin is with the girl." "but what if she throws me down?" "that's the chance you'll have to take. you've been taking 'em all your life." "yes, but nothing ever meant as much to me as this does." "well, son, the more a woman cares for a man the more she'll forgive." "did solomon say that?" demanded the kid suspiciously. "no, _i_ said it. you see, frank, it was this way with solomon: he had a thousand wives, more or less, and i reckon he never had time to strike a general average. he wrote a lot 'bout women, first and last, but it seems he only remembered two kinds--the ones that was too good to live and the ones that wasn't worth killin'. it would have been more helpful to common folks if he'd said something 'bout the general run of women. you'd better tell her, frank." the bald-faced kid sighed. "i'd rather take a licking. you're sure about that forgiving business, old-timer?" "it's the one best bet, my son." "pull for it to go through, then. good night--and thank you." left alone, old man curry turned the pages for a time, then read aloud: "'there be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which i know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and the way of a man with a maid--_the way of a man with a maid_.' well, after all, the straight way is the best way, and the boy's on the right track." a few days later old man curry, sunning himself in the paddock, caught sight of the kid. that engaging youth had a victim pinned in a corner and, programme in hand, was pointing the way to prosperity. "now, listen," he was saying; "you ain't taking a chance when you bet on this bird to-day. didn't i tell you that the boy that rides him is my cousin? and ain't the owner my pal? what better do you want than that? this tip comes straight from the barn, and you can get to for all your money!" the victim squirmed and wriggled and twisted and would have broken away but for the kid's compelling eye. at last he thought of something to say: "if this here bismallah is such a hell-clinkin' good race horse, how come they ain't _all_ bettin' on him?" "why ain't they?" the kid fairly squealed. "because we've been lucky enough to keep him under cover from everybody! that's why! nobody knows what he can do; the stable money won't even be bet here for fear of tipping him off; it'll be bet in the pool rooms all over the coast. he'll walk in, i tell you--just _walk_ in! why, say! you don't think i'd tell you this if i didn't know it was _so_? here comes the owner. i'll go talk with him. you wait right here!" it was really the owner of bismallah, who, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, told the bald-faced kid to go to a warmer clime. the hustler returned to his victim instead. "he says it's all fixed up; everything framed; play him across the board. come on!" the victim allowed himself to be dragged in the direction of the betting ring, and old man curry watched the proceedings with a whimsical light in his eye. later he found a chance to discuss the matter with the kid. the last race was over, and frank was through for the day. "you're persuadin' 'em pretty _strong_, ain't you, son?" asked the old man. "you used to give advice; now you're makin' 'em _take_ it whether they want to or not." "where do you get that stuff?" demanded the kid, bristling immediately. "why, i saw you working on that big fellow in the grey suit. i was afraid you'd have to hit him on the head and go into his pocket after it. looked to me like he wasn't exackly crazy to gamble." "oh, him!" the tout spat contemptuously. "do you know what that piker wanted to bet? six dollars, across the board! i made him loosen up for fifteen, and he howled like a wolf." "the hoss--lost?" by the delicate inflection and the pause before the final word, old man curry might have been inquiring about the last moments of a departed friend. the kid was looking at the ground, so he missed the twinkle in the old man's eyes. "he ran like an apple woman," was the sullen response. "confound it, old-timer, i can't pick 'em every time!" "no, i reckon not," said the patriarch. "i--reckon--not." he lapsed into silence. "aw, spit it out!" said the kid after a time. "i'd rather hear you say it than feel you thinking it!" old man curry smiled one of his rare smiles, and his big, wrinkled hand fell lightly on the boy's shoulder. "what i was thinking wasn't much, son," said he. "it was this: if you can make total strangers open up and spend their substance for something they only think is there, you ought to get rid of an awful lot of shirts and socks and flummery--the things that folks can see. if you can sell stuff that _ain't_, you surely can sell stuff that _is_!" "i'm sick of the whole business!" the words ripped out with a snarl. "i used to like this game for the excitement in it--for the kick. i used to like to see 'em run. now i don't give a damn, so long as i can get some coin together quick. and the more you need it the harder it is to get! to-day i had four suckers down on different horses in the same race, and a sleeper woke up on me. four bets down and not a bean!" the twinkle had gone from the old man's eyes. "four hosses in one race, eh? do you need the money that bad, son?" for answer the kid plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a five-dollar gold piece and a small collection of silver coins which he spread upon his palm. "there's the bank roll," said he, "and don't tell me that solomon pulled that line about a fool and his money!" the old man calmly appraised the exhibit of precious metals before he spoke. "how come you to be down so low, son?" "i was trying to win myself out a little stake," was the sulky answer; "but they cleaned me. that's why i'm hustling so hard. it's a rotten game, but it owes me something, and i want to collect it before i quit!" "ah, hah!" said old man curry, stroking his beard meditatively. "ah, hah! you haven't told her yet." "no, but i'm going to. that's honest." "i believe you, son, but did it ever strike you that mebbe she wouldn't want you to make a fresh start on money that you got this way? mebbe she wouldn't want to start with you." "dough is dough." the bald-faced kid stated this point in the manner of one forestalling all argument. "at one time and another i've handled quite a lot of it that i got different ways, but i never yet had any trouble passing it off on folks, and they didn't hold their noses when they took it either. anything that'll spend is good money, and don't you forget it!" "but this girl, now--mebbe she won't think so." "what she don't know won't hurt her." "son, what a woman don't know she guesses and feels, and she may have the same sort of a feelin' that i've got--that some kinds of money never bring anybody luck. a while ago you said this game was rotten, and yet you're tryin' to cash in your stack and pick up all the sleepers before you quit. seems to me i'd want to start _clean_." "dough is dough, i tell you!" repeated the kid stubbornly. he turned and shook his fist at the distant betting ring where the cashiers were paying off the last of the winning tickets. "look out for me, all of you sharks!" said the boy. "from now till the end of the meeting it's packing-house rules, and everything goes!" "'a wise son heareth his father's instruction,'" quoted old man curry. "i hear you, old-timer," said the kid, "but i don't get you. next thing i suppose you'll pull solomon on me and tell me what he says about tainted money!" "i can do that too. let's see, how does it go? oh, yes. 'there is that maketh himself rich, _yet hath nothing_; there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' that's solomon on the money question, my boy." "huh!" scoffed the unregenerate one. "solomon was a king, wasn't he, with dough to burn? it's mighty easy to talk--when you've got yours. i haven't got mine yet, but you watch my smoke while i go after it!" old man curry trudged across the infield in the wake of the good horse elisha. another owner, on the day of an important race, might have been nervous or worried; the patriarch maintained his customary calm; his head was bent at a reflective angle, and he nibbled at a straw. certain gentlemen, speculatively inclined, would have given much more than a penny for the old man's thoughts; having bought them at any price, they would have felt themselves defrauded. elisha, the star performer of the curry stable, had been combed and groomed and polished within an inch of his life, and there were blue ribbons in his mane, a sure sign of the confidence of shanghai, the hostler. he was also putting this confidence into words and telling the horse what was expected of him. "see all them folks, 'lisha? they come out yere to see you win anotheh stake an' trim that white hoss from seattle. grey ghost, thass whut they calls him. when you hooks up with him down in front of that gran' stan', he'll think he's a ghost whut's mislaid his graveyard, yes, indeedy! they tells me he got lots of that ol' early speed; they tells me he kin go down to the half-mile pole in nothin', flat. let him _do_ it; 'tain't early speed whut wins a mile race; it's _late_ speed. ain't no money hung up on that ol' half-mile pole! let that white fool run his head off; he'll come back to you. lawdy, all them front runners comes back to the reg'lar hosses. run the same like you allus do, an' eat 'em up in the stretch, 'lisha! grey ghost--pooh! i neveh seen _his_ name on no lamp-post! i bet befo' you git th'ough with him he'll wish he'd saved some that ol' early speed to finish on. you ask me, 'lisha, i'd say we's spendin' this yere first money right _now_!" it was the closing day of the meeting, always in itself an excuse for a crowd, but the management had generously provided an added attraction in the shape of a stake event. now a jungle circuit stake race does not mean great wealth as a general thing, but this was one of the few rich plums provided for the horsemen. first money would mean not less than $ , , which accounted for the presence of the grey ghost. the horse had been shipped from seattle, where he had been running with and winning from a higher grade of thoroughbreds than the jungle circuit boasted, and there were many who professed to believe that the ghost's victory would be a hollow one. there were others who pinned their faith on the slow-beginning elisha, for he was, as his owner often remarked, "an honest hoss that always did his level best." eight other horses were entered, but the general opinion seemed to be that there were only two contenders. the others, they said, would run for sweeney--and third money. old man curry elbowed his way through the paddock crowd, calmly nibbling at his straw. he was besieged by men anxious for his opinion as to the outcome of the race; they plucked at the skirts of his rusty black coat; they caught him by the arms. serene and untroubled, he had but one answer for all. "yes, he's ready, and we're tryin'." in the betting ring grey ghost opened at even money with elisha at to . the jungle speculators went to the curry horse with a rush that almost swept the block men off their stands, and inside of three minutes elisha was at even money with every prospect of going to odds-on, and the grey visitor was ascending in price. the sturdy big stretch-runner from the curry barn had not been defeated at the meeting; he was the known quantity and could be depended upon to run his usual honest race. the ghost's owner also attracted considerable attention in the paddock. he was a large man, rather pompous in appearance, hairless save for a fringe above this ears, and answered to the name of "con" parker, the con standing for concrete. he had been in the cement business before taking to the turf, and there were those who hinted that he still carried a massive sample of the old line above his shoulders. when cross-examined about the grey horse, he blunted every sharp inquiry with polite evasions, but he looked wiser than any human could possibly be, and the impression prevailed that he knew more than he would tell. perhaps this was true. the saddling bell rang, and the jockeys trooped into the paddock, followed by the roustabouts with the tackle. old man curry, waiting quietly in the far corner of elisha's stall, saw the bald-faced kid wriggling his way through the crowd. he came straight to the old man. "elisha's to now," he announced breathlessly, "and they're still playing him hard. the other one is to . looks like a false price on the ghost, and i know that parker is going to set in a chunk on him at post time. what do you think about it?" "you goin' to bet your own money, son?" "i've got to do it--make or break right here." "how strong are you?" "just about two hundred bones." "ah, hah!" old man curry paused a moment for thought and sucked at his straw. "two hundred at to --that'd make seven hundred, wouldn't it? pretty nice little pile." the kid's eyes widened. "then you don't think elisha can beat the ghost to-day?" "i ain't bettin' a cent on him," said the old man. "not a cent." and the manner in which he said it meant more than the words. "then, shall i--?" old man curry glanced over at the grey horse, standing quietly in his stall. "play that one, son," he whispered. after the kid had gone rocketing back to the betting ring, curry turned to jockey moseby jones. "mose," said he, "don't lay too far out of it to-day. this grey hoss lasts pretty well, so begin workin' on 'lisha sooner than usual. he's ready to stand a long, hard drive. bring him home in front, boy!" "sutny will!" chuckled the little negro. "at's bes' thing i do!" when the barrier rose, a grey streak shot to the front and went skimming along the rail, opening an amazingly wide gap on the field. it was the ghost's habit to make every post a winning one; he liked to run in front of the pack. as he piloted the big bay horse around the first turn into the back stretch, jockey mose estimated the distance between his mount and the flying ghost, taking no note of the other entries. then he began to urge elisha slightly. "can't loaf much to-day, hawss!" he coaxed. "shake yo'self! li'l mo' steam!" the men who had played the curry horse to odds on and thought they knew his running habits were surprised to see him steadily moving up on the back stretch. it was customary for elisha to begin to run at the half-mile pole--usually from a tail-end position--but to-day he was mowing down the outsiders even before he reached that point, and on the upper turn he went thundering into second place--with the ghost only five lengths away. the imported jockey on parker's horse cast one glance behind him, and at the head of the stretch he sat down hard in his saddle and began hand riding with all his might. close in the rear rose a shrill whoop of triumph. "no white hawss eveh was _game_, 'lisha! sic him, you big red rascal, sic him! make him dawg it!" but the ghost was game to the last ounce. more than that, he had something left for the final quarter, though his rider had not expected to draw upon that reserve so soon. the ghost spurted, for a time maintaining his advantage. then, annihilating incredible distances with his long, awkward strides and gathering increased momentum with every one, elisha drew alongside. again the ghost was called on and responded, but the best he had left and all he had left, was barely sufficient to enable him to hold his own. opposite the paddock inclosure, with the grand stand looming ahead, the horses were running nose and nose; ten yards more and the imported jockey drew his whip. moseby jones cackled aloud. "you ain't _stuck_ on 'is yere white sellin' plater, is you, 'lisha? whut you hangin' round him faw, then? bid him good night _an' good-bye_!" he drove the blunt spurs into elisha's sides, and the big bay horse leaped out and away in a whirlwind finish that left the staggering ghost five lengths behind and incidentally lowered the track record for one mile. it was a very popular victory, as was attested by the leaping, howling dervishes in the grand stand and on the lawn, but there were some who took no part in the demonstration. some, like con parker, were hit hard. there was one who was hit hardest of all, a youth of pleasing appearance who drew several pasteboards from his pocket and scowled at them for a moment before he ripped them to bits and hurled the fragments into the air. "cleaned out! busted!" ejaculated the bald-faced kid bitterly. "the old scoundrel double-crossed me!" the last race of the meeting was over when old man curry emerged from the track office of the rating association. the grand stand was empty, and the exits were jammed with a hurrying crowd. the betting ring still held its quota, and the cashiers were paying off the lines with all possible speed. as they slapped the winning tickets upon the spindles, they exchanged pleasantries with the fortunate holders. "just keep this till we come back again next season," said they. "we're lending it to you--that's all." old man curry made one brisk circle of the ring, examining every line of ticket holders, then he walked out on the lawn. the bald-faced kid was sitting on the steps of the grand stand smoking a cigarette. curry went over to him. "well, frank," said he cheerfully, "how did you come out on the day?" the boy stared up at him for a moment before he spoke. "you ought to know," said he slowly. "you told me to bet on that grey horse--and then you went out and beat him to death!" "ah, hah!" said the old man. "i was crazy for a minute," said the kid. "i thought you'd double-crossed me. i've cooled out since then; now i'm only sorry that you didn't know more about what your own horse could do. that tip made a tramp out of me, old-timer." "exackly what i hoped it would do, son," and old man curry fairly beamed. "_what's that?_" the cigarette fell from the kid's fingers, and his lower jaw sagged. "you thought elisha could _win_--and you went and touted me on to the other one?" old man curry nodded, smiling. as the boy watched him, his expression changed to one of deep disgust. he dipped into his vest pocket and produced his silver stop watch. "here's something you overlooked," he sneered. "take it, and i'll be cleaned right!" old man curry sat down beside him, but the kid edged away. "i wouldn't have thought it of you, old-timer," said he. "frank," said the old man gently, "you don't understand. you don't know what i was figgerin' on." "i know this," retorted the kid: "if it hadn't been for you, i wouldn't have to go to butte alone!" "you've told her, then?" "last night." "and i was right about the forgivin' business, son?" "didn't i say she was going to butte with me? we had it all fixed to get married, but now----" "well, i don't see no reason for callin' it off." old man curry's cheerfulness had returned, and as he spoke he drew out his old-fashioned leather wallet. "you know what i told you 'bout bad money, son--tainted money? you wouldn't take my word for it that gamblers' money brings bad luck; i just nachelly had to fix up some scheme on you so that you wouldn't have no bad money to start out with." he opened the wallet and extracted a check upon which the ink was scarcely dry--the check of the racing association for the winner's portion of the stake just decided. "i wouldn't want you to have bad luck, son," the old man continued. "i wanted you to have good luck--and a clean start. here's some money that it wouldn't hurt anybody to handle--an honest hoss went out and run for it and earned it, an' he was runnin' for you every step of the way! here, take it." he thrust the check into the boy's hand--and let it stand to his credit that he answered before looking at it. "i--i had you wrong, old-timer," he stammered: "wrong from the start. i--i can't take this. i ain't a pauper, and i--i----" "why of course you can take it, son," urged the old man. "you said this game owed you a stake, and maybe it does, but the only money you can afford to start out with is clean money, and the only clean money on a race track is the money that an honest hoss can go out and run for--and win. no, i can't take it back; it's indorsed over to you." then, and not before, did the kid look at the figures on the check. "why," he gasped, "this--this is for twenty-four hundred and something! i don't _need_ that much! i--we--_she_ says three hundred would be plenty! i----" "that's all right," interrupted old man curry. "money--clean money--never comes amiss. you can call the three hundred the stake that was owin' to you; the rest, well, i reckon that's just my weddin' present. good-bye, son, and good luck!" a morning workout "well, boss, they sutny done it to us again to-day. look like it gittin' to be a _habit_ on thisyere track!" thus, querulously, jockey moseby jones, otherwise little mose, as he trudged dejectedly across the infield beside his employer, old man curry, owner of elisha, elijah, ezekiel, isaiah, and other horses bearing the names of major and minor prophets. mose was still in his silks--there were reasons, principally irish, why the little negro found it more comfortable to dress in the curry tack room--and the patriarch of the jungle circuit wore the inevitable rusty frock coat and battered slouch hat. side by side they made a queer picture: the small, bullet-headed negro in gay stable colours, and the tall, bearded scarecrow, the frayed skirts of his coat flapping at his knees as he walked. ahead of them was shanghai, the hostler, leading a steaming thoroughbred which had managed to finish outside the money in a race that his owner had expected him to win: expected it to the extent of several hundred dollars. "yes, suh, it gittin' to be a habit!" complained little mose. "been so long since i rode into 'at ring i fo'get what it feels like to win a race!" "it's a habit we're goin' to break one of these days, mose. what happened!" "huh! ast me whut didn't happen! ol' 'lijah, he got off good, an' first dash--_wham_! he gits bumped by 'at ches'nut hawss o' dyer's. i taken him back some an' talk to him, an' jus' when i'm sendin' him again--_pow_! jock merritt busts ol' 'lijah 'cross 'e nose 'ith his whip. in 'e stretch i tries to come th'oo on inside, an' two of 'em irish jocks pulls oveh to 'e rail and puts us in a pocket. 'niggeh,' they say to me, 'take 'at oat hound home 'e long way; you sutny neveh git him th'oo!' they was right, boss! 'lijah, he come fourth, sewed up like a eagle in a cage!" "h'm-m. and the judges didn't pay any attention when you claimed a foul?" little mose gurgled wrathfully. "huh! i done claim _three_ fouls! judges, they say they didn't see no foul a-a-a-tall! didn't see us git bumped; didn't see jock merritt hit 'lijah; didn't see us pocketed. 'course they didn't; they wasn't _lookin'_ faw no foul! on 'is track we not on'y got to beat hawsses; we got to beat jocks an' judges too. how we goin' lay up any bacon agin such odds as that?" "it can't last, mose," was the calm reply. "'there shall be no reward to the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.'" "it burnin' mighty bright jus' now, boss. sol'mun, he say that?" old man curry nodded, and little mose sniffed sceptically. "uh huh. sol'mun he neveh got jipped out of seven races in a row!" "seven, eh!" the old man counted on his fingers. "why, so it is, mose! this is the seventh time they've licked us, for a fact!" old man curry began to chuckle, and the jockey eyed him curiously. "you sutny enjoy it mo'n i do, boss," said he. "that's because you don't read solomon," replied the owner. "listen: 'a just man falleth seven times and riseth up again.' mose, we're due to rise up and smite these philistines." "huh! why not smite some 'em irish boys first? you reckon 'em crooked judges kin see us when we risin' up?" "we'll have to fix it so's they can't overlook us, mose." "ought to git 'em some eyeglasses then," was the sulky response. "seven and one--that's eight, mose. we've got solomon's word for it." jockey moseby jones shook his head doubtfully. "mebbe so, boss, mebbe so, but thisyere sol'mun's been dead a lo-o-ng time now. he neveh got up agin a syndicate bettin' ring an' crooked judgin'. he neveh rode no close finish 'ith irish jocks an' had his shin barked on 'e fence. you kin take sol'mun's word faw it, boss, but li'l moseby, he's f'um mizzoury. he'll steal a flyin' start nex' time out an' try to stay so far in front that no irish boy kin reach him 'ith a lariat!" a big, jovial-looking man, striding rapidly toward the stables, overtook them from the rear and announced his presence by slapping old man curry resoundingly on the back. "tough luck!" said he with a grin. "awful tough luck, but you can't win all the time, you know, old-timer!" "why, yes," said curry quietly; "that's a fact, johnson. nobody but a hog would want to win _all_ the time. and i wish you wouldn't wallop me on the back thataway. i most nigh swallered my tobacco." johnson laughed loudly. "how do you like our track?" he asked. "your track is all right," answered the old man, with just a shade of emphasis placed where it would do the most good. "a visitor don't seem to do very well here, though," he added. "the fortunes of war!" chuckled johnson. "ah, hah," said curry. "my boy here can tell you 'bout that. he says the other jockeys fight him all the way round the track." "well," said johnson, "you know why that is, don't you? the boys ain't stuck on his colour, and you can't blame 'em for that, curry. if you had a boy like walsh, now, it would be different." "i'll bet it would!" was the emphatic response of old man curry. "i think i can get walsh for you." "no-o." old man curry dropped his hand on the negro's shoulder. "no. mose has been ridin' for me quite some time now. he suits me first rate." "you're the doctor," grinned johnson. "do as you think best, of course. i'm only telling you how it is." "thankee. i reckon i'll play the string out the way i started. luck might change." "yes, it'll run bad for a while and then turn right round and get worse. so long!" johnson hurried on toward the stables, laughing loudly at his ancient jest, and old man curry looked after him with a meditative squint in his eyes. "'as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" he quoted soberly. "a man that laughs all the time ain't likely to mean it, mose, but i don't know's i would say that johnson is exackly a fool. no, he's a pretty wise man, of his breed. he owns a controllin' interest in this track (under cover, of course), he's got a couple of books in the ring, and the judges are with him. i reckon from what he said 'bout walsh that he's in with the jockey syndicate. no wonder he wins races! sure, he could get walsh for me, or any other crook-legged little burglar that would send word to johnson what i was doing! mose, yonder goes the man we've got to beat!" "him too, boss?" little mose rolled his eyes. "hawsses, judges, jocks, an' johnson! sutny is a tough card to beat!" "'a just man falleth seven times and riseth up again,'" repeated the old man, "'but the wicked shall fall into mischief.' that's the rest of the verse, mose." "boss," said the little negro earnestly, "i don' wish nobody no hard luck, but if somebody got to fall, i hope one of them irish jocks will fall in front an' git jumped on by ten hawsses!" "don't make any mistake about it, curry is wise. he may look like a methodist preacher gone to seed, but the old scoundrel knows what's going on. he ain't a fool, take it from me!" the speaker was smiley johnson, who was addressing a small but extremely select gathering of turf highwaymen who had met in his tackle-room to discuss matters of importance. they were all men who would willingly accept two tens for a five or betray a friend for gain: smiley johnson, billy porter, curly mcmanus, and slats wilson. all owned horses and ran them in and out of the money, as they pleased, and not one of them would have trusted the others as far as a bull may be thrown by the tail. "we can trim the old reprobate," continued johnson, "but we can't keep him from finding out that the clippers are on him." "and who cares if he does know?" demanded slats wilson. "i'm in favour of making it so raw that he'll take his horses and go somewhere else. look at what he did last season. got al engle and a lot of other people ruled off, didn't he? raised particular hell all over the circuit, the psalm-singing old hypocrite!" "he's got a fine, fat chance to get anybody ruled off around this track," interrupted curly mcmanus. "these judges ain't reformers. they know who's paying their salaries." "sure they do," assented wilson, "but the longer this old rip hangs on the more chance there is to get into a jam of some kind. he's a natural-born trouble maker. if he loses many more races the way he lost that one to-day, i wouldn't put it past him to go to the newspapers with a holler. that would hurt. i'm in favour of giving him the gate!" "when he hasn't won a race?" argued johnson. "use your head, slats. let him run his horses, and bet on 'em. he may squawk, but he can't prove anything, and when he's lost enough dough he'll quit." "is there any way that we could frame up and get him ruled off?" asked porter. "the ruling wouldn't stand," said johnson. "curry has got too many friends higher up, and if we should try it and fall down it would give the track a black eye. the sucker horsemen would be leery of us." "if any framing is to be done," announced mcmanus, "count me out now. you fellows know grouchy o'connor? him and engle framed on curry till they were black in the face, and what did it get 'em? not a nickel's worth! you've got to admit that al engle was smart as they make 'em, but o'connor tells me that curry made al look like a selling-plater: had him outguessed at every turn on the track. let curry run his horses, and our boys will take care of the little nigger." "that elisha is quite a horse," commented johnson. "if they take care of him, they'll go some." "what's the use of worrying about elisha?" asked mcmanus. "curry hasn't started him yet at the meeting. he's trying to pick up some dough with elijah and isaiah and the others. they ain't so very much." "well, elijah would have been right up there to-day if it hadn't been for a little timely interference now and then." johnson grinned broadly as he spoke. "a little timely interference!" ejaculated wilson. "the boys did everything to that horse but knock him over the fence!" "and the judges didn't see a thing!" chuckled johnson. "say, let's get down to business!" said porter. "what i want to know is this, johnson: when are you going to cut loose with zanzibar? you said we'd all be in with that; there'll be a sweet price on him, and we ought to clean up." "zanzibar is about ready," answered johnson. "you'll know in plenty of time, and he's a cinch." "and nobody knows a thing about him," said mcmanus. "good reason why," laughed porter. "that's a pretty smart trick: working him away from the track." "it's the only thing to do," said johnson. "zanzibar is a nervous colt, and if i worked him on the track with the other horses he'd go all to pieces. that's why i have dutchy take him out on a country road and canter him. it keeps him from fretting before a race." "how fast can he step the three-quarters?" asked wilson. "fast enough to run shoes off of anything around here," said johnson. "you needn't worry about that. we won't have to put him up against the best, though. zanzibar didn't do anything last season, and he's bound to get a price in almost any kind of a race." "you're sure he's under cover?" "if he ain't under cover, a horse never was. he gets his work before sunrise, and at that most of it is just cantering. i've set him down, though, and i know what he can do." "it sounds all right," admitted mcmanus. "where do we bet this money?" demanded porter. johnson laughed. "that's a fool question! the less he's played at the track the better. we'll unload in the pool rooms on the coast, same as we did before. wilson here can enter blitzen in the same race, and they can't get away from making blitzen the favourite: on form they'd have to pick him to win easy. i'll let it leak out that i'm only sending zanzibar for a workout and to see whether he's improved any over last season. the pool rooms won't know what hit 'em." "hold on!" said mcmanus suddenly. "suppose curry gets into the race." "bonehead!" growled wilson. "you've got curry on the brain. outside of elisha there's no class to his string of beetles, and elisha is a distance horse. three-quarters is too short for him." "he can't get going under half a mile!" supplemented porter. "well," apologised mcmanus, "i like to figure all the angles."... old man curry also liked to figure all the angles. he had the utmost confidence in solomon's statement concerning the righteous man and the seven falls, but this did not keep him from taking the ordinary precautions when preparing for the eighth start and the promised rising up. he knew that the big rawboned bay horse elijah was a vastly improved animal, but he also desired to know the company in which elijah would find himself the next time out. his investigations, while inconspicuous were thorough, and soon brought him in contact with the name of an equine stranger. "zanzibar, eh?" thought the old man as he left the office of the racing secretary. "zanzibar? and johnson owns him. h'm-m. i'll have to find out about that one, sure. the others don't amount to much. but this zanzibar? if i only had frank now!" since the bald-faced kid's retirement from the turf the curry secret-service department had consisted of shanghai and mose, and there were times when the shambling hostler could be much wiser than he looked. it was shanghai who drew the assignment. "boy," said old man curry, "johnson has got a colt named zanzibar that starts next saturday. i thought i knew all the hosses in train-in' round here, but i've overlooked this one. find out all you can 'bout him." "yes, suh!" answered shanghai. "bes' way to do that would be to bus' into a crap game. misteh johnson got a couple cullud swipes whut might know somethin'--crap-shootin' fools, both of 'em--an' whiles i'm rollin' them bones i could jus' let a few questions slip out. yes, suh, that's good way, but when you ain't shoot-in' yo' money in the game they jus' nachelly don' know you 'mong them present. if you got couple nice, big, moon-face' dollahs to inves', they can't he'p but notice you. they got to do it!" old man curry smiled and dipped two fingers and a thumb into his vest pocket. "_thank_ you, suh!" chuckled shanghai, trying hard to appear surprised. "thank you! this sutny goin' _com_bine business with pleasuah!" "get away with you!" scolded old man curry. now, nearly every one knows that the simon-pure feed-box information, the low-down and the dead-level tip, may be picked up behind any barn where hostlers, exercise boys, and apprentice jockeys congregate. tongues are loosened at such a gathering, and the carefully guarded secrets of trainers and owners are in danger, for the one absorbing topic of conversation is horse, and then more horse. shanghai knew exactly where to go, and departed on his mission whistling jubilantly and chinking two silver dollars in his pocket. at the end of three hours he returned, his hamlike hands thrust deep into empty pockets, and the look in his eye of one who has watched rosy dreams vanish. "where you been all this time?" snapped his employer wrathfully. "'as vinegar to the teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard to them that send him.' i declare, solomon must have had some black stable boys! what you been at, you triflin' hound?" shanghai smiled a sorrowful smile and shook his head. "well, you see, kunnel"--shanghai always gave his employer a high military rank when in fear of rebuke--"you see, kunnel, it took 'em longer'n usual to break me this mawnin'. i start' off right good, but i sutny bowed a tendon an' pulled up lame. once i toss six passes at them gamblehs----" "never mind that! what did you find out about zanzibar?" "oh, him!" shanghai blinked rapidly as if dispelling a vision. "zanzibar? why, kunnel, they aimin' to slip him oveh satu'day." "ah, hah!" old man curry tugged at his white beard. "ah, hah. i thought so. had him under cover, eh? where have they been workin' him?" "out on the county road 'bout two miles f'um yere. you know that nice stretch with all them trees? every mawnin', early, they takes him out----" "_who_ takes him out?" "li'l white boy they calls dutchy." "nobody else goes with him?" shanghai shook his head. "how old is this boy?" asked the canny horseman. "how ole? why, kunnel, i reckon he's risin' fifteen, mebbe." "smart boy?" shanghai cackled derisively. "i loaned him a two-bit piece, kunnel, an' he tol' me all he knowed!" old man curry fell to combing his beard, and shanghai retreated to the tackle-room where he found little mose. "the boss, he pullin' his whiskehs an' cookin' up a job on somebody," remarked the hostler. "huh!" grunted mose. "it's time he 'uz doin' somethin'! betteh not leave it _all_ to sol'mun!" the cooking process lasted until evening, by which time old man curry had ceased to comb his beard and was rolling a straw reflectively from one corner of his mouth to the other. "you, shanghai!" "yes, suh! comin' up!" "find that little rascal mose and tell him i want to see him." "yes, suh." "and, shanghai?" "yes, suh." "i believe i've found the way to rise up!" "good news!" ejaculated the startled negro, backing away. but to himself the hostler said: "_rise up?_ sweet lan' o' libuhty! i wondeh whut bitin' the ole man now?" it was a small and very sleepy exercise boy whom smiley johnson tossed into the saddle at four o'clock on saturday morning: a boy whose teeth were chattering, for he was cold. "canter him the usual distance, dutchy," said the owner. "then set him down, but not for more than half a mile. understand?" "y-yes, sir," stammered the boy, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. "don't let him get hot, now!" "no, sir; i won't." "all right. take him away!" johnson slapped zanzibar on the shoulder, and the colt moved off in the gloom. his rider, whose other name was herman getz, huddled himself in the saddle and reflected on several things, including the hard life of an exercise boy, the perils of the dark, and the hot cup of coffee which he would get on his return. wrapped in these meditations, he had travelled some distance before he became aware of a dark shape in the road ahead. coming closer, herman saw that it was a horse and rider, evidently waiting for him. "howdy, jockey walsh!" called a voice. the shortest cut to an exercise boy's heart is to address him as jockey. herman's heart warmed toward this stranger, and he drew alongside, trying to make out his features in the darkness. "'taint walsh," said herman, not without regret. "it's getz." "jockey getz? i don' seem to place you, jock. where you been ridin'? east?" "i ain't a jock. i'm only gallopin' 'em. who are you?" "jockey jones, whut rides faw misteh curry. if you ain't a jock, you sutny ought to be. you don't set a hawss like no exercise boy. thass why i mistook you faw walsh." "what horse is that?" "this jus' one 'em curry beetles. whut you got, jock?" "zanzibar." "any good?" "well," was the cautious reply, "he ain't done anything yet." the boys jogged on for some time in silence. "you sutny set him nice an' easy," commented mose. "le's breeze 'em a little an' see how you handle a hawss." mose booted his mount in the ribs, chirruped twice, and the horse broke into a gallop. herman immediately followed suit, and soon the riders were knee to knee, flying along the lonely road. "shake him up, jock!" urged little mose. "that all you kin get out of him? shake him up, if you knows how!" of course herman could not allow any one to hint that he did not know how. he went out on zanzibar's neck and shook him up vigorously, à la tod sloan in his palmy days. the colt began to draw ahead. from the rear came shrill encouragement. "thass whut i calls reg'luh race ridin', jock! let him out if he got some lef'! let him out!" carried away by these kind words, herman forgot his instructions: forgot everything but the thrill of the race. he drove his heels into zanzibar's sides and crouched low in the saddle. the cold dawn wind cut like a knife. after a time there came a wail from the rear. "nothin' to it, jock! you too good! too good! wait faw me." herman drew rein, and soon mose was alongside again. "canter 'em a while now," said he. "say, who taught you to ride like that?" "nobody," answered herman modestly. "i just picked it up." "a natchel-bawn race rideh. sometimes you finds 'em. i wish't i could set a hawss down like that. show me again." "it's easy," bragged herman, and proceeded to demonstrate that statement. again the compliments floated from the rear, coupled with requests for speed, and yet more speed. mose was not an apt pupil, however, for he required a third lesson, and at the end of it zanzibar was blowing heavily. mose suggested that they turn and go back. "if i could git that much out of a hawss, i wouldn't take off my cap to no jock!" said he. "whyn't you make johnson give you a mount once in a while?" "he says i ain't smart enough," was the sulky reply. little mose laughed. "he jus' pig-headed, thass all ail him! you like to git a reg'luh job ridin' faw a good man?" "_would_ i!" "well, i knows a man whut wants a good boy. see that tree yondeh? that big one? le's see who kin get there first!" "it--it's pretty far, ain't it?" "shucks! quahteh of a mile, mebbe. come on!" but it was nearer half a mile, and the three brisk sprints had told on the colt. boot him never so hard, it was all herman could do to keep zanzibar on even terms with mose's mount. "you on'y foolin' 'ith me. he kin do betteh than that! we in the stretch now; _shake him up_!" zanzibar was shaken up for the fourth and last time--shaken up to the limit--and mose was generous enough to say that the race was a dead heat. as the boys brought the horses to a walk, another negro stepped out from behind a tree, a blanket on his arm. mose slipped from the saddle and tossed the bridle to shanghai. "ain't you goin' to ride back to the track?" demanded herman. "no. my boss, he always wants this skate blanketed an' led round a while.... sufferin' mackerel, jock! what you goin' do 'ith that hawss? shave him?" then for the first time herman realised that zanzibar was lathered with sweat; for the first time also he recalled his instructions. "i can't take him back like that!" he cried. "johnson'll kill me! he told me not to get this horse hot: and look at him!" "he sutny some _warm_," said shanghai critically. "he steamin' like a kettle!" "whut if he is?" asked mose. "we kin fix that all hunky-dory, an' johnson, he won't neveh know." "how can we fix it?" "got to let that sweat dry first," warned shanghai. "and then wipe it off," said mose. "it comes off easy when it's dry," supplemented shanghai as he started down the road with the other horse. "let him stand a while," said mose. "we'll tie him up to this tree. pity you ain't ridin' some 'em races johnson's jock tosses off. once round that limb's enough. he'll stand." and for rather more than half an hour the good colt zanzibar shivered in a cold wind while herman warmed himself in the genial glow of flattering speeches and honeyed compliments. "he looks dry now," said mose at length. "we'll rub him down with grass. see how easy it comes off an' don't leave no marks neither. mebbe you betteh not say anythin' to yo' boss 'bout this." "say, you don't think i'm a fool, do you?" "sutny not! i see yo' a pretty wise kid, all right!" "if i could only get that reg'lar job you was talkin' about!" "it boun' to come, jock, boun' to come! you be steerin' 'em down 'at ol' stretch one of these days, sure! if we jus' had a li'l wateh, now, we could do a betteh job on 'is hawss." "he's shakin' a lot, ain't he?" asked herman. "nuhvous, thass all ail him. my side 'mos' clean a'ready; how you gettin' along?" smiley johnson stood at the entrance to his paddock stall shaking hands with acquaintances, slapping his friends on the back, and passing out information. "i don't know a great deal about this horse," he would remark confidently. "he wasn't much account last season--too nervous and high-strung. i'm only sending him to-day to see what he'll do, but of course he never figured to beat horses like blitzen. not enough class." curly mcmanus forced his way into zanzibar's stall and moved to the far corner where johnson followed him. "curry is in the betting ring," mcmanus whispered. "well, what of that?" "he's betting an awful chunk of dough on elijah; they're giving him and to ." "the more he bets the more he'll lose." "but it ain't like him to unbelt for a chunk unless he _knows_ something." johnson chuckled. "most of his betting is done in books where i've got an interest. d'you think they'd be laying top prices on elijah if they didn't know something too?" "i guess that's right, smiley. you didn't warm this one up to-day. why?" "it would make him too nervous: the crowd, and all." "he's fit, is he?" "fitter than a snake! we're getting and to in the pool rooms all over the coast, and i wish we'd gone even stronger with him. here comes curry now. listen to me kid him!" the old man entered the paddock from the betting ring, bound for elijah's stall. johnson halted him with a shout. "well, old stick-in-the-mud! you trying to-day?" "i'm always tryin'," answered curry mildly. "my hosses are always tryin' too." "wish you a lot of luck!" "same to you, sir; same to you." "but everybody can't win." "true as gospel. i found that out right here at this track." old man curry continued on his way as calm and untroubled as if his pockets were not loaded down with pasteboards calling for a small fortune in the event of elijah's winning the race. his instructions to little mose were brief: "get away in front and stay there." a few moments later johnson and mcmanus leaned over the top rail of the fence and watched the horses on their way to the post. "that colt of yours looks a little stiff to me," said mcmanus critically. "nonsense! he may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff." "well, i _hope_ he ain't. curry's horse looks good." later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point. johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry jacket and cap; mcmanus spent his time watching little mose and elijah. "smiley, that nigger is playing for a running start." "let him have it. zanzibar'll be in front in ten jumps. hennessey knows just how to handle the colt, and he's chain lightning on the break." "i suppose the boy on blitzen'll take care of the nigger if he has to. slats gave him orders. _they're off!_" johnson opened his mouth to say something, but the words died away into a choking gurgle. instead of rushing to the front, the cherry jacket was rapidly dropping back. it was mcmanus who broke the stunned silence. "in front in ten jumps, hey? he's _last_ in ten jumps, that's what he is: stiffer'n a board! and look where curry's nigger is, will you?" "to hell with curry's nigger!" barked johnson. "look at the colt! he--he can't untrack himself: runs like he was all bound up somehow! something has gone wrong, sure!" "you bet it has!" snarled mcmanus. "quite a pile of dough has gone wrong, and some of it was mine too!" a comfortable ten lengths to the good at the upper turn, little mose addressed a few vigorous remarks to his mount. "this a nice place faw us to stay, 'lijah! them irish boys all behin' us! nobody goin' bump you to-day! nobody goin' slash you 'ith no whip! go on, big red hawss! show 'em how we risin' up!" "the nigger'll win in a romp!" announced mcmanus disgustedly. "oh, dry up! i want to know what's happened to zanzibar!" "i can tell you what's _going_ to happen to him," remarked the unfeeling mcmanus. "he's going to finish last, and a damn bad last at that. why, he can't get up a gallop! didn't you know any more than to start a horse in that condition?" "but how the devil did he get stiff all at once?" howled johnson. "that's what you'd better find out. how do we know you didn't cross us, johnson? it would be just like you!" old man curry, watching at the paddock gate, thrust his hands under the tails of his rusty frock coat and smiled. "'a just man falleth seven times and riseth up again!'" he quoted softly. "and the wicked: well, they'll have a mighty lame hoss on their hands, i reckon." mose began checking elijah, several lengths in front of the wire. "don't go bustin' a lung, hawss," said he. "might need it again. you winnin' by a mile. a-a-a mile. sol'mun was right, but maybe he wouldn't have been if i hadn't done some risin' up myse'f this mawnin'! whoa, hawss! this where they pay off! we th'oo faw the day!" old man curry was striding down the track from the judges' stand when he met a large man whose face was purple and his language purple also. "man, don't talk like that!" said curry reprovingly. "and ca'm down or you'll bust an artery. you can't win _all_ the time: that's what you told me." johnson sputtered like a damp roman candle, but a portion of his remarks were intelligible. "oh, zanzibar?" said old man curry. "he's a right nice colt. he ought to be. he pretty nigh run the legs off my 'lisha this mornin'." "wha--_what's that_?" "yes," continued old man curry, "they had it back an' forth up that road, hot an' heavy. i expect maybe zanzibar got a chill from sweatin' so hard." out of the whirl of mr. johnson's remarks and statements of intention curry selected one. "no," said he, "i reckon you won't beat that german kid to death. he didn't know any better. you won't lay a finger on him, because why? he's on a railroad train by now, goin' home to cincinnati. i reckoned his mother might like to see him. and you ain't goin' to make no trouble for me, johnson. not a mite. you might whip a little kid, you big, bulldozin' windbag, but i reckon you won't stand up to a man, no matter how old he is!" "i--i'll have your entries refused!" "don't go to no such trouble as that," was the soothing reply. "there won't be no more curry entries at this track. a just man might fall down seven times again in such a nest of thieves an' robbers! tell that to your judges, an' be damned!" and, head erect, shoulders squared, and eyes flashing, old man curry started for the betting ring to collect his due. egyptian corn "well, you great big hammer-headed lobster, what have you got to say for yourself, eh? _don't_ stand there and look wise when i'm talking to you! ain't there a race in this country long enough for you to win? a mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up and step, but what do you do? you come last, just beginning to warm up and go some! sometimes i think i ought to sell you to a soap factory, you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mud turtle and a carpenter's bench, you----" at this point slim kern became extremely personal, speaking his mind concerning the horse pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and his ancestors. some of his statements would have raised blisters on a salamander, but pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity. pharaoh was not handsome. he was, as slim had said, a hammer-headed brute of imposing proportions. but for his eyes no turfman would have looked at him twice. they were large, clear, and unusually intelligent; they redeemed his homely face. without them he would have been called a stupid horse. an elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to slim's peroration. as it grew in power and potency the listener ceased to chew his straw and began to shake his head. when slim paused for breath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice took advantage of the silence. "there now, slim, ain't you said enough to him? seems like, if it was me, i wouldn't cuss a hoss so strong--not _this_ hoss anyway. he ain't no fool. chances are he knows more'n you give him credit for. some hosses don't care what you say to 'em--goes in one ear and out the other--but pharaoh, he's wise. he knows that ain't love talk. he's chewin' it over in his mind right now. by the look in his eye, he's askin' himself will he bite your ear off or only kick you into the middle of next week. cussin' a hoss like that won't make him win races where he never had a chance nohow." "i know it," said slim. "i know it, curry, but think what a wonderful relief it is to me! take a slant at him, standing there all dignified up like a united states senator! don't he look like he ought to know something? wouldn't you think he'd know where they pay off? he makes me sore, and i've just got to talk to him. i've owned him a whole year, and what has he done? won once at a mile and a quarter, and he'd have been last that time if the leaders hadn't got in a jam on the turn and fell down. he was so far behind 'em when they piled up that all he had to do was pull wide and come on home! he had sense enough for that. i've started him in all the distance races on this circuit; he always runs three feet to their one at the finish, but he's never close enough up to make it count. he must have some notion that they pay off the second time around, and it's all my boy can do to stop him after he goes under the wire. why won't he uncork some of that stuff where it will get us something? why won't he? i don't know, and that's what gets me." old man curry rose, threw away his straw, and circled the horse three times, muttering to himself. this was purely an exhibition of strategy, for curry knew all about pharaoh: had known all about him for months. "what'll you take for him?" the question came so suddenly that it caught slim off his balance. "take for him!" he ejaculated. "who wants an old hammer-head like that?" "i was thinkin' i might buy him," was the quiet reply, "if the price is right. i dunno's a hoss named pharaoh would fit in with a stable of hebrew prophets, 'count of the way pharaoh used moses and the isrulites, but i might take a chance on him--if the price is right." now, slim would have traded pharaoh for a nose bag or a sack of shorts and reckoned the intake pure gain, but he was a horseman, and it naturally follows that he was a trader. "well, now," said he, "i hadn't thought of selling him, curry, and that's a fact." "did anybody but me ever think of buyin' him?" asked the old man innocently. "he's got a wonderful breeding," said slim, ignoring the question. "yes, sir; he's out of the purple, sure enough, and as for age he's just in his _prime_. there's a lot of racing in him yet. make me an offer." "you don't want me to talk first, do you? i don't reckon i could make a real offer on a hoss that never wins 'less all the others fall down. pharaoh ain't what you might call a first-class buy. from his looks it costs a lot to keep him." "not near as much as you'd think," was the quick rejoinder. "pharaoh's a dainty feeder." "ah, hah," said old man curry, stroking his beard. "about as dainty as one of them perpetual hay presses! that nigh foreleg of his has been stove up pretty bad too. how he runs on it at all beats me." "he's sound as a nut!" declared slim vehemently. "there ain't a thing in the world the matter with him. ask any vet to look him over!" "well, slim, i dunno's he's worth the expense. come on, now; tell me what's the least you'll take for him?" "five hundred dollars." "give you a hundred and fifty cash." "say, do you want me to make you a present of him?" demanded slim, indignantly sarcastic. "maybe you think i'd ought to throw in a halter so's you can lead him away!" "no," said old man curry. "i won't insist on a halter. i got plenty of my own. you said yourself he wa'n't no good and i thought you meant it. i was just askin' if you'd sell him; that was all. keep him till judgment day, if you want him. no harm done." old man curry began to walk away. "hold on a minute!" said slim, trying hard to keep the anxious note out of his voice. "be reasonable, old-timer. make me an offer for the horse: one that a sensible man can accept." old man curry paused and glanced over his shoulder. "why," said he, faintly surprised, "i kind of thought i'd done that a'ready!" "_look_ at him!" urged slim. "did you ever see a more powerful horse in your life? and smart too. a hundred and fifty dollars! one side of him is worth more than that!" "likely it is," agreed the old man solemnly. "seems to me i saw a piece in the paper 'bout a cannery where they was goin' to put up hoss-flesh!" "i admit he's had a lot of bad luck," persisted slim, "but get pharaoh warmed up once and he'll surprise you. didn't you see how fast he was coming to-day?" "the numbers was up before he got in," was the dry response. "what's the good of a hoss that won't begin to run until the race is over? you said yourself he only won for you when all the others fell down. it's kind of difficult to frame up races that way. jockeys hate to take the chances. will two hundred buy him? two hundred, right in your hand?" "oh, come over here and set down!" said slim. "you ain't in any hurry, are you? nothing you've said yet interests me. on the level, you ain't got a suspicion of what a good horse this is!" "no, but i kind of suspicion what a bad hoss he is." old man curry resumed his seat on the bale of hay and produced his packet of fine-cut tobacco. "you tell me how good he is," said he, "and i'll listen, but before you open up here's what solomon says: 'the simple believeth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going.' hoss tradin' is no job for a simple man, but i made a livin' at it before you was born. now fire away, and don't tell me this pharaoh is a gift. 'whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds and wind without rain.' i reckon solomon meant mostly wind. now you can cut loose an' tell me how much hoss this is." two hours later old man curry arrived at his barn leading pharaoh. he had acquired the hammer-head for the sum of $ and slim had thrown in the halter. shanghai, curry's hostler and handy man, stared at the new member of the racing string with open-mouthed and pop-eyed amazement. "lawd's sake! what _is_ that, a cam-u-el?" "no, i don't reckon he's a camel, exactly," replied the old man. "i don't know just what he is, shanghai, but i'm aimin' to find out soon. the man i got him from allowed as he was a race hoss." "huh-uh, kunnel! he sutny don' ree'semble no runnin' hawss to _me_. i neveh yet see a head shape' like that on anything whut could run." shanghai came closer and examined the equine stranger carefully. "yo' an ugly brute, big hawss: ugly no name faw it. oh-oh, kunnel; he got a knowin' eye, ain't he? if this hawss is wise as he look, he ought to be a judge in the soopreme cote! yes, suh; somepin' besides bone in that ole hammeh-head!" "i bought him for his eyes," said old man curry. "his eyes and his name. this is pharaoh, shanghai." "faro, eh?" the negro chuckled. "thass a game where yo' gits action two ways: bet it is or it ain't. now, mebbe this yere faro is a race hawss, an' mebbe he ain't, but if yo' eveh puts him in with early speed an' a short distance to go, betteh play him with a copper, kunnel. he got same chance as a eagle flyin' a mile 'gainst pigeons." "the thing to do," said old man curry with his kindly smile, "is to find out the eagle's distance." little mose was dreaming that he had piloted the winner of the burns handicap and was being carried to the jockey's room in a floral horseshoe which rocked in a very violent manner. the motion became so pronounced that mose opened his eyes, and found old man curry shaking him. "get up, you lazy little rascal! got a job for you this mornin'. turn out!" the jockey sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes. "solomon must have had at least one little black boy," said the old man. "'love not sleep lest thou come to poverty.' hurry up, mose!" "yes, suh," mumbled the drowsy youngster. "reckon sol'mun neveh had to gallop a string an' ride 'em too. i sutny earns whut i gits when i git it." dawn was breaking when jockey moseby jones emerged from the tack room to find old man curry and pharaoh waiting for him. as they were walking to the track the owner gave his orders. "one trouble with this hoss," said he, "is that the boy who has been ridin' him wasn't strong enough in the arms to keep his head up." "that ol' hawss has got a head whut weighs a thousan' pounds!" murmured mose sulkily. "'spect he'll 'bout yank both arms outen me!" "you're pretty stout for a boy your size," said the old man, "an' you may be able to hold this big, hard-stridin' hoss together an' shake something out of him. send him two miles, mose, keep his head up if you can, an' ride him every jump of the way." "but, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' the country!" "keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, little black boy. i ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on the jungle tracks. all you got to think about is can you handle as much hoss as this over a distance of ground. if you can, an' he's got the stayin' qualities i think he has, you an' me an' pharaoh may go on a long journey--down into egypt after corn. git up on him, mose, an' let's see what you both can do." the hammer-head loafed away at a comfortable stride and his first mile showed nothing, but his second circuit of the track was a revelation which caused old man curry to address remarks to his stop watch. it took every ounce of mose's strength to fight pharaoh to a standstill: the big brute was just beginning to enjoy the exercise and wanted to keep on going. "well, think you can handle him?" "boss," panted little mose, "i kin do--everything to thisyer hoss--but stop him. he sutny--do love to run--once he git goin'. all the way--down the stretch--he was asayin' to me: 'come on, jock! lemme go round again!' yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!" "ah-hah," said old man curry. "that's the way it looked to me. well, to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier. by an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see how he finishes an' what the watch says." little mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully. "seem like i ain't heard tell of but _one_ fo'mile race," he hinted. "'tain't run in egypt neitheh. they runs it down round 'frisco. the thawntum stakes is whut they calls it. boss, you reckon pharaoh kin pick up any corn in california?" old man curry's eyes twinkled, but his voice was stern. "if i was a little black boy," said he, "an' i was wantin' my boss to take me on a trip down into egypt, i wouldn't call it california. if i knew anything 'bout a four-mile stake race, i'd try to mislay the name of it. if i had been ridin' a big, hammer-headed hoss, i don't think i'd mention him except in my prayers. if i was goin' after corn, i don't believe i'd say so." mose listened, nodding from time to time. "boss," said he earnestly, "i sutny always did want to see whut thisyer egypt looks like. outside of that, i neveh heard nothin', i don't know nothin', an' i can't tell nothin'. beginnin' now, a clam has got me beat in a talkin' match!" old man curry smiled and combed his long, white beard. "that is the very best way," said he, "to earn a trip down into egypt. 'a talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.'" "thass me all oveh!" chuckled mose. "i bet i got the faithfulest an' the concealin'est spirit whut is!" port costa is a small town on the carquinez straits, that narrow ribbon of wind-swept water between san pablo and suisun bays. the early empire builders, striving to reach the pacific by rail, found it necessary to cross the carquinez straits, and to that end built a huge ferryboat capable of swallowing up long overland trains. it was then that port costa came into being: a huddle of hastily constructed frame saloons along the water front and very little else. all day and all night the big ferryboat plied between benicia and port costa, transferring rolling stock. while the trains were being made up on the port costa side passengers in need of liquid sustenance paid visits to the saloons. they got exactly what the transient may expect in any country. henry ashbaugh sat at a table in martin dugan's place and eyed the bartender truculently. he had purchased nothing, for the most excellent of reasons, but he had patronised the free lunch extensively. "you don't need to look at me like that," said henry when the silence became unbearable. "i'm waiting for a friend and when he comes he'll buy." at this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit the friend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in a battered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. ashbaugh jumped up with a yell. "well, you old son of a gun! it's good for sore eyes to see you! how long has it been, eh?" "quite some years," answered old man curry, allowing himself to be guided to the bar. "and how's the world been usin' you, henry?" "it's been using me rough, awful rough," replied ashbaugh. "i ain't even got the price of a drink." curry laid a silver coin upon the bar. "have one with me," said he. "don't mind if i do," said ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libation of water-front whisky. old man curry took water, and the wise bartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet. "how!" said henry, tilting the poison into his system. "my regards!" said old man curry, sipping his water slowly. "same old bird!" ejaculated ashbaugh, clapping curry on the back. "solomon on the brain! speaking of birds, though, did you ever see one that could fly with only one wing?" "i never did," was the grave response. "have another?" "if you force me," said ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose. old man curry took more water. ashbaugh gulped once and passed the back of his hand over his lips. "we have talked of birds," said he, wheedlingly. "leave us now talk of centipedes." "no," said curry quietly. "no, i reckon not, henry. there's something else to talk about. you got my telegram?" "this afternoon," said ashbaugh with a lingering glance at the bottle. "that's why i'm here." "you've still got your place out on the martinez road?" asked old man curry. "i can't get rid of it," was the answer. "i'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks, henry." "the place is all yours!" said ashbaugh with wide gestures. "all yours! a friend of mine can have anything i've got, and no questions asked. where is this here horse?" "they'll be takin' him out of a freight car about now," said curry. "could i git him down to your place to-night?" "you can if you walk it." "is the road as good as it used to be?" "same road. just like it was when you used to train horses on it." "mebbe we ought to be going," suggested old man curry. "then you won't talk about centipedes?" "oh, well," smiled the old man, "i might discuss a three-legged critter with you--once." "put that bottle back on the bar!" said ashbaugh. the overnight entry slips, given out on the day before the running of the thornton stakes, bore the name of the horse pharaoh, together with that of his owner, c. t. curry, whereat the wise men of the west chuckled. a few of them had heard of old man curry, a queer, harmless individual who owned bad horses and raced them on worse tracks. a hasty survey of turf guides brought the horse pharaoh to unfavourable light as a nonwinner in cheap company, and in no sense to be considered as a competitor in the second greatest of western turf classics. in addition to this, those who made it their business to know the business of horsemen were able to state positively that no such horse as pharaoh had arrived at the emeryville track outside of oakland. consequently, when the figuring was done (and a great deal of figuring is always done on the eve of an important stake race), the curry entry was regarded as among the scratches. on paper, the rich purse was a gift to the imported mare auckland. australian horses, bred to go a distance, had often won this longest of american stakes, and auckland was known to be one of the very best animals ever brought across the pacific. it was only a question of how far she would win, and the others were considered as competing for second and third money. on the night before the race all the talk was of auckland; all the speculation had to do with her price, and how many dollars a man might have to bet to win one. at noon on the day of the race a horse car was shunted in on one of the spur tracks at emeryville, and a group of idlers gathered to watch the unloading process. no little amusement was afforded them by the appearance and costume of the owner, but old man curry paid not the slightest attention to the half-audible comment, and soon the "bible horses" found their feet on the ground once more. among the loafers were some "outside men" employed by the bookmakers, and these endeavoured to acquire information from old man curry, without success. the negro shanghai proved more loquacious. he trudged at the end of the line leading a big hammer-headed brute which he often addressed as "faro." "who owns these hawsses?" repeated shanghai. "mist' curry--thass him in front--he owns 'em. we got here jus' in time, i reckon. thisyer hawss whut i'm leadin', he goes in that thawntum stakes to-day." "nix!" said the outside man. "just off the cars, and he's going to start? it can't be done!" "i ain't heard the boss say he'd scratch him," said shanghai. "but how long have you been on the way?" "oh, i reckon 'bout five days. yes, suh; we been exackly five days _an'_ nights gettin' here." "then you're kidding about that horse going to start in the thornton stakes." "no, suh; i ain't kiddin' nobody. thass whut we brought him oveh faw: to staht him in them thawntum stakes. i reckon he'll have to do the bes' he know how." "are you going to bet on him?" "says _which_?" shanghai showed a double row of glistening ivories. "no, indeedy! hawss got to show me befo' i leggo my small change! this faro, he can't seem to win no mile races, so the boss he thinks he might do betteh in a long one. but me, i ain't bettin' on him, no suh!" only five horses faced the barrier in the thornton stakes. second money was not enough of a temptation to the owners, who could see nothing but the australian mare, auckland. the opening prices bore out this belief. auckland was quoted at to , a prohibitive figure; baron brant, the hope of the california contingent, at to ; the maori at to ; ambrose churchill at to , and pharaoh was held at and . the bookmakers had heard that the curry horse had been taken from the car at noon, and wondered at the obstinacy of his owner in starting him, stiff and cramped from a long railroad journey. "must be figuring to give him a workout and a race all at once," said the chalk merchants. all these things being known, a certain elderly gentleman did not have to beg the bookmakers to take his money. he passed from block to block in the big ring, stripping small bills from a fat roll, and receiving pasteboards in exchange. round and round the ring he went, with his monotonous request: "ten on pharaoh to win, please." every bookmaker was glad to oblige him; most of them thanked him for the ten-dollar bills. there were thirty-two books in the circle, and old man curry visited each one of them several times. he stopped betting only when he heard the saddling bell ringing in the paddock. after a few words with little mose, he returned to the betting ring and the distribution of his favours. when the five horses stood at the barrier in front of the grand stand, pharaoh was conspicuous only for his size and the colour of his rider. the mare auckland, beautifully proportioned, her smooth coat glistening in the sun, was the ideal racing animal. the word was soon given, the barrier whizzed into the air, and the five horses were on their long journey. the boy on auckland sent her to the front at once, and the mare settled into her long, easy stride, close to the rail, saving every possible inch. pharaoh immediately dropped into last position, plodding through the dust kicked up by the field. the big hammer-head showed nothing in the first mile save dogged persistence. at the end of the second mile auckland was twenty lengths in front of pharaoh, and running without effort. the maori and ambrose churchill were beginning to drop back, but baron brant still clung to second place, ten lengths behind the favourite. it was in the third mile that jockey moseby jones began to urge the big horse. at first there seemed to be no result, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, the heavy plugging stride grew longer. auckland still held her commanding lead, but pharaoh marked his gain on ambrose churchill and the maori, leaving them a bitter and hopeless battle for fourth place. in the home stretch the pace began to tell on baron brant, and he faded. pharaoh caught and passed him just at the wire, with the australian mare fifteen lengths in front and eating up the distance in smooth, easy strides. the stubborn persistence of the hammer-headed horse had not escaped the crowd, and those who support the underdog in an uphill fight gave him a tremendous cheer as he swung down to the turn. it was then that little mose leaned forward and began hand-riding, calling on pharaoh in language sacred and profane. "hump yo'self, big hawss! neveh let it be said that a mare kin make you eat dust! lay down to it, faro, lay down to it! why, you ain't begun to run yit! you jus' been foolin'! you want to show me up befo' a big town crowd! faro, i ast you from my _heart_, lay down to it!" and pharaoh lay down to it. the ugly big brute let himself out to the last notch, hugging the rail with long, ungainly strides. the jockey on auckland had counted the race as won--in fact, he had been spending the winner's fee from the end of the second mile--but on the upper turn the thud of hoofs came to his ears, and with them wild whoops of encouragement. he looked back over his shoulder in surprise which soon turned to alarm; the big hammer-head was barely six lengths away and drawing nearer with every awkward bound. jockey mcfee sat down on his imported mount and began to ride for a five-thousand-dollar stake, a fat fee, his reputation, and several other considerations, but always he heard the voice of the little negro, coming closer and closer: "corn crop 'bout ripe, faro! jus' waitin' to be picked! that mare, she come a long ways to git it, but she goin' git it good! them ribbons don't keep her f'um rockin'; she's all through! go git her, big hawss! go git her!" jockey mcfee slashed desperately with his whip as pharaoh thundered alongside, and the game mare gave up her last ounce: gave it up in a losing fight. once, twice, the ugly, heavy head and the head of the equine aristocrat rose and fell side by side; then auckland dropped back beaten and broken-hearted while her conqueror pounded on to the wire, to win by five open lengths.... at least one dream came true. moseby jones was carried off the track in a gorgeous floral horseshoe, his woolly head bobbing among the roses and his teeth putting the white carnations to shame. shanghai danced all the way from the judges' stand to the stables, not an easy feat when one considers that he was leading the winner of the thornton stakes, also garlanded and bedecked within an inch of his life, but, in spite of all his floral decorations, extremely dignified. old man curry fought his way through a mob of reporters and fair-weather acquaintances to find himself face to face with the only real surprise of the day. a sharp-faced youth, immaculately dressed, leaped upon him, endeavouring to embrace him, shake his hand and congratulate him, all in a breath. "frank!" cried the old man. "bless your heart, boy, where did you come from?" "from butte," answered the bald-faced kid. "wanted to get some ideas on the spring trade; saw you had a horse in the thornton stakes; thought i might find you; got here just as the race finished. old-timer, how are you? you don't know how good it is to see you again!" "i know how good it is to see you, my son!" the old man laid his arm across the youth's shoulders. "how's the wife, frank?" "just bully! she would have been here with me, but she couldn't leave the kid: couldn't leave curry----" the patriarch of the jungle circuit reached hastily for his fine-cut. "it--it was a boy, then?" he asked. the bald-faced kid grinned. "better than that; it was a girl! we had the name picked out in advance. the wife wouldn't have it any other way." old man curry shook his head solemnly. "frank," said he, "you know that ain't treat-in' a little girl right! curry! it sounds like the stuff you eat with rice! when she gits old enough to know she'll hate it, and me, too." "any kid of mine is going to _love_ the name of curry, and call you grandpa! what do you think of that? you don't need to worry, and i won't even argue the point with you. my wife says----" "anything your wife says is right," interrupted the old man, blowing his nose lustily. "why, it kind of seems as if i had some folks----" "if you don't think you've got a ready-made family," said the kid, "come over to butte any time and i'll win a bet from you. but i can tell you about that later. what i want to know is this: i met a couple of hustlers here to-day--boys i used to team with--and they told me pharaoh didn't have a chance because he went right from the box car to the paddock. he gets off the train, where he's been for five days and nights, and comes so close to the american record that there ain't any fun in it. now, you know that can't be done. old-timer, you pulled many a miracle on me before i quit the turf; give me an inside on this one!" old man curry smiled benignantly. "well, son, mebbe i kind of took advantage of 'em there." "it wouldn't be the first time, dad. let's have it." "all right. to start with, i bought this hoss for little or nothing. mostly nothing. i knew he was a freak. he couldn't begin to untrack himself till he had gone a mile, but after that it seemed like every mile he went he got better. i held a watch on him an' he ran four miles close enough to the record to show me that he had a chance in the thornton stakes. five weeks ago i shipped him out to port costa an' took him off the train there----" "holy moses!" breathed the kid. "i begin to get it, but go on!" "i knew a man there an' he let me train pharaoh at his place, little mose givin' him a gallop every day. that benicia road is as good as any race track. then i did some close figgerin' on freight schedules, an' telegraphed shanghai when to leave with the rest of the stable. they got into port costa this mornin'. it wa'n't no trick at all to slip pharaoh into that through car--not when you know the right people--an' when we unloaded here this noon the word sort of got scattered round that the curry hosses had been five days on the road. now, no man with the sense that god gives a goose could figger a critter to walk out of a box car, where he'd been bumped an' jolted an' shook up for five days, an' run four miles with any kind of hosses. it just ain't in the book, son. "they got the notion i was crazy, an' i reckon they knew everything about us but the one thing that counted most, which was that pharaoh hadn't been in that car an hour all told. you know, when you go down into egypt after corn, you got to do as the egyptians do: have an ace in the hole all the time. solomon says that a fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it till afterward. that's why i'm gassin' so much now, i reckon." "old-timer," chuckled the kid, "you're a wonder, and i'm proud to have a kid named for you! just one question more, and i'm through. you won the stake, and that amounts to quite a mess of money, but did you bet enough to pay the freight on the string?" "well, now, son," said the old man; "i been so glad to see you that i kind of forgot that part of it." he fumbled in the tail pockets of his rusty black frock coat and brought forth great handfuls of tickets. "i didn't take less'n to ," said he, "an' i bet 'em till my feet ached, just walkin' from one book to another. i haven't tried to figger it up, but i reckon i took more corn away from these egyptians than the law allows a single man to have. if it's all the same to you, frank, an' the baby ain't got no objections, i'd like to use some of this to start a savings account for my namesake. curry ain't no name for a baby girl, an' you ought to let me square it with her somehow. mebbe when she gits of age, an' wants to marry some harum-scarum boy, she won't think so bad of her gran'daddy." the modern judgment of solomon it was an unpleasantly warm morning, and the thick, black shade of an umbrella tree made queer neighbours--as queer neighbours as the jungle circuit could produce. old man curry found the shade first and felt that he was entitled to it by right of discovery, consequently he did not move when henry m. pitkin signified an intention of sharing the coolness with him. old man curry had less than a bowing acquaintance with pitkin, wished to know him no better, and had disliked him from the moment he had first seen him. "hot, ain't it?" asked the newcomer by way of making a little talk. "what you reading, curry?" old man curry looked up from the thirteenth chapter of proverbs, ceased chewing his straw, and regarded pitkin with a grave and appraising interest which held something of disapproval, something of insult. pitkin's eyes shifted. "it says here," remarked the aged horseman, "'a righteous man hateth lying: but a wicked man is loathsome, and cometh to shame.'" "fair enough," said pitkin, "and serves him right. he ought to come to shame. pretty hot for this time of year." "it'll be hotter for some folks by and by." pitkin laughed noisily. "where do you get that stuff?" he demanded. "i hope i ain't agoin' to git it," said old man curry. "i aim to live so's to miss it." he lapsed into silence, and the straw began to twitch to the slow grinding motion of his lower jaw. a very stupid man might have seen at a glance that curry did not wish to be disturbed, but for some reason or other pitkin felt the need of conversation. "i've been thinking," said he, "that my racing colours are too plain--yellow jacket, white sleeves, white cap. there's so many yellows and whites that people get 'em mixed up. how would it do if i put a design on the back of the jacket--something that would tell people at a glance that the horse was from the pitkin stable?" old man curry closed his book. "you want 'em to know which is your hosses?" he asked. "is that the idee?" "sure," answered pitkin. "i was trying to think up a design of some kind. lucky baldwin, used to have a maltese cross. how would it do if i had a rooster or a rising sun or a crescent sewed on to the back of the jacket?" old man curry pretended to give serious thought to the problem. "roosters an' risin' suns don't mean anything," said he judicially. "an emblem ought to _mean_ something to the public--it ought to stand for something." "yes," said pitkin, "but what can i get that will sort of identify me and my horses?" "well," said the old man, "mebbe i can suggest a dee-sign that'll fill the bill." he picked up a bit of shingle and drew a pencil from his pocket. "how would this do? two straight marks this way, pitkin, an' two straight marks _that_ way--and nobody'd ever mistake your hosses--nobody that's been watchin' the way they run." pitkin craned his neck and snorted with wrath. old man curry had drawn two crosses side by side, and the inference was plain. "that's your notion, is it?" said he, rising. "well, one thing is a mortal cinch, curry; you'll never catch me psalm singing round a race track, and any time i want to preach, i'll hire a church! put that in your pipe and smoke it!" "i ain't smokin', thankee, i'm chewin' mostly," remarked the old gentleman to pitkin's vanishing coat tails. "well, now, looks like i made him sort of angry. what is it that solomon wrote 'bout the anger of a fool?" they used to say that the meanest man in the world was the mean man from maine, but this is a slander on the good old pine tree state, for henry m. pitkin never was east of the mississippi river in his life. he claimed iowa as his native soil, and all that iowa could do about it was to issue a warrant for his arrest on a charge connected with the misappropriation of funds. young mr. pitkin escaped over the state line westward, beating the said warrant a nose in a whipping finish, and after a devious career covering many years and many states he turned up on the jungle circuit, bringing with him a string of horses, a gentle, soft-spoken old negro trainer, an irish jockey named mulligan, and two stable hands, each as black as the ace of spades. the jungle circuit has always been peculiarly rich in catch-as-catch-can burglars and daylight highwaymen, but after they had studied mr. pitkin's system closely these gentlemen refused to enter into a protective alliance with him, for, as grouchy o'connor remarked, "the sucker hadn't never heard that there ought to be honour among thieves." pitkin would shear a black sheep as close to the shivering hide as he would shear a white one, and the horses of the pitkin stable performed according to price, according to investment, according to orders--according to everything in the world but agreement, racing form, and honest endeavour. in ways that are dark and tricks that are vain the heathen chinee at the top of his heathenish bent would have been no match for mr. henry m. pitkin, who could have taken the shirt away from a chinese river pirate. the double-cross would have been an excellent racing trade-mark for the pitkin stable, because pitkin had double-crossed every one who ever trusted him, every one with whom he had come in contact. he had even double-crossed old gabe johnson, his negro trainer, and the history of that cross will furnish an accurate index on the smallness of pitkin's soul. how such a decent old darky as uncle gabe ever came to be associated with white trash of the pitkin variety is another and longer story. it is enough to say that pitkin hired the old man when he was hungry and thereafter frequently reminded him of that fact. they had been together for three years when they came to the jungle circuit--pitkin rat-eyed, furtive, mysterious as a crow, and scheming always for his own pocket; uncle gabe quiet, efficient, inclined to be religious, knowing his place and keeping it and attending strictly to business, namely, the conditioning of the pitkin horses for the track. uncle gabe treated all white men with scrupulous respect, even touching his hat brim every time pitkin spoke to him. he was a real trainer of a school fast passing away, and at rare intervals he spoke of the "quality folks down yondeh" for whom he had handled thoroughbreds, glimpses of his history which made his present occupation seem all the stranger by contrast. some of the horsemen of the jungle circuit pretended to believe that pitkin kept a negro trainer because he was too mean to get along with a white man, but this was only partly true. he kept gabe because he had a keen appreciation of the old man's knowledge of horseflesh, and in addition to this gabe was cheap at the price--fifty dollars a month and his board, and only part of that fifty paid, for it hurt pitkin to part with money under any circumstances. it was by skipping pay days that he came to owe uncle gabe the not unimportant sum of five hundred dollars, and it was by trying to collect this amount that the aged trainer became also the owner of a race horse. pitkin, in the course of business dealings with a small breeding farm, had picked up two bay colts. they were as like as two peas with every honest right to the resemblance, for they were half-brothers by the same sire, and there was barely a week's difference in their ages. uncle gabe looked the baby racers over very carefully before giving it as his opinion that no twins were ever more alike in appearance. "they own mammies would have a li'l trouble tellin' them colts apaht," said the negro. "can you tell them apart?" asked pitkin. gabe grinned. "yes, suh," he answered. "they _is_ a difference." pitkin looked at gabe sharply. he knew that the old negro felt one colt to be better than the other. "all right then," he said after a moment. "tell you what i'll do. you've been deviling me for that five hundred dollars till i'm sick of listening to you. take your pick of the two colts and call it square. how does that strike you?" uncle gabe deliberated for some time. the five hundred dollars meant a great deal to him, but the cash value of a debt is regulated somewhat by the sort of man who owes it and gabe realized that this point was worthy of consideration. on the other hand, should the colt turn out well, he would be worth several times five hundred dollars. "don't wait till you get 'em in training," said pitkin. "a blind man could pick the best one then. take the colt that looks good to you _now_ and let it go at that." that evening uncle gabe made his selection and immediately announced that he intended to name his colt general duval. "good enough," said pitkin, "and just to carry out the soldier idea, i'll call the other one sergeant smith. put the general in that end stall, away from the others." the next morning gabe sent one of the stable hands to get his colt, and when the animal appeared the old trainer's lower lip began to droop, but he said nothing until after he had made a thorough examination. "boy, you done brought me the wrong colt," said he. "this ain't gen'al duval." "i got him outen yo' stall," said the stable hand. "don't care where yo' got him," persisted gabe. "this ain't the colt i picked out. he ain't wide enough between the eyes." "what's the argument about?" asked pitkin, coming from the tackle-room. "gabe say thisyer ain't his colt," answered the stable hand. "where did you get him?" demanded pitkin. "outen that stall yondeh," said the stable hand, pointing. "that was where you put your colt, wasn't it?" asked pitkin, turning to uncle gabe. "yes, suh, i put him there all right, but this ain't him." "oh, come now," laughed pitkin, "you've been thinking it over and you're afraid you've picked the wrong one. be a sport, gabe; stick with your bargain." "been some monkey business done round yere," muttered the aged negro. "been a li'l night walkin', mebbe. boy, bring out that sergeant smith colt an' lemme cas' my eye oveh him once!" "see here, nigger!" said pitkin, "i let you have first pick, didn't i? gave you all the best of it, and you picked this colt here. if you've changed your mind overnight, i can't help that, can i?" "my mind ain't changed none," replied old gabe, "but this colt, he's changed, suh." "who would change him on you, eh? do you think _i'd_ do it? is that what you're getting at?" "why--why, no suh, no, but----" "then shut up! you're always beefing about something or other, always kicking! i don't want to hear any more out of you, understand? shut up!" "yes, suh," answered old gabe, touching his hat, "all the same i got a right to my opinion, boss." whatever his opinion, gabe proceeded to train the two colts in the usual manner, and before long it was plain to everyone connected with the pitkin establishment that the striking likeness did not extend to track promise and performance. sergeant smith developed into a high-class piece of racing property; general duval was not worth his oats. sergeant smith won some baby races in impressive fashion and was immediately tabbed as a comer and a useful betting tool, but every time general duval carried the racing colours of gabriel johnson--cherry jacket, green sleeves, red, white and blue cap--he brought them home powdered with the dust of defeat. old gabe made several ineffectual attempts to persuade pitkin to take the colt back again on any terms, and was laughed at for his pains. "you had your choice, didn't you?" pitkin would say. "well, then, you can't blame anybody but yourself. whose fault is it that i got the good colt and you got the crab? no, gabe, a bargain's a bargain with me, always. the general's a rotten bad race horse, but he's yours and not mine. it's what you get for being a poor picker." the bay colts were nearing the end of their three-year-old form when the pitkin string arrived on the jungle circuit and took up quarters next door to old man curry and his "bible horses." sergeant smith was the star of the stable and the principal money winner, when it suited pitkin to let him run for the money, while general duval, as like his half brother as a reflection in a flawless mirror, had a string of defeats to his discredit and his feed bill was breaking old gabe's heart. the trainer often looked at general duval and shook his head. "you an' that otheh colt could tell me somethin' if yo' could _talk_," he frequently remarked. after his conversation with old man curry, pitkin returned to his tackle-room in a savage state of mind, and, needing a target for his abuse, selected mulligan, the irish jockey. now, mulligan was small, but he had the heart of a giant and the courage of one conviction and two acquittals on charges of assault and battery. in spite of his size--he could ride at ninety-eight pounds--mulligan was a man in years, a man who felt that his employer had treated him like a child in money matters, and when pitkin called him a bow-legged little thief and an irish ape, he was putting a match to a powder magazine. one retort led to another, and when mulligan ran out of retorts he responded with a piece of by scantling which he had been saving for just such an emergency, and pitkin lost interest in the conversation. mulligan left him lying on the floor of the tackle-room, and though he was in somewhat of a hurry to be gone he found time to say a few words to old gabe, who was sunning himself at the end of the barn. "and i don't know what you can do about it," concluded the jockey, "but anyway i've put you wise. if they ask you, just say that you don't know which way i went." that night old man curry had a visitor who entered his tackle-room, hat in hand and bowing low. "set down, gabe," said the old horseman. "how's pitkin by this time?" "he got a headache," answered gabe soberly. "humph!" snorted curry. "should think he would have. that boy fetched him a pretty solid lick. glad he didn't hurt him any worse--for the boy's sake, i mean." "yes, suh," said gabe. "mist' curry, you been mighty good to me, one way'n anotheh, an' i'd like to ast yo' fo' some advice." "well," said the old man, "advice is like medicine, gabe--easy to give but hard to take. what's troublin' you now?" "mist' curry, yo' 'membeh me tellin' yo' 'bout that gen'al duval colt of mine--how he neveh did look the same to me since i got him?" "yes," answered curry, "an' i've a'ready told you that you can't prove anything on pitkin. you may suspect that somebody switched them colts on you, but unless----" "'scuse me, suh," interrupted gabe, "but i got beyon' suspectin' it now. i _knows_ it was done." "you don't say!" "yes, suh, i got the proof. mulligan, he say to me jus' befo' he lights out, 'gabe,' he say, 'that smith colt, he belong to you by rights. pitkin, he pulls a switch afteh yo' went to bed that first night.' he say he seen him do it." "mebbe the boy was just tryin' to stir up a little more trouble," suggested old man curry. "ain't i tol' you he neveh did _look_ the same? them colts so much alike they had me guessin'. i done picked the one whut was widest between the eyes--an' that's the one whut been awinnin' all them races. that ain't sergeant smith at all--that's my gen'al duval. pitkin, he gives me my pick an' then he switches on me. question is, how kin i git him back?" old man curry combed his whiskers for some time in silence. "solomon had a job like this once," said he, "but it was a question of babies. i reckon his decision wouldn't work out with hosses. gabe, you're gittin' to be quite an old man, ain't you?" "tollable ole," replied the negro; "yes, suh." "an' if you got this hoss away from pitkin, what would you do with him?" "sell him," was the prompt reply. "oho! then it ain't the hoss you want so much as the money, eh?" "mist' curry, that colt'd fetch enough to sen' me home _right_. i got two sons in baltimo', an' they been wantin' me to quit the racin' business, but i couldn't quit it broke. no, suh, i couldn't, so i jus' been hangin' on tooth an' toenail like the sayin' is, hopin' i'd git a stake somehow." "and you don't much care _how_ you quit, so long's you quit; is that it?" "well, suh, i don't want no trouble if i kin he'p it, but if i has to fight my way loose from pitkin i'll do it." there was another long silence while gabe waited. "i reckon solomon would have his hands full straightenin' out this tangle," said old man curry at last. "you can't break into the stall an' take that hoss away from pitkin, because he'd have you arrested. and then, of course, he's got him registered in his name an' runnin' in his colours--that's another thing we've got to take into consideration. i reckon we better set quiet a few days an' study. you'll know whenever this sergeant hoss is entered in a race, won't you?" "yes, suh; i'm boun' to know ahead o' time, suh." "all right. go on back to work an' don't quarrel with pitkin. don't let him know that you've found out anything, an' keep me posted on sergeant smith. might be a good thing if we knew when pitkin is goin' to bet on him. he's been cheatin' with that hoss lately." "he's always cheatin', suh. yo'--yo' think they's a way to--to----" "there's always a way, gabe," answered old man curry. "the main thing is to find it." "that's my hoss by right," said the negro, with a trace of stubbornness in his tone. "an' the world is your oyster," responded curry, "but you can't go bustin' into it with dynamite. you got to open an oyster, careful. now go on back to your barn and do as i tell you. understand?" "yes, suh, an' thank yo' kin'ly, suh." pitkin's bandaged head brought him little sympathy--in fact, the general opinion seemed to be that mulligan had not hit him quite hard enough to do the community any good. certainly the scantling did not improve his temper, and pitkin made life a burden to old gabe and the two black stable hands. gabe swallowed the abuse with a patient smile, but the two roustabouts muttered to themselves and eyed their employer with malevolence. they had also been missing pay days. one evening pitkin stuck his head out of the door of the tackle-room and called for his trainer. "gabe! oh, gabe! now where is that good-for-nothing old nigger?" "comin', suh, comin'," answered gabe, shuffling along the line of stalls. "yo' want to see me, boss?" "shut the door behind you," growled pitkin. "i was thinking it was about time we cut this sergeant smith colt loose." "yes, suh," answered gabe. "he's ready to go, boss." "how good is he?" demanded pitkin. "well, suh," replied gabe, "he's a heap better'n whut he's been showin' lately, that's a fact." "can he beat horses like calloway and hartshorn?" "he kin if he gits a chance." "how do you mean, a chance?" "well, suh, if he gits a good, hones' ride, fo' one thing. he been messed all oveh the race track las' few times out." "but with a good ride you think he can win?" "humph!" sniffed gabe. "he leave 'em like they standin' still!" "i want to slip him into the fourth race next saturday," said pitkin, "and he'll have calloway and hartshorn to beat. there ought to be a nice price on him-- or to , anyway, on account of what he's been showing lately." "yo' goin' bet on him, suh?" "straight and place," said pitkin, "but i won't bet a nickel here at the track. they'll be asking you about the colt and trying to get a line on him. you tell 'em that i'm starting him a little bit out of his class just to see if he's game--any lie will do. and if they ask you about the stable money, we're not playing him this time." "yes, suh." "you're absolutely sure he's ready?" "ready? why, boss, ain't yo' been watchin' the way that colt is workin'? yo' kin bet 'em till they quits takin' it an' not be scared." "that's all i want to know, gabe, and mind what i told you about keeping that big mouth of yours shut. if i hear of any talk----" "i ain't neveh talked yit, has i?" "well, don't pick this time to start; that's all." that night the lights burned late in two tackle-rooms. in one of them old man curry was bringing the judgment of solomon down to date and fitting it to turf conditions; in the other henry m. pitkin was preparing code telegrams to certain business associates in seattle, portland, butte, and san francisco, for this was in the unregenerate days when pool rooms operated more or less openly in the west. mr. pitkin was getting ready for the annual clean-up. the next morning he was on hand early enough to see general duval return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on the colt's back. "come here, gabe," said pitkin. "ain't that curry's nigger jockey?" "yes, suh; that's jockey moseby jones, suh." "what's he doing around this stable?" "he kind o' gittin' acquainted with the gen'al, suh." "acquainted? what for?" "well, suh, they's a maiden race nex' satu'day, an' i was thinkin' mebbe the gen'al could win it if he gits a good ride. jockey jones didn't have no otheh engagement, suh, so i done hired him fo' the 'casion." "oh, you did, did you? now listen to me, gabe: i don't want anybody from the curry stable hanging around this place. chances are this little nigger will be trying to pick up an earful to carry back to his boss, the psalm-singing old hypocrite! if curry should find out we're leveling with sergeant smith next saturday, he might go into the ring and hurt the price. i can't stop you putting the little nigger on your own horse, but if he tries to make my barn a hangout, i'll warm his jacket for him, understand? you can tell him so." "yes, suh," answered gabe meekly. "mist' curry an' yo' bad friends, boss?" "we ain't any kind of friends," snapped pitkin, "and that goes for every blackbird that eats out of his hand!" "i thought he was a kin' o' pious ole gentleman," said gabe. "he's got a lot of people fooled, curry has," replied pitkin with unnecessary profanity, "but i've had his number right along. he's a crook, but he gets away with it on account of that long-tailed coat--the sanctimonious old scoundrel! don't you have anything to do with him, gabe." "_me?_" said gabe professing mild astonishment. "humph! i reckon _not_!" "always stick with your friends," said pitkin, "and remember which side your bread is buttered on." "that's whut i'm aimin' to do, suh. yo' know, boss, i sort o' figgeh the gen'al's got a mighty good chance nex' satu'day in that secon' race. a mighty good chance." pitkin sneered. "going to bet on him, are you?" "no, suh; not 'less some people pay me whut they owes me." "you'd only blow it in if you had it," replied pitkin. "the general's a darn bad race horse--always was and always will be." "they ain't nothin' in that race fo' him to beat," responded gabe. "he's never had anything to beat yet," said pitkin, "and he's still a maiden, ain't he? better let him run for the purse, gabe. playing a horse like that is just throwing good money after bad." "mebbe yo' right, boss," answered the old negro. "mebbe yo' right, but i still thinks he's got a chance." now, in a maiden race every horse is supposed to have a chance, not a particularly robust one, of course, but still a chance. the maidens are the horses which have never won a race, and every jungle circuit is well supplied with these equine misfits. they graduate, one at a time, from their lowly state, and the owner is indeed fortunate who wins enough to cover the cost of probation. the betting on a maiden race is seldom heavy, but always sporadic enough to prove the truth of the old saw about the hope which springs eternal. saturday's maiden race was no exception. there was a sizzling paddock tip on the cricket, a nervous brown mare which had twice finished second at the meeting, the last time missing her graduation by a nose; others had heard that athelstan was "trying"; there was a rumour that laredo was about to annex his first brackets; suspicion pointed to miller boy as likely to "do something," but nobody had heard any good news of general duval. those who looked him up in the form charts found his previous races sufficiently disgraceful. the cricket opened favourite at to , and when her owner heard this he grunted deep and soulfully and swore by all his gods that the price was too short and the mare a false favourite. he had hoped for not less than to , in which case he would have sent the mare out to win, carrying a few hundred dollars of ill-gotten gains as wagers, but at to tickets on the cricket had no value save as souvenirs of a sad occasion. nobody bothered about general duval; nobody questioned old gabe as he led a blanketed horse round and round the paddock stalls. old man curry sat on the fence, thoughtfully chewing fine-cut tobacco and seemingly taking no interest in his surroundings, but he saw pitkin as soon as that fox-faced gentleman entered the paddock, and thereafter he watched the disciple of the double-cross closely. it was plain that pitkin's visit had no business significance; he was not the sort of man to play a maiden race, and after a few bantering remarks addressed to old gabe he drifted back into the betting ring, where he made a casual note of the fact that on most of the slates general duval was quoted at to . "anybody betting on the nigger's skate?" asked pitkin of a black man whom he knew. "not a soul," was the reply. "what does the old fool start him for?" "because that's what he is--an old fool," answered pitkin briefly as he moved away. when the first bookmaker chalked up to on the general, a bulky, flat-footed negro, dressed in a screaming plaid suit with an ancient straw hat tilted sportively over one eye, fished a wrinkled two-dollar bill out of his vest pocket, and bet it on gabriel johnson's horse. "you like that one, do you?" grinned the bookmaker. "no, suh, not 'specially," chuckled the negro, "but i sutny likes that long price!" soon there was more to in sight, and the flat-footed negro began to shuffle about the betting-ring, bringing to light other wrinkled two-dollar bills. the bookmakers were glad to take in a few dollars on general duval, if for no other reason than to round out their sheets. the flat-footed negro continued to bet until he arrived at the bottom of his vest pocket, and then he began to draw upon a fund concealed in the fob pocket of his trousers. when the first bugle call sounded he was betting from the right hip--and never more than two dollars at a time. jockey moseby jones, gorgeous as a tropical butterfly in the cherry jacket with green sleeves and the red, white and blue cap, pranced into general duval's paddock stall and listened intently as old gabe bent over him. "yo' ain't fo'got whut we tole yo' last night, son?" asked gabe in anxious tones. "ain't fo'got nuthin'," was the sober answer. "'cause eve'ything 'pend on how it _look_." "uh huh," replied little mose. "i make it _look_ all right." "this hoss, he might take a notion to run off an' leave 'em soon as the barrier go up," cautioned gabe. "keep him folded up in yo' lap to the las' minute." "an' then set him down," supplemented mose. "yo' jus' be watchin' me, thass all!" "lot of folks'll be watchin' yo'," warned gabe. "them judges, they goin' be watchin' yo'. remembeh, it got to look _right_!" as jockey jones passed out of the paddock he clucked to his mount and glanced over toward the fence where old man curry was still sitting. "hawss," whispered little mose, "did yo' see that? the ole man winked at us!" there must have been some truth in the rumour concerning laredo, for he rushed to the front when the barrier rose, with miller boy and athelstan in hot pursuit. as for the cricket, she was all but left at the post, and her owner remarked to himself that he'd teach 'em when to make _his_ mare a false favourite. the three people most interested in the cherry jacket with the green sleeves watched it go bobbing along the rail several lengths behind the leaders, and were relieved to find it there instead of out in front. had the judges been watching the bay colt they could not have helped noticing that his mouth was wide open, due to a powerful pull on the reins, and they might have drawn certain conclusions from this, but they were watching the cricket instead and mentally putting a rod in pickle for the owner of the favourite. laredo led around the turn and into the stretch with miller boy and athelstan crowding him hard, but the pace was beginning to tell on the front runners, and the rear guard was closing in on them, headed by the cherry jacket. "it's anybody's race," remarked the presiding judge as he squinted up the stretch. "lord, what a lot of beetles!" "yes, they're rotten," said the associate judge. "laredo's quitting already. now, then, you hounds, come on! whose turn is it to-day?" the maidens came floundering down to the wire spread out like a cavalry charge and covering half the track. at the sixteenth pole a bold man would have hesitated to pick the winner; indeed, it looked to be anybody's race, with the sole exception of the cricket, sulking far in the rear. it was gabe johnson who saw that the wraps were still about mose's wrists, but it was old man curry who chuckled to himself as the horses passed the paddock gate, and it was shanghai, curry's negro hostler, who began to count tickets on general duval. "the old nigger's horse is going to be there or thereabouts to-day," commented the presiding judge. "just--about--there--or--thereabouts. keep your eye on him, ed--there he is on the inside. darn these spread-eagle finishes! they always look bad from angle!" thirty yards away from home a single length separated the first five horses, and the fifth horse carried the racing colours of gabriel johnson. it was cutting it fine, very fine, but little mose had an excellent eye for distance; he felt the strength of the mount under him and timed his closing rush to the fraction of a second. those who were yelling wildly for athelstan, miller boy, and the others saw a flash of cherry jacket on the rail, caught a glimpse of a bullet-headed little negro hurling himself forward in the stirrups--and the race was over. jockey moseby jones had brought a despised outsider home a winner by half a length. there was a stunned silence as the numbers dropped into place, broken only by one terrific whoop from shanghai, betting commissioner. "well," said the associate judge, looking at his chief, "what do you make of that? the winner had a lot left, didn't he? think the old nigger has been cheating with him?" the presiding judge rubbed his chin. "no-o, ed, i reckon not," said he. "it was a poor race, run in slow time. and we've got to figure that the change of jockeys would make a difference; this jones is a better boy than duval is used to. i reckon it's all right--and i'm glad the old nigger finally won a race." "the cricket would have walked home if she'd got away good," said the associate judge. "have to look into that business," said the other. "well, i'm glad the old darky finally put one over!" many people seemed glad of it, even mr. pitkin, who slapped gabe on the back as he led the winner from the ring. "didn't see the race--i was down getting another drink--but they tell me the general just lucked in on the last jump. everything dead in front of him, eh?" "yes, suh," answered gabe, passing the halter to one of the black stable hands. "it did look like he win lucky, that's a fac'!" "well, don't go to celebrating and overlook that fourth race!" ordered pitkin. "no gin now! you bring sergeant smith over to the paddock yourself." "yes, suh, boss." "and if anybody asks you about him, he's only in there for a tryout." "jus' fo' a tryout, yes, suh." to such as were simple enough to expect a crooked man to return straight answers to foolish questions, pitkin stated ( ) that he was not betting a plugged nickel on his colt, ( ) that he hardly figured to have a chance with such horses as calloway and hartshorn, ( ) that he might possibly be third if he got the best of the breaks, and ( ) that he had lost his regular jockey and was forced to give the mount to a bad little boy about whom he knew nothing. the real truth he uncovered to jockey shea, a freckled young savage who had taken up the burden where mulligan laid it down. "listen, kid, and don't make any mistakes with this colt. i'm down on him hook, line, and sinker to win and place, so give him a nice ride and i'll declare you in with a piece of the dough. eh? never you mind; it'll be _enough_. now, then, this is a mile race, and calloway will go out in front--he always does. lay in behind him and stay there till you get to the head of the stretch, then shake up the colt and come on with him. he can stand a long, hard drive under whip and spur, so give it to him good and plenty from the quarter pole home. don't try to draw a close finish--win just as far as you can with him, because hartshorn will be coming from behind." this was the race as programmed; this was the pitkin annual clean-up as planned. imagine, then, pitkin's sheer, dumb amazement at the spectacle of shea, going to the bat at the rise of the barrier in order to keep his mount within striking distance of the tail end of the procession! imagine his wrath as the colt continued to lag in last place, losing ground in spite of the savage punishment administered by shea. imagine his sensations when he thought of the pitkin bank roll, scattered in all the pool rooms between seattle and san francisco, tossed to the winds, burned up, gone forever, bet on a colt that would not or could not make a respectable fight for it! let us drop the curtain over the rest of the race--hartshorn won it in a neck-and-neck drive with calloway just as shea was flogging the bay colt past the sixteenth pole--and we will lift the curtain again at the point where the judges summoned pitkin into the stand to ask him for an explanation of sergeant smith's pitiful showing. "now, sir," said the presiding judge; "we've been pretty lenient with you, mr. pitkin. we've overlooked a lot of things that we didn't like--a lot of things. i figured this colt to have a fair chance to win to-day, or be in the money at least. he ran like a cow. how do you account for that?" "why, judges," stammered pitkin, "i--i don't account for it. i _can't_ account for it. the colt's been working good, and--and----" "and you thought he had a chance, did you?" "why sure, judges, and i----" "well, then, why did you tell your friends that the colt was only in for a tryout? how about that?" "i--i didn't want 'em spoiling the price, i mean, judges; i didn't think it was anybody's business." "oh, so you bet on him, did you? let's see the tickets." and of course mr. pitkin had no tickets to show. he offered to produce copies of telegrams, but the judges had him exactly where they had been wanting to get him and they gave him a very unhappy ten minutes. at the end of this period the presiding judge cleared his throat and pronounced sentence. "your entries are refused from now on, and you are warned off this track. take your horses somewhere else, sir, and don't ever bring 'em back here. that's all." to pitkin it seemed enough. he walked down the steps in a daze and wandered away in the general direction of his stable. he was still in a daze when he reached his destination, and the first thing he saw was old gabe, his coat on and a satchel in his hand. "oh, you've heard about it already, have you?" asked pitkin dully. "heard whut?" and gabe did not touch the brim of his hat. "we've got the gate--been warned off: entries refused." "glory!" ejaculated the aged trainer. "time they was gittin' onto you!" "what's that?" shouted pitkin. "why, you black hound, i'll----" "yo' won't do nuthin'!" said gabe stoutly. "pitkin, yo' an' me is _through_; yo' an' me is _done_! yo' made me all the trouble yo' eveh goin' make. nex' time they ketches yo' cheatin' on a race track i hopes they shoot yo' head off!" old gabe walked away toward the curry barn, and all pitkin could do was stare after him. then he sat down on a bale of hay and took stock of his misfortunes. "i reckon everything's all right, gabe," said old man curry, who was counting money in his tackle-room. "it was sort o' risky. when a man can't tell his own hoss when he sees him, anything is liable to happen to him on a bush track. i've just cut this bank roll in two, gabe, and here's your bit. shanghai's a good bettin' commissioner, eh?" old gabe's eyes bulged as he contemplated the size of his fortune. "all this, suh--mine?" "all yours--an' you better not miss that six o'clock train. never can tell what'll happen, you know, gabe. pitkin will keep general duval, i reckon?" gabe grinned from ear to ear. "i fo'got to tell him so," he chuckled, "but he got both them hosses now. mist' curry, whut yo' reckon sol'mun would say 'bout us?" "'the lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish,'" quoted the horseman, "'but he casteth away the substance of the wicked.'" "a-a-men!" said old gabe. "an' a fine job o' castin' away been done this evenin'! mist' curry, i'm quit hoss racin' now, but yo' the whites' man i met in all my time." "go 'way with you!" laughed curry. it was one of the black stable hands who recalled pitkin to a sense of his responsibilities. the roustabout approached, leading a bay colt. "boss, is gabe done quit us?" "huh?" grunted pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "yes, he's gone, confound him!" "well, he lef thisyer gen'al duval hoss behin' him. the gen'al's cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?" "put him in his stall," mumbled pitkin. "to-morrow i'll see if i can get rid of him." it is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. the stable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt's flank. "g'long with yo'!" said he. then, and not until then, did henry m. pitkin begin to estimate his misfortune correctly, for the bay colt which had won the maiden race in the name of general duval and carried the racing colours of gabriel johnson to their first and only victory marched straight into sergeant smith's stall and thrust his muzzle into sergeant smith's feed box! proofreading team the diverting history of john gilpin one of r. caldecott's picture books [illustration: the diverting history of john gilpin] [illustration] ==the diverting history of john gilpin:== _showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again._ [illustration: written by william cowper with drawings by r. caldecott.] john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he, of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. "to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the 'bell' at edmonton, all in a chaise and pair. "my sister, and my sister's child, myself, and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we." [illustration: the linendraper bold] he soon replied, "i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear, therefore it shall be done. "i am a linendraper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go." quoth mrs. gilpin, "that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear." john gilpin kissed his loving wife. o'erjoyed was he to find. that though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. [illustration] [illustration] the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folks so glad! the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddletree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. [illustration: the customers] [illustration] 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came downstairs, "the wine is left behind!" "good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise." now mistress gilpin (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed. [illustration] but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. [illustration] "so, fair and softly!" john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got, did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought, away went hat and wig; he little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both. at last it flew away. [illustration] then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out, "well done!" as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; "he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound!" and still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made the horse's flanks to smoke, as they had basted been. [illustration] but still he seemed to carry weight. with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle-necks still dangling at his waist. [illustration] thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. [illustration] at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. "stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house!" they all at once did cry; "the dinner waits, and we are tired;" said gilpin--"so am i!" [illustration] but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; for why?--his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. [illustration] away went gilpin, out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. [illustration] the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. and thus accosted him: "what news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall-- say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?" now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke: "i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road." the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig, a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. [illustration] he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: "my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit." [illustration] "but let me scrape the dirt away, that hangs upon your face; and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case." said john, "it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware." so turning to his horse, he said "i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine." ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before. [illustration] away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first, for why?--they were too big. [illustration] now mistress gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the "bell," "this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well." [illustration] the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein. but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels, the postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. [illustration] six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing gilpin fly, with postboy scampering in the rear. they raised the hue and cry. "stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!'" not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] and now the turnpike-gates again flew open in short space; the toll-man thinking, as before, that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up, he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and when he next doth ride abroad. may i be there to see. [illustration] [illustration] randolph caldecott's picture books "the humour of randolph caldecott's drawings is simply irresistible, no healthy-minded man, woman, or child could look at them without laughing." _in square crown to, picture covers, with numerous coloured plates._ john gilpin the house that jack built the babes in the wood the mad dog three jovial huntsmen sing a song for sixpence the queen of hearts the farmer's boy the milkmaid hey-diddle-diddle and baby bunting a frog he would a-wooing go the fox jumps over the parson's gate come lasses,and lads ride a cock horse to banbury cross, &c. mrs. mary blaize the great panjandrum himself _the above selections are also issued in four volumes, square crown to, attractive binding, red edges. each containing four different books, with their coloured pictures and numerous outline sketches_ r. caldecott's picture book no. r. caldecott's picture book no. hey-diddle-diddle-picture book the panjandrum picture book _and also_ _in two volumes, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each containing eight different books, with their coloured pictures, and numerous outline sketches._ r. caldecott's collection of pictures and songs no. r. caldecott's collection of pictures and songs no. miniature editions, _size - / by - / art boards, flat backs_ four volumes entitled r. caldecott's picture books nos. , , and _each containing coloured plates and numerous outline sketches in the text._ _crown to picture covers_ randolph caldecott's painting books. three volumes _each with outline pictures to paint, and coloured examples._ _oblong to, cloth._ a sketch book of r. caldecott's. _containing numerous sketches in colour and black and white._ london. frederick warne & co. ltd. & new york. _the published prices of the above picture books can be obtained of all booksellers or from the illustrated catalogue of the publishers_ printed and copyrighted by edmund evans, ltd., rose place, globe road, london, e. . the sweep winner the sweep winner by nat gould [illustration] london john long, limited , & norris street, haymarket _all rights reserved_ _readers are requested to note that all the characters in this story are purely fictitious, and the names are not intended to refer to any real person or persons._ to the memory of my son captain herbert r. gould, m.c., r.a.f. flight commander, th squadron _killed in action on the western front, august, _ contents _chapter_ _page_ i. the glittering wire ii. in the hut iii. a strange situation iv. "it's for a woman" v. why jim came to the hut vi. "come" vii. the face in the water viii. ways and means ix. the chinaman's shop x. the accusation xi. jerry, journalist xii. in search of horses xiii. leigh hears strange things xiv. "a magnificent brute" xv. the big show xvi. mrs. prevost xvii. jealousy xviii. a question of jockeys xix. mrs. prevost's dilemma xx. the drawer of barellan xxi. lame xxii. sweep money xxiii. beaten xxiv. at flemington xxv. he looked at his ticket xxvi. barellan falls back xxvii. what a finish! xviii. a terrible savage xxix. man and horse lay side by side xxx. the sweep winner's home the sweep winner chapter i the glittering wire a man on horseback shaded his eyes with his hands as he looked along the glittering line of wire which runs for hundreds of miles between new south wales and queensland, and forms the great rabbit-proof fence, of which he was one of the keepers. the blazing sunlight scorched all things living. not a blade of grass was to be seen. the baked ground gasped with thirst. the slight breeze was like the breath from a huge furnace. the wire was hot and dazzling. millions of glimmering specks and hundreds of thousands of electric sparks danced on it in revelry. merely to look at the shimmering wire blinded the eyes. the horse turned his head away. he was dried, shrivelled, mere skin and bone. yet he was strong, enduring, capable of going long journeys; an heroic beast, fighting a terrific battle against tremendous odds; a faithful companion, a true friend--always reliable. there was a mute appeal in his puzzled pathetic eyes, which questioned why such things were; why he should be rewarded for his efforts with a parched throat, an empty stomach, and a hot skin. the man dismounted, carelessly placing his hand on the wire, then snatching it back quickly, with a sharp oath. "everything burns in this cursed country," he muttered. the horse rubbed his nose against the man's arm. "ping, old fellow, it's hotter than hell. thirsty? of course; so am i. we'll have to thirst until we reach the next hole." the man was strong, well-built, six feet high; even the hard life had not sapped his strength. his dark hair, moustache, and beard, gave him a sombre appearance. his eyes shone fiercely under bushy brows. his face, hands and arms were tanned a deep brown, as also was his chest, where the shirt opened from the throat. he was no common man. his speech was not that of the keepers of the fence, or the bulk of them, for there were many and strange beings on these hundreds of miles of wire line. the majority were old boundary riders, stockmen, tank sinkers, fencers, teamsters. in another class were criminals, convicts and men whose hands were against their fellows; who were dangerous sometimes, when they scented betrayal, or suspected they were being tracked. the man looking at the mirage in the distance belonged to none of these classes; he stood out alone. they knew it, and gave him a show of respect, when they met him, which was seldom. there must have been some weighty reason for him to bury himself in this solitude, and to accept an occupation from which any educated man must shrink. he wanted to be alone. he could not have come to a better place. boonara, the nearest bush town, was fifty miles away from where he stood, and a dozen less from his hut. he descended upon boonara at night, and waited for it to wake up. when it did, surprise was visible on every face as one by one the inhabitants looked forth from their habitation. the surprise was genuine. it was long since a man of this stamp had entered boonara. he was amused at the people, and wondered if there was one respectably clean inhabitant. then he remembered the scarcity of water and pardoned the dirt. he was not clean himself, but he felt wholesome. his body had been cared for as much as possible during the week's tramp. he soon became acquainted with the boonarites. they gathered round him, and questions were levelled at him. it was quick firing to which he responded with solitary shots. at the end of the first day the people of boonara were not a jot wiser about him. one fact was patent, he had money. it was difficult to discover how much, but he "shouted" at bill big's "shanty," and paid his footing, and was so far granted the freedom of boonara. the township of boonara consisted of one main street, with irregular, irresponsible-looking houses dotted about, built anyhow. they had been put up at various times by many different sorts of men. building operations commenced at one end and continued at intervals until a sort of street was formed. the first inhabitant had been a "keeper of the fence," and he camped there because it was convenient to his work. gradually, in oddments, other men came to the place. it was a bachelor township until some enterprising man, bolder than the rest, and more saving, ventured to sydney and returned with a wife. she was the only woman in the township for a long time, and was regarded with a certain amount of awe and wonder. the consensus of opinion was that she must have had a terribly bad time in sydney, or nothing would have induced her to marry jack and come to boonara. the example set proved catching, and other members of the bachelor community took unto themselves partners. the township grew slowly, unlike the centres of big mining districts which spring up mushroom-like in a night and often die away as quickly. boonara gathered in many of the keepers of the fence, who had tired of the life and settled there on a mere pittance. it was not a prosperous community; there was little conversation, and a lot of grumbling. each man regarded his neighbour with suspicion, not knowing who he was, except by name, nor whence he came. all around boonara was an arid waste, except at certain seasons, few and far between, when rain came sweeping in a deluge over the parched earth, filling up the gaping cracks and crevices, hissing and swishing over the land, bringing life, in every drop a new birth. then the plains woke up. miles upon miles of dull-brown crumbling grassless spaces became green and refreshing. strange sights followed these deluges. in a mysterious manner sheep appeared in thousands wandering across the plains, nibbling this wonderful and succulent food from which they had been so long debarred. cattle came, mobs of horses, all branded, belonging to squatters miles away. nobody seemed to own the land round boonara. at least no member of the township had ever heard the name of an owner mentioned. they ran what cattle, horses and sheep they possessed anywhere on it. there were no enclosures, no square-mile paddocks. the only fence was the glittering wire running along the border. there were very few men in the township who had seen the wire fence. but they met the keepers of it at long intervals when they paid visits to bill's shanty. in all communities, however small, there is a fierce desire to look down upon someone, to imagine a superiority. it is a trait which is laughable, and sometimes pathetic. although the boonarites were far from civilisation they had their pride, and regarded the keepers of the fence as beings of an inferior order. as the keepers had no respect for the inhabitants, everybody seemed satisfied with the state of affairs. there was one keeper of the fence whom the boonarites placed upon an equality with themselves, and that was the man who came upon them in the night. they were amazed when he went on the glittering wire track. he was far too good for that job; "he wouldn't stick it long" they declared. he did "stick it," however, to their great surprise. the man was a mystery to them, which is not to be wondered at, considering he was mostly a puzzle to himself. his hut was forty miles away, and only three people had visited him there. he did not encourage them. loneliness sat lightly upon him, so it seemed. bill bigs was the most frequent visitor, and when he rode there, or drove in his buggy, it was seldom empty-handed. somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the earth beneath bill's shanty, there was mysteriously reported to be spirituous hoards of excellent quality; these rarely saw the light of day in boonara. various decoctions were served out over the bar, and there was a strange resemblance in the flavour, no matter from which bottle they were taken. a "nip" from one of bill's underground bottles was like nectar from the gods. the man on the fence was never served with inferior stuff, and when bill visited him he took with him of his best. bill bigs was rough and ready. rumour credited him with having been in league with bushrangers, before those undesirable and romantic figures disappeared from the earth. probably this was true, but ben was no longer an illegitimate preyer upon mankind. he was licensed to "rob" by doctoring his goods. he prided himself on knowing a man when he saw one, and he put down the occupier of the hut in this category. he, however, knew nothing about his friend, except that he was worth a dozen ordinary fence keepers. the man never spoke of his past, or explained why he was in the most solitary place in this vast land. in vain bill tried to induce him to talk. there was a threatening glitter in his eyes which caused bill to halt and get on to another track. it was this man, the keeper of the fence, who stood under the blazing sun pitying his horse more than himself. he was waiting for another keeper at the point where they had met, and had a few words and parted. he shaded his eyes again, but saw no one coming. "i'll wait, i'm always waiting. it hasn't worn me out; it never will. there's a fire within that keeps me alive; it burns, but never dies down. there's enough fuel in my thoughts to keep it glowing until my light goes out." chapter ii in the hut glen leigh was his name. at least he was down as such on the books, but names were not of much account on his job; they might as well have been numbers seeing they were mere indications of identity. he waited until he was tired, although he had much patience. his throat was parched; his skin burned; there was no shade. on his head, straight down, poured the fierce sun. to look at it was blinding. it seared the eyes; sparks danced when they turned to the earth again. he had no watch. in his hut there was one, but he seldom wound it. he told the time by nature's signs, and was never far out in his calculations. "i've waited an hour. damn the fellow. why doesn't he come? he expects me to do his work and my own too." he shrugged his shoulders. jim benny was a mere lad compared with him. "poor young devil. what's he done that he should come to this? the sins of the father, and so on." a shadow flitted across the ground. he started. this was not a land of shadows, except when rain clouds swept away the dazzling blue. he looked around, then above. there was a small black cloud floating in the brilliant sky; it looked like a balloon. "rain!" he exclaimed. "by all that's holy, rain." there was a power of feeling in the word. "rain." in lands where skies are dull, where moisture hangs in the air, where a downpour spoils pleasure and provokes temper, the word rain has a very different meaning. to glen leigh rain meant almost everything. there had been none for over nine months, not a drop, and that small balloon-like cloud that cast its shadows and startled him, was more welcome than a shower of gold. "it's curious," he muttered, "i've never seen it exactly like this. but it must mean rain. god send it. we want it, we dried up sapless things. rain, ping. do you hear, old parchment, rain. and your coat'll be dripping wet. there'll be grass, and you'll feel juice in your mouth instead of dried leaves and twigs. rain, ping, rain!" he gave the horse a sound smack, jerked up his head, and pointed to the cloud rolling above. a slight breeze came. ping sniffed, inhaling it with delight, while an anxious look of anticipation came into his eyes. glen watched the cloud as though his life depended on it, as thousands of lives did. it was a peculiar phenomenon, a black patch steering through a sea of blue. in its wake it left a trail, dull, streaking out, and beyond the trail were more heavy clouds on the rain path. this leader was the herald of the storm. there was no moan, there was nothing to cause it, but presently the wire fence seemed to buzz, and the rising wind came through it playing on the strings a sort of sad harmony, but sweet music in the ears of the man and horse. a low rumbling sound proclaimed the advance of the clouds, and they rolled along in battalions blotting out the sunlight; the relief to the eyes was immense. he waited, but jim benny did not come. he almost forgot about him in his anxiety over the approaching rain. a crack straight above his head, which echoed over the plain, was followed by a burst of water which deluged him and ping in a few minutes. both gasped with relief. they opened their mouths, and the refreshing water cooled them; they had not had such a soaking for months. the land responded to the rain. he fancied he saw the blades of grass already shooting; he knew they would be there in a matter of twenty-four hours. he mounted ping and rode to his hut. it was no use waiting any longer for jim benny; he would see him next day. still he wondered what had come to him, and felt a bit uneasy. he liked jim, although he seldom spoke more than a few words to him. perhaps it was the mystery surrounding him which appealed to him; he was a mysterious man himself. the rain poured down as he rode along. ping's ambling pace soon covered the ground, and he reached his hut in a shorter time than usual. the door was wide open. someone had been there in his absence. he smiled; the intruder would not have had a very rich find. a few of his provisions might be gone; the poor devil was welcome to that. he was always cautious, for he was accustomed to face danger. there was no telling what sort of desperate, hunted character had found his way there, so he handled his revolver as he went in. lying on his bunk he saw a bundle of clothes, or what looked like it. quietly he stepped up, then started back in amazement. it was no sundowner, not even a man from boonara, out on the jag, who had wandered in a half-frenzied condition so many miles. what he saw was a woman, a young, pretty woman, whose face was lined with sorrow, whose cheeks were sunken. the hands were hanging down, thin, almost emaciated, showing the veins, a dull blue. one leg drooped down the side. the boot was worn, and torn. the dress over it was ragged. her whole appearance denoted the utmost distress, hardship, exhaustion. she hardly breathed, although he saw her bosom slightly heave and fall. she was in a pitiable plight indeed. glen leigh was so wonder-struck at this strange sight that he stood staring at her for some time, until ping roused him by poking his head in at the door, asking in his dumb way for food. even the woman, lying so strangely there, did not cause him to delay. ping was a good comrade; he must be attended to. he went round to the back of the hut, where there was a lean-to shed, and ping followed him. there was a little precious hay still left, which he had secured for the horse at boonara at a fabulous price, panning out, if reckoned up, at about a hundred pounds a ton. it had been brought down the river on one of the puffing, snorting, little steamers, and deposited at the small staging, to be left till called for, and fetched by bill bigs at his leisure. ping sniffed this small portion of evil-smelling stuff with satisfaction. he had never known better fare, for he had been bred in the wilds, and brought up anyhow, on anything. his dam had very little milk for him; she had nothing to make it with. when his dam deserted him, or he left her to go on his own, he wandered about, living precariously until he was six years old. then some master on two legs caught him, and ping began to learn the effects of contact with humanity. ping's life had not been a happy one until he passed into glen leigh's hands. with the wisdom of the horse he discovered the great change in ownership, and wondered at it. he followed leigh about like a dog; there was no bucking, biting, squealing, kicking against the pricks. he settled down to a humdrum existence with a feeling of glorious content. as glen leigh stood for a few moments eyeing ping he compared him with the woman lying in his hut. there was a similarity between their lives. both had been ill-used, and both came into his possession. into his possession? what on earth was he to do with the woman? ping was all right. he had bought him for a trifle. but the woman. it was quite a different thing. she was in his hut, and part of his household for the night. what must he do with her? "eat your supper, ping. i'll go and see to the other one," he said, and went back to his "front door." he entered softly. she was still sleeping. he sat down on a log and watched her. how had she come there? she must have tramped miles. from boonara of course, but he did not remember seeing her there. he smiled at the thought. he seldom gave more than a passing glance to people in the township. he was hardly likely to have noticed her sufficiently to recognise her now. if she came from boonara, why had she left the place and wandered all these miles? was it by chance she had struck his hut? of course, it must have been. no doubt she saw the rainstorm coming, and seeing the hut at the same time hurried in for shelter. she was not an ordinary working-woman, he saw that, and cudgelled his brains to find out how she came into the country at all. she must belong to somebody, but to whom? he knew of women who had lost their reason in solitudes, and had not wondered at it. the country was only fit for blacks, and even they shunned it, the few of them that were left after the white man's march. had she come along with some squatter, when he had been making a visit to bathurst, or bourke, or even sydney or melbourne? that was a possible solution, but highly improbable. there was only one large station near enough to this place, from which she could have tramped. its owner was craig bellshaw, of mintaro station, and he was not the sort of man to drive a woman away by ill-treatment, quite the contrary. she stirred. he listened. she was muttering, but he could not catch the words. he got up and leaned over her. chapter iii a strange situation he could make nothing of what she said. it was a jumble of incoherent sounds, with no meaning in them. he gathered no information as to how she came there. "she's ill--delirious. what can i do for her?" he muttered. he was a soft-hearted man, where women were concerned, and distress, although he had seen much of it, appealed to him. there were no doctors, not even in boonara. when folks were ill in those parts they had to fight for life as best they could, with a few patent remedies to aid them. "fever," he said, "there's no doubt about it, and she has no strength to withstand it. i can't leave her alone. i wish to heaven bigs, or someone, would come." he sat by her all night; sometimes he had to hold her down, as she struggled like a bird in his strong grasp. he was very gentle with her. not one man in a hundred would have credited him with such tenderness. when daylight sprang out suddenly, as it does in these climes, she became quieter. he put his hand on her breast, humming softly. the touch and the sound soothed her. with wonderful patience he remained in this position hour after hour, proving himself a great man, greater than he ever thought or reckoned himself to be. he was hungry, but he did not move. ping came to the door and wondered why his wants were left unattended. it was unusual. he would have resented it had not the downpour brought up small shoots of green, with marvellous suddenness. he turned away and went nibbling the unaccustomed luxuries. ping came to the door instinctively. grass was a thing he had not seen for months. he didn't expect to find it, but as he sniffed its freshness he left the hut contentedly, and leigh was glad. "he smells the grass," he thought, "there's more chance of her pulling through now it's cooler." he mixed up the horse and the woman in his thoughts continually. how long he sat there he did not know, but a sound reached him which gave warning that something or someone was approaching. ping neighed. he knew if it was a rider he would call at his hut. they always paid "ceremonial" visits; it was an event in their lives. a sound of hoofs reached him. it was very welcome; he gave a sigh of relief. he looked round, and saw a horse and rider pull up at his door. it was jim benny. at any other time benny would have been cursed roundly for neglecting his work. curses were the habitual mode of forcibly expressing disapproval by the men of the fence. but never was man more heartily welcome. glen leigh didn't even give a thought as to why jim benny came to his hut. it was an uncommon occurrence but he had no time to consider it. jim grinned as he put his head in at the door. he was about to speak when he grasped the situation, as far as it was possible for him to so do, lacking all knowledge of the facts. he was much surprised, as glen leigh had been, when he found the woman in his hut. "hush," said glen softly, and jim crept in on tiptoe. he stood looking at the woman. his thoughts were much the same as glen's. the white wan face struck a chord in jim benny's nature that had not twanged before. his eyes glistened, then moisture gathered. presently a couple of drops trickled down his sunburnt face. he put a hand on glen's shoulder, bent down, and whispered, "how did she come here?" glen shook his head. "she's bad?" "fever." "poor little thing," said jim. glen lifted his hand from her bosom. she only stirred slightly, then with a sigh became still again. he beckoned jim to follow him outside. they walked a few yards away, so that the sound of their voices would not disturb her. "where the devil were you yesterday?" was glen's question. "my horse broke down. i had to bag another, and a pretty brute he is. look at him," replied jim pointing to the wretched mass of skin and bone. "why have you come here?" asked glen. "i thought i'd ride over and explain. i know what you are when you're in a temper," replied jim. "that's not the reason." "perhaps it isn't. anyhow, what about her?" and he pointed to the hut. "somebody must go to billy's and get some good brandy for her. it's got to be the best--none of his poison," said glen. "in that case you'd better go. it's no good me trying it. he'd think i was lying, and there'd be no getting it out of him. i'll stay with her if you go. besides my horse is no good. ping will do the journey in half the time," jim answered. glen looked at him. jim's face did not move a muscle. "it's lucky you came," glen remarked. "tell me what brought you here." "another time," replied jim hesitatingly. glen shrugged his shoulders. "as you please," he said. "how did she get here?" asked jim. glen told him how he found her, and jim benny was as helpless as himself in solving the problem. "it's very strange," said jim. "we've never seen a woman round here before. what are you going to do with her?" "keep her until she's pulled round. then i can find out all about her," returned glen. a faint cry came from the hut which caused them to turn round quickly and run back. a strange, weird sight met their eyes. the woman was standing close to the bed. her hair was down. they noticed it was a beautiful nut-brown, and there was plenty of it. her arms were stretched out. her eyes stared glassily. as glen came in she tottered forward, and he caught her in his arms. a thrill went through him as he clasped her. her face was close to his. he felt her breath on his cheek. he drew her tightly towards him, and held her for several minutes. jim benny watched him with a queer light in his eyes. glen carried her, laying her on his rough bed. she was exhausted with the exertion and remained quite still. "you'd better go at once," said jim, "she's bad, very bad." glen stood thinking for a few minutes, then asked, "you'll not leave her while i'm gone?" "no, i'll sit by her as i found you sitting. see?" and he sat on the log, placing his hand on her breast. "that'll soothe her." without another word glen leigh left the hut. he whistled ping, and obediently the horse came to his call. glen saddled him, and rode off towards boonara. jim benny sat looking at the woman. he heard the hoof beats gradually dying away, then with a sudden movement got up and kissed her on the lips. she moaned. "i couldn't help it. i meant no harm. she reminded me of--never mind names. i loved her, and she married him--that's all done with." he remained quite still until spotty, glen's dog, half dingo, came sniffing round. he had been on the prowl for a day or so, and returned repentant. the predatory instinct was uppermost, which was not to be wondered at considering the wild stock from which he descended, and he made excursions to some land of which his master knew nothing. the dog knew jim, on the fence, but had not seen him in glen's hut. then there was the woman. spotty had never come across one. jim knew the nature of these dogs, their faithful savageness, and scented danger in the air. he had seen the dog on the fence with glen, but had always been on horseback, and spotty had never really scented him. he didn't even know the dog's name. spotty eyed jim, then looked at the woman on the bed. here was something he did not understand. he came forward, crouching, like a panther ready to spring, and jim set him with his eyes, not daring to move, on her account. spotty sniffed at her dress, turned round, faced jim and growled, a low rumbling sound. then he lay on the floor, paws outstretched, head erect, watching. jim knew if he moved the dog would probably fly at his throat. it would be hours before leigh returned, and he must remain in this position the whole time, on her account. had he been alone he could have cowed spotty, or attempted it. he heard distant thunder. there was another storm brewing, the promise of more welcome rain. the lightning flashed through the hut, playing in and out at the doors. the crashing sounds came nearer; then the rain burst in torrents. spotty did not move. he remained with his eyes on jim, not even giving a glance at the figure on the bed. the woman slept through it all. jim wondered at her strange stillness. was she dead? the thought made him start. he had not put his hand on her again after he kissed her, and could not feel or hear her breath. spotty saw him move, and growled. he seemed about to spring, then crouched again. it was a strange situation--the man, the woman, and the dog, in the hut, the storm raging outside, and glen leigh riding on his mission to boonara. chapter iv "it's for a woman" "hello, what brings you here?" said bill bigs, as glen leigh entered his house. the tone was not encouraging. bill was in an ill-humour, and it was not difficult to discover the cause. the bar was in a state of wild confusion. broken bottles, bits of wood, splinters from the rough furniture, and jagged pieces of glass lay about. there was every sign of a fight. glen took it all in at a glance. although he was in a desperate hurry he knew the best way to succeed would be by humouring him. "bit of a skirmish, eh?" began glen. "two of your fence fellows began it. i never saw such beasts in my life. they all are." glen's eyes glittered. "does that include me?" he asked. "no. i can't say it does, but there's no telling what may happen. you'll break out some day. flesh and blood can't stand your job," replied bill. here was an opening. glen was holding himself in leash wonderfully well. all the time he was thinking, "what's she doing? what's he doing?" he wanted to hurry back. ping would have to hustle when he made a start. "you're right," he agreed, "if it wasn't for a nip of your good stuff now and again, bill, i'd go under." "i see. so that's what you're here for. well, i can't gratify you this time. i've run out." bill was husbanding his resources; it was his habit. glen knew there was a tough job before him. "i must have some of the best, bill, i'm run down," persisted glen. bill laughed. "must have it? i like that. look around. do you think i'm going to stand that sort of thing from your fellows without paying somebody out? as you happen to have come along first i'll pay you out. you'll get nothing from me to-day." "i must have it, bill. i'll pay double price for it." "when?" "in a month. i can't do it now." "a month! six months you mean, and then it's uncertain." "not with me." "i'll not deny you're a good payer, and straight, but you've got to suffer for the sins of others. you're one of 'em," returned bill. glen leigh leaned over the counter, his face close to bill's. "if you knew what i wanted it for you'd give it me without payment," he said. bill looked hard at him. glen's face was quivering. his mouth twitched. his eyes glared. he was thinking of the woman. how should he get the brandy if bill persisted in refusing, for he meant having it at any cost? "what's it for?" "i can't tell you. i will before long, but not now." "then it's a fake. you want it for yourself." "i do not." he fancied he could hear her moaning, becoming restless, and if he got what he wanted and hurried back she might have a chance. it exasperated him. "why not tell me the reason?" asked bill, fairly enough. "there's somebody ill in my hut." "oh, that's it, one of your mates. do you think i'm going to help him after last night's work? not me." glen wanted to conceal that it was a woman, but he was wasting precious time. could bill be trusted to keep it to himself? he had no desire for the township to know until he had found out all about her. "it's not one of my mates. i'd not ask it for him after that," and he waved his hand round. "you'll not say a word, but keep it dark?" "it depends on what it is you tell me." "i can't tell you. bill, we've been what folks call friends, as far as it goes here. promise me. it's a matter of life and death. you'll not be sorry. you'll have done a good action, and saved a life." bill saw he was in deadly earnest. he knew glen leigh had always gone straight with him. "out with it then. i'll promise, so help me i will, but i don't say i'll let you have what you want." glen saw he was yielding. again his thoughts went back to his hut, and he groaned at the loss of time. "it's for a woman. she's got fever, and is delirious. she'll die if she doesn't have some stimulant. for god's sake, bill, let me have it." bill stared at him. there was a genuine, even pathetic ring in his voice. but a woman! he couldn't be expected to swallow that yarn. "where is she?" he asked. "in my hut." bill laughed. he couldn't help it. the thing was so ridiculous. "who's the lady?" he asked with a grin. leigh's hands clenched. he was becoming dangerous. "i haven't time to tell you lies. i don't know who she is, or where she comes from. all i can say is i found her in there lying on my shakedown, dying," and he told the whole story as rapidly as possible to the astonished bill. "it's as true as gospel, and jim benny's with her waiting my return. think of the time i've wasted here. i may be too late. ping's none too fast, but he's sure. for heaven's sake, bill, let me have it, and some tinned stuff, soup, anything you've got. there's nothing at my place for her." he spoke rapidly, excitedly. he was strung to the highest pitch as he thought how long he had already been away. "it's the rummiest yarn i ever heard, but i don't see as how you could make it up. i wonder who she is?" "that's what i've got to find out. if she dies, her secret goes with her. help to save her, then we'll get to know," begged glen. bill thought of his girl at work in adelaide. supposing she was in such a plight? the mere idea made him shiver. "i'll do it, glen. damn it, man, if you'd outed with it at first the thing would have been settled in five minutes." he disappeared. glen knew if he had fired the story at him straight away it would not have been believed at all. bill also knew it as he dived into the bowels of the earth beneath his bar. "he's worked me cleverly," he muttered. "he saw i was cut up rough when he came in, and he handled me well. it's a queer go, a very queer go, but i believe him. he's not given to lying, and in any case i can go and see for myself in a day or two. if he's put up a game on me, i'll--no, he'd never do it. he's too much of a man. and his face! it might be his sweetheart the way he looked." bill was rummaging about. selecting two bottles he took them with him. as he went back through his storeroom, he collected some tinned milk, soup, and biscuits. he packed them all carefully so that there would be no risk of breakage, then went back to the bar. two men had come in during his absence. one was "on the fence," and as usual they had selected a bottle of alleged whisky, and were helping themselves. glen had refused to join them. he was called a sullen bounder. "get out of this," yelled bill when he saw the rider on the fence. "you're one of the devils who caused all this mess." "i'll pay for it--at least my share," answered the man. "then out with it," said bill, putting his package down. glen eyed it greedily. he ought to have had it an hour ago and been well on his way back to the hut. here was more delay. would she be alive? would she be alive? was jim with her? yes, he'd wait. he was sure of it. the man pulled out some greasy pound-notes and handed bill a couple. "that's more'n my whack. it'll have to stand good for this," and he placed his hand on the bottle. "and mind, if i see any signs of strife brewing you'll not get away so easily next time," warned bill, as he stuffed the dirty notes in his pocket, only too glad to get anything in payment for the damage. he beckoned to glen, picked up the package and went outside. "you'll find all you want here; at least as much as i can give you." "i'll never forget it, bill. one of these days i may be able to do you a good turn. i'll see you are paid in full, and more." "never mind about that. it's something to my credit that i've faith enough in a man to believe such a dodgasted yarn as you've spun me." "you do believe it?" "yes. shake. you'll not mind me driving over? i'll not come empty-handed, and not to act the spy, but it's such a stretcher that i'd just like to see for myself." glen smiled as he mounted ping, and bill handed him the parcel. "i can't wonder at it. i can hardly believe it myself. come and see. you'll be welcome. you always are, but not a word to a soul." "i'll keep it dark, you bet. i'm with you in finding out all about her. it'll be a bit of a change from that filthy work," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the bar. as glen was riding away, the man who had paid bill the two notes rushed out and yelled, "expect you've not heard that joe calder's been found shot dead on his track!" chapter v why jim came to the hut joe calder shot dead on his track! glen had no time to waste or he would have gone back to hear more. he must hurry on. ping felt there was need for haste. his master seldom pushed him as he was doing now. joe calder done for at last! glen had warned him it would come some day, for the man was a brute. he had no human feeling, and how he earned promotion over his fellows was one of those things no man could understand. glen was overseer on his track, as joe calder was on the other, and the two men often met, but they were as wide apart as the poles in every respect. calder was a sneak. the men under him hated him. more than one threatened to do for him, but he was a big powerful man, and dangerous. he was one of the worst characters, and when he went to boonara even bill bigs fought shy of him. there was no doubt he was a criminal. his face, his shifty eyes, the backward glances, his fear of being followed and tracked down betrayed it. but he must have had a friend somewhere, or he would never have got his post. glen was surprised, and yet he was not. the news was shot at him unexpectedly, but he believed it, and wondered who had rid the world of a scoundrel, and the track of a desperate man. ping travelled well, his head bound for home, such as it was, and every horse knows the way to his stable. mile after mile was traversed, until glen saw a faint speck in the distance and knew it was his hut. a townsman would have seen nothing, but glen's eyes were used to looking long distances, and were almost as powerful as a glass in distinguishing objects. "go on, ping. we'll soon be there," and the horse put on another spurt. the tension in the hut was not relaxed for a moment. hour after hour passed, and still the dog stood on guard and eyed jim. if the man moved there came an ominous growl. two or three times the woman groaned, and spotty pricked his ears wonderingly. such sounds were unfamiliar. jim watched him. the dog seemed half inclined to spring on the bed. thinking better of it he settled down again with his eyes fixed as before. a drowsy feeling crept over jim. he was fearful of going to sleep. he had been sitting like a statue for the lord knows how long and he had no idea of the time. he listened. not a sound, except a few melancholy notes from a passing bird. what was glen doing all this time? he had promised to watch, but glen had not promised to come back. jim's mind was in a chaotic state, and he was hardly responsible for it. spotty pricked his ears. jim accepted this as a sign that he heard something, and listened intently. the dog gave a short, sharp bark, a true signal this time. in his great sense of relief jim stood up. he could bear the strain no longer. spotty flew at him, straight at his throat. jim caught him with both hands and held him, the dog growling, snarling, trying to wrench himself free to bite his hands. jim held on. he heard the hoof-beats. it was glen returning and all would be well, but he was tired and cramped with the strain, and spotty was a ferocious dog, and strong. the woman moved and half sat up; then she sank back again. he was thankful. ping halted. glen got out of the saddle with the precious burden and strode into the hut. unstrung as he was, the sight that met his gaze caused him to drop the package. with a cry of despair he caught at it, just breaking its fall. spotty, seeing his master, ceased struggling. jim let go his hold and fell on the floor in a dead faint. "get out," almost yelled glen, and the dog shot through the opening like a fox bolting from hounds, dashing under ping's belly and scouring across country at top speed. yet he had only guarded his master's hut, and his doggy brain resented the injustice. glen opened the package before attending to jim. there was no damage done, and he had never felt so like offering up a prayer before--supposing, after all, he had gone through, the precious bottles had broken? he knelt down beside jim, summing up the situation, and wondering how long he had been subjected to the strain caused by the dog. opening one of the bottles, he poured a small quantity down jim's throat, being careful not to spill a drop. presently jim sat up, looked round in a dazed way, and then seeing glen said, "it was a near go. the dog watched me for hours. i dared not move for fear he would savage me or her, but when i heard you coming i could stand it no longer. i got up, and he flew at me. she's been like that ever since you left. what have you brought?" "many things, but i'd a job to work round bill. there'd been a row in his shanty. two of your fellows smashed things up, and he was in a towering rage. fetch some water. it's funny we can get it nice, cool, clean and fresh. we haven't done that for months, have we?" as he spoke he was busy with the package placing the things carefully on the floor. bill had made amends after all, and opened his heart. he was a dashed good sort, and should be repaid. jim staggered out for the water. the tank was overflowing into sundry water-catchers. it was far too precious to waste, although many times the quantity would have been used to wash up after a single meal in a big hotel. glen made the mixture weak, then, taking a bit of rag, he moistened her lips with it, squeezing a little into her mouth. he was glad she was alive. a tremendous sense of relief came over him, and with it relaxation from the strain he too had gone through. he could have lain down on the floor and slept for many hours. "get some rest, jim. you need it," he said. "not so much as you." "yes, your struggle was greater than mine. sleep, man; then you can watch when i give up." jim lay down. he was in a dead slumber in a minute or two. glen sat looking at the woman. a slight colour came into her cheeks, her lips were not so blue, a warmth spread over her body; he could feel it as he touched her bare arm. then a curious thing happened. he bent down and kissed her, not like jim benny, on the lips, but on her forehead, reverently, tenderly, like a father would a child--and he was the most reckless rider on the fence. both men were among the legion of the lost, why was only known to themselves, but they had given this woman what many a one of her sex in a great city would have been thankful for--human kindness. "sleep's best for her," he thought, as he moistened her lips again. "she's been hot and cold, but there's a nice glow on her now. it's healthy. she'll pull through. i'll bet she pulls through, and we'll have done it, jim, and i, and bill. he's had a big share in it. i should say the three of us will be able to look after her and find out all about her." jim had his rest. glen roused him when he found sleep would overcome him whether he willed it or no. "wet her lips with it when they're dry. place your finger on and feel." jim nodded. he thought how he had placed his lips to hers when glen was away. he was ashamed of it; somehow he thought he ought to tell him. he'd think it over while he slept. in the midst of nature's great silent solitudes these three were working out their fate. it was so still that to most people the silence would have been worse than the noise and rush of traffic. outside, ping, neglected after his long journey, unsaddled, was finding refreshment. the horse was weary, leg tired, but his heart was in the right place. he was the sort that never gives in until something snaps. spotty called a halt when he had gone a couple of miles, and considered the question of the unjustness of his master. he must have arrived at some conclusion for he retraced his steps slowly. near the hut he encountered ping, so nosed round him as though apologising for the sudden bolt under him. ping and spotty were chums. they were both mongrels, but there is often a lot of good to be found in such animals. eventually when ping lay down spotty curled up close to his back; the silence was unbroken. when glen awoke he saw at a glance the woman was coming round. she began to mutter. they listened but could make out no words. "she's pulling through. i reckon she'll mend now. we've all of us got to get her round." "all of us?" "yes, you and bill and me." "and what about the fence?" asked jim. "damn the fence," answered glen fiercely, "i've done with it." "then so have i," echoed jim almost gladly. "good boy. it's a cursed job. keepers of the fence. i tell you, jim, it's slow murder. i'd as lief have solitary confinement." "i guess we'd get better tucker in prison," said jim. the word murder recalled to glen's mind the death of calder. "jim!" "well?" "joe calder's been shot dead on the track." "serves the brute right," replied jim in a hard voice. "you haven't told me yet what brought you here," said glen looking at him. "that was it." "what?" "the calder business." "you--?" jim nodded. "i shot him." chapter vi "come" glen asked no questions. if jim benny had shot calder he must have had good reason for it. he waited to hear if he would say more. "do you want to know why?" asked jim. "please yourself." jim pulled off his shirt, or tried to. it stuck. "the water," he said faintly. glen gave him a damp cloth. jim bathed the shirt, near his breast. for the first time glen noticed a deep red mark. "that's better," said jim, as he felt the shirt give, and pulled it off. then he went on, "he did that with his knife, and i shot him." "it served him right," returned glen. "we quarrelled, not for the first time. he said brutal things to me, and called me names no man would stand, so i struck him between the eyes. he whipped out his knife, and i had it before i could think. i pulled my revolver from my belt, and shot him through the heart. he fell like a log. i left him there. i never even looked at him, but came on here." "why did you come here?" "because i thought i could depend upon you, and you would give me good advice. i didn't tell you at first, because of her. one thing at a time's enough." "you can depend upon me. i'll help you if there's trouble, but no one knows you shot him, and there'll not be much fuss made over him," declared glen. the woman opened her eyes, and looked at them. then a faint smile spread over her face. "are you better?" asked glen. no answer. "do you feel stronger, my lass?" she pressed her hand over her forehead feebly, and a vacant look came into her eyes. "she's weak. she's had no food. warm some of that milk, jim." when it was ready glen gave it to her with a spoon. she took it greedily. in a few minutes she dozed again. "her head's sure to be bad for a time," said glen. there was a brief silence, then jim said, "while you were away i did something." "what?" "i kissed her on the lips. i couldn't help it. something prompted me." glen started. for a moment he felt angry, then muttered, "when you were outside i kissed her on the forehead." these kisses were characteristic of the men and showed the difference between them. they said no more about it. both thought it strange, and the subject dropped. the woman progressed slowly but surely. as she recovered some strength they found her memory had gone; she did not know her name, or where she came from. she appeared to imagine she had been there all her life. bill bigs arrived in his buggy, and did not come empty-handed; there was an ample supply stowed away in the back. "that's her, eh?" he asked. "yes. do you believe me now?" replied glen smiling. "i believed you before, but i wanted to see her. i say, glen, she'll be a grand-looking woman when she's picked up and filled out a bit. where the deuce did she come from? it's miles away from everywhere here," said bill. "it'll be hard to find out. she's lost her memory; she fancies she's been here all her days, but she's sane enough. she'll talk all right in a bit," replied glen. "jim benny!" exclaimed bill. "he's been here ever since she came. it was funny he should turn up almost at the same time." jim came into the hut and greeted bill. "i never expected to see you here," exclaimed the latter. "he came to consult me. we're going to throw it up," glen told him. "throw what up?" "the fence. we've done with it; we're sick of the whole thing. it's too much for flesh and blood to stand." bill stared. "going!" he cried. "why you're the best man on the job." "am i?" answered glen. "i'm glad to hear someone has a good opinion of me." "i always had," pursued bill. "i'm not surprised. i've often wondered why you came. i remember the first time i saw you in boonara. i thought you'd dropped from the clouds. have you sent in your resignation?" "no. what does it matter. let 'em find out. you can drop a line to the overseer when we're gone." "and the fence?" asked bill "we don't want those cursed rabbits to get through to our side." "there are plenty to look after it; men are always disappearing. there are good and bad among us. some fellows are there fighting down the drink curse. i don't blame 'em; it's their only chance. i know two of 'em, good men in their way, but i can tell how it would be with them if they went back to a town life. they'd go under quick. i've been in many a jag myself, but that's not why i came out. i can stifle it; it's only a matter of will," declared glen. "i don't know so much about that. i've had a lot of experience in that line. some of the poor beggars can't help themselves," said bill, and then added, "they've buried calder. there'll be no inquiry. most people think he shot himself. anyhow we've shovelled him away in boonara. if any trouble is made they can dig him up again and call him as witness. he's the only one who could give evidence. all your fellows are glad he's gone." jim listened in silence, with a feeling of relief; he did not in the least regret what he had done. he regarded it as a righteous act. the woman sat up. when she saw bill she asked, "when did he come?" this was almost the first sentence she had spoken correctly. hitherto her words had come disjointedly--in jerks. "me, my lass? i've just dropped in to see my friend, glen. he told me you were here." "i've been here a long time. oh, such a long time. i must have been sleeping for weeks. i've forgotten which is glen," she answered. "i'm glen--glen leigh," he said as he placed his hand on her shoulder. "how silly of me that i didn't remember, but i shall not forget again. you have been very good to me. have i been very ill?" "yes, for a long time," replied glen humouring her. she looked at jim, and glen said, "he's jim benny, another good friend. and that's bill bigs, one of the best of friends. we're all going to look after you." she smiled. "do i want looking after?" "you'll not be too strong for a good while yet," replied glen. "when you are strong we're going away from here." she looked at him wonderingly. "going away from home?" she asked. "you'll want a change when you get stronger." this put a different complexion on the matter, and she smiled again, nodded, and lay down once more. "that's the first attempt at conversation she's made," said glen. "we're getting on." "you boys--where are you going when you leave here?" asked bill suddenly. glen did not hesitate. "sydney," he answered. bill remained silent a few minutes, then said slowly, as though still thinking it out, "sydney! i've a good mind to go with you, i'm sick of boonara. it's the last place that was ever put up on this earth." glen jumped up from his seat, so did jim. they took a hand each and almost pulled bill's arms off. "do it!" cried glen. "do it! we want you. if the three can't make headway in sydney we're not the men i fancy we are." "yes, come with us," put in jim heartily. "stop, you fellows, stop," said bill. "it's easier said than done. i'll tell you something. i've had an offer for my shanty, a damned good offer, more than it's worth. i can't think why he's made it, or where he's got the money from. i never knew craig bellshaw to give much money away, and i don't see where else it could have come from." "craig bellshaw!" exclaimed glen in surprise, "has he made a bid for it?" "not likely. what'd he want with a place like mine? it's garry backham, bellshaw's overseer. he came into my place and wanted to know if i'd sell out. he said he wanted the place and was tired of mintaro. i was never more surprised in my life. you could have pushed me over with a blade of grass." "i met him several times. he seems a taciturn sort of man, sullen, bad tempered--not one of my sort," said glen. "i fancy he's had a roughish time at mintaro," bill surmised, "but he must have saved money. bellshaw wouldn't lend it him in hundreds." "he was a pal of calder's; about the only one he had," jim remarked. "i never knew that," said bill. "they used to meet on the track, and talk and smoke. he bought calder drink at times," explained jim. "birds of a feather," said glen. "he made no fuss about calder being shot," bill commented. "it was no use. he's dead and gone, and there's no proof that he was shot; he probably did it himself as you have said," decided glen. the woman stirred, murmuring some words in her sleep; with a start she sat up, stared at the group, stretched out her arms, and in a pleading voice uttered the one word, "come." chapter vii the face in the water "i'm not superstitious," said bill, "but that settles it; she said 'come' as plainly as she could, although she's fast asleep. i can't get over that. i'll sell out to backham, and join you. we'll make things gee in sydney, i reckon." they were delighted at this decision, for they knew bigs was a good man of business, who had his head screwed on right, and if there was anything to be made he'd be on to it straight. "she'll want some clothes. she can't go in those things," said glen. "i'll fix that up. i can get sufficient garments in boonara for her to reach sydney in and there's no occasion for her to arrive like the queen of sheba," bill replied. they laughed. things were more cheerful. the decision to abandon the fence livened them up. when bill left he promised to return in a week, and see how the woman was progressing. "it'll be longer than that before we can travel with her," he said. away in sydney, the great city, vast even in those days, life was going on very differently from the solitudes round boonara. there were hundreds, nay, thousands, of people in that beautiful city who had never heard of boonara, or knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence. as far as the majority of the inhabitants were concerned such men as glen leigh, jim benny, and bill bigs, might not have existed. had the story of the woman in the hut been told it would have been laughed to scorn, and counted impossible, but there is nothing impossible in the world, however improbable it may seem. sydney was pulsating with life in this year of grace --. there is no occasion to be exact. it might partially spoil matters, and what's a year or two to a story, so long as the interest is maintained, and the characters are living beings? late in the nineteenth century sydney flourished exceedingly. the last twenty years of that remarkable era saw it going ahead by leaps and bounds, and it has been growing ever since until men who left it years ago, and have revisited it, can hardly recognise the place. long may it flourish, most beautiful of many beautiful cities! there was a crowd in pitt street, outside tattersalls, and over the way at the marble bar streams of people were passing in and out, for it was hot, and there were many parched throats. moreover, it had been the winding up day of the a.j.c. meeting at randwick, and every favourite had got home, much to the disgust of the bookmakers. it was ten at night and sultry; there was no air to speak of. the keepers of the fence would have thought it cool, but they were used to being burnt up and parched, and lived in a land where water was often flavoured with the taste of dead things, and not cooled with ice and fragrant with lemon. not one of this crowd knew what took place on the border line of glittering wire. boonara was as far off as, and more strange than, timbuctoo. not one of this crowd? stay. there was one--probably the only one--who knew all about it, and he stood smoking a cigar and chatting to a man outside a tobacconist's shop, not far from the club on the opposite side of the road. he was a man nearly six feet high, with black hair and eyebrows, and a sunburnt face. not a pleasant face, but strong, determined, with a rather cruel mouth and dark cat-like eyes; a man dangerous both to friend and enemy if he willed. he was well-dressed, but somewhat carelessly; he had a slouch hat, dark grey clothes, and his tie was awry. he stood with his legs slightly apart, gesticulating with one hand as he talked. the man to whom he was speaking was the leviathan of the australian turf, who had made his position by a mixture of shrewd business qualities and bold gambling, who betted in thousands, and took "knocks" that would have sent a less plucky man out of the ring. but he always came up smiling, and his luck was proverbial. he had been known to play hazards for twelve hours at a stretch and never have a hand tremble when he lost thousands. he was ostensibly a dealer in choice cigars, etc., in fact in all the paraphernalia of a tobacconist's, and it was his shop they had just come out of as they stood talking on the pavement. he was not so tall as his companion, and had a much more kindly face. he was popular because he was cheerful and honest, and the little backer could always get a point over the odds from him. the taller man was craig bellshaw, of mintaro station. the bookmaker was nicholas gerard, always called nick by everybody. craig bellshaw was, as before mentioned, probably the only man who knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence, who had heard of boonara, and was acquainted with the vast solitudes in the west. he was a wealthy man, and could afford to leave mintaro to the men he employed, and come to sydney in search of pleasure. when he was away he still had his grip on his place, as some of his hands found to their cost. they put it down to the spying of garry backham, the overseer. craig bellshaw was a man of about fifty years of age, but did not look it. he had led a hardy life, and been successful. he owned miles upon miles of land, thousands of cattle, and his sheep ran into hundreds of thousands. horses he had in abundance; how many he had no idea. he claimed all within reach of his land round mintaro district, but never missed a dozen when they were taken. it pleased him to say they were his, so he did not grumble when boonara men, and fencers, claimed a few. bellshaw was difficult to understand, but one thing was certain: once he got his hold on a thing, he seldom let go. he was a bachelor, but had a house in sydney which cost him a considerable sum to keep up; he found it handy when he came to town. he owned racehorses, and his trainer was ivor hadwin, who had stables on the hill at randwick. hadwin was completely under bellshaw's thumb, and was heavily in his debt. it was owing to pecuniary difficulties that he became connected with him. this was often the case with craig bellshaw. for once in a way the a.j.c. meeting proved successful to the stable, and bellshaw's horses had won four races, one on each day; all were heavily backed, and the bulk of the money had either been laid by nick gerard, or he had worked the commission. this was the subject of their conversation, and as they talked in the flare of the gaslights and the shops, many people turned to look at them, for both were well-known figures in the sporting world. "yes, nick, i've had a pretty good meeting," said craig. nick gerard smiled. "i should say you had. there are several thousands to your credit," he rejoined. "what do you think of the dark bay--the fellow that won to-day?" "barellan? oh, he's all right. a pretty fair horse i should say." "yes, he is, a good deal better than you think." "is he? i've seen him at work on the track. he won to-day, but i don't think he's the best you've got." "no? which is?" "flash." bellshaw smiled in his peculiar way as he said, "perhaps he's a better track horse, but i'm sure barellan is the better horse in a race, especially over a distance." "he may be. when are you going back west?" "not yet. i'm sick of it. we've had such a long dry spell, but now we've had rain, a real soaker. we wanted it badly enough." "it must be terrible when you have no rain for months." "it is. you're lucky to be here always." "why don't you give it up now you've made your pile?" "throw it up? i can't afford it. you don't know what's hanging to mintaro." "a good deal, no doubt, but you're a single man, with no one dependent on you. it seems to me you're wasting your time. you've worked hard enough," argued nick. "so i have, but i couldn't live in sydney always, any more than i could at mintaro." they talked for some little time. eventually gerard bade him good night and went over to tattersalls. the squatter walked along pitt street, then hailing a cab drove to surrey hills. he called at a house, remained some time, then drove to circular quay, catching the last boat to manley. it was beautiful on the harbour; a cool breeze was blowing from the heads. the moon shone, and as he leaned over the side he saw his face reflected in the water. this was peculiar. he did not remember having seen such a thing before. as he looked he clutched the rail with both hands, turned pale, and gasped. reflected beside his face was another face, that of a young woman--he had not noticed a lady standing a short distance away from him who was also looking over the side of the boat. he staggered away and went to the fore part of the steamer, where there was more breeze, and sat down. the perspiration broke out all over him. he felt faint for the first time in his life. "i saw it. i'm sure of it, and it was like her face. i'm a fool to be frightened at a shadow on the water," and he laughed harshly, a mirthless sound. chapter viii ways and means three men and a woman arrived in sydney by the mail train from bourke; there were not many passengers, and they attracted some attention. it was evident they came from out back, their appearance denoted it; they were clothed in a rough country style. they were glen leigh, jim benny, bill bigs, and the woman. they had very little luggage; it was contained in a couple of bundles, "swags," that could be strapped on the back, slung over a shoulder, or carried in the hand. many people in sydney have seen the once familiar figure of a tall queensland millionaire walking along george street with a similar outfit. in appearance glen leigh was not unlike him, only younger. a porter watched them as they walked out of the station. they all seemed solicitous about the woman. the man understood the three, the female he was puzzled about. "they can't have picked her up coming in the train. she belongs to one of them. i wonder which. the tall chap, perhaps. he's a big 'un; i fancy i've seen him before. i wonder where they're bound for?" the porter's attention was claimed and he forgot all about them. "there's a coffee place in lower george street that will do us for a time," said glen, "till we've had a look round." the woman stared about her wonderingly. if she had ever been in a large city it was evident she had forgotten all about it. since her illness, which was not yet shaken off, she had developed in body and mind, although as regards the latter it was to a great extent blank as to the past. she had some colour in her cheeks. there were signs that she would be pretty, with a good figure, and be an attractive woman. she made no remarks as glen and jim walked on either side of her, bigs following behind with the larger bundle. several people turned to look at them as they went along. the coffee house was large, but unpretentious, the locality being none of the best. it was at the circular quay end of george street, and chinamen's shops and dens abounded--dull dirty places, with a few empty tea chests in the windows, and bits of paper with chinese characters scrawled, or printed on, in various colours, like cracker coverings on a table after a riotous boxing day dinner. in several of the shop doorways chinamen leaned against the posts, seldom moving when a customer pushed by them into the shop, bent on playing fan tan, or smoking opium. "the chinkies might have been propped up there since i was here last, and that's a few years ago," laughed bigs. "rotten lot," said jim. "most of 'em. i've met one or two decent pigtails out west," bill answered. when the woman caught sight of the chinaman it had a most peculiar effect upon her. she shrank close to glen, pushing him on to the roadway, and almost slipping down herself. he saw by her face that she was terrified, and followed the direction of her glance. it was fixed on a fat chinaman standing in his shop door looking across at them. he was not exactly repulsive, but he was sleek and oily. his face shone, his cheeks hung low, he had a double chin, and his eyes were like nuts fixed in slits. "there's nothing to be afraid of," said glen. "if he is a nasty-looking beggar i daresay he's harmless." jim and bill noticed her agitation and scowled at the chinaman, who returned the challenge with a broad grin, showing his yellow teeth. she trembled violently. her hand shook as it clasped glen's arm with a tight squeeze. he hurried her on; she was quite willing. it was not until they were inside the coffee house that she recovered. "you don't like the chinamen?" asked glen. "i hate them. they frighten me," she said. i wonder why? thought glen, as a maid came to show her her room. she looked back and asked, "where is your room?" "i don't know yet," returned glen. "please don't go far away from me. please don't." "all right," replied glen. "i'll see to that." the maid smiled, but glen's scowl quickly frightened it away. "we'll have to fix something up," he said. "she'd better be somebody's sister. i'm too old; you take it on, jim." "yes, jim's most suitable. he's not much older--a matter of three or four years," agreed bill. "his sister!" jim didn't like the relationship. once it was established it might be difficult to induce her to change the feeling. he must accept, however; there was no excuse for not doing so. "very well, that's settled. i'll tell her about it," went on glen. "try and explain to her, but she's as simple as a child, and won't understand the reason for it." she was tired. the maid, who regarded her curiously, saw she was weak, and asked her if she had been ill. she said she had been very ill, for a long time, and she wanted rest. "lie down on the bed. let me take your boots on. i'll draw the curtain round, and you can have a sleep. it will do you good. have you travelled far?" "from bourke." "where's that?" "in the west. some hundreds of miles away." this excited the maid's compassion. she was a good-natured kind girl, but fond of admiration, and she had seen a great deal of life since she came out as an emigrant from the old country. "i'll be back in a minute," she said as she left the room. she went to ask if she could remain with her for a short time, and receiving a reply in the affirmative returned, after telling glen she had persuaded her to rest. "she's my friend's sister," and he pointed to jim. "she's been very ill; take care of her." "i'll look after her. i'm sorry i smiled as i did, but--" "but what?" asked glen. "oh, nothing. we see some queer folks here sometimes," she said. "i daresay you do," replied glen, "but we're all right. you needn't be afraid of any of us." "i'm not," she retorted, unable to resist laughing at him. "that girl's better than i thought," he remarked when she had gone. "they often are, if you'll only take time to find it out," said bill. "where's jim?" "he must have just gone out. i don't think he liked the sister business." "why not?" glen asked, surprised. "that remains to be seen," bill answered, and the remark made glen thoughtful. jim came in again and they had a council of ways and means. bill bigs had a considerable sum of money. he had not half-poisoned the inhabitants of boonara, and the keepers of the fence, and others, without making a handsome profit on his concoctions. his dealings in hay and provender of various kinds had been another source of income. occasional loans, at heavy risks, and corresponding interest, had also brought grist to the mill. the sale of his shanty to garry backham brought him in several hundred pounds, about twice the amount he valued it at, and he had not yet recovered from the surprise at his good luck, or at the fact that garry had found the ready money in a lump sum. altogether he had a few thousands at his back. glen leigh had more money than the other two would have thought possible. he had it stowed away in a bank in sydney, where it had remained, and been added to, ever since he had been on the fence. jim benny had a few pounds which he carried with him. "i'll look round," said bill. "i'm the business man. i reckon i'd best stick to my own line and buy a 'house' if i can find a decent one at a fair price." "it's about the best thing you can do," agreed glen. "and if i succeed, you two, and the girl, must put up with me until you find work," went on bill. glen laughed. "what sort of work?" he asked. "that's a bit difficult, but two fellows who ride like you can ought to find some sort of occupation. start a buckjumping show. give 'em a taste of your quality; that's the game; i've hit on a little gold mine. we can get horses, and it won't cost a deal to run it." "you mean have a real genuine show of buckjumping, and riding, in sydney, and other places?" glen queried. "yes, that's the idea." "how much would it cost to start it?" "a few hundreds. i'll find the money." "i must have a share in it, and we'll let jim come in. he can take it out in hard work," said glen smiling. "i'm willing to do anything you wish," jim declared. "if i manage to make the necessary arrangements," said bill, "you'll have to go and find the horses, the very worst buckers you can get. there must be no faking about it." "there'll be none where i am concerned," replied glen, "i'll pick up some rough 'uns, you may depend on that, i say, bill, i believe you've hit on the right thing." "i'm sure i have. you're the best rider i ever saw sit a horse," said bill. chapter ix the chinaman's shop bill bigs met a good many chinamen, and had dealings with them, always finding them keen business fellows, moderately honest, though some were arrant rogues. he went out of the coffee house to look round, and saw the fat chinaman still standing in his doorway like a statue, as though he had not moved since they saw him before entering the house. the name on the shop was lin soo. probably this was the name of the man at the door; at any rate something prompted bill to cross the road and look in at the shop window. he saw three tea chests, which he guessed were empty, a couple of chinese bowls, a vase with strange hideous dragons painted or burnt on, an ivory-handled stick, a hat, a pile of chop-sticks, a bundle of red papers, and a cat slumbering serenely among the miscellaneous collection. "is the cat for sale?" he asked the man. the chinaman smiled. "not for sale. a good cat; he catchee mice, cockroaches." "i didn't know there were any mice here." "he catchee them if they were here," grinned the man. "your name is lin soo?" the chinaman nodded. "you speak very good english," said bill. "been in sydney years," he replied. "and made a heap of money," said bill. "no. chinaman no chance with the white man," said lin solemnly. bill laughed. "you yellow heathen, i know better than that. are you a tea dealer?" lin soo nodded; it was a habit, and when he did so his cheeks flapped and his eyelids fell up and down like trap doors. "sell me half a pound of good tea," said bill. lin soo turned and walked into the shop. bill followed. he did not want any tea, and lin soo knew it. the chinaman went behind the counter, leaning on it with his elbows. "what do you want?" he asked. "tea." lin soo grunted. "you no fool," he said. bill laughed. "how do you know?" "you want no tea." "what do i want?" lin soo's head wagged again. "guess," said bill. "give it up," replied lin. "why did you leer at the girl we had with us? you frightened her, you oily beast," said bill. lin soo started back. this was evidently unexpected, and bill was a formidable fellow to tackle. lin soo protested he had not stared at her. lots of silly women were frightened at chinamen--why he didn't know. they had no cause to be. "they have every cause," said bill. "chinamen have ruined many white women. some of you yellow dogs buy and sell our girls, and trade them to human beasts, who disgrace their colour. they're worse than you fellows." "much worse," agreed lin. "you know about it?" "about what?" "trading in white girls." "yes, you scoundrel. i expect you've been at it." lin soo protested. he was a good chinaman,--not one of that sort. bill noticed the leer in his eyes, and concluded he was a deep-dyed rogue. "have you ever been out west?" he asked out of curiosity. lin soo said he had. a few years ago he had business in bourke. bill became interested. what took him to bourke? dealings with a big man, a man of money. he did not live at bourke, but he met him, lin soo, there. "what sort of dealings?" queried bill. lin soo would not disclose them. bill questioned him for some time, and discovered that he might smoke opium there if he wished; also that he might gamble for a considerable sum if he so desired. he left the shop, wondering what had induced him to waste his time there. lin soo watched him go up the street, scowled after him, called him bad names and cursed him in some horrible guttural way. "you sneaking round me," he said. "better take care. lin soo stand no fool play. me stare at white woman! why not? me had dealings with many white women. business in bourke with what you call squatter and white woman. tell him? not muchy!" bill walked into pitt street. when he came to the corner of market street he stopped and stared. that looks uncommonly like craig bellshaw, he thought. the man he had seen turned round and came towards him. it was bellshaw. he saw bill bigs and recognised him. "you here, bigs? what brings you to sydney?" "i've sold out." "have you? tired of boonara, eh?" "it's hardly a paradise as you know, and i got a good price for the place, so i thought i'd quit." "i expect you've knocked up a nice little pile out of the natives, the fencers, and my men, shearers, and so on. i had a nip or two at your shanty. i can taste it yet. what horrible stuff you sold," said craig. "no worse than others sell. no worse than the man who bought me out will sell." "who bought you out?" "don't you know?" "how should i?" "garry backham. he paid cash down, too. i wonder where he came by it? i don't suppose you've been over liberal with him," said bill. he watched bellshaw as he spoke, and the squatter returned his glance without a flicker. "garry's bought you out? i wondered why he wanted to leave me," replied bellshaw. he's lying, thought bill, and wondered why. "he'll not find it all profit," said bill. bellshaw laughed. "i don't expect he will," he agreed. "who's there now looking after the place?" "he is." "you mean he's left mintaro and gone to boonara?" "that's about it. he was in the house when i came away." "the scoundrel. he's neglected my interests. he shall pay for it. he'd no business to leave mintaro until i returned." "i expect mintaro will be all right. you've plenty of hands there." bellshaw laughed again. "i daresay they'll pull through somehow," he said. when craig bellshaw left him bill went back to the coffee house, and told them he had seen him. "did he say when he was returning?" asked glen. "i don't want to meet him. he's not my kind. besides he might try and make it nasty over leaving the fence. he's one of that sort." "he's sure to be going back soon. he's been here some time i fancy. i wonder why he tried to make me believe he knew nothing about garry backham taking my place? it's all bunkum. he knew right enough, but he must have some reason for trying to hide it," said bill. "if all i've heard about mintaro is correct there are some queer goings on at times. i've never been there, but one of the fellows on the fence, abe carew, was employed by him for a long time. he offended bellshaw, who kicked him out, and he was very sore about it. he gave him a nice character. i didn't believe it all, of course, but no doubt a lot of it's true," glen remarked. "bellshaw's one of those queer sorts, you never know what they are up to, never know when you've got 'em. he's been in my place and said things i knew were lies, and he seemed to have no reason for it, but he must have had," said bill. "some fellows lie for the sake of lying," glen answered. the woman slept all night until late next morning. when she came into the large room glen was the only one in it. she went straight up to him, holding out both hands. when he took them she kissed him. the hot blood surged in his veins. was she always going to do this? he was glad no one saw it. "you feel much better?" he asked when he had recovered his equanimity. "almost well. sleep is wonderful. are we going to live here?" she returned. "no. this is a sort of hotel. we are staying here until we find a home." "why did we leave home?" she asked. "it was impossible to stay there; there was only one room in the hut." "wasn't it always like that?" she asked as though trying to recall something. "no, not always. can't you remember?" "remember--what?" "where you came from when you came to the hut." she laughed. "how funny you are. you know i always lived there." "with me, and jim, and bill?" he asked. she seemed puzzled. "it must have been so, and yet--" she put her hand to her head. he watched her. would she remember, or would he have to wait? that it would all come back to her some day he was certain, and then-- she was at the window, looking into the street. lin soo's shop was nearly opposite, but he was not visible. a dark man walked rapidly along, and was about to enter lin soo's when a cab horse slipped and fell. this attracted his attention. he turned round with the intention of going to assist the driver, but the horse struggled to his feet unaided. as the man looked across the road the woman at the window gave a faint cry. glen was at her side in a moment. "what is it?" he asked. "that man, the dark man, looking this way. i've seen him before. who is he? do you know?" she said in an agitated voice. it was craig bellshaw. chapter x the accusation "have you seen him before? do you know him? his name is craig bellshaw. he lives at mintaro, a big homestead, some miles from the hut, the home we left," said glen. the fear, or whatever it was, passed. she smiled. no, she did not know him, nor had she heard the name. "perhaps you knew someone like him?" glen suggested. she shook her head. she did not remember. much to glen's surprise he saw bellshaw go into lin soo's shop. he came out again in about a quarter of an hour, hailed a passing hansom, and drove away. why had he gone into the chinaman's? it was about the last place glen would have expected to see him in. he told bill what had happened. they could make nothing of it, but it made a deep impression on them. craig bellshaw was uneasy. the face on the water troubled him; it haunted him as he walked about. he left sydney suddenly and returned to mintaro, where he arrived unexpectedly. he found everything going on as usual. garry backham had put a man in charge of the shanty at boonara, and returned to his duties until such time as bellshaw came back. "i met bigs in sydney," said bellshaw. "he told me you went into his place the day he left, and handed it over to you. i suppose you came back when he had gone?" "yes. i thought it best to make sure of the place. bigs is a shifty customer. if i'd left him in charge he might have done me out of no end of things," returned garry. "probably he would. he seemed surprised when i told him i didn't know you had bought him out." garry grinned. "of course you didn't know. how should you?" the two men looked hard at each other. "joe calder's dead," said garry. bellshaw started. "dead," he exclaimed. "murdered. shot through the heart." "who did it?" "nobody knows, but i have a suspicion," garry answered. "he's buried, and so far as that goes it's done with, but he was a friend of mine, and yours, and we ought to do something." "i shan't. let it be, man. what's the good of kicking up a fuss?" argued bellshaw. "two men have cleared out from the fence." "who are they?" "glen leigh and jim benny." "good riddance to them. they were rotters--no good to me." "you don't like leigh. he's been one too many for you once or twice." "i hate him. it was leigh who kicked up a fuss about that mob of cattle that broke the fencing down. he complained that i ought to have them driven off, and said it was not the duty of the keepers of the fence." "it's part of their duty. they are a lazy lot of beggars," replied garry. "i fancy glen leigh and jim benny know a good deal about joe calder's death." "do you think that's why they have cleared out?" "yes. don't you?" "it may have something to do with it; i wish i could find out." "you said a minute or two back it was best left alone," said garry. "but this is different. i'd like to put a halter round leigh's neck." "why? have you any strong reason?" "i'm told abe carew and he were pals, and that abe told him a good many things about mintaro. calder gave me the information," bellshaw answered. "did he now, and abe wouldn't spare you, would he?" "spare me? what do you mean? he'd tell a lot of infernal lies about me, the scoundrel." "you should be more careful how you send men away. you were not over polite to him," said garry. "he didn't deserve it. he robbed me right and left." "i don't think he did. i told you so at the time." bellshaw made an impatient gesture. "you know nothing about it; i shan't be sorry when you're gone, garry. you've been getting above yourself for some time." "you think so, do you? i shan't be sorry to get away from mintaro. there's some things a fellow can't stand." bellshaw laughed harshly. "i didn't think you were soft, or chicken-hearted," he said. "i'm not, but i'd like to know what became of the woman," retorted garry. "i told you i took her away with me because i was tired of her, and that she was going back to sydney with me," said bellshaw. "did she go to sydney with you?" "yes." "and she's there now?" "yes." "with her mother, i suppose," sneered garry. "never mind who she's with. she's all right." "i don't believe you took her to sydney," said garry. bellshaw glared at him. "where else could i take her?" he asked fiercely. "nowhere." "what do you mean by that?" "it's pretty lonely about here. one woman would not be missed." bellshaw caught him by the arm in a fierce grip and raised his fist. "be careful, or i'll make it hot for you," he snarled. garry wrenched himself free. "let me alone. i guess i'm a match for you, and i'm not afraid of you, if other people are," he cried. "you lent me the money to buy bill bigs out. well, it will be better for you to make me a present of it." craig bellshaw started back. "look," he said, "see that?" and he pointed to the wide verandah, built round the house. "there's nothing there," answered garry, thinking he must have been doing it heavy in sydney and that the effects had not died out. "no, of course not," said bellshaw, trying to laugh it off. "so you say i had better make you a present of it. why?" "because i know you did not take her to sydney," said garry slowly. "it's a lie," roared bellshaw. "no it isn't, and you know it. where is she now?" "that's my affair." "you can't tell me. i'm worth a few hundreds. i'll bet them you can't tell me," garry persisted. "this is foolishness. what the deuce have you got into your head?" "more than you think. i know you travelled to sydney alone," replied garry. "and supposing i did, you fool, do you expect i'd travel in the same carriage with her?" "maybe not, but you'd have been only too glad to have gone anywhere with her a couple of years back," garry retorted. "it was her own fault. she was tired of my company. she behaved badly. i treated her well," said bellshaw. "when you first brought her from bourke you did, but i don't think she ever forgave, or forgot, how she came here. it was a blackguardly trick to play her." "what trick?" "oh, stow that. do you mean to say you think i don't know? i'm no fool. she was dazed, drugged, or something, when she came. why it was more than a week before she found out where she was, and she had to stay because she couldn't get away. there was nowhere to go." "we'll drop all that. she's safe enough now. don't bother your head about her." "but that's just what i do. i might have saved her. i could have done so if i'd had the pluck, but you bought me off, and i hate myself for it. do you know what i think?" "no." "you can have it whether you like it or not--i think you've done away with her." bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening attitude. "stand back," said garry, pulling out his revolver. "i found this near the big water hole when i was having a ride round." he pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket. "well?" bellshaw asked. "there'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. i made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. she'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. it would have been more merciful to strangle her. i saw her tracks for some distance, but i couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up. she's no more in sydney than i am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, craig bellshaw!" bellshaw made no answer, and garry went on, "it'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. if i thought she was alive i'd be mighty glad, for i feel as though i had a hand in it. when i saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but i never thought you'd kill her by inches. hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?" "have you done?" asked bellshaw quietly. his tone surprised garry. "yes, i've said enough, and you know the bulk of it's true." "you may think it is, although it's a poor recompense for all i have done for you. however, i bear you no malice. i have only one request to make." "what is it?" asked garry. "keep your thoughts to yourself. the law is powerful. there's more than that--in this part of the country i am the law, and i can take it into my own hands without fear of being called to account. you've seen me do it; you know i'm not a man to be cowed, that i do not fear you, or any other man, nor what you say, or do. listen to me, garry backham. there are men round mintaro who will do my bidding for money, no matter what it is i ask. you know the sort of men, desperate, some of them, the worst of criminals. if i hear any of the lies you have said repeated i will burn your place to the ground, and you with it. you had best keep a still tongue." garry knew he was capable of carrying out his threats, and that he had the men to do what he willed. he believed the accusation he had brought, but he had no wish to run into grave danger. "you'll think about that money, mr. bellshaw," he said. "you mean giving it you, not lending it?" "yes." "it depends upon yourself," was the reply. chapter xi jerry, journalist in a small house, in a side street, on moore park, the woman who came to sydney with glen leigh, and the other two, had rooms. it had been decided to call her clara benny, as it was necessary she should have a name, and to install her here. mrs. dell, who kept the house, was a widow, a respectable woman in reduced circumstances, and she had promised to do what she could for her lodger. clara could not understand it. she wanted the three to be with her. they had always been together. why should they leave her alone? it was useless to try and explain, and no attempt was made. glen said it was necessary because they had to work, and it would be better for her to have a kind motherly woman to look after her; this made her more contented, and one of them called to see her every day. mrs. dell was puzzled over her lodger; she fancied she suffered from some brain trouble, but she liked her from the first, and quickly came to love her; she looked upon her as a substitute for her own girl, who had died of consumption at about the same age. clara repaid this affection, and in a very short time they became inseparable. the money she received for her board and lodging was a great help to mrs. dell, and glen leigh was always supplying some delicacy for the table. bill bigs succeeded in finding a small hotel to his liking in castlereagh street. the seller came into some money, and sailing for england, was glad to find a buyer at a reasonable price. the house was in bad condition, but bill, with his usual energy, quickly set to work, and in a few weeks it was spick and span, clean and inviting. there was a steady trade, and a fair number of customers frequented the place--many theatrical, sporting and pressmen, with whom he became popular. jerry makeshift, of "the sketch," found good copy in bill. jerry was one of the most popular men in sydney, a wonderfully clever black and white artist, a born joker, and an excellent writer of highly sensational news, in paragraphs, or columns, as required. he had one failing, not an unusual one in these days. he was fond of his glass and hilarious company, and as he always had a lot of admirers following in his wake he soon brought genial customers to "the kangaroo," as bill curiously named the place. jerry makeshift extracted from bill much interesting press matter about boonara, and the district surrounding it; also about the keepers of the fence. the clever journalist was astounded at what he heard, especially about the men on the rabbit-proof fence. in a hazy sort of way he had heard of them before, but when bill began to talk about them, with intimate knowledge, jerry opened his eyes. "i'll introduce you to two of 'em," said bill. "they are staying with me. in fact they came to sydney with me from the forsaken place. they found the life too much for 'em, and you bet it must be awful when such men as they throw it up." "i'd like to meet them," replied jerry. "how is it i have not done so before?" "well, it's this way. they're busy. they've got a scheme in hand that i suggested, and i think it's just the thing for 'em and will pay well," and he explained about the buckjumping exhibition. "by jove, that's a capital idea," said jerry, who saw the possibilities at once. "you might be able to give it a lift," suggested bill cautiously. "probably. i will if i can, but i must hear more about it," jerry answered. "come in to-night, and i'll introduce you to glen leigh. he's the chap, a wonderful man, as straight as a die, big, strong, a rough customer, but with the heart of a child when anything appeals to his better nature. why he went on the fence the lord only knows. i remember him arriving in boonara. it caused quite a sensation. no one could make him out then, and no one made him out before he left. a mystery man, that's what he is. don't forget to-night. i'll have a decent dinner for you, and a bottle of the right stuff, and you can talk in my room to your heart's content." "that will suit me," said jerry as he went out. "he's a good sort," thought bill. "he ought to be able to boom the show when it starts." glen leigh was averse to talking with strangers, but bill persuaded him to meet jerry makeshift. "it's the fellow who draws those funny things that catch the eye on the front page of 'the sketch.' they're the cleverest things out, and 'the sketch' is the best paper of its kind in australia. it goes all over the place. it even got as far as boonara," said bill. "and i've had many a copy in my hut," answered glen. "i don't mind meeting a man like that. he's out of the common. he can teach you something." "that's settled," said bill. "he'll be here at seven, and mind you pitch it him strong about the show. he'll ask you about work on the fence. tell him what it's like; he'll appreciate it." jerry makeshift was punctual. he loved a good dinner and he sniffed appreciatively as he came into the house. jim benny was away, so glen went upstairs with his companion, and they did full justice to bill's good things, which he laid himself out to supply. jerry at once saw that glen leigh was no ordinary man, and that he would have to be handled in anything but an orthodox fashion. with his usual skill in such matters he set to work to propitiate him, and succeeded so well that at the end of the dinner glen was talking freely to him. he told him all about the glittering wire, of the awful loneliness of the life, the terrible droughts, the millions of rabbits, how they died in hundreds of thousands from lack of food, and their bones were piled up in great heaps. he told of the losses of sheep and cattle, how squatters were almost ruined, and had to borrow money to go on with. he pictured the thousands of square miles of desolate land without a blade of grass; then suddenly the rain fell in torrents and in twenty-four hours came the glorious change from baked brown to verdant glistening green which covered the earth like a brilliant carpet, dazzling the eyes, that had been accustomed to dead colours for months at a stretch. then he went on to describe the life on the fence, the men, their varied characters; some strange stories he told of crime and criminals that he heard when he was one of the keepers. his language was plain and simple so that every word hit home. jerry makeshift listened with his eyes fixed intently on glen leigh's face. as he talked he seemed to forget where he was; he was back again in his old surroundings, in the hut, in bill's shanty at boonara. he stopped suddenly. there must be no mention of clara benny, the woman in the hut, or how they came to sydney. "i never heard such a thrilling, interesting, story before," said jerry, who knew he had discovered a storehouse of fresh copy in glen leigh. apart from this leigh had won his wayward, roving nature completely. here was a man after his own heart, a man who had seen much and done more, a worker at the hardest kind of work, who went grinding on in solitude with no word of encouragement from a living soul. glen leigh had made a staunch friend. he did not think he had done anything, or said anything, out of the common. that was where he proved so attractive to jerry. the practised journalist knew every word he heard was true, that no exaggeration was here. on the contrary the reality must have been ten times worse than it was described. "tell me about this buckjumping show bigs mentioned," said jerry. glen smiled. "bill's sanguine, too sanguine, about that." "i don't think he is. there are great possibilities in it," jerry answered. "maybe so, but it'll take a lot of working up." "i'll do what i can for you," promised jerry. "you will! that's good of you. i reckon a few words from you, or a sketch from your pen, goes a long way with the public," replied glen. jerry laughed. there was not an atom of conceit about him. "i do my best to amuse the public. i fancy i manage it all right somehow, but heaven knows where the talent i possess comes from, for i never had much education. i'm what they call self-taught." "then you were a better teacher than hundreds of men who profess to know a heap of things," declared glen. "perhaps so. a battle with the world when you're young is a good education in itself," replied jerry. glen told him how "the sketch," and jerry's drawings, were to be found even on the fence and in boonara. "i've spent hours over 'em," he said. "the man who can make a keeper of the fence laugh deserves a big pension for life." jerry pulled "the sketch" out of his pocket. "that's the latest. just off the press. i'll leave it you." a paper fell on the floor. jerry picked it up. "have you seen this?" he asked. "what is it?" "tattersalls' hundred thousand pound sweep on the melbourne cup. you ought to try your luck in it," said jerry. chapter xii in search of horses "i think i'll risk a pound," said glen laughing. "a hundred thousand pound sweep is not bad, and the winner takes about a fourth of it," jerry answered. "twenty-five thousand. that would do me all right. no occasion for more work. i'd buy a nice little property and be comfortable for the remainder of my life," said glen. they parted in a very cordial manner. it was not often glen let himself go like this, but he liked jerry, and when he was fond of a man he was not slow to show it. glen went west next day and forgot all about the ticket, but there was plenty of time as the sweep did not close for several weeks. he went on a purchasing expedition, to buy horses for the show, while bill bigs and jim benny were preparing the way in sydney for an opening in the exhibition building, which had already been secured. jim had no desire to go into the boonara district again after what had happened. there was no telling what rumours might be about. as a matter of fact garry backham was sorry he had thrown out a hint to craig bellshaw. he might be inclined to follow it up. garry was very much surprised one morning when glen leigh walked into his place and bade him the time of day as though he had seen him a few hours before. leigh was a cool hand and never flustered, except on special occasions, when he knew he had been put upon, or someone tried to bounce him. when he flared up there were ructions, as more than one man on the fence had found out during his time there. "you're about the last man i expected to see in boonara," said garry. "i daresay i am. i'm here on business. i can put some money in your way if you'll help me. we were never very friendly, but that's all over. i daresay you have no objections to earning money?" "none at all. we're most of us that way inclined," replied garry. "as to being bad friends, don't you think that was mostly your fault?" "no. there was a good bit of underhand work on the fence, sneaking, and so on. joe calder and you were pretty thick. i fancy bellshaw got some hints, true or untrue, from the pair of you." "he never got any from me, whatever he did from joe." "are you quite sure?" "yes." "well, i'll try and believe it. joe calder paid for all the wrong he did." "do you know what some folks say about here?" "no." "that either you, or jim benny, shot him, and that's why you both cleared out." "they say that, eh?" "yes." "they're wide of the mark. why didn't they say it before we left, not when our backs were turned?" asked glen. garry smiled. "it wouldn't do for a man to accuse you to your face of murder," he answered. "then you don't hold me responsible for calder's death?" glen queried. "not likely, is it?" answered garry. "what's the business you're here on?" "i want a dozen of the worst bucking horses in the district. it swarms with bad 'uns of all sorts," said glen. "you're right. i never saw such brutes in my life. mintaro's overrun with them, if one could only find them." "would bellshaw sell some?" asked glen. "i should say he'd be only too glad to get rid of any you cared to pick." "you can manage it, can't you? you were always on good terms with him," said glen. "i'm not now," replied garry. glen looked surprised. he thought bellshaw found the money with which garry bought bill bigs out. "you don't mind me saying it, but bill fancied bellshaw found you the money for this place," he said. "he did, but he only lent it me. it's since i bought it we quarrelled." "serious?" "rather, but we've agreed to drop it. still, we're not on good terms." "then i'd better go and see him alone," said glen. garry hesitated. there was no telling how bellshaw might act, as glen ought to have sent in his notice to him before he left the fence. he knew, however, that glen leigh was capable of taking care of himself, and that he was more than a match for the squatter. "perhaps you had," he agreed. "i can tell you where the best horses for your purpose are to be found. i never saw such beasts, regular savages, half wild, unbroken, not even handled, and some of them six years old. they're most of 'em by old tear'em, as they call him. perhaps you've heard of him?" "i've heard the name, but nothing much about him except that he's a savage." "so he is, and so are all his lot. tear'em has accounted for more than one man's life," said garry. "why doesn't bellshaw shoot him?" "that's more than i can tell. it strikes me he rather likes the horse. it suits his temperament." "where are these horses to be found?" "at the five rocks most likely. do you know where that is?" "no." "to the south of mintaro, a good twenty miles." "and how the deuce am i to get at 'em? i shall want assistance." "if you get bellshaw's permission to bag a dozen or two i'll go with you to get 'em and take half a dozen men from here." "that's a bargain," said glen. "i expect it will be tough work getting 'em into the trucks when we have driven them as far as bourke, if ever we get 'em there." "never fear about that. i know how to handle them. what are you going to do with 'em when they reach sydney?" glen explained, and garry thought the idea splendid. he was quite sure it would pay. he said he'd like to be in it. "so you shall, garry," said glen, who was one of the quick forgiving kind. "how much?" "a couple of hundred or so." "it's as good as done. of course, i must consult bill. he's the prime mover, the originator of the scheme." "you'll stay the night?" garry asked. "i've no time to spare. i must return as soon as possible, so if you'll let me have a fresh horse i'll ride on to mintaro at once." "you can have the best i've got. it'll be nothing very grand, but i'll find one that will take you there." he went out, leaving him in the bar. glen as he looked round vividly recalled the day he rode in from the hut to see bill on behalf of the woman. he wondered what she was doing. was jim benny with her? he did not like the idea of jim seeing too much of her. yet it was foolish of him. why should he not see her as often as he wished? she was supposed to be his sister. garry returned and said the horse would be round in a few minutes. "don't ruffle bellshaw," he counselled. "he's not been in the best of tempers since he came home from sydney." "bill had a talk with him in pitt street, and i saw him. where do you think he was going?" "i don't know. he's a queer sort." "into a chinaman's shop in lower george street. a fellow named lin soo. a beastly-looking johnnie. i wonder what he went there for?" garry was glad glen was not looking at him or he might have seen his agitation and wondered at it. "he knows a lot of curious people," he answered. "probably he went to buy tea." "it wasn't a tea shop, although that is what lin soo pretends it is. i expect, from what bill said, it's an opium den, or worse." "there are lots of 'em in sydney," said garry with an assumption of carelessness. "plenty in that quarter. they ought to root the whole lot out. it wouldn't be a bad job if the places were burned down." glen went out, mounted, and had a parting word with garry, who said, "remember what i told you about bellshaw. there's something wrong with him, i'm certain." "in what way?" "he talks a bit wild, and seems to have something on his mind; he sees things," and he told glen about the verandah incident. "i put it down to the spree he'd probably been on in sydney." "i'll humour him," replied glen laughing. "if he turns rusty i'll have to try and get the horses elsewhere. there are plenty of 'em, i expect." "heaps, but none half so good for your purpose as those at the five rocks, by old tear'em, or one of his sons," said garry. glen waved his hand as he rode away. garry watched him until horse and man became specks in the distance. as he went inside he muttered, "i think i can guess why craig bellshaw went into lin soo's shop." chapter xiii leigh hears strange things craig bellshaw was in an ill humour. he had received a letter from lin soo which upset him. the chinaman said he had changed his mind. he could not supply him with what he required, it was too risky; already he had been in trouble with the police, and he dare not undertake it. these were not the exact words, for the letter was illiterate, but lin soo made it plain enough to bellshaw. "he hasn't returned the money i advanced him, but he'll have to if he doesn't fulfil his part of the bargain. there's no risk, at least not much, and he's done it before. i can't live here without some sort of comfort." his quarrel with garry backham made him vindictive. he was rather afraid of garry after what he had said. the man knew too much about certain things at mintaro, doings, which, if they came to light, would get him into serious trouble. he would have to give garry the money he had lent him, but intended keeping him in suspense for a time. glen leigh arrived at mintaro in the evening. when bellshaw saw who his visitor was he wondered what brought him there. it was bold conduct on leigh's part to come and face him after deserting his post. "are you surprised to see me?" asked glen as he dismounted, and bellshaw came out. "yes, you're a cool hand." "why?" "i suppose you know i can have you arrested for deserting?" glen laughed. "who is to arrest me?" "i have the power." "and who's to look after me if you arrest me?" "i can easily manage that." "but you won't." "why not?" "because it would only cause you trouble and worry." "what have you come for?" "to buy horses," replied glen. bellshaw laughed as he said, "turned horse-dealer, have you?" "i'm on the look out for a dozen of the worst buckjumpers i can find," said glen. "what for?" glen explained. bellshaw became interested. there seemed to be money in the idea. "you'll find plenty here, but you'll have to sort them out yourself. i can't afford men to help you." "i'm prepared for that. garry backham will find the men." "backham's behaved badly towards me; he's not to be trusted. i shouldn't advise you to have much to do with him." "he'll not get round me. i've had a long talk with him. he tells me you put him into bigs's place; it was good of you to help him." "and he's repaid me by the basest ingratitude, but it's generally the way if you help a man." "it's not my way," said glen. "you'll stop the night?" asked bellshaw. "yes, if you'll put me up." "there's heaps of room. you're welcome to some of it," answered bellshaw ungraciously. after dinner they talked about the horses, and bellshaw agreed to let him have a dozen for a hundred pounds, which was quite as much, or more, than they were worth, but glen had no desire to haggle over the affair. he slept in a room near bellshaw's. in the wooden homestead sounds carried far. about the middle of the night glen was roused by hearing someone walking on the verandah, pacing to and fro. the footsteps sounded stealthy and peculiar. he could not make it out; his curiosity was aroused. he got off the bed quietly, he was only partially undressed, and went to the door, which opened on to the verandah. it was not locked. he turned the handle, opened it cautiously, and looked out. there was a faint light, and at the end of the verandah he saw craig bellshaw coming towards him; he was, like himself, only partially dressed. he did not wish bellshaw to think he was spying on him so he almost closed the door and listened. the pad of his bare feet on the boards sounded strange in the stillness. bellshaw stopped when nearly opposite glen's room. he was talking in a weird voice; it sounded unnatural. as glen listened he came to the conclusion that bellshaw was walking in his sleep; to make sure he opened the door wide. he could easily make an excuse that he heard someone prowling about and wanted to see who it was--if bellshaw were not asleep. the squatter faced him, his eyes wide open, but vacant. he stared fixedly at glen but did not see him. "he's fast asleep," thought glen, and crept closer to him, not being able to restrain his curiosity. "don't struggle, you fool, or make that horrid row. i'll put you in that hole if you do. bite, will you, you vixen? i've had enough of you; you've tired me out with your grumbling ways. brought you here by force! it's a lie. you came of your own free will. you knew why you came to mintaro." bellshaw clutched the air with his hands as though trying to strangle something. glen watched every movement closely. he felt he was on the eve of a discovery. bellshaw went down on his knees and pressed the boards with both hands. "keep still, will you! keep still," he muttered, "or i'll crush the life out of you. she's quiet now. i'll leave her here. she'll die. there's no place for her to go to. she'll wander about until she drops, and then give up. that's the best way. no one can say i killed her. i'll leave you here. it will give you some sort of a chance if it is a poor one." bellshaw got up and began talking again. this time glen knew he was speaking to his buggy horses. suddenly bellshaw caught glen by the arm. for a moment the shock staggered him. the awakening was dangerous; he seemed about to faint. with an effort he pulled himself together and glared at glen leigh. "what the devil are you doing prowling about on the verandah at this time of night?" asked bellshaw. "i might ask the same question. i heard your footsteps. naturally i wanted to see who it was. you were walking in your sleep. i thought it best not to wake you. i've heard it's dangerous," replied glen. craig bellshaw shivered. he was thinking of what he might have said or done, in leigh's presence. "i'm troubled with sleep-walking," he said, "and have been for some time. it's beastly. no doubt i do and say queer things for which i am not responsible." glen made no answer. he had heard sufficient to put him on what he thought was the right track, and he could have strangled bellshaw without compunction. his hands itched to get at him, but he must bide his time, and make his punishment more severe. a quick death was too good for this man, if what he, glen, surmised was correct. "i advise you to go and rest," he remarked at last, "or you'll be fit for nothing later on." "i'm always upset after this," said bellshaw. "it unnerves me. if you want to get away early don't mind me. you can have as many buckjumpers as you care to take. pick 'em where you like. i'll lend them to you. when you've finished with them you can return them, or sell them, and we'll divide the money." he spoke feverishly, hurriedly, evidently with the intention of propitiating leigh. "no thank you," answered glen. "i prefer to buy right out. i'll pick what i want, and a hundred pounds will more than cover it. a bargain's a bargain. besides if i buy the horses i'm under no obligation to you, and i can do as i like." glen left him, went into his room, and shut the door. bellshaw walked to his room and sat down in a cane chair, cursing his luck that he should have walked in his sleep with glen in the house. what had he said? this question kept on repeating itself with monotonous regularity. it sounded like the ticking of a clock in his head. on one occasion, when he woke up suddenly, and found himself on the verandah, it all came back to him how he acted in his sleep. he remembered it now. had he said anything that leigh could get hold of? no, of course he hadn't. if he'd gone through the whole thing leigh would not have understood what he meant. he laughed at his momentary fears. glen leigh might think him mad, but he would never guess at the truth; it was impossible. he started. leigh had seen garry backham. had garry told him what he suspected? this was hardly likely. why should he? glen leigh did not lie down again. he was piecing the threads of a tragedy together, and craig bellshaw was depicted as a most hideous villain, a monster deserving of slow torture, if what he, leigh, thought were true. he'd find out, get proof, and when there was sufficient to go upon, craig bellshaw had better beware. no mercy would be shown him. the scene when he found clara benny in his hut rose before him. he clenched his fists, raised them above his head, and vowed vengeance on craig bellshaw. taking a piece of paper he wrote in pencil in large letters lin soo. dressing himself he went out. when he reached bellshaw's door he pushed the paper underneath. he got his horse, saddled it, and rode towards boonara. chapter xiv "a magnificent brute" it was late when craig bellshaw awoke from a restless slumber. his first thoughts were about glen leigh, and the happenings of the night. he wondered if he had gone. he hoped so; he had no desire to meet him again at present. opening the door he saw a piece of paper on the floor. picking it up he read the name lin soo written in pencil in large letters. he stared at it, wondering how it came there. glen leigh must have slipped it under the door. but why? what had he to do with lin soo? probably he had never heard of him, and yet there was no one else to do it. lin soo. supposing by some strange chance glen leigh had met the chinaman. even so, it was not likely lin soo would say anything about their transactions; he dare not. it flashed upon him he might have mentioned the name in his ramblings. if so, what had he said in connection with it? as he dressed he became nervous. if glen leigh had an inkling of what had happened there would be trouble brewing. he, and other keepers of the fence, had many grievances against bellshaw which they would be only too glad to pay off. he must try and find out what had passed when he walked and talked in his sleep. it must be done warily. "i'll see him before he returns to sydney," he thought. "even if he heard things he had no business to, i can silence him. murder is not so easily shelved, and there's joe calder's death to account for." glen leigh arrived at boonara, and next day set out for five rocks, with garry backham and half a dozen good riders, used to the work, to round up a mob of horses and make a selection. "the best plan will be," said garry, "to drive 'em into the nearest yard, which is about half a dozen miles away, and test them. it will be a tough job, but the men who are going with us are used to that sort of work. they'll not mind how rough they are." they did not ride near mintaro, and glen had no intention of going there again. as he rode along with garry, he mentioned about craig bellshaw walking in his sleep; he said he talked a lot and acted strangely. "what did he say?" asked garry. "something about leaving someone to die--a woman. he went through some curious antics, as though he were struggling with her. at the finish he said he'd leave her to wander about until she died. he must have committed some dastardly deed or he'd never rave like that," said glen. garry was silent. should he tell glen how much he knew? there was no necessity for it, and he might be dragged into trouble if he did. "i've never seen him walk in his sleep," he replied eventually, "but he's a queer fellow, and has more on his conscience than i'd care to carry." "i've heard of strange doings at mintaro when i was on the fence," said glen. "what sort of doings?" "about women who came and stayed for a time and were sent away." "i'd rather say nothing about it," answered garry. glen did not press the subject; he could find out what he wanted later on. in case it were necessary, he would put a straight question or two to garry. it was late when they arrived at five rocks and camped for the night. the place was well named. five large rocks rose from the ground in the strangest manner. they were conical, smooth, not many yards apart. their formation was a strange freak of nature. they were probably the result of a fierce upheaval in some far distant age, when natives and wild animals were the only occupants of the vast territory. there was a water hole in the centre of the group, fed from the rocks, and garry said it was this which brought the horses round, for it was seldom dry. the six boonara men were strong sturdy fellows used to a life of hardships. they were not given to conversation and quickly rolled over, with their saddles for pillows, and went to sleep. garry and glen talked for some time, but gradually they dropped off, and the silence of the night reigned round the eight recumbent forms. as soon as daylight sprang upon them they were astir, and after a hasty, scanty meal they set out to round up the horses. this was easier said than done. they traversed several miles before they sighted a mob, but were rewarded by seeing at least fifty. "you'll be able to get what you want out of that lot," said garry, "if we can get 'em into the yard." "we'll manage that," answered one of the men. "i suppose the gates are always open?" garry said they were, and indicated the direction in which the horses should be driven. the men set out to round them up on the side. garry rode to the left, glen to the right, so as to guide them in the right direction as they came along. the horses quickly scented danger, and started off, but were headed back and driven at a wild tearing pace towards garry and glen. the pace became faster and glen watched the horses as he rode at top speed alongside them, and saw they were a good lot. he hoped their vicious propensities had never been checked. they were all practically unbroken. a few of them might have been handled and turned loose again, but it was improbable. towards the yards they went, the men shouting behind them. these yards were erected with a view to driving horses, or cattle, into them with the least trouble. they were at the end of a dried-up river between high banks, whose strange formation craig bellshaw had taken advantage of. the opening to the yards extended the whole width of the pass, and there were three large gates through which horses entering the cul-de-sac were bound to go. the difficulty was to head the wild horses into the opening. once in they were easily driven into the yards. as luck would have it, the leader of the mob headed direct for the spot, guided by garry on the one side, and glen on the other. it was a stern chase, and it said much for the horses garry supplied that they kept pace with the galloping mob. as the leader rushed into the narrow channel the rest followed him pell-mell. the men closed in after them, driving them along at full speed, rushing them through before they realised they were caught. when this happened the din was tremendous. the trapped horses gave vent to their feelings by kicking, squealing, and biting in an extraordinary manner. the men rested themselves and their horses and watched them. "there are pretty near fifty," said garry. "they're a good-looking lot. it's the recent rain's done it. they've had more to eat than they've had for months past." "it will make them the harder to mount," replied glen. "suppose we give 'em a rest for a night, and try our luck to-morrow. they'll have been without food for about eighteen hours, and it may tame them down," garry suggested. this was agreed to and they camped for the night close to the yards. next morning business commenced in earnest. likely looking horses were separated from the rest, and then the struggle began. the bulk of them were hard to saddle, still harder to mount, but it takes more than a savage, untamed buckjumper to conquer a man from the west. there were some stiff fights, and now and again a horse more desperate than the rest managed to rid himself of his rider after a long struggle. he was at once selected by glen as one of his lot. glen leigh excited the admiration of the men by the way he rode a tremendous horse about six or seven years old. he was a rough untamed animal, probably a son of old tear'em, garry said. at any rate he was very like that incorrigible savage. he stood nearly seventeen hands, and had the strength of half a dozen ordinary wild horses. it took them half an hour to get the saddle and bridle on, and glen was another ten minutes before he got into his saddle. the boonara men never forgot that mighty struggle. they talked about it for years after, whenever buckjumpers were mentioned. it easily broke all records as far as they were concerned. the huge animal was a prince among buckjumpers, and glen had all his work cut out to keep his seat. the horse bounded up and down as though his legs were springs. one moment he was off the ground, on all fours, his back arched like a bended bow, the next his fore feet were planted firmly on the ground and his hind quarters elevated almost to the perpendicular. he twirled and twisted in an extraordinary fashion, lay down, crushed glen's leg, rushed against the fence, did everything to throw his grim rider, but without avail. at last he stood covered in sweat, and quivering in every limb. it was then that glen dismounted, but when he tried to get into the saddle he found the horse ready for another battle-royal. "he'll do, garry. if anyone can ride him in sydney they'll earn any prize that may be offered. what a magnificent brute he is. if one could only tame him--but i expect that's impossible," said glen. "by gad, you can ride above a bit," was garry's admiring comment. chapter xv the big show the horses selected were safely railed to sydney. bill bigs had secured stabling for them; such as it was it answered the purpose. they bore the journey better than might have been expected, but there was some danger and difficulty in getting them through the streets to redfern. once they were safely housed glen felt a difficult task was well done. he went to see clara benny. she welcomed him in her usual way, with a smile and a kiss. these constant kisses embarrassed glen, but he liked them. they showed she had faith in him, and that gave him hope. he told her where he had been, and what for, watching her closely all the time, but there were no signs of recognition. her memory in that direction was still a blank. he had no doubt, after what he had heard and seen, that she was at mintaro with craig bellshaw, and that he had driven her away, after a struggle with her, and left her to die a terrible death, which would have happened had she not found her way to the hut. for this bellshaw should pay in full when the time came. glen, however, had such a lot of work in hand with the horses that he had no time for anything else. it took a month to get them in hand so that they could be saddled quickly, but their bucking propensities were encouraged in every way. they were given full scope in this direction. jim and glen were constantly in the saddle. the big horse threw them both more than once, until glen fairly mastered, but could not tame him. he was a big bay horse with a savage-looking head, and his strength was great. they called him the savage, which was appropriate, and he did not belie his name. there were fourteen horses in all, and a cheque had been sent to craig bellshaw for them. jerry makeshift came to a private exhibition, and was enthusiastic about it. he gave the show valuable assistance in "the sketch," spoke to many of his press friends, and the buckjumpers were boomed well, so that public excitement about them was roused to the highest pitch. the building was well adapted for the purpose. a ring was formed and fenced in with stout posts and rails so that there would be no danger to the spectators. on the opening night the place was packed. a challenge had been issued. two hundred pounds would be given to anyone who could sit the savage for ten minutes; assistance would be given to mount. fifty pounds was offered for riding half a dozen others, ten pounds for the remainder, all ten minutes' spells. there were scores of men in sydney and the surrounding districts who thought they were equal to the various tasks set. six well-known riders sent in their names. two of them came from wagga with big reputations, and one from bathurst. they all tried the savage. the horse had an easy task, for he was no sooner mounted than he shot riders through the air like rockets. not one of them made the semblance of a fight with him. then glen leigh's turn came. he sprang into the saddle without assistance and the battle commenced. round and round the ring the savage bucked in a series of furious leaps. he kicked, squealed, fought desperately, tried to bite glen's leg, but all in vain; he stuck to his seat in splendid style. the savage finding these tactics of no avail, threw himself down. glen slipped out of the saddle. as the horse struggled to his feet he sprang on again amidst a hurricane of applause. at the end of a quarter of an hour he concluded his exhibition, and when he stood in the ring holding the savage tight by the bridle, the people cheered him to the echo, and the building rang with the shouts. the other riders were exciting, but paled before the performance of glen leigh and the savage. as the crowd left the building everybody was asking who glen leigh was, and where he came from. he was the most wonderful rider they had seen. jerry makeshift had not given glen away. he reserved the account he intended to publish for the issue following the opening night. he made good use of the material he had in hand. it so happened that "the sketch" came out in the afternoon of the next day, and a full account of the "keeper of the fence" was given and the manner in which he had captured the horses and brought them to sydney. it was the genuineness of the show that attracted the people, and the place was crowded every night. money came rolling in and the promoters were in high spirits. ivor hadwin, bellshaw's trainer, had been a great rider of rough, unbroken horses on his father's station, before they fell on evil times, were ruined by drought and moneylenders, and came to sydney. on the station he had ridden the worst of buckjumpers, and he thought with a little practice he might be able to stick on the savage for ten minutes and win the two hundred pounds. for four nights running he succeeded in riding the horses for the lowest prizes. then he won one of fifty pounds, and glen leigh complimented him. "you'll have to try for the two hundred," he said to ivor. "that's what i mean to do." "will you allow us to advertise it?" asked glen. "certainly," answered hadwin. "i've no objections. you've treated me well, and paid me the money i have won." "we shall always do that, and i hope you have to draw the two hundred, but i warn you the savage is a demon, and you'll have to keep your eyes open," said glen. "i believe at one time i could ride as well as you, but training has made me a bit soft," replied hadwin. strange to say glen leigh did not know hadwin was a trainer. no one told him, probably taking it for granted that he knew. "you train racehorses?" asked glen. "yes, at randwick. come and see me one day." "with pleasure," said glen. "who do you train for?" ivor hadwin smiled. "i wonder someone has not told you about me," he said. "i never asked. there is such a heap of things to do i've had no time, and it matters little who wins the prizes," returned glen. "i train for craig bellshaw," said ivor. glen started. this was strange, especially as the horses all came from mintaro. "i know him," he said. "so do i, too well," answered ivor. "he's a hard man to please." "i daresay he is," glen agreed. someone called him away and he left hadwin, saying he would call and see him next morning. "i'll be there. come about eleven," said ivor. "what night will you attempt to ride the savage?" asked glen, looking back. "saturday." "that's the best night for us, thanks." glen told bill what had passed between them when he reached the kangaroo. jerry makeshift was there. "you mean to say you didn't know until to-night who ivor hadwin was?" he asked. "no." "and you made no enquiries?" "it didn't interest me. it was part of the show." "and no one enlightened you?" "no." "well, i'm blessed. that's funny; everybody knows hadwin. i'm told he's likely to win the caulfield cup, or the melbourne cup, or both, for bellshaw," said jerry. "has bellshaw some good horses?" enquired glen. "yes, about a dozen in all, i think, and four or five above the average, but i don't go in for racing much. tom roslyn, of 'the racing life,' told me. he's the best turf judge we have on the press, and he can pick out good horses as easily as i can a bottle of wine." "then he must be an uncommon judge," laughed bill. "what's the name of the cup horse?" asked glen. "barellan. he's five years old now, and has a nice weight, so tom says. i forget what it is," jerry answered. "here's nick gerard's list," put in bill. "barellan, st. lbs., in the melbourne cup, st. lb. in the caulfield cup." "i'll ask hadwin to let me have a look at him when i go there in the morning," said glen. "have you bought a ticket in the big sweep on the melbourne cup yet?" asked jerry. "no, i forgot all about it," replied glen. "i'll get one for you if you like," said jerry. "i wish you would. here's the money," and he handed him a sovereign. jerry tossed it, "heads a horse, tails a blank," he called. the coin fell on the table head up. "that's a fair start, anyhow. let's hope it will be a good 'un you draw." glen laughed. "i haven't much faith in sweeps. i was never tempted to throw money away in them." "have one in the caulfield cup as well?" suggested jerry. "no, that will be sufficient," returned glen. "it's a sovereign gone to the bad." "don't be too sure about that; it's your maiden effort, and may prove successful," said jerry. "get me a ticket at the same time," said bill. "all right, and i hope when i call here with them it will bring luck to the kangaroo," answered jerry. "i can do with the cash," said glen laughing, "bill's got heaps." chapter xvi mrs. prevost glen leigh went by the train to randwick, and walked to hadwin's stables. the trainer was glad to see him. he liked him; something hearty about glen appealed to him. "we'll have a look round the horses first, if you care to see them," said the trainer. "that's just what i want," replied glen. "i'm fond of horses. when i was a keeper on the fence old ping was my only companion. i've got him in sydney. he's the queerest horse out; you'd be amused at him. i don't suppose you'd consider him worth a fiver, but it would take a good many fivers to buy him." "a bush horse, i suppose?" "yes, one of the best, a faithful old slave. we've been companions for many years." "i like a man who's fond of horses. what a queer name--ping." "and he's a queer horse," laughed glen. they went round the stables. all the horses belonged to craig bellshaw; they were a fair lot as far as glen could judge. "that's flash," said ivor, pointing to a good-looking chestnut. "he's rather smart." glen eyed him over and came to the conclusion he was the best he had seen so far. in the next box was barellan. the brown horse looked well. he was full of muscle, hard and clean. as they entered his box he turned and looked at them. when he saw the trainer he seemed quite contented, knowing everything was all right when he was there. "he's quiet enough," said ivor. "have a good look at him. he's a bit different tempered from the savage." "i hope so, for your sake," retorted glen smiling, "or you stand a very fair chance of being killed." "that's something to look forward to on saturday night," ivor answered. glen went up to the horse and examined him well, passing his hand over him, carefully taking in his points. it was difficult to find fault with barellan. if there was one it was his hocks, which were large and rather unsightly, but there was nothing wrong with them. they were rather low down, in the greyhound style. he had a splendid back and quarters, good shoulders, neck and chest, a shapely head and a good forehead, and fine eyes. he stood over sixteen hands. "what do you think of him?" ivor asked. "he's a good-looking horse. he ought to gallop. he's built for it," replied glen. "so he can. he's the best i have by a long way, although some people prefer flash." "i don't," said glen promptly. "he's in the melbourne cup, isn't he?" "yes, in both cups," said the trainer. "will he go for them both?" "i don't know. it depends on the sweep-money, i expect. bellshaw's always insisted on having a cut out of the sweep with his horses." "i suppose that is a regular thing," said glen. "generally speaking it is, but he's greedy. he wants too much," ivor answered. glen stayed to lunch, and they chatted about life in the west, and the trainer told him about the doings at randwick and elsewhere, interesting him in some of the great horses and races he had seen. "i shall have a good try to win that two hundred on saturday night," said ivor. "if you stick on for ten minutes you'll deserve it," replied glen. "i'll give you a bit of advice. if he throws you get out of the ring as quick as you can, or he'll be on top of you before you know where you are." "he's not going to throw me," said the trainer confidently. glen smiled. he had no wish to dishearten him, but he knew there was little chance of his being successful. on saturday night the building was crammed, every seat being taken. the announcement that the well-known trainer, ivor hadwin, was going to ride the savage, and try to win the two hundred pounds, caused much excitement. there were some good bouts before the event of the evening took place, and when ivor entered the ring he was loudly cheered. the trainer was pleased with his reception. he had not received much of the world's applause during his career. the way he mounted the savage augured well for his success. the horse appeared to know he had a man on his back who would give him "a good game." for a moment the savage stood still, then suddenly he sprang straight into the air, all his feet off the ground, and his back arched. ivor had a severe wrench, but stuck to his seat. round the ring the horse went, backing and fighting in his most savage mood. glen saw the horse was in a nasty temper and hoped the trainer would not be hurt. that he would retain his seat for ten minutes he thought impossible. ivor hadwin made no empty boast when he said at one time he believed he rode as well as glen leigh. considering the small amount of practice he had his seat was splendid, and for five minutes the savage tried in vain to throw him. glen, who was in the ring, encouraged him by frequent shouts. six minutes passed and still hadwin was in the saddle, but glen fancied he saw signs that he was tiring. if this were so it was all up with his chance. again the savage stood still, gathering his strength. his eyes rolled, his nostrils were extended and red. foam came from his mouth, but his limbs were set, and there was no quivering. it was all determination, and no excitement. away he went again, round and round the ring, twisting and twirling, leaping sideways, banging hadwin against the posts. then he went to the centre of the ring, turned suddenly, galloped round at top speed. in a moment he stopped dead and springing into the air gave a terrific buck, squealing like a mad horse as he did so. the trainer was tired. the struggle had been tremendous, and the last plunge proved too much for him. he was thrown clean out of the saddle, and fell with a thud. remembering glen's warning to get out of the ring as quickly as possible, he was scrambling to his feet, when the savage rushing at him, knocked him down, and trampled him with his forefeet. glen leigh sprang forward as soon as the trainer fell, and it was well he did. he arrived just in the nick of time, before any more serious injury than a few bruises was done. he seized the savage by the bridle and pulled him back, unconsciously showing his great strength; there was a cheer as he held the brute in hand while the trainer left the ring. before the savage had time to switch round glen was in the saddle, and another tussle took place, but it was an easy task for the rider this time. the trainer had given the horse a severe dose, which had had due effect. glen dismounted and announced from the ring that a cheque for twenty-five pounds would be handed ivor hadwin for the splendid way he had handled the savage; a roar of cheering greeted this generous offer. there was one woman in the vast audience who watched glen leigh all the time he was in the ring. she was a dark, handsome, well dressed woman, with fine eyes, a good figure, rather inclined to be stout, and she evidently knew many people present. she had been several times, and had always given her whole attention to glen's performance with the savage. this alone appeared to interest her. she wished she knew him. she was about forty years of age, perhaps a year or two older, and her life had been a peculiar one. she had married at the age of eighteen, and her husband deserted her when she was twenty. at this time she went as a barmaid in one of the numerous private bars that then existed in sydney. some of these were veritable dens of vice, but she kept herself respectable for several years. when she was thirty she had saved sufficient money to take a small boarding-house at north shore. shortly afterwards she was introduced to craig bellshaw, and from north shore she went to macquarie street; for the last year she had lived at manley. she did not like bellshaw, but he was useful to her and not ungenerous, and as he left her pretty much to herself she was fairly contented. she was one of those women who, given a better chance early in life, would probably have made good use of it. she had plenty of confidence, boldness if you will, but she was not vicious; her life was irreproachable, except for bellshaw's coming into it, and she lived quietly at manley, with her maid, and a chinaman cook, who was a perfect marvel at concocting curious and succulent dishes. her name was rosa prevost, and her neighbours, although they did not quite understand her, found her affable, generous and hospitable. in fact mrs. prevost was popular in her surroundings. she knew ivor hadwin, through bellshaw, having been to the stables with him. if she wished to be introduced to glen leigh the trainer would oblige her, but she did not care to ask him; she was too proud. her house at manley was frequented by several well-known people such as jerry makeshift, tom roslyn, and other journalists, and many actors and actresses, several of whom knew her past life, and how she had been treated in her young days. she was destined to have her desire for an introduction to glen leigh fulfilled sooner than she expected. chapter xvii jealousy "yes, i know glen leigh--a most interesting man," said jerry makeshift. he was at sea view, mrs. prevost's house at manley. she had invited him there with the purpose to find out something about the daring rider of the savage. "tell me about him. i admire his riding," she said. jerry gave her a full account of glen's career as far as he knew it. she had read "the sketch," but he embellished what he had written there for her gratification. "so he was a keeper of the fence," she said thoughtfully. "fancy a man like that being exiled there. i wonder why he went?" "a woman probably," said jerry. "that's always the way when a man banishes himself from society. it's always a woman who is the cause," she said. "and don't you think nine times out of ten it is so?" he asked. "no, the man is often more to blame than the woman. take my case." "which is an exception," he said smiling. "will you bring him here? i should like to meet him. do you think he would come?" "i'll try. he's not a shy man, but he doesn't go out much. are you anxious to know him?" asked jerry. "he interests me," she answered. "then i'll try and fix it up. only promise me not to draw him into your clutches; you are so fascinating. look at me, i worship you." "jerry, you're a humbug. you don't care a straw for anyone except yourself," she laughed. "that's all you know. i have done some generous actions in my time, that it won't do to speak about; it would sound too much like blowing my own trumpet," he said. jerry had some difficulty in inducing glen leigh to go to manley, but succeeded at last, and they went together. "who is mrs. prevost?" asked glen. jerry explained as much as he thought proper. there was no occasion to mention bellshaw. if his name cropped up in conversation it would not be his fault. mrs. prevost was agitated. she almost wished she had not asked jerry to bring him, and yet she was desirous of making glen's acquaintance. already, before she knew him, he had a peculiar fascination for her. she felt angry because it was so. the feeling was quite new and strange; hitherto she had been cold and calculating. she knew all this would vanish where glen leigh was concerned. they arrived before lunch, and when glen saw mrs. prevost he was at once struck with her peculiar charm of manner. no sooner was he in her presence than all her doubts and agitation vanished, and she exerted herself to her utmost to please him. glen was quite willing to be pleased by this handsome woman, whose preference for him was already beginning to be marked. jerry smiled as he watched her. he knew her powers. no woman had ever gone so near to capturing him as she, but he had steeled himself against her. his career did not include a wife; he could not afford the luxury, he said. it was a nice luncheon. glen thoroughly enjoyed it, and complimented mrs. prevost on the possession of such an excellent cook. "he's a chinaman," she said smiling. "one of the despised heathens, but i have had him several years, and he has served me well. i found him." "found him!" exclaimed glen. "yes. it's quite correct; strange though it seems." "where did you find him?" "some years ago when he was quite young. he lived with his uncle in lower george street. he offended the great man in some way, and he turned him out of the house. he was wandering about when i came along. he spoke to me, pleaded hard for me to make him my servant. strange, was it not? something prompted me to take him in. i did, and have never regretted it. he appears to have one set purpose in life, to pay his uncle, lin soo, back in his own coin, and have his revenge. most unchristian-like isn't it? but of course he's a heathen," she said laughing. "lin soo is his uncle!" said glen. "yes. why? do you know him?" "not exactly, but i know of him. he keeps an infamous den in lower george street." "i thought it was a tea shop," she said. "to outward appearances, but inside it's an opium den, a gambling hell, and worse," glen replied. "worse!" she exclaimed enquiringly. glen did not care to pursue the subject and she asked no further questions. no mention was made of craig bellshaw, and glen left, not knowing she was intimate with the squatter. he promised to call again. she knew by his ready acceptance that she had made a favourable impression, and she was more pleased than she had been for many a day. she walked to the steamer with them, and when the boat left sat down on a seat at one side of the wharf. why should she not have her share of happiness in life? it had been denied her so far. there had been riotous living, and much pleasure, but no peace, no contentment. it was all a struggle, and part of a game which she had been forced to play, but never cared for. she walked slowly back to her house, thinking all the time, hoping, wishing as she had never wished before. if a man like glen leigh had come into her life years ago, how different everything would have been. she felt she had great capacity for making a man she loved happy. she was in the prime of life, good-looking, robust, full of health and spirits, and she did not lack money. why should she not find a fitting mate? a man who would condone the past, forget, or shut his eyes to it, and love her for herself. glen leigh was a man after her own heart, the stamp of man she had always admired. no matter what he thought of her, or whether they were merely acquaintances, she would never forget him. she made a firm resolve to try and win him; she would exert all her powers to that end. she craved for the real love of a man to meet the love she knew she had to give. it would not be half-hearted love or cold surrender. she wanted the real thing, not a sham. she had had too much of shams; she was sick of them. she longed for honesty, not deception, pretence, lies. there was craig bellshaw. he must be made to understand that she desired to sever all connections with him. she would write and tell him so. if he insisted on seeing her for a personal explanation she supposed she must grant him an interview, but it would be the last; she vowed it. glen leigh little knew the storm of feeling he had raised in mrs. prevost. had anyone told him he would have laughed at the idea. in answer to jerry he said he thought mrs. prevost a very nice woman. "handsome, eh?" said jerry. "yes, and she's a jolly good sort i should say." "so she is. i wonder some fellow hasn't snapped her up long ago," jerry answered. "she's better as she is," said glen. "not she. in her case i should say she ought to have a mate. she looks a woman who could make a man happy." "there's no telling," declared glen gloomily. the buckjumping show was a huge success, and a large ground had been taken for it in melbourne for a month, during which time the caulfield and melbourne cups would be decided. glen was surprised when his share was calculated by bill bigs. it was far more than he had expected in his most sanguine moments. jim benny was given a bonus with which he was more than contented. nearly all jim's spare time was spent with clara, who was in perfect health, and had developed into a very pretty woman. her mind, however, was still a blank as regards everything before she came to glen leigh's hut. glen thought some sudden shock might restore the lost memories. at the same time the effect might be serious. probably it would be better for her peace to remain as she was. glen's feelings towards her were difficult to analyse. he knew by the way she always greeted him that she regarded him as a father. at first he thought he loved her, but gradually this feeling lessened, and he knew it was pity and compassion that had grown in him, not love. he was more solicitous towards her than he had ever been, spoke kindly, looked after her every comfort, and she trusted and idolised him--but not as a lover. with jim it was different. he was younger than glen, and there was no doubt about his affection for her. she treated him differently from glen, was more reserved, never kissed him; she shrank away when he came too near, and was nervous in his presence. jim noticed all this and misunderstood. he thought her love was all for glen leigh, and this embittered him. he had not the strength of character of the elder man, could not stand trials so well, was soon cast down and dispirited. he had seen her kiss glen when they met--she always did--and yet when he came near her she shrank away. glen seemed to get the best out of life, while he, jim, had hardly anything to look forward to. he forgot what glen had done for him. a growing jealousy rose against his comrade; such feelings were easily roused in him. "i must know what he means, what she means," said jim to himself. "it's torturing me. i can't stand it--i won't." chapter xviii a question of jockeys craig bellshaw's life at mintaro was a burden to him; if his time had not been occupied there is no telling what might have happened. during the day he was constantly out of doors, but at night, his lonely dinner ended, he sat down and brooded. there were many actions in his life that would not bear the searchlight. he did not regret them; he was hardened. what he missed was the presence of a woman. it could not be called companionship, because he never gave his friendship fully to anyone. it would soon be time for him to go to sydney and see his horses do their work for the big victorian meeting. he had great hopes of barellan winning the melbourne cup, and thought flash had a chance in the caulfield race. he heard from his trainer regularly, and the reports were favourable. letters for mintaro were left at boonara by the mail coach which came twice a week. he read the account of the buckjumping exhibition, and begrudged bill bigs and glen leigh their success. they were his horses; why had he not thought of such a show and run it himself? he always begrudged fortune's favours to others. he had been uneasy ever since he found the piece of paper with lin soo written on it pushed under his door. he tried to persuade himself it meant nothing, but he knew different. it was a warning and he wondered how much glen leigh knew. then there was garry backham. he must see him before he went to sydney and find out how the land lay in that quarter. his man brought the post-bag and placed it on the table. craig unlocked it and took out the letters and papers. he opened one from ivor hadwin, who gave favourable accounts of the progress of all his horses, and prophesied a successful campaign in victoria. barellan was specially mentioned. no horse could be doing better; he had come on by leaps and bounds and was at least ten pounds better than when he ran at randwick. "if he is he'll win the cup," said craig. he placed the letter on one side to answer; the post-bag had to be at boonara next day. there were several bills, some circulars, newspapers, and one or two packages. a letter, directed in a lady's hand, claimed his attention. he knew the writing; it was from mrs. prevost. "she wants more money, i suppose," he muttered. "she'll have to want. i've been too openhanded with her, and she's not a bit grateful. women never are." as he read the letter his face became gloomy: it was not pleasant to look at. the contents angered him. she expressed her intention of severing all connection with him, said she had no desire to see him again, and much more to the same effect. craig bellshaw was in a rage. he considered mrs. prevost a useful adjunct to his visits to sydney. there was always a house to go to, where he could be sure of comfort, and the presence of a woman who was good to look upon; and now she coolly said she had no desire to see him again. there were no words of apology or respect. she repudiated the bargain, or what he considered the bargain, between them. there must be some solid reason for it, and the only one he could think of was another man. she would find he was not to be treated in this cavalier fashion. some men might stand it; he would not. he made up his mind to go to sydney at once. there were plenty of hands at mintaro, and his new overseer would look to things. he announced his intention of going next day. he started in the early morning, arriving at boonara about eleven o'clock; from there he would take the coach to bourke. he went to garry backham's, and asked him if there was anything he could do for him in sydney. "he's mighty polite," thought garry, "there's some mischief afoot." they talked for some time, and craig said. "about the money i lent you to buy this place, i've thought it over; you're welcome to it. you were always reliable when you were with me and did your work well." "he's changed his tune," thought garry. "you can consider yourself free of that debt," said craig. "i thought you'd come round to my way of thinking," replied garry, who knew well enough why he had suddenly become generous. "it was always my intention to make you a present of it," craig declared. "then why didn't you do it at first?" "because i wished to see what sort of man you were, and how you'd take it." "glen leigh and bill bigs have done well in sydney with the show," said garry. "it's lucky they got some of my horses. he seems to have picked out the right sort." "trust him for that. the fellow they call the savage is a ripper. he's by old tear'em, i'll swear. i never saw such a brute, but leigh mastered him as soon as he was yarded." "everybody seems to think he's a wonderful man," said craig. "so he is. they're few and far between," answered garry. "i see your horses are doing good work for the cups. do you fancy them?" "barellan and flash both have chances." "i've got a couple of tickets in the sweep on the melbourne cup," said garry. "if you draw barellan i shall expect you to stump up a good round sum out of your lot," bellshaw told him. "you'll get nothing out of me if i draw him, but it's about a million to one i don't," retorted garry. "whoever draws him will have to give me a cut out of the sweep or they'll stand a poor chance of getting a run for their money," said craig. "you don't mean to say you'd scratch barellan for a race like the melbourne cup merely because you were not offered anything out of the sweep?" garry asked. "i would. no man shall get the better of me. it's only fair. i have all the expense incurred over the horse." "then you're not much of a sportsman." "just as good as anyone else," returned craig. "well, if i happen to draw him you can scratch him. you'll not get me to lay you anything," said garry. when bellshaw arrived in sydney he went to hadwin's house at randwick, where there was always a room for him. the trainer would have preferred his staying elsewhere, but could raise no objections. the horses pleased him, barellan especially. he seemed in rare fettle, and the trainer said no horse could possibly have done better. "you'll have to look out for a jockey soon, or they'll all be snapped up. there is likely to be a big field, thirty runners or thereabouts," said ivor. "what about nicholl?" "he'd be all right if you could get him." "is he engaged?" "not that i know of." "then what's to prevent me engaging him?" hadwin hesitated, then said, "he'll want a big fee." "and can't i pay it?" thundered bellshaw. "you can pay it. the question is will you?" said the trainer. "if it's reasonable. what will he want?" "a hundred at least." "then he'll not get it. i'm not going to pay any jockey a hundred, win or lose. if barellan wins it's a different matter." "shall i see him about it or will you?" asked ivor. "you'd better see him. if he asked me that figure there's no telling what i'd say to him," bellshaw answered. hadwin saw nicholl on the training ground next morning. bellshaw was there, standing some distance away. "will you ride barellan in the melbourne cup?" asked ivor. "what sort of a chance has he?" "a winning chance. you can have the leg up on him this morning; he's just coming out." "all right," agreed nicholl. "then come with me," said the trainer. when barellan came out with nicholl up there was a stir among the watchers. luke nicholl was one of the best jockeys. there were few to equal him, and it was known he had not a mount in the cup, as he declined to tie himself down. his appearance on barellan at once set tongues wagging as to the possibility of his riding the horse in the cup. nicholl liked the way barellan moved. he knew he was a good game animal, and st. lb. was a nice weight. he could do it comfortably. "he moves well," said nicholl, when he dismounted. "you'll find him a far different horse in a race. he's not a track horse," said ivor. "will you accept the mount?" "it all depends." "what on?" "the amount to be paid me." "what do you want?" "a couple of hundred." "win or lose?" "yes." "he'll never give that. i doubt if he'll give a hundred, but come over to my place and talk it over. i'd like you to be on him, luke, because i think he'll just about win," said the trainer. "you can't expect me to ride him without i get a good fee," answered nicholl. "i'm worth it, eh?" "you are, and if i had the arranging of it i'd give you fair terms. you'll just suit barellan; he wants a lot of riding. he's a lazy beggar, and you know how to handle such horses." "when shall i come over?" "after breakfast." "i'll be there soon after nine," said nicholl, "but you can tell him i must have my price. i've not worked my way to the top of the ladder without trouble, and i mean to get what i'm worth." "i'll do my best, but don't be hasty over it, or you'll regret it," replied ivor. something in the trainer's earnest manner appealed to the jockey. "we've always been friends," he said. "i'd like to ride a big winner for you." "then ride barellan. he's one of the best horses i ever saw," said the trainer. chapter xix mrs. prevost's dilemma there was a tough skirmish when nicholl met craig bellshaw at hadwin's, but eventually the owner of barellan gave way, mainly owing to his trainer's representations and persuasion, and settled with the jockey to ride both his horses, flash at caulfield, and barellan at flemington, for two hundred, win or lose, five per cent. on the stakes, and five per cent. on any sweep money that might be forthcoming. having fixed this up, with a good deal of grumbling, bellshaw set out for manley to see mrs. prevost, who was not aware he was in sydney. bellshaw was in a bad temper. things were all awry, and even the thought of winning the melbourne cup with barellan did not soothe him. it was a disagreeable surprise to mrs. prevost when she heard who her visitor was. bellshaw made no bones about the matter. he asked her what she meant by writing him such a letter after all he had done for her; he upbraided her in no measured terms, used harsh names, and behaved somewhat brutally. it was his way with women. she resented his conduct and replied forcibly. he saw she was determined, and this angered him still more. there was a scene, they lost their tempers, and mutual recriminations were the result. mrs. prevost was expecting glen leigh for lunch and wished to get rid of bellshaw before he arrived. she dreaded their meeting, not on his account, but for the effect it might have on leigh, and her influence with him. bellshaw, however, did not seem in any hurry to go. he was loth to give her up; in his way he liked her. "the fact is," he said, "you've taken up with someone else. i warn you he shall know all about you." "you are cad enough to do that?" she asked. "you can call me names if you wish; i don't care, but i'll make it mighty unpleasant for you," he said. there was a ring at the front door. mrs. prevost was at her wits' end how to act. it was no doubt glen leigh. she left the room hurriedly, and opened the door herself. it was glen leigh. she took him into the front room, and said her maid had just gone out; she promised to return in a few minutes, and left him. glen thought this strange. she was agitated; something must have upset her. he wondered what it was. craig bellshaw also wondered why she had gone out of the room. he heard her open the door, and someone come in. who was it? the voice sounded like a man's. she gave him a hint that he had better be going. "not until i have seen who your visitor is," he said. "if i have a visitor it is no business of yours," she retorted. "it is. i am still interested in you even if you treat me badly," he said. what was she to do? how could she prevent a meeting between him and glen leigh? she cudgelled her brains but was at a loss to find a plan. bellshaw did not seem inclined to move. glen leigh waited a quarter of an hour and became restless. what detained her? he heard voices in the next room, but could not distinguish who was speaking. perhaps she had a visitor. if so, why did she not tell him? "i must ask you to leave my house," she said desperately. bellshaw laughed. "your house?" he sneered. "yes, mine. you did not know i had bought it." "have you paid for it?" "i have, if that's any consolation to you." "and you wish me to believe that? i wonder where you got the money from?" "it was my money. i am not without means," she answered indignantly. he laughed as he got up, but there was an evil look in his eyes. "i'll go. i don't wish to interfere with your pleasures, or any conquests you may make, but i've not done with you, i promise you that," said bellshaw. he took up his hat and opened the door. she followed him. would he go into the front room? her heart beat fast. she felt faint. it was a trying moment. glen leigh might see him leave the house, but he would not know who he was; if bellshaw saw him there was no telling what might happen. bellshaw passed the door of the room, opened the front door, and walked away without saying another word, or even raising his hat. it was a tremendous relief now he was gone; she waited a few minutes to regain her composure, and then with a faint smile, entered the front room. glen leigh was looking out of the window; he recognised craig bellshaw and was so astonished he did not hear her open the door. scores of questions crowded into his mind as he saw the owner of mintaro walking away; the main questions were how came he to mrs. prevost's, and for what purpose? she saw glen with his back turned to her, and knew he had seen her visitor; she was not aware leigh knew him, and of his doings elsewhere of which she was in ignorance; she had, as yet, no conception of the depths of infamy to which bellshaw had sunk. "i am sorry to keep you waiting so long, but i had a visitor," she said. "i saw him leave the house," said glen, turning sharply round. "he's an old friend; i have known him many years." she could not make him out. he was looking at her steadily; his eyes seemed to pierce her. "i know him," said glen quietly. "i did not expect to see him in _your_ house." "you know him!" she exclaimed aghast, the colour deserting her cheeks. "yes. do you know him well?" he asked. "yes, but why do you ask in such a strange way?" "i do not think you know what craig bellshaw really is. i am sure you do not. if you did he would never have been admitted to your house," said glen. what was she about to hear? she must learn more; how was she to excuse herself to him? what if he and bellshaw met? there would be revelations, her backsliding would be magnified a hundred times; she must have the first say no matter what it cost her. "what is he?" she asked. "a bad man, almost a murderer. i dare not tell you what has happened at mintaro. you would be overwhelmed with shame to think you ever had dealings with, or ever took the hand of such a man," said glen seriously. she looked very charming in her distress. even glen leigh would have been very dense had he failed to see the appeal in her eyes, or to recognise that she liked him very much indeed. no woman had ever appealed to him quite in the same way as mrs. prevost; he had thought a good deal about her since he saw her last. "tell me about him," she said. "what was he doing here?" asked glen who doubted everything where craig bellshaw was concerned. "he came to see me, not at my request, but i was not surprised. i had written to him at mintaro telling him--" she hesitated. glen waited. should he help her out? he thought he could. rage was surging up in him, not against mrs. prevost, but against bellshaw. was she another of his victims? that was hardly possible; yet there were unmistakable signs of acute distress at the situation in which she was placed. as glen thought, a sudden wave of feeling overwhelmed him, and would not be beaten back. he loved this woman. by some strange fatality bellshaw was connected with her as he had been with the other woman. he felt a mad desire to rush after bellshaw and kill him. this passed in a few seconds; then he said, in answer to her hesitation, "telling him you never wished to see him again." she looked at him in great surprise, feeling intense relief. this man understood her, because he knew craig bellshaw for what he was. already he had forgiven her without the asking. he did not blame her, but the man. in that case he guessed some of the truth and the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks. she bowed her head; then she looked straight at him and said, "that is what i wrote him--that i never wished to see him again. i ordered him to leave the house, my house, when you saw him go. i will never admit him again." "i am glad of that," said glen. "very glad. when did you write to him?" it was the truth she would tell him. "the day after you came here with jerry," she said. glen smiled. "what decided you to write?" he asked. "you did." again he smiled. "i wonder how that happened?" he said. "can't you guess?" she answered in a low voice. "no, at least not yet. later on i'll try--with your permission." "you have it now. i want a friend--like you." "you don't think he'd dare to come here again?" asked glen savagely. "there is no telling what he might do. try and avoid him." "why should i?" "he's a dangerous man." glen laughed. "i'm more than a match for him in many ways," he replied. after lunch she asked him to tell her about craig bellshaw. "i will tell you one terrible thing which i believe to be quite true," he said. "i am waiting to find out. it is a matter of time, and you must promise not to repeat what i tell you." she readily gave her promise and he told her in a graphic narrative all about the woman who came to his hut, what happened there, and since her recovery. he concealed nothing, not even about lin soo. he thought, in justice, she ought to know what manner of man craig bellshaw was. as she listened, horrified, believing every word, she felt deeply humiliated when she thought what bellshaw had been in her life; she shuddered with repulsion. "bring her here," she said. "let her be my companion. i may be able to call back her lost memories. i will love her for all she has suffered. you will trust her with me, will you not?" chapter xx the drawer of barellan they decided to allow clara to go to mrs. prevost's, and glen took her there. she was given a kindly welcome. mrs. prevost was glad to have her, liked her at once. the feeling was mutual. glen felt he had left her in good hands, that she would be happy and comfortable. "don't let bellshaw see her if by any chance he calls," said glen, "but he will be going to melbourne for the cup meetings, and our show leaves to-morrow. i shall not see you again for several weeks." "i shall look forward to your return. i hope you will do well there," she answered. "i think we shall. there is no reason why we should not do even better than in sydney." as glen was leaving, having bid good-bye to clara, he said, "on my return i may have something to tell you; something which i hope will be for our happiness." she smiled brightly, guessing what he meant. there was a prospect of sailing into a peaceful harbour after a stormy life. glen leigh was indeed a man. he had not even questioned her about the past, or her relations with bellshaw. the horses, and all the paraphernalia of the show, went to melbourne by steamer, glen and jim going with them. during the short voyage glen thought jim taciturn and ill-tempered. he asked him the cause. "i'm sick of life," said jim, "i never seem to get anything out of it. you and bill have all the luck." "i don't think you've done so badly," objected glen, "and now you have a share in the show. what more do you want?" "a good deal more. i want happiness, and i don't seem in the way of getting it." "why not? what troubles you? tell me, lad; i may be able to help you." then, as they sat on deck, jim poured out the vials of his ill-tempered wrath on glen's head. he told how he loved clara, but that she avoided, shunned him. he complained that it was very hard lines he, glen, should come between them. for a long time he went on grumbling, and glen listened to him patiently not saying a word. he let him exhaust himself before he made any reply. "jim, you're a fool," said glen. "when she first came across my path and found her way to my hut, as i sat and nursed her back to life, you helping me, i thought i loved her. i was sure of it. that same feeling possessed me when we came to sydney. it remained with me until something happened which opened my eyes, something totally unexpected. she put her arms round my neck and kissed me." "i know," said jim. "i know. she always does. she loves you." glen smiled as he said, "you're a bit shallow, jim. you can't see far. i knew when she kissed me she would never love me like that, so i gave it up. she regarded me as a father, that was all, and i'm quite contented she should. i've found out the feeling i had for her was not that of a lover. i love her, i always shall, because i rescued her from death. it's only natural. you've no need to fear me as a rival. i love another woman, not her." jim's face brightened. he knew glen spoke the truth; he always did. it clouded again as he thought how she avoided him. "the reason she doesn't kiss you," said glen, "is because she feels different towards you. she doesn't think it would be right. i've watched her, and i think if she does not love you now she will in days to come. she'll miss you when you are away from her in melbourne. probably she'll talk to mrs. prevost about you. wait till you come back and then see how the land lies. she's not fit to marry yet, not strong enough. it will be better to wait until she recovers her memory." "she may never recover it," said jim. "she will, i'm sure of it, and through mrs. prevost, who will help her. she's a sympathetic woman, and i told her all about it, everything. she'll do all in her power to bring back her lost memory; she said she would," glen answered. after this conversation jim was a different man. all along he had been jealous of glen; now the cause was removed. sometimes he gave a thought to joe calder, but he felt no regret for what he had done; the man had brought it on himself. "if i hadn't shot him he'd have done for me," said jim to himself. the show arrived safely in melbourne, and opened in a large tent on the st. kilda road. crowds flocked to it, and before the first week was over glen knew they were in for an even better season than in sydney. they started business the saturday before the caulfield cup. the tent was packed every night, and sometimes twice a day. ivor hadwin arrived at caulfield with his horses, barellan, flash, and a couple of others. betting on the two cups was brisk, and barellan was well backed by the public at a hundred to eight. bellshaw had been laid a fair sum to nothing by the drawer of flash in the caulfield cup sweep. the first hundred thousand pound sweep on the melbourne cup was to be drawn in sydney on monday night. when glen leigh was informed he laughed, and said, "i don't set much account on it. a fellow can't expect to get anything with one ticket in a hundred thousand." there was a tremendous race for the caulfield cup, and flash ran third, being beaten by roland and mackay. flash ran a remarkably fast race. ivor hadwin hardly thought him good enough to win and he died away a furlong from the post. knowing what barellan could do with flash on the track, the trainer told nicholl he thought the melbourne cup was pretty nearly as good as won. the result of the drawing for the hundred thousand pound sweep on the melbourne cup was made public on the wednesday. glen leigh received a wire from bill bigs which fairly astonished him. "you have drawn barellan. good luck, bill." this was astounding news indeed. he had only one ticket in the sweep, number , and it had drawn barellan, third favourite for the great race. was there ever such a stroke of luck! glen could hardly believe in his good fortune. barellan was bellshaw's horse which made it more remarkable still. all his friends connected with the show crowded round congratulating him. he was regarded as a kind of hero. the first prize was close upon twenty-five thousand pounds, and there were numerous other large and small sums to be divided. he was bound to get one of the first three big prizes with such a horse as barellan running for him, so said everybody who knew him. ivor hadwin heard the news with mixed feelings; he was glad leigh had drawn the horse, but wondered what would happen if he declined to give craig bellshaw a cut out of the sweep money. it was impossible to keep the fact that leigh had drawn barellan a secret, nor had he any wish it should be so. "i've drawn the horse; where's the harm in people knowing it?" said glen. bill bigs arrived in melbourne, and consulted with glen as to what was best to be done. bill advised him to lay some of it against barellan. he could stand to win a large sum to nothing, and if the horse lost he would also be a winner. glen, however, was adamant on this point. he declared he would not lay off a penny; he'd stand the thing right out. "it's only cost me a pound," he said. "that's not much, and i'd sooner go the whole hog and win the lot, if barellan wins. if he loses i shall not grumble." "please yourself," said bill. "from all i hear you stand a good chance of pulling it off at the first time of asking. it's an extraordinary piece of luck, that's what it is. i know fellows who have been going in for sweeps for years and have never drawn a horse. i've been doing it for a dozen years, and all i ever got was a non-starter." "you shall have a couple of hundred if barellan wins," said glen. "so shall jim, and i'll see hadwin and nicholl have a trifle." "you're distributing the cash before you've won," laughed bill. "half the fun of things is to anticipate, and plan out what you'll do with the money," glen laughed back. "so it is. i've drawn some nice little pictures myself, but they've always been rubbed out, not so much as a daub remaining," said bill. when glen met hadwin, the trainer asked, "i suppose you've not heard from bellshaw?" "no. what do i want to hear from him for?" replied glen. hadwin smiled. "you've not had much experience of sweeps. owners generally expect a good slice out of them," he said. "if bellshaw expects to get me to lay him a big slice he's mistaken. i shan't lay him a penny," replied glen determinedly. "for goodness' sake don't say that," expostulated hadwin in genuine alarm. "why not? i mean it." "it will ruin me, leigh, ruin me. i've backed barellan for all i'm worth, or nearly so," said the trainer. "well, my drawing him in the sweep won't stop him winning." "no, i don't mean that. i think he will win, but if you don't lay bellshaw a fair sum, there's no telling what he'll do." "what can he do?" asked glen, surprised. "scratch him," said hadwin in a low tremulous voice. chapter xxi lame craig bellshaw soon heard who was the drawer of barellan in the great melbourne cup sweep. glen leigh held the ticket. he smiled wickedly. he had found out that glen had been a welcome visitor at mrs. prevost's. so this was the man who had supplanted him. he wished him joy of his bargain; he'd find it pretty expensive. no doubt it was leigh who called when he, bellshaw, was ordered out of the house. if he had only known he would have enlightened him there and then; he intended doing so at the first favourable opportunity. he'd make it particularly hot and sultry for mrs. prevost, put a spoke in her wheel that even glen leigh would not care to try and pull out. a keeper of the fence, a common showman, a rider of buckjumpers, to be ousted by such a man--it made craig bellshaw writhe. he did not call at sea view before he left for melbourne; there was time enough. he'd put in an appearance when he had fairly choked leigh off, made him sick of the whole business. he hated him, he hated mrs. prevost for throwing him over, and he vowed vengeance against them. leigh had thwarted him in many ways when he had been on the fence. bellshaw recalled how on one occasion he had given him the lie direct at a meeting held at boonara, and had proved his statement up to the hilt. this had lessened the owner of mintaro's prestige considerably, and he had not forgiven it. glen leigh had drawn barellan. bellshaw chuckled, a curious gurgling sound, more like the growling of a dog. this decided him. he had returned to sydney after the caulfield cup; he didn't care for melbourne. he took train back again as soon as he heard who had drawn barellan in the sweep. he always stayed at scott's. he walked there from spencer street station, along collins street. "hallo, bellshaw, back again?" it was nick gerard who, for a wonder, was in that part of the town. "you, nick. what's the news?" "i expect you know it all; you're never much behind the times where your interests are concerned. by gad, perhaps you don't know; it only happened this morning. when did you arrive?" "i've just come in by the express. what's up?" "your horse, barellan." "well?" "he went lame on the track at flemington this morning, limped away badly, and it's the week before the race. he'll not have much time to pull round. i'm sorry for you. it's deuced bad luck, but you can stand it. i'm more sorry for that chap, glen leigh, who drew him in the sweep. it's rough on him. i like him; he's the best roughrider i ever saw. i'm open to bet there isn't a bucker in australia can get rid of him in a quarter of an hour. i told him i'd bet a level thousand, two thousand if anybody wanted it, and give him half if he won," said nick. "my horse lame!" exclaimed bellshaw, ignoring the latter part of nick's remarks. "dead lame, from all accounts. i didn't see him, but i met luke nicholl in bourke street, and he told me. he was on his back, so he ought to know," said the bookmaker. "damn him! he'd no right to say anything about it, especially to a bookmaker," cried bellshaw angrily. "and pray why not? what have i done? the fact will be in all the evening papers. most men i met at the club were talking about it." "were they? it's a den of thieves," almost shouted bellshaw, in his anger. "you're talking rot," said nick, who knew his man. he also had a fairly thick skin, and such remarks failed to penetrate it. "have you been playing 'solo' all the way from sydney and losing, or what's ruffled you?" "i never play 'solo' or hazards," sneered bellshaw. "well, i do, and i'm considered a fairly good hand at the former. as to hazards, i'll not say much about that. i'm out on the green cloth, out a biggish sum, but i can't leave off. it's in my blood. i must throw the dice sometimes," said nick. "more fool you. where are you going?" "to the federal." bellshaw smiled grimly. "what have you got there? is she nice? bewitching? or just an ordinary filly?" he asked. "it's a man, a dashed clever fellow, but he's one failing, and it's got fairly hold of him since he's been in melbourne this time. i've known him come here and never touch a drop the whole blessed time, but he's been knocked out this trip. i'd like to find out the beggar who led him on. i'd give him a piece of my mind," said nick hotly. "haven't you enough to do without wasting your time over a boozer?" "he's always been a friend of mine; he's done all his expenses in, and hasn't a bean. i mean to see him through, if he'll promise to keep straight until the meeting's over." "and do you suppose he will?" sneered bellshaw. "yes, if he gives me his word," replied nick. "you're blessed with an uncommon amount of faith," said bellshaw. "and you've got none, not even in yourself. if you'd any pluck you'd not squeal because barellan's gone lame. he may pull round. hadwin's a clever man with dicky horses." "he's an ass or he'd not have galloped the horse to a standstill. i told him he was giving him too much work." "i'm more sorry for him than you," said the bookmaker. bellshaw laughed cynically, ignored the remark and asked, "who's your sick friend at the federal?" "jerry makeshift, of 'the sketch,' one of the best, the very best, a jewel with only one flaw in it." "a gem of the first water, with whiskey in it," jeered bellshaw. "and supposing he is? that's better than being a grinding, snarling, miserable money-grubber," retorted nick. "who's in a bad temper now?" asked bellshaw. "you're enough to rile a parson," said nick. "i never tried. i don't know much about 'em. i haven't got a chaplain at mintaro." "by all accounts you ought to have." "what for?" "to marry you," said nick laughing. bellshaw swore and left him. nick looked after him. "he's a rotter if ever there was one, but he's been straight with me so far, and he'd better continue to walk the line. the first time he steps off it i'll push him right down," he thought, then went into the federal. "is mr. makeshift in?" he asked the young lady presiding over the entry book in the desk, on the right hand side near the door. "oh, it's you, mr. gerard. yes, he's in. he's been asking for you," and she told him where to find him. nick ascended the stairs, knocked at the door. "come in," said a thick voice. nick entered and found jerry struggling with a sketch. "i don't feel a bit humorous," said jerry. "you're a pretty specimen," began nick. "look here, old nick, if you've come here to upbraid me i don't want to see you. what i want is ten pounds to see me through." nick laughed. "i'll let you have it if you promise to keep all right." "snakes alive. you don't suppose i want to be sacked, do you?" exclaimed jerry. "i'd be sorry if you were, so would thousands of people. we'd all miss you, jerry. 'the sketch' wouldn't be the same paper," answered nick. "that's awfully good of you," said the repentant jerry. "it means a lot to me. i'll not go back on you, nick, i promise you, and you shall have some good stuff to amuse you next week." "that's right, old boy. buck up. here's the cash. have you heard the latest?" "i haven't been out for days." "barellan's lame; nicholl told me this morning. i've just met bellshaw. he's in a towering rage, cursing everybody, and everything. he can handle some language when he likes. he's a heavyweight at it," said nick. "bellshaw's a beast," replied jerry. "i'm not sorry for him, but i am for leigh and hadwin." "so am i, and i told him so," said nick. "what'll happen?" asked jerry. "i suppose he'll scratch him if there's no chance of getting him to the post." "lame horses have gone to the post and won a melbourne cup," said jerry. "i'd sooner have one with four legs sound." "i say, nick?" "yes." "what do you fancy?" "if barellan gets right i think he'll win." "and if not?" "roland." "the caulfield cup winner?" "yes. he's a good horse--better than folks imagine." "but his penalty?" "he's a weight carrier. his trainer says he'd a stone in hand at caulfield." "that settles it," said jerry. chapter xxii sweep money after the caulfield cup, hadwin took the horses to flemington, where they were boxed at the top of the hill, at the racecourse hotel, where many good horses have had their quarters. thither bellshaw went, when he had been to scott's, and cleansed himself from the grime that accumulated coming from albury to melbourne. he was not popular at the hotel. his generosity was of the miserly kind, and everybody knew it. still he was the owner of barellan, the sensational horse of the hour, and people wondered if it would be a case of another assassin, who was reported lame, and won easily. the head waiter said, "it's just up to bellshaw to plant a lame 'un on us, and then for the horse to come up smiling and win." when bellshaw arrived at the racecourse hotel he at once saw hadwin, and there was a stormy scene. "i told you he'd break down if you gave him such strong work," said bellshaw. "he hasn't broken down," retorted the trainer. "gerard told me he's dead lame." "that's different to breaking down. he's not dead lame." "then what's the matter with him?" "limped when he pulled up, that's all." "isn't that enough the week before the race?" growled bellshaw. "it would be under certain circumstances, but it's not serious." "you think he'll be fit to run?" the trainer laughed. "of course he will. who put that silly idea into your head?" "let's look at him." they walked down the yard to barellan's box. "bring him out," said bellshaw. hadwin called the head lad and the horse was led out. he limped slightly. his near fore-leg was swollen. "it doesn't look hopeless," said bellshaw. "it isn't. he'll be all right in a couple of days, and he's as fit as he can be. the rest will not do him any harm." "i haven't seen leigh yet," said bellshaw. "you'll have no difficulty in finding him." "he'll have to come down handsomely over the sweep money." "i don't think he will. i shouldn't be surprised if he declines to lay you at all." "he'll do it. if he doesn't i'll scratch barellan." "you dare not. there would be a terrible outcry against you." "what do i care? he's my horse; i can do as i like with him." "if you scratch him you'll throw the cup away." "you're confident. what makes you so sanguine?" "i know what he can do, and after flash's running in the caulfield cup it is a good thing," returned the trainer. "don't say anything about the lameness being slight," said bellshaw. "you're sure to have someone rooting round for information." "very well," said hadwin, who intended doing as he thought fit. at night bellshaw went to the show and saw glen leigh ride the savage. he admired his skill; he could not help it. after the performance he went round to see glen leigh and had a cool reception. "i've come about the sweep," he said. "you've drawn my horse." "he's lame," answered glen. "just my luck. will he run?" "it all depends." "depends whether he's got over it by tuesday?" said glen. "it depends on you." "what have i got to do with it?" "a good deal. you've drawn barellan in the sweep, and i expect a cut out of it." "do you, and how much do you expect?" "half of what you draw. that's fair." glen laughed as he said, "you don't want much. you'd better have the lot." "it's a fair proposition," said bellshaw. "i drew barellan and i shall stick to anything i get out of it," glen replied. "you mean you will give me nothing out of the sweep?" "not a farthing," snapped glen. "then do you know what i shall do?" "no." "i shall scratch him." "a nice sportsmanlike proceeding that would be," said glen. "i don't run my horse for your benefit, or the benefit of the public." "so i always understood," answered glen. "consider it over. if you do not make me a fair offer by saturday i'll strike him out on monday." "i don't think you will," said glen, in a mildly irritating way. "but i shall." "again i repeat i don't think you will." "why not?" "because i can advance some weighty reasons against your doing so." "to which i shall not listen," said bellshaw. "to which i am certain you will listen, and, having heard them, will fall in with my views." bellshaw was fast losing his temper. he had no idea what leigh was driving at. "i tell you again if you don't come down handsomely with the sweep money i'll strike him out." "and i say you will not," retorted glen. gerard came round to see glen leigh. jerry makeshift, and tom roslyn were with him. "how's your horse?" tom asked bellshaw. "lame," snapped the owner of barellan, who objected to being questioned by the representative of "racing life" or any other journalist. "i'm quite aware of that, but as i presume you have seen him since your arrival, i thought perhaps you could give me some later information to wire to sydney. there will be considerable excitement over the mishap," said tom in his most placid manner, at the same time wishing bellshaw at the uttermost part of the earth. "you know as much as i do," returned bellshaw. "if he doesn't pull round by monday he'll be struck out." glen leigh looked at him with contempt. he knew bellshaw would not be so anxious about the sweep money if barellan were dead lame, a hopeless case. "that won't be the reason he's struck out," said glen and they all looked at him questioningly. bellshaw turned on him in a rage. "it's a lie. it _will_ be because he's lame if he's struck out." glen laughed. "you told me a few minutes ago you'd strike barellan out if i did not give you a cut out of the sweep," he said. tom roslyn smiled knowingly at jerry as much as to say, "that's more like it." "i say, bellshaw, you'd never do a dirty thing like that?" said nick. "i've told you my horse is lame; i also told leigh i expected a cut out of the sweep, and he said he wouldn't lay me anything. do you think that's fair?" bellshaw asked. "he's drawn the horse; he can do as he likes. personally i don't think an owner has any right to demand sweep money," said tom. "that's your opinion, is it? i expect you'd talk differently if you owned barellan," sneered bellshaw. "if a lucky drawer of the sweep money offered me a portion i'd take it, but i'd never demand it," replied tom. "i mean to get some of it anyhow," declared bellshaw. "then if barellan will start on those conditions," said tom, "he can't be so bad. i think i'll risk it and wire to that effect. it will relieve his backers." "wire if you like, but don't say i gave you the information." "not willingly, but putting one thing with another i think i am justified in wiring that your horse's lameness is not so serious as at first supposed," answered tom. "then you'll be misleading the public, as you have done many a time." "i never mislead the public, knowingly," said tom. "through ignorance of facts," sneered bellshaw. "put it that way." "you're not making a bed of roses for yourself by going on in this way," said jerry. "you'll smart for it if you don't mind." "you've been on the spree ever since you've been here," remarked bellshaw. "i wonder what your boss would say if he knew." "you can tell him if you wish. i fancy you'd get your change," retorted jerry. turning to leigh, bellshaw said, "i've had enough of this talk. you let me know by saturday what you are going to do, or i'll act as i said i would." he left them and walked out of the office. "the atmosphere's a bit purer now he's gone," said tom. "isn't he a bounder?" "he is. i've a good mind to rub it into him next week. he's a good figure to caricature," answered jerry. "let him alone. don't waste your talent on him," said nick. "i'd better turn my attention to you, and call it 'the philanthropist'," suggested jerry smiling. nick laughed. he knew to what jerry alluded. "i've issued a challenge," he said, "or rather i am about to do so; you can wire it to the 'life' if you wish to." "what is it, boxing?" "no, something more exciting. i'll wager two thousand pounds no one can produce a horse that will throw glen leigh in a quarter of an hour. there are conditions of course; it must be a throw, no lying down, and rolling over him, and so on." "by jove, that's plucky," said tom. "he thinks a lot of your riding, leigh." "i do. he's the best roughrider in australia, and that's saying a lot," affirmed nick. "we'll draw up the conditions," said tom, "and i'll forward them." "give 'em a month from date in which to find the animals," replied nick. "we must limit it to six horses, one to be ridden each night. it will pack the place, bring grist to the mill, and it must come off in sydney. i mean to give leigh half the stake if he wins, as i feel sure he will." "what do you say, leigh?" asked tom. "i'll accept with pleasure; i'll ride anything they like to bring in," answered glen. "good man," said tom. "there'll be some sport. you'll have your work cut out." glen smiled confidently. chapter xxiii beaten it was saturday night, and glen leigh had sent no word to bellshaw about the sweep money. bellshaw waited impatiently in his private room at the hotel, fretting and fuming. "if he thinks i don't mean what i said he's mistaken," he muttered. "i'll scratch him right enough. he can't have a very big chance. he limped a bit this morning. he'll have to run in bandages if he starts; that doesn't look very well for a cup horse. i'm not going to give him all the spoil--not me." it was ten o'clock and still no word from glen leigh. bellshaw thought he would come round after the show, but he did not. "i'll wait until sunday night," thought bellshaw. "i can go round on monday morning and scratch him." ivor hadwin went to the show on saturday night and saw glen leigh. he was very anxious about what bellshaw would do over barellan, and tried his utmost to persuade glen to see him about it. "he'll not scratch him," said glen. "he dare not." "you don't know him. he'd do it just to spite you." "then he's a fool to throw away a chance of winning the melbourne cup out of sheer spite." "will you call on him to-morrow morning?" asked the trainer. "what's the good? there'll only be a scene," replied glen. "think of me, leigh, the anxiety i've had over the horse for weeks, all the trouble, and now the job of getting him to the post after his lameness. it's heartbreaking," said hadwin. glen relented. for the trainer's sake he would see bellshaw and try and persuade him not to scratch barellan, but he was firmly resolved not to yield any sweep money. "very well, i'll see him. i think i have a persuasive way, and i'll try it on him," answered glen. the trainer brightened visibly. "you're a good 'un. i'll not forget it," he said. about eleven o'clock on sunday morning glen leigh was announced. bellshaw smiled when he heard the name of his visitor. "show him up," he said, and added to himself, "i thought he'd never be such an ass as to throw a chance away." glen entered the room. the only greeting he gave was a nod. he took a chair without being asked, and threw his hat on the table, then leaned back and looked at bellshaw. "so you've come to your senses," said bellshaw. "it's lucky for you the office was closed on saturday night, or my orders to scratch barellan would have gone in. there's the letter," and he threw it across the table to him. much to bellshaw's surprise, which quickly changed to anger, glen leigh tore it up and let the pieces flutter on the table. "damn your impertinence. what do you mean by that?" roared bellshaw. a tap at the door. a waiter put in his head. "did you call, sir?" "no--get out," foamed the angry man. glen smiled exasperatingly. "what do you mean by it?" asked bellshaw again. "it's a silly useless letter, because you will not scratch barellan," answered glen. bellshaw simmered down. leigh had come to make terms; they must be liberal. "useless because you are going to make a proposal," said bellshaw. "i have a proposal to make?" "how much will you give me out of the sweep?" "nothing," was the unexpected answer. bellshaw flared up again, swore roundly, talked fast and furiously, all to no purpose. leigh sat immovable, lit a cigar and waited until he was exhausted. "would you like to hear my proposition?" asked glen calmly. "not if it doesn't refer to sweep money." "you'd better, for your own sake. it's rather important to you," said glen. "nothing you have to say, outside the matter at issue, can interest me," returned bellshaw. glen smiled at him. it was the most irritating thing he could do. "i shall sit here until you listen to what i have to say," he said. his manner was determined. he looked stubborn, and was more than a match for craig bellshaw, as far as strength went. he got up and locked the door, putting the key in his pocket. "what i have to say you would not like anyone to hear. besides i don't want you to bolt out of the room." "get along with it then," growled bellshaw, "but i assure you beforehand you are wasting your time." "oh no, i am not. you'll say so when i've done. you'll consider it rather a clever move on my part and that the time was very well occupied. it's about a woman," blurted out glen suddenly. craig bellshaw felt as though an electric current had passed through him. the remark was so unexpected, meant so many things, and he was utterly in the dark. he stared at glen, who still smiled as he said, "i thought you'd be surprised. do you know what became of the young woman you took away from mintaro and left in the open to die?" "you're raving. there never was a young woman at mintaro," said bellshaw hoarsely. "oh yes, there was. you drove her away in your buggy, emptied her out, and left her insensible while you drove away. you told me about it the night you walked in your sleep; at least all you knew. you acted well, very well indeed. you illustrated in a remarkably clear way how you attempted to throttle her. you also showed me how you were dragging her to some water hole, but thought better of it, and left her to die of hunger. i heard you speak to your horses so knew you must have taken her there in a buggy. it's a bad plan to walk in your sleep when you've a murder on your conscience," said glen. bellshaw glared at him like a caged tiger. "murder," he hissed. "be careful what you say." glen took no notice of his remark. "do you know what became of the woman?" he asked. "there was no woman." "don't deny facts. it's a waste of breath. doesn't backham know there was a woman at mintaro? don't all your hands know?" bellshaw was silent. glen was rubbing it in strong. "there's awful evidence against you to prove she was at your place. we'll take that for granted; we'll also take it for granted you left her in the wilderness to die--you brute," said glen, who could hardly restrain his feelings. bellshaw writhed, but did not speak. he waited to hear more. "do you know what became of the woman?" "i tell you there was no woman." "there's ample proof that you lie," answered glen, "so i'll pass that. i found her in my hut when i rode back from the fence." he gave bellshaw a graphic account of what happened and how jim benny came to assist him. then he looked hard at bellshaw as he placed his hands on the table and stood up, leaning over until his face was within a few inches of the squatter's. "she died in my hut," said glen. "you are her murderer; you can't get away from that." bellshaw shivered. he believed what glen leigh said. it was not true, but there was every justification for making the statement to punish him. "she confessed how she came there and everything you had done to her before she died," went on leigh. "jim benny knows it; bill bigs knows it; they were there. the evidence is strong enough, if not to hang you, to send you to penal servitude for life." bellshaw tried to laugh, but was thoroughly frightened. he had often wondered what had become of the woman. the story sounded probable. she might have wandered as far as leigh's hut. during the few minutes' respite bellshaw thought of a way to retaliate. "you shot joe calder," he said. glen being innocent, laughed. bellshaw must have been dull if he did not see his shot had not gone home. "i did not. i shouldn't wonder if you had a hand in it," retorted glen. "he was a friend of mine." "you'd as soon leave a shot in a friend as an enemy if he was in your way," said glen. "why have you told me this silly story?" "in the first place because i want to bring home to you that if jim benny, bill bigs and myself bring a charge against you of causing the death of this woman, you'll be in the hands of the police instead of witnessing the melbourne cup. in the second place if you scratch barellan you will have no mercy shown you. we shall act at once," replied glen. bellshaw saw the drift of it all. he was cornered. it was a clever move. he would have to run the horse. the evidence of three men who saw the woman die, and heard her charge against him, would be serious--too serious for him to face in public. even if he escaped punishment he would be branded with infamy for life. "you'll not scratch barellan?" said glen. "i shall if i get no sweep money from you." "i say you will not scratch the horse," glen repeated. "supposing i do." "then you will be taken into custody at once on the charge i mentioned." "and if i run him?" "you shall be free to do what you will. your conscience will punish you; it has done already. i saw that at mintaro. you were afraid--a coward," said glen. "you will stand me a thousand out of the sweep?" "not a farthing." bellshaw would like to have shot him. "what guarantee have i that you will be silent?" he asked. "i give you my word," returned glen. "that is nothing to me." "but it is to me, and you will have to accept it." "i will not." "you will run barellan?" "no." "i have another witness," said glen at a venture. "go on. i am amused," answered bellshaw, fighting hard before he gave in. he must save his face by making some show of resistance. "lin soo," said glen. the effect of the mention of this name on bellshaw was remarkable. he gasped and seemed on the point of choking, sank back in the chair, his hands hanging down. leigh opened the door and went downstairs for some brandy. this revived bellshaw and he looked round in a frightened way. "you will run barellan?" asked glen. bellshaw murmured a faint "yes." he was beaten. chapter xxiv at flemington there was tremendous excitement in melbourne on the eve of the cup. the victoria club was thronged, a stream of people constantly passing up and down the stairs on to bourke street. on the pavement the crowd was dense, and it was difficult to push along. many of the tobacconists' shops were tenanted by bookmakers and heavy wagers were recorded in them. nick gerard was busy at the club; he had a heavy book on the race, and had laid the favourite, roland, the winner of the caulfield cup, heavily. barellan was one of his best horses; he had not laid much against him. ivor hadwin gave him a glowing account of his candidate. on monday morning glen relieved the trainer's mind by telling him he need have no doubt about bellshaw running the horse. "then you must have laid him a lump out of the sweep," said the trainer. "not a penny," answered leigh. "then how did you work it?" asked the trainer amazed. "i managed it after a tussle, but i can't tell you how," replied glen. wagering was fast and furious at the club. barellan's lameness disappeared as if by magic and there were many people who thought the whole thing a fake, and of course blamed bellshaw. he was unpopular, and made no secret that he ran his horses as he liked, without consideration for anyone. when he came into the club he was not greeted heartily as a popular owner would have been. hardly anyone spoke to him until one or two bookmakers asked him if he wished to back his horse. nick gerard crossed over the room. "i suppose you've persuaded leigh to give you some of the sweep money?" he said. "not a fraction. it's a mean, dirty action on his part, but as the horse is so well backed i shall run him," replied bellshaw. "it's something out of the common for you to consider backers," said nick. "have you got all your money on?" "all i want. if he hadn't gone lame i'd have had more on; it's not worth the risk now." the street was crowded until midnight, when the bulk of the people wended their way homewards. jerry makeshift and tom roslyn walked down collins street together, discussing the chances of the probable runners in the cup. "what have you sent on as your final?" asked jerry. "barellan and roland," answered tom. "why barellan?" "i rather fancy him. i saw him this morning. hadwin told me the horse was all right again, and that the lameness disappeared as suddenly as it came." "still it can't have improved his chance for the cup," said jerry. "i wonder how leigh induced him to run the horse. he says he hasn't laid him anything out of the sweep." "i'm glad of it. there's too much fleecing goes on. when a man is lucky enough to draw a horse it's hard lines he should be robbed out of a lot of it." "it's been the practice for so long, owners appear to regard it as a right," said jerry. "it's just as well they should find out it is not," replied tom. the two friends parted and jerry went on to the federal. next morning it was beautifully fine, and from an early hour huge crowds wended their way to flemington. towards noon spencer street station was crammed. all the specials were full. there is no finer racing picture in the world than flemington on cup day. even royal ascot pales before it in many respects. it is the luxury of racing in comfort that makes flemington, and most australian courses, attractive. there is room for everybody; there is no jostling or overcrowding, and the cost is moderate. everything is done to enhance the pleasure of the public, who are not treated with the scant courtesy meted out to them grudgingly in england. the lawn and stand were a grand sight before racing commenced. the hill at the back, overlooking the stand, was a mass of people, yet there was ample room to move about. the beds on the lawn were gay with brilliant-hued flowers. the grass was splendidly green; there was no dust or dirt, no fear of new and wondrously devised ladies' costumes being damaged in an hour. despite the heat, it was one of november's hottest days, people looked cool. there was plenty of shade. cosy tables for luncheon parties were laid beneath arbours of vines, whose leaves afforded a refreshing covering. here scores of parties chatted and made merry, talking over the prospects of the horses in the great race of the year. coaches, with fine teams, came driving in. there were no motor cars, and the scene was far more picturesque without them. on the flat the huge crowd assembled. it was evident there would be a record attendance. the governor and his lady arrived and were greeted with rousing cheers as they stepped from their carriage and walked across the lawn to the reserved box on the grand stand. the bookmakers, located between the lawn and the paddock, were not cooped up in an iron cage like animals in a zoological collection. wagering could be done in comfort. there was no fighting to get money, no scrambling. everything was decent and in order. nick gerard stood with his back to the rails, against the stewards' and official enclosure and his clerks were seldom still. the leviathan had a big book, and could afford to lay any horse asked for, but a casual observer might have noticed he was in no particular hurry to put barellan's name down. he laid against roland whenever he got a chance, but the horse was so heavily backed he came down to five to one before the first race was decided. a whole string of horses figured in the betting, and there were thirty-one runners in the field, or would be if all started. isaac, the winner of the derby on the previous saturday, had plenty of friends. he was ridden by nicholl in that race, and the jockey considered he had an excellent chance. he had been asked to ride him in the cup, but had to decline because he was engaged for barellan. luke nicholl was conscientious. he liked the trainer of barellan, and since he had known glen leigh he had been on very friendly terms with him. barellan's temporary lameness came as a blow to the jockey, as he might have had the mount on any horse in the race he could do the weight for. ivor hadwin, however, had somewhat relieved his mind when he told him barellan moved in his accustomed style, and he had but little fear about his lasting out the race. "you'll ride him carefully," he said. "no need to tell you that. nurse him until you are well in the straight; then let him come along as fast as you like. i got a clever man to bind his hoof. it's a bit brittle, and he'll run in bandages, but take my word for it, whatever beats him will win. i fear nothing, luke." this was reassuring and nicholl looked like not only riding the derby and cup winners but also landing his first melbourne cup. for the leading jockey he had had bad luck in the race, having been placed half a dozen times. he could never quite get home. he hoped barellan would accomplish that for him. as he went into the paddock he encountered glen leigh. "i hope you'll win," said glen. "it means a lot to me, as you know. if barellan gets home you shall have five hundred." luke thanked him, and said he'd do his best, telling him what hadwin said. "that sounds all right," returned glen smiling, "let's hope he's hit the mark." "you'd better have a bit on my mount in this race," said the jockey. it was the railway handicap, six furlongs, fifteen runners. "what are you on?" asked glen. "pioneer," replied luke. "there he is. i must hurry up." glen turned back into the ring, and walked to gerard. "what price pioneer?" he asked. nick looked at him and smiled. "eight to one," he answered. "eight fivers," said glen, handing him a note. there was a few minutes' slackness and gerard said, "what makes you fancy pioneer?" "nicholl's riding him. he told me to have a bit on." "his luck's in," said nick, who sent one of his clerks to put fifty on luke's mount. glen leigh met bill bigs and induced him to back pioneer, also jim benny, and they went on the stand to see the race. many people knew glen leigh as the daring rider in the buckjumping show; and he was a tall, athletic, handsome man. many bright eyes were levelled at him as he moved about. "what's pioneer's colours?" asked bill. glen looked at his race book. "white, black cap," he said. he had no sooner spoken than the horses were off, racing up the straight at top speed. it was a regular newmarket handicap on a small scale. soon after crossing the tan the white jacket came to the front. "that's pioneer!" exclaimed bill. "he's in front and he'll stop there," said a man behind him. "i hope he does." "so do i. he's a speedy horse, and good enough for a newmarket." pioneer came sailing along past the stands and turned out an easy winner by three lengths, at which there was much jubilation among the three friends. "i shall put my winnings on barellan," said bill. "so shall i," said jim. "i'll keep mine in my pocket," said glen. "you've got a big stake going. by jove, it will be a go if you win first prize in the sweep; you'll be a cut above us poor beggars then," bill remarked. "it won't make the slightest difference that way," replied glen smiling. "i know that, old man. i was only chaffing," laughed bill. "i suppose if anyone accepts gerard's challenge you'll ride, even if barellan wins?" "certainly. i promised him," glen answered. "let us go into the paddock, and have a look at some of the cup horses," said jim, and they walked along the lawn in that direction. chapter xxv he looked at his ticket "that was a good tip; we all backed it," said glen as nicholl came up to them. "he won easily," said the jockey smiling. "your luck's in," remarked bill. "i hope it will continue in the cup," answered the jockey. barellan was being put to rights in the corner of the paddock and they went to see him. bellshaw was not there, so hadwin had an opportunity of speaking to them. he assured glen the horse would win if he had a good run in the race, which he was almost sure to have with such a jockey as luke nicholl in the saddle. barellan looked fresh and well. his coat shone like satin. he was trained to the hour, but the suspicious-looking bandages, and one hoof bound up with copper wire, caused many people to pass him by in their search for the winner. luke nicholl, wearing bellshaw's sky blue jacket and red cap, was ready to mount when the time came. he felt confident. hadwin had made an impression on him, inspired him with some of his enthusiasm. nicholl was well off, hadwin was not; the victory of barellan meant the difference between debt and independence. the trainer was not a gambler. he seldom had more than five or ten pounds on, but he could not resist backing barellan, at the long prices offered, when he was lame. he had three thousand to ninety about the horse, and backed him to win another thousand that morning. glen had laid him five hundred out of the sweep money. perhaps glen leigh was one of the most anxious men on the course, but there was no sign that he was unduly excited. he laughed and joked as usual and appeared quite calm outwardly. the chance of winning a fortune of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds for the investment of a sovereign does not come to many men in a lifetime. this was what glen stood to win, and he conjured up his future prospects if it came off. he thought of mrs. prevost and clara; the former he knew loved him; at least he was very much mistaken if she did not, and he knew he loved her. if barellan won he would go to her and ask her to be his wife, and she would not refuse. he cared nothing about her connection with bellshaw. he would never ask her about it. he knew the man, and pitied any woman who got into his clutches. as he stood looking at barellan he thought what the horse's victory meant to him, and naturally he became more anxious as the time of the race drew near. he saw bellshaw coming and would have avoided him had it been possible. the squatter scowled at him, then asked, "have you changed your mind? will you give me a cent out of the sweep?" "no," replied glen as he walked away. bellshaw sent a curse after him, then turned to the jockey. "if you can't win it doesn't matter about riding him out for a place," he said. "there's no sweep money attached to it." nicholl made no reply. "do you hear what i say?" snapped bellshaw. "i heard; i shall have to ride him out." "you'll do as i tell you." "i shall ride barellan out," said nicholl firmly. "against my orders?" "if those are your orders, yes. i am not going to run any risks." "what risk would you run?" "i might be called up before the stewards to explain, and i'm not going to risk that for you or anyone else." "you hear what he says," bellshaw said to the trainer. "he'll have to ride him out. there's no help for it. besides, there's big money for the places," answered hadwin. "i don't want place money if he can't win. i want to keep that fellow leigh from winning if barellan can't come in first," said bellshaw. "i thought so," said nicholl. bellshaw did not stay to see his horse leave the paddock. he went back into the ring. he was in a vile temper, which his trainer's confidence in barellan did not soothe. leigh had got the better of him. he knew it was no empty threat when glen said he would be put on his trial for manslaughter if evidence were given incriminating him. he hated glen leigh. his animosity was so great he would have scratched barellan had he dared. he intended paying him out. the best way to wound him would be through mrs. prevost. he cared nothing for her sufferings, even after all she had been to him. he was a man without feelings. he was not quite sure whether leigh would keep his promise if barellan won. there was lin soo. what did leigh know about him? the paper found under his bedroom door at mintaro had warned him, and leigh mentioned it again in the hotel. he must see lin soo on his return to sydney, but first of all he would go to mrs. prevost's again and inform her he had enlightened glen leigh as to her past life, would gloat over her distress, make fun of her, then offer to be on friendly terms with her again. he had no doubt she would accept. he stood alone in the ring listening to the calling of the odds. roland was a firm favourite. isaac, painter, out back, adelaide, the gong, rosehill, canterbury, crocker, thane, the rival, jack, and mackay, were all well backed, some at long odds, and rank outsiders at a hundred to one each. the name of barellan was seldom called by the bookmakers. bellshaw wondered why? had they laid his horse heavily before he met with his accident? he went to gerard and asked the price of his horse. "full against him," replied nick. "you mean you won't lay him," said bellshaw. "take it as you like." "do you expect him to run well?" asked bellshaw. "i expect him to win," answered the bookmaker. "i hope he does for leigh's sake." bellshaw made some remark about leigh being a bad lot. "he's a straight goer. it's a pity there are not more like him," said nick. "perhaps it is. even if he wins the sweep he'll soon lose it. probably you'll get most of it, or some of your fraternity," retorted bellshaw. "you don't know the man. if he wins he'll stick to it, take my word for it," said nick. barellan's price was a hundred to eight, and no longer odds were obtainable about him. this was not tempting enough for bellshaw, so he made no further investment. jack was knocked out to a hundred to one for some reason or other. his trainer did not understand it as he thought the horse had a fair outside chance. glen leigh was missing. bill and jim could not find him. "he's best alone until after the race," said bill. "he must feel a bit queer about it; i should." "so should i," agreed jim. "fancy standing to win all those thousands for a sovereign; it makes a fellow's mouth water." "he'll do something for you if he wins the first prize," said bill. "he's not mentioned it." "no, it's not his way, but he will, depend upon it; i shouldn't wonder if he gives you his share in the show." jim thought of clara and what he would do if such a stroke of luck came his way. glen leigh had gone on to the top of the stand close to the press-box, where he would have a good view of the race. he wished to be alone. his feelings almost overcame him. he saw jerry and tom roslyn in front of the press-box, and was glad they had not noticed him. there was a dull roaring sound all over the course, the voices of thousands of people talking before the race, mingled with the shouts of the bookmakers. a sea of faces met glen's gaze as he looked across the course. far away, on the other side of the canal, people were camped on the slopes, waiting for the big field to come out. at the back of him, on the hill, there was a dense crowd reaching down to the top of the stand; he turned round and looked at the surging mass. to his right, below, was the ring, and paddock; he saw a mass of heads on tattersalls' stand, and just caught a glimpse of a colour or two in the paddock. on the lawn people were still strolling about in groups. the race, most of it, could be seen from the terrace and the slopes. presently, when the horses came round the bend for home there would be a rush to get on the rails. still further to the left was another stand, on which there was plenty of room. late lunchers were still under the vines, but were now making a move towards the terrace and stands. a long streak of bright green, the course, stretched out between the crowds. a solitary horseman cantered down. it was the starter going to the post; then the clerk of the course came along, on an old chaser, and went after him. already there were one or two in the stewards' stand. near the weighing room diminutive men were going about; they were the jockeys weighed out for the race. it was an animated glittering scene; many-hued costumes, the brightest of colours, the daintiest of designs, artistic creations, the labour of clever women and clever men, and hats and sunshades almost too dazzling to feast the eyes upon, as the glorious sun poured his rays down from the cloudless sky. it was an ideal day. a faint breeze, tinged with sea air from the bay far away, cooled hot cheeks, and blew delicately through thin blouses and skirts. men moved about in all sorts of headgear; but there were no regulation top-hats, although in the governor's box "a bit of ascot" was seen. it was glen leigh's first melbourne cup, and the sight at flemington entranced him, threw a glamour over him, and he looked at it all and fancied himself alone, even in the vast crowd. and he had drawn barellan in the big sweep. would the horse win? would no. be the successful ticket? he had it in his pocket. he pulled it out and looked at it, thinking how wonderful it was that if barellan won he could cash it for nearly twenty-five thousand pounds. chapter xxvi barellan falls back glen's thoughts wandered. the heat and excitement made him drowsy. for a few minutes he dozed, and as he did so his mind went back to the days when he was a keeper of the fence, on the border line between new south wales and queensland. surrounded by thousands on flemington course he slumbered peacefully, as men will when overcome with some powerful feeling, that acts like a drug, and for a few minutes there is oblivion. his thoughts wandered far away. he was back once more on the glittering wire fence, with ping, and spotty, waiting there in the blazing heat for his mate to meet him and compare notes. there had been no rain for months; everything was parched, and dried up. he saw thousands of dead rabbits, and sheep. the stench seemed to be in his nostrils. the scene changed. he was looking in at his hut and saw the woman on the bed. in a few seconds he went through the struggle for a life again, the ride to boonara, the tussle for brandy with bill bigs, jim's arrival, and keeping watch, spotty's attack; then the convalescence and the journey to sydney. his meeting with mrs. prevost, bellshaw at mintaro, the search and capture of buckjumpers, lin soo, the savage, the show, were all jumbled up together when he came out of his temporary swoon with a start, rubbed his eyes, and stared round him at the bustling scene, hardly daring to believe he was not back in reality on the fence. he gave a sigh of relief, and was wide awake again. he could not have been asleep for more than five minutes, and he had gone through the experiences of half a lifetime. it was strange. he had not quite shaken it off when the horses came out of the paddock on to the track, and the sight caused the past to vanish. all eyes were turned on them as they cantered down the course to the starting post. there were thirty-one runners; it was a big field, and half of them were considered to have chances. jack, knocked out to a hundred to one, was first out, his jockey wearing a green jacket, yellow belt and cap; then came half a dozen more in a cluster. isaac, the derby winner, passed, going in great style. a tremendous cheer greeted roland, the favourite. his owner's black jacket, white sleeves, and red cap were popular; the colours were always out to win. painter, plume, and out back followed, then glen saw the sky-blue jacket and red cap, and his heart beat rapidly. barellan went slowly at first, then burst into a gallop, pulling hard, reaching for his head, but nicholl would not let him go. glen watched him through his glasses, until he reached the post, thinking how much depended upon him. barellan was carrying his fortunes. if he won what a change there would be in his life. if jerry had not suggested his buying a ticket probably the opportunity would have gone by. certainly he must be remembered if barellan won. had he not bought the ticket, and, with it, luck? he looked round. all faces, thousands of them, were turned in one direction, watching the horses at the post, waiting for the signal when they would be dispatched on their journey. there was not much delay; they were well-trained. the starter had the jockeys under control. he was an autocrat, his powers great. it went ill with those who disobeyed him. they were off; a terrific shout proclaimed it. the race for the great stake had commenced. what glen leigh felt at that moment he hardly knew. he had a hazy idea something was going to happen that would dash all his hopes. he shook off the feeling and determined to take a hopeful view of the situation. jack was making the pace. he had a light weight. his jockey was told to go ahead and wear the field down; the little fellow was nothing loth to do so; for one thing, he would be out of harm's way, and be in no danger of getting shut in. jack was a dull grey horse, not a brilliant performer by any means, although on one or two occasions he had shown a turn of speed. there could be no doubt he was on his best behaviour, for, as they passed the stand, he was half a dozen lengths ahead of his field. glen looked at each horse as they swept past; there was barellan in the middle division, on the rails, going at an even pace; roland, the favourite, was just in front of him. close behind came isaac, and mackay; he was in good company. round the bend they swept, a cheer greeting them from tattersalls' stand. jack spread out, increasing his lead as they entered the back stretch. half-way along the field closed up. there was not a long tail. it was a pretty sight, thirty-one bright colours showing up, glinting in the sunlight. the sheds were reached when racing began in earnest, for no laggards here had any chance of success. glen's glasses were levelled on the sky-blue jacket. he wondered when nicholl would make a forward move. he became anxious. was he lying too far back? ought he not to be nearer the front? why did he let jack get so far ahead? these and sundry other questions jostled each other in glen's mind. bill bigs, and jim, were standing together on the terrace. they had a fair view of the race. "jack's got a lead on them," said bill. "he'll give way before long," replied jim. "don't you be too sure, young man," said someone behind him. "i've seen jack do a good couple of miles several times lately." "you don't think he'll win?" asked bill. "i won't go so far as that, but i reckon he'll put up a good fight," answered the stranger: then asked, "what have you backed?" "barellan," said bill. "a friend of mine's on him. he fancies him a lot. knows his owner, i believe." "so do i. he's not much to know," remarked bill. the stranger laughed. "he is rather unpopular," he said. "look!" cried jim. "barellan and the favourite are going up." glen leigh saw the move on nicholl's part. his heart was in his mouth. the jockey had just squeezed barellan through on the rails and the favourite had to go on the outside. as they neared the home turn the crowd shouted. the names of half a dozen horses rang out clearly over the course. jack was first into the straight. he had made all the running and was still going strong. glen wondered if they would get on terms with him. isaac, finding an opening, dashed through. the derby winner was bound to be thereabouts. he had run well and was coming out at the right time; his rider's pink jacket and white cap showed conspicuously. mackay's jockey pushed his mount and ran into third place, behind jack and isaac. they were all in the straight now, thirty-one runners, and the centre lot, numbering about a score, were all of a heap. the jackets looked bunched together, a many-hued mass of colour. barellan lost his position on the rails as they rounded the bend. he was not forced out but ran wide. nicholl, taken by surprise at this move, thought it must be his leg pained him, and he wanted more room. he grew anxious. there was a slight faltering on barellan's part. he must be nursed carefully or he might break down, and nursing at this critical point, when every horse with a chance was making a run, spelt defeat, being left behind. as it was barellan fell back when he ought to have come into the front rank. glen leigh's hand shook as he held his glasses. the sky-blue jacket was right away at the end of the middle division. barellan's chance looked forlorn. his hopes were shattered; the thousands vanished into thin air; it was what he might have expected. how could he win with only a sovereign invested? it was absurd on the face of it. he was foolish to buoy himself with false hopes. he had raised a mirage in which he saw happiness and full content. now it vanished and would never appear again. "it is all up," he muttered. "i was a fool to think i could win such a sum." "hang it all, where's that beastly blue jacket got to?" said bill. "right away back," returned jim. "we're done. i'm sorry for glen." it was with mingled feelings bellshaw saw barellan fall back; he wanted to win a melbourne cup, at the same time he wished leigh to lose his sweep money. he hardly knew which feeling was the stronger. if barellan were beaten he would have the satisfaction of knowing leigh had been done out of thousands and there was a chance that he, bellshaw, might win the cup another time. ivor hadwin guessed why barellan ran wide and lost his place at the bend. it was the strain on his bound foot which caused it; he ran out to ease it. would he regain his position? he doubted it, but knew the horse was one of the gamest, and at the end of two miles he went as fast as the average horse at the end of half the distance, so he hoped for the best as he fixed his glasses on the sky-blue jacket. jack shot his bolt. he had done well, and was not disgraced, but the pace and the distance proved too much for him. isaac took his place, the derby winner coming along in great style. his numerous admirers and supporters were on good terms with themselves. roland came with a rattle and ran into third place behind isaac and out back, who made a terrific run from the bend. a large field of horses in the straight, at the finishing struggle for a melbourne cup, is one of the most exciting scenes in the racing world; it rouses the lethargic to some sort of enthusiasm, and a lover of the great game almost goes frantic over it. from the moment the horses race in desperate earnest, when the bend is cleared, the pent-up excitement continues until the winning post is passed. glen leigh, with a matter of twenty-five thousand at issue, looked on wonderingly; even the melancholy fact that barellan was so far back did not obliterate from view the grand sight he witnessed. as he looked at the various horses, one by one, from isaac in the lead, his rider's pink jacket and white cap standing out alone, he gave a gasp of surprise. what caused it? "look at barellan!" yelled a man standing near him. glen looked, his eyes glued on the sky-blue jacket. it was this which had caused the gasp of surprise. barellan was going great guns, and passing horse after horse in a remarkable manner. his name was shouted over the course, far and wide. "barellan, barellan!" chapter xxvii what a finish! what looked like a hopeless position was turned into a promising situation as barellan came up the course at a tremendous pace. it was a thrilling sight, watching the sky-blue jacket forging ahead, and glen leigh's pulses beat rapidly. his body quivered as it had never done before as he watched barellan galloping the field to a standstill. the shouting was tremendous. the noise deafening. barellan's name echoed over the course. smack, on roland, cast a hasty glance back and caught sight of the blue on the outside. barellan had "dropped from the clouds." it was now or never. if he caught isaac he might win. he raised his whip, shaking it at the favourite. the gallant caulfield cup winner responded gamely and was soon at the derby winner's quarters. in another moment he crept up, drawing level, and there was a rare set-to for the advantage. nicholl watched the leading pair. a smile flickered across his face. they were playing into his hands, wearing each other down. the struggle must tell, and there was still a furlong to go. almost level with barellan were rosehill and out back, the last named still going well. when barellan forged ahead and left them there was a terrific yell. glen leigh dropped his glasses in his excitement. a man picked them up, handing them to him, saying with a smile, "i expect you're on barellan." "i drew him in the sweep," said glen. the man stared at him, then said, "and you stand a good chance of winning. lucky fellow, you are." the chase commenced. three to four lengths in front were isaac and roland. the form was coming out well. if barellan beat the derby and caulfield cup winners he would indeed be a great horse. when he lost his place, and fell back soon after rounding the bend, there were at least a dozen lengths to make up. it seemed impossible it could be done. nicholl rode with splendid judgment, nursing his mount carefully, easing him as far as he dare, but he could not afford to lose more ground. then came the sudden spurt on the horse's part, without being forced. it was a spontaneous effort, without pressure, and nicholl's hopes rose rapidly. his winning prospects increased with every stride. pandemonium reigned on the course. this was to be a most exciting finish. if barellan kept up his run to the finish there was no telling what might happen. isaac was on the rails, roland level with him, the pair racing in grim earnest, fighting as only the best thoroughbreds can; no giving way, no acknowledging defeat, a battle of giants, stern, determined, the jockeys helping their mounts with all the skill and experience at their command. barellan, and out back, were having a tussle behind the leading pair. the spectators, roused to a boiling pitch of excitement, watched first the leaders, then the others, and wondered if the latter pair would get up. it was a breathless scene, full of strange emotion, bringing out all the pent-up enthusiasm that nothing can rouse like a great race. people watched with bated breath; hands shook, hearts palpitated, eyes blinked, faces twitched, nerves twinged, pulses beat rapidly. in all those thousands no one appeared to stand quite still. there were movements everywhere; it was impossible to restrain them. glen leigh's mind was in a whirl. twenty-five thousand pounds at stake, a fortune on barellan and the horse was only a few lengths from the winning post. he guessed how many, twenty, thirty, more, less, which was it? what did it matter, if only he won at the finish! "he'll win, he'll win, he'll win," seemed to be the refrain in glen's ears as he now and then caught a dull sound of hoofs when there were brief lulls in the shouting. "go on, luke," he yelled. "go on. you'll catch 'em." he could not restrain his feelings. he must shout or something would happen. the strain was too great. there might be a snap, and then collapse. glen leigh was a strong man, hard and fit, but the perspiration stood on his forehead like beads, then gradually trickled down his face. he did not feel it. even when the drops wet his eyes he took no notice. he glared at the sky-blue jacket through a mist which soon passed, although for the moment it dimmed his vision. he put down the glasses. he could see without them. the horses were not far off. he bent forward, swayed a little. the man who had spoken to him thought he was about to fall and caught him by the arm. he remembered a policeman, who had drawn the winner, falling down dead on the lawn as the horses passed the post. glen felt the friendly pressure, and said in a thick voice, "thanks. i'm all right." * * * * * roar after roar came from the surging crowd as roland, the favourite, got his head in front of isaac. the shouts of triumph rang in the air, heralding the victory of the favourite, and when this happens in a melbourne cup the scene baffles description. who that saw it will ever forget the wonderful victory of carbine when he carried top weight, started favourite, and beat forester's highborn, and correze, both outsiders, easily? it was a sight seen only once in a lifetime. it equalled persimmon's derby, if it did not surpass it, and "old jack" took it all quietly, for, as he passed the winning post, he stopped, turned round, and made for the weighing enclosure without any assistance from ramage, his pilot. this race was more exciting than carbine's cup even, for there were four horses in it, all with chances, and close on the winning post. "even hundred nobody names it," yelled a bookmaker in the ring. it was a safe offer, for nobody could name it except by a lucky guess. roland was a neck in front of isaac, out back and barellan were on their quarters. an electric current seemed to shoot through the living mass of human beings and galvanise them into life; such a shout rent the air as had not been heard at flemington before. there had been desperate finishes between two horses, but here were four putting up one of the greatest battles ever seen. glen leigh shook with excitement. small wonder at it, for the sky-blue jacket had passed out back, and drawn almost level with isaac. "i'm sure of the place money," thought glen with a sigh of relief. sure of the place money! in another second barellan looked all over a winner. roland, hard ridden, held his own. isaac was only half a length off, the three together, with out back on the derby winner's quarters. what a fight, and what a great compliment to the handicapper, for behind the leading four came a cluster of six, not two lengths away. bill bigs and jim were well nigh frantic. their hats were off. they yelled, "barellan," until they were hoarse. ivor hadwin turned pale. the strain was almost more than he could bear. if, if only barellan got his head in front as they passed the judge's box. "he will. he'll win," almost shouted the trainer, who had to give way under the pressure. his shouts acted like a safety valve. barellan was head and head with isaac, roland half a length to the good, and the winning post a few yards away. luke nicholl, for the first time, raised his whip. he was on the outside and his right arm was free. one cut, another, a third, not too sharp, just sufficient to sting, to give barellan a reminder. the effect was astounding. barellan, acting under the unexpected, went forward with a final rush. his speed was so great that he caught up to the favourite in two strides; his head shot out, his nostrils red and wide, his eyes glared, his nose, then half a head, was in front; a fraction of a second's suspense, then he claimed a head advantage, then half a neck, a neck, and when this was realised the stands seemed to shake with the deafening noise. it was marvellous. rounding the bend barellan had fallen back a dozen lengths. his case seemed hopeless. he had made up all the lost ground in the straight, and now he had his neck in front of all the runners. roland made a desperate effort, reducing the distance to half a neck again. isaac drew up, so did out back. the four horses were all together. glen leigh looked, and looked. he had a dim vision of blue, pink, black, white, red, orange, mixed together. was the blue in front? he thought so. how he hoped no one else knew. at last the struggle was at an end. the horses passed the post, four of them with not a length between them. an anxious pause; thousands of people could not tell which had won, the numbers were not up. the judge seemed a long time hoisting them, but up they went at last. he placed barellan first, roland second, a neck away, isaac and out back, half a length away, dead heat for third place. what a finish! chapter xxviii a terrible savage it was over. barellan had won, and glen leigh was the fortunate holder of his number in the sweep. he had come into a fortune at one stroke. he elbowed his way through the crowd hardly knowing what he was doing, and went in search of his friends. it was not easy to find them in the great crowd streaming towards tattersalls and the paddock. as he pushed through the ring he saw people gathering round bookmakers. barellan must have been well backed; hundreds were drawing money. he saw nothing of bill and jim. he would go into the paddock. they might be there, thinking he had gone to look at the winner. nicholl had weighed in and was standing talking to the trainer as glen appeared on the scene. they greeted him heartily, shaking his hand, congratulating him on his good fortune. "there's five hundred each for you," said glen. they thanked him; it was a generous gift. "i never felt so queer in my life as i did when barellan fell back just after rounding the bend," declared glen. "what happened?" "i thought he was going to crack up," answered the jockey. "it must have been his foot. i fancy he wanted to ease it as he came round the bend; it probably pinched him." "that's it," said hadwin. "there's no doubt about it. what a run he made up the straight. i never saw anything like it." while they were talking bellshaw came up, scowling. he did not look like the owner of the cup winner. "you see i was right," said hadwin. "he won a great race." "which nicholl nearly threw away," retorted bellshaw. "you're mistaken," said the jockey. "if barellan hadn't been one of the gamest horses that ever looked through a bridle he would never have got up and won." "you ran him out wide at the bend when you had a good position on the rails," said bellshaw. nicholl explained, but the squatter was in no mood to listen to reason. he had won the melbourne cup, but glen leigh had won first prize in the sweep, and this made him rage. by all the rights of ownership he ought at least to have five thousand laid him if his horse won. when he thought how leigh threatened him with exposure, he could have killed him without compunction. there was no more dissatisfied man on the course than the owner of the cup winner. he had no pleasure in the victory. the cheering he knew was not for him but for the horse and jockey. glen leigh walked away to avoid him. he saw the man was in no mood to be crossed and was almost beside himself with ill-feeling and disappointment. it was not, however, bellshaw's intention that glen should escape him. he wished to quarrel with somebody, and leigh scented his purpose. he walked after him and said, loud enough for those standing near to hear, "you've won the sweep money by the aid of my horse. are you man enough to give me something out of it?" glen guessed by the way he spoke he meant mischief. there was menace in his voice. he stopped, faced him, and answered, "i'm man enough to refuse to give you a penny out of it." bellshaw swore, then stepping up to him said savagely, "i suppose you'll try and get rosa prevost--buy her with the money you've won? you'll not succeed. i'll outbid you. she's fond of money, besides she's been my woman for several years. perhaps you don't know that. i never intended marrying her. she knew it, and was quite contented with my terms. she will be so again. you stand no chance. i can easily convince her she will be better off with me." his insulting words made glen leigh's blood boil. "be careful what you say or it will be the worse for you," he said. bellshaw laughed. "can't you find another woman? are you tied down to marry my mistress?" by way of reply glen leigh raised his right arm, clenched his fist, struck bellshaw full in the mouth and knocked him down. ivor hadwin, bill bigs and jim benny saw what happened; they hurried through the crowd and gathered round them. "get out of this, glen," said bill, "or there'll be ructions." hadwin pulled bellshaw away as he struggled to his feet. "you can't fight here. they'll hustle you on the course if you do. a nice thing to happen to the owner of the cup winner." bill caught glen by the arm, dragging him along. bellshaw seemed in no hurry to return the blow. he let the trainer lead him away. his mouth was bleeding, his lip cut. the blow was severe; glen had hard hitting powers. bellshaw turned his attention to his trainer, calling him names, abusing him generally, then suddenly turned sullen and walked away. soon after he left the course and went to his hotel. he sat down and wrote a letter to nick gerard saying he would accept his wager of two thousand pounds to find a horse glen leigh could not ride for a quarter of an hour. the match must take place in sydney the following week, the saturday night, and there must be no other acceptors of the offer. he returned to sydney by the mail train that night, and on arriving there journeyed to mintaro. glen leigh received his cheque for the sweep money by the end of the week. it amounted to twenty-four thousand, six hundred pounds. he knew now what it was to possess money. he paid luke nicholl and ivor hadwin five hundred each, and gave handsome gifts to bill and jim and to jerry makeshift. nick gerard showed glen bellshaw's letter, accepting his challenge, and asked him what he thought about it. "i'll ride anything he cares to put into the ring," replied glen. "he's got some horses at mintaro that are terrible savages, almost mad, but i'll try and win your money, nick. i'd like to beat him." "very well, then i'll accept his offer and withdraw the notice. he'll find you enough to do, i expect," said nick smiling. "he will, you can depend upon that. he's pretty certain he can find something that will throw me, or he'd not have accepted," answered glen. "and will saturday next week suit you?" "yes, the show goes back to sydney on monday." "capital; there'll be an exciting struggle. i suppose there's no doubt bellshaw will play fair?" "i don't see how he can help it. he'll pick out a nasty brute for me to ride, but that's part of the game," said glen. on all sides glen was congratulated on winning first prize in the sweep. he was inundated with letters from all sorts of people, anxious to negotiate loans for the most part, others who wished to recommend safe investments. land agents offered him ideal residences, owners of horses placed prices on their animals for him; charities solicited him, women wrote saying they were quite willing to consider him as a husband if he wanted a wife. glen laughed at them all. he placed his money in the bank and went on his way contented. when bellshaw arrived at mintaro unexpectedly he explained what he wanted--the worst horse that could be found, a savage, quite ready to kill and tear a man to pieces. his new overseer, sam wimpole, he had appointed when garry backham left; he was a man of his master's stamp, cruel, unscrupulous. already the hands hated him; more than one had threatened to do for him. bellshaw explained what he wanted, then added, "if you can find me a horse that will throw him i'll give you a hundred pounds. i want to win the wager. i want to see him injured for life, or better still, killed outright. do you understand?" wimpole grinned. he understood. he knew the sort of horse. there was one at five rocks, ten times worse than the savage. it would be risky catching him and taking him to sydney, but once there he'd bet any money leigh couldn't sit on him five minutes. it was more than likely the brute would kill him. it was a big powerful brown stallion, as big as old tear'em, and worse tempered. he should say he was seven or eight years old and had never been handled. "the beast chased me five or six miles," he said. "if he'd caught me i shouldn't be here to tell you about him." this news put bellshaw in a better humour. the idea of maiming glen leigh was just to his mind. he ordered wimpole to yard the horse no matter at what danger, or risk, and to take him to bourke and from there to sydney. next day wimpole, taking the bulk of the hands with him, managed, after much trouble, to yard the horse, among others, lasso him, and throw him down, keeping him bound until he was exhausted with his struggles. on the way to mintaro the horse savaged two men, lamed three horses, and had a tussle with wimpole which almost caused the overseer to wish he'd not told bellshaw anything about him. when the owner of mintaro saw the great powerful, unbroken, fiery stallion, and heard of the damage he had already done, he was satisfied. he had no doubt he would win the wager, and that glen leigh would probably be seriously injured. "it's worth a hundred to take him to bourke," said wimpole. "you shall have it when he's trained," returned bellshaw. "you must go in the same train with me." "i'd best take a couple more hands with me," said wimpole. "he's more than a match for me." to this bellshaw assented. all he thought about was injuring leigh. it was an awful experience taking the horse to bourke, but after a lot of cruel treatment, which cowed him for a time, they succeeded. he was put in an ordinary cattle truck and securely lashed back and front; a band was also thrown round him and fastened to each side. twice he broke the stout ropes, but finally he was tied securely. bellshaw watched the operation with evident pleasure. he was thinking what was in store for glen leigh. it made him smile grimly. the station master asked bellshaw what he was going to do with the horse if he got him safely to his destination. bellshaw explained about the wager, and who was to ride the horse. the station master made an ordinary remark, but when the train started he muttered, as he looked after it, "leigh'll be killed if he attempts to ride that brute." chapter xxix man and horse lay side by side there was some earnest conversation between bellshaw and his overseer on the way to sydney. "you'll do it," said bellshaw. "promise me you'll do it, and i'll give you fifty pounds down." "i'll manage it," said wimpole. "i shall be with the horse all the time, until he mounts, to see they don't tamper with him," he added with a wink. bellshaw laughed. they had hatched a wicked plot against glen leigh, and wimpole was to carry it out. "there'll be trouble if it's discovered," said wimpole. "you're not going to back down?" "no, only if there's any danger of its being found out i shall bolt, and it will take more money than you offer to get me out of the country in comfort." "how much do you want?" asked bellshaw. "i must have five hundred planked down before i do it," replied wimpole. "too much," said bellshaw, but after an angry altercation agreed to wimpole's terms. "the risk's great. it will be a case of manslaughter right enough if anything happens to leigh, and it's discovered." the announcement in huge placards and newspaper advertisements that glen leigh was to ride an unbroken stallion from mintaro for a quarter of an hour, for a wager of two thousand a side, between craig bellshaw and nicholas gerard, roused curiosity to its highest pitch, and there was a prospect of an enormous attendance. glen leigh was confident bellshaw would be unable to find a horse that could unseat him. bill bigs did not like the look of things; he thought of foul play. he did not trust bellshaw. he knew the squatter would give a good round sum to injure leigh. glen had been to manley and seen mrs. prevost; he asked her to be his wife, and she consented. when she alluded to the past he said it was buried; he had no wish to unearth it. clara benny, as she was still called, looked much better since she had been with mrs. prevost. there was no doubt her health would be completely restored, but whether this meant the recovery of her lost memory was uncertain. mrs. prevost tried to persuade glen not to ride in the match. she was sure he would be injured, bellshaw was such a vindictive man. glen laughed her fears away, and made her promise to come and see him win the wager; he said bellshaw would have no chance of using foul play against him. "you'll give up the show after this match?" she begged. "i'll hand my share over to jim benny," he answered. "i'll only go into the ring when you give me permission," he added smiling. he knew she would consent when he asked her. the excitement caused over the two thousand pound wager was intense, and on saturday night the building was crammed to suffocation. sam wimpole had the horse in readiness, saddled and bridled, as it would have been impossible to do this in the ring. the horse was in a savage mood. since morning he had gradually grown worse. just before the performance was to commence he was in a perfect fury, lashing out, and biting at his tormentors. sam wimpole watched him with a peculiar smile. when craig bellshaw came to look at lion, as they named him, sam cautioned him not to go near. "have you done it?" asked bellshaw in a whisper. "yes, gave him an injection an hour ago. he's had three. i'll give him another before he goes into the ring; it will drive him almost mad. i wouldn't mount him for a thousand pounds." "i shouldn't like to try you," said bellshaw. "i wouldn't really. what's a thousand pounds against your life?" "is it as bad as that?" "quite." bellshaw's smile was ugly. in imagination he saw glen leigh stretched out a crushed and battered mass. the time drew nearer. a quarter of an hour before--the struggle was to commence at nine--sam wimpole took out a small syringe from his waistcoat pocket, crept up to the horse's side, and quickly made an injection. lion shivered, then gave a snort, and tried to grab sam as he nipped back into safety. sam wished to be rid of the syringe. it had done its work, but he dare not throw it away, and he could not go outside; he placed it in his trousers pocket for the time being. lion was led into the ring by two men who had long poles strapped on each side of his bit. no one was to be in the ring when leigh took the bridle in his hand and the poles were loosened and taken away. there was a breathless silence as the horse stood quivering; it was broken by a deafening cheer as glen leigh came in. lion reared and plunged at the sound, but was held fast. leigh came towards him, a heavy whip in his hand. he walked straight up to the horse, looking him in the eyes; at that moment he fancied there was something wrong with lion, who seemed frenzied. his eyes glowed like live coals, his breath was hot, steaming; glen felt it on his face. he undid the pole straps, made a signal to the men, who hastily drew them away and ran out of the ring, and sprang into the saddle before lion was aware of his intention. glen knew if he once got safely seated half the battle would be won. luck favoured him in this respect. the horse had never been mounted until this moment, and for a few seconds he seemed paralysed with fright at the strange experience. this did not last long. with a wicked bound he tried to get rid of his strange burden. it was a vain hope. glen stuck to the saddle like a limpet to a rock. lion was a far stronger horse than the savage, and wimpole had given him a drug that would increase his strength and endurance until the effect died away. never had glen leigh been on such a horse. he knew lion possessed tremendous strength. the strain on his arms was immense, also on the whole of his body. lion did not act like an ordinary buckjumper. he had his own plans of getting rid of his burden; they were quite original because they had been brought into play for the first time. he had a long reach, and whenever he tried to bite glen's thigh he had to pull his legs back quickly. the horse showed no inclination to lie down, or to crush glen against the posts. without the slightest warning he set off on a furious gallop round and round the ring. after a dozen rounds he began bucking as no horse ever bucked before. up and down he went like a rocking horse, then on all fours off the ground, his back arched to a point, all the saddle gear strained to bursting. glen felt the perspiration pouring off him. it was the hardest struggle of his life, but he intended winning. he would not be beaten. everybody in the vast audience watched the large clock as the fingers crept slowly on, the large hand gradually drawing nearer to the quarter-past. bellshaw watched the struggle between man and horse with absorbing interest. he knew what had been done, and that the horse possessed demoniacal strength for the time being. mrs. prevost, her face white, her hands clutching nervously, watched every movement in the ring; how she prayed for his safety, and for the clock to point to a quarter-past nine. never had she undergone such an ordeal. it would be in her memory for the rest of her life. supposing he were killed? the horse seemed like some evil beast possessed of devils. she almost shrieked as a mad plunge nearly unseated leigh for the first time, but he was still there. by some marvellous power he stuck to the saddle and the battle went on. glen leigh knew the horse did not lose strength; rather had he gained it during the last few minutes. it surprised him, but he had no time to think. lion stood on his forelegs, his head almost touching the ground, his hind quarters straight up in the air. in this horizontal position he twisted like an eel, trying to wriggle glen on to his neck. he leaned right back until his body was level with the horse's, then changing his whip quickly, he hit backwards, bringing the heavy knob hard on the root of the tail. this was too much for lion. he came down on all fours and glen shot bolt upright. there was a tremendous cheer. it was a wonderful piece of riding. "i've never seen such a devil of a horse," said nick. "it seems to me he's mad. i hope no harm will come to glen." bill was nervous. it was the first time he had felt such a sensation. he turned to the bookmaker and said in a low voice, "it's my belief somebody's doped that horse--given him a drug. he'd never go on like that if he hadn't had something." "they'd hardly dare do that," answered nick. "you don't know bellshaw. he's capable of doing anything," returned bill. there was no time for more. lion was at it again, fighting more furiously during the last five minutes than he had done before. it was a question of endurance. would glen leigh last out? once, twice, a third time, he swayed in the saddle. a woman's cry echoed through the building. it was mrs. prevost. she had to be held up in her seat. it was only by exercising her will power to the uttermost that she recovered. bellshaw stared at the strugglers with his eyes bulging. he looked at the clock--four minutes, and glen leigh was well nigh dead-beat. not one person in that vast crowd thought the horse would throw him, but they dreaded lest he should fall off exhausted. three minutes and he still stuck on, but his grasp on the reins loosened, and lion, feeling this, redoubled his efforts. the fight was terrific, too thrilling almost to witness. the horse possessed almost miraculous strength. two minutes, and for the next sixty seconds lion bucked like a clockwork machine until every bone in glen's body felt like cracking. only one minute to the quarter and still glen kept his seat. half a minute more; a great gasp came from the crowd as glen sank forward, clasping the savage brute with both arms round the neck, but he was still in the saddle. he was not thrown. the position was one of grave danger for lion could reach his arms with his mouth. the horse stopped, panting, his nostrils blood red, his eyes shooting fire; they gleamed angrily. "get off," yelled nick. "get off," yelled bill, and hundreds of voices took up the cry. a shudder of horror passed through the huge crowd. women fainted. strong men shook. hundreds hid their faces. lion, with a sudden swerve of his neck, got his teeth in glen leigh's arm. the pain was terrible. the muscles burned like fire. he caught sight of the clock. only a second or two and he would win. could he stand it? lion tore his arm, then tried to seize his leg, but glen was too quick for him. "time!" a terrific shout. "time!" shouted the frantic crowd, and as glen leigh heard it he rolled out of the saddle in a dead faint; before anyone could rush up lion planted his fore feet on his chest and bent his head towards his face. "shoot him! he'll tear his face," shouted nick. "you can't. he's my horse," yelled bellshaw. bill rushed forward, an iron bar in his hand, and in the nick of time brought it down on lion's head with a mighty sweep. he dropped like a log. man and horse lay side by side in the ring. chapter xxx the sweep winner's home glen leigh was taken to the kangaroo and nursed by mrs. prevost. his chest was crushed, his arm lacerated, but he made a wonderful recovery, and in a week was removed to sea view, manley, where, needless to say, he received every attention. the terrible fight between glen and lion was the topic of conversation for several days. many trainers who were present were firmly convinced the horse had been drugged, or he would never have been so savage, or possessed such strength and staying powers. nothing however, was discovered, and sam wimpole, in order to extract his money from bellshaw, had to threaten him with exposure. glen was of this opinion. he, too, thought lion had been dosed, but as he won the wager he thought it best to make no enquiries. craig bellshaw was beaten. his temper was not improved. he heard leigh was at manley, and decided to go and visit mrs. prevost. some years ago, when he was infatuated with her, he had made a will in her favour, leaving her mintaro and all the stock on it; this he decided to alter as soon as possible. he would tell her when he reached the house. he landed from the boat, walking along the street to the sea-front. as he turned in at the gate he looked up at the bedroom window. what he saw caused a shock which almost deprived him of reason. he stood staring at what he thought was the ghost of the woman he had left to die of hunger and thirst. it was clara looking out. she saw him enter. her face changed rapidly. the seat of memory was no longer vacant. she recognised him, and with the recognition returned a flood of recollections. the horror on her face made it look unearthly. she fixed her eyes on bellshaw with a glassy stare which he returned; he dare not move. leigh told him the woman was dead and this must be an apparition. what did it mean? of one thing, in his confused state of mind, he was certain; he must fly from the spot. but his feet were rooted to the ground, and he could not take his eyes off. the woman swayed to and fro, pointed at him with her hand. then suddenly the thing vanished. she had fallen on to the floor in a dead faint. bellshaw knew nothing of this--he was horrified. his mind gradually became unhinged. he imagined the ghost disappeared suddenly in order to come out to him, perhaps seize him. in his frenzy he attributed supernatural strength to the apparition. it might carry him off, take him away to some dreadful place. bellshaw turned and fled, running along the sea-front like a madman, then turning towards the landing stage; reaching it, as the steamer was moving away, he ran on, and despite all the warning cries made a desperate leap. his head struck the paddle box; the wheel spun him round as he fell into the water. the boat stopped, assistance was at once rendered, but bellshaw had disappeared. after waiting a quarter of an hour the captain left one of his men behind to report to the police, and proceeded on his journey to circular quay. craig bellshaw's body was recovered later on in the day. his head having struck the paddle box, he was rendered unconscious and he sank like a stone. when clara fell with a thud on the floor of the bedroom, mrs. prevost rushed upstairs and found her insensible. a severe illness of some weeks followed. when she recovered she remembered everything in her life at mintaro, and how she came to glen leigh's hut. it was a pitiful story, and glen leigh, mrs. prevost, bigs and jim listened to it in sadness. as a young girl she recollected being with lin soo. how he obtained possession of her she had no idea. there were other girls about her own age, and they were kindly treated for several years. then one day she recollected bellshaw coming to lin soo's. she did not like him; she shrank from him when he touched her. she only had a hazy idea of how she was taken to mintaro. she must have been drugged in some way. at first bellshaw treated her kindly, doing all in his power to ingratiate himself with her. she refused all his advances, and this changed his whole actions towards her. he attempted to force her to his will and failed. garry backham assisted her as far as he dare. he smuggled a revolver into her room, and with this she felt safe. for a long time her life was one constant, unceasing watchfulness. she dare not sleep. when she dozed she awoke in a fright fearing bellshaw was near her. she shot at him once, wounding him in the arm. it was soon after this he said he was tired of her and offered to drive her to bourke and send her to sydney. she related what happened when they reached the water hole; how he thrust her out of the buggy, sprang after her, and tried to push her into the muddy water. she struggled, then fainted. when she came to herself she was alone, lost in the great spaces surrounding her. she struggled on for several days, until at last she staggered into glen's hut, and fell on his rough bed. in answer to questions she said she had no idea who her parents were, nor did she seem to remember any home other than lin soo's. it could do no good questioning her further, so the subject dropped. she explained how she saw bellshaw looking up at the window and he recognised her. glen expressed the opinion that bellshaw must have thought he had seen a ghost and the sight turned his brain. at the inquest held on him, death was stated to be caused by drowning, and that this was brought about in the manner already described. craig bellshaw's lawyer had his will. he came to sea view. great was rosa prevost's surprise when she discovered that mintaro and all the stock on the station was her absolute property. looking at the date of the will she knew he must have forgotten to alter it until too late. she consulted glen leigh as to whether she should take advantage of it, and he left it entirely in her hands. the lawyer strongly advised her to take over mintaro as there were no direct heirs to it. this she decided to do, more for glen's sake than for her own. * * * * * ten years had gone by since bellshaw's death and other happenings. glen leigh and his wife, rosa prevost, lived at mintaro, where everything prospered with them. they had five children, three boys and two girls, all well grown and strong. the hands at mintaro found leigh a very different "boss" from bellshaw. garry backham sold out at boonara and came back to mintaro as overseer, and very glad he was to be there under such a master. glen mustered all the stock on the station and found thousands more cattle and sheep than he anticipated. many of the wild horses were shot, others tamed and used on the station. he bought a small stud-farm near albury, and sent horses to be trained by ivor hadwin. there was a prospect of a successful year before the stable at the end of five seasons when glen had a score of horses, most of them bred by himself, in training. the sweep money came in very handy to run the station and tide over one or two bad seasons; when rain and the good times came mintaro cleared a fortune for them every year. jim benny and his wife, the woman who suffered so much at bellshaw's hands, and whom jim helped glen leigh to save, came to mintaro, where clara acted as nurse and governess to all the children until such time as the two elder boys went to school in sydney; she then took charge of the three at home, and mrs. leigh found her a great help and a genial companion. it took a lot of persuasion to get her to come to mintaro, of which she had so many unpleasant memories, but eventually they prevailed when it was pointed out how advantageous it would be for her husband. the show was sold as a going concern; lion had to be shot; he never recovered from the blow bill gave him. a post-mortem was made at gerard's request and the veterinary surgeon said the horse had been heavily dosed with a powerful drug, which undoubtedly caused him to be in a frenzy in the ring when glen rode him. lin soo was tackled by glen and bill bigs, and compelled to pay a large sum of money to mrs. benny in order to avoid criminal prosecution. moreover, he was forced by them to leave sydney and return to his own country. chun shan was installed as head cook at mintaro, a position he worthily filled. sea view, manley, was not sold; the leighs used it as their residence on visits to sydney. it was a great day for ivor hadwin when he won the sydney cup for glen leigh, whose white jacket, black belt and cap, were immensely popular. horatio was the horse, and, as he started at two to one, the enthusiasm was immense. later both the v.r.c., and a.j.c. derbies fell to glen's share, and he had hopes of landing a melbourne cup with a son of barellan's, who was at the albury stud, and a most successful sire. glen never forgot the keepers of the fence, and when he came to mintaro they soon discovered they had a friend in the man who had once been one of themselves. glen sometimes rode there and chatted with them, rendering their lives less lonely. one day he drove his wife to the glittering wire and showed her where he had stood for long hours in the terrible heat and drought. "what an awful life, glen," she said, with a shudder. "i stood it all right," he replied, "but i was glad when it ended." when barellan's son won the melbourne cup, bill bigs, pointing glen leigh out to a friend, said, "he drew barellan in the big sweep, and now he's won it with his son." "that isn't likely to happen again," was the reply. "no, i don't suppose it is," said bigs. luke nicholl came to mintaro for a change, which he thoroughly enjoyed. jerry makeshift came with him; both were heartily welcomed. "i shall never forget it was owing to you, jerry, i bought the ticket in the sweep, and drew the winner," said glen. "you've made good use of the money, anyway," was jerry's reply. the end john long, limited, publishers, london, bristol burleigh ltd., at the burleigh press * * * * * the novels of curtis yorke _morning post_: "whether grave or gay, the author is a _raconteur_ whose imagination and vivacity are unfailing. few, moreover, have in the same degree the versatility which enables her to provoke peals of laughter and move almost to tears. the writer is natural, realistic, and entertaining." delphine enchanted only betty miss daffodil olive kinsella wayward anne their marriage the other sara mollie deverill the girl in grey the woman ruth alix of the glen queer little jane irresponsible kitty dangerous dorothy the world and delia patricia of pall mall the girl and the man the vision of the years a flirtation with truth _these novels are published in various editions._ _prices from the booksellers and libraries._ london: john long, ltd., , , norris street, haymarket the novels of nat gould the author whose sales exceed , , copies odds on the flyer a cast off the roarer the smasher racing rivals [ ]a great coup one of a mob lost and won the head lad the silver star never in doubt a straight goer a bird in hand the top weight the white arab the buckjumper the lottery colt the lucky shoe the dapple grey whirlwind's year won on the post fast as the wind at starting price the stolen racer the steeplechaser the lady trainer a stroke of luck a northern crack a bit of a rogue left in the lurch queen of the turf the little wonder the sweep winner good at the game the selling plater a race for a wife a reckless owner [ ]a turf conspiracy charger and chaser a sporting squatter [ ]a gamble for love [ ]a fortune at stake the phantom horse a member of tatt's the rider in khaki breaking the record the king's favourite a chestnut champion the jockey's revenge the trainer's treasure the pet of the public the pick of the stable the best of the season the wizard of the turf a hundred to one chance [ ][ ]the chance of a lifetime [ ] _filmed_ [ ] _dramatised_ these novels are published in various editions prices from the booksellers and libraries john long, limited, london exclusive publishers of all mr. nat gould's new novels some appreciations of mr. nat gould among all lovers of sport the name of nat gould has become a household word. as sportsman, journalist, and globe-trotter, few men have gone through more varied experiences, and still fewer have used their experience to such excellent purpose. since whyte melville and the immortal "jorrocks" no writer has depicted with so spirited a pen the romance of a racecourse, the surprises of the cricket-pitch, or the hairbreadth escapes of the hunting-field. writing in _longman's magazine_, mr. andrew lang said: "a sixpenny academy would be a lively academy. for president, i would, if consulted, select mr. nat gould, who shines by a candid simplicity of style, and a direct and unaffected appeal to the primitive emotions, and our love for that noble animal the horse." _nation_, th august, :--"in the way of sale, his wares surpassed all others. to millions they were the breath of mental life. we have heard that a newspaper purchasing the serial rights of one of his stories could promise itself an increased circulation of , a day, no matter what its politics or its principles." _the times_, th july, :--"of mr. nat gould's novels more than ten million[ ] copies have been sold; and when this can be said of an author there must be qualities in his work which appeal to human nature--qualities, therefore, which even the most superior person would do well to recognise. 'a northern crack' is one of those tales which set you down in an arm-chair and keep you there till it is pleased to stop." _the times_, th july, :--"if art in any sphere in life finds a basis in the pleasing of a multitude, then nat gould was an artist with few above his shoulders." _morning post_, th july, :--"he was the most widely read of all modern story-tellers, and a genius in his downright way." _athenæum_, june th, :--"all living writers are headed by mr. nat gould, and of the great of the past, dumas only surpasses his popularity." _truth_, january nd, :--"who is the most popular of living novelists? mr. nat gould easily and indisputably takes the first place." miss beatrice harraden, one of the honorary librarians to the military hospital, endell street, london, writing in the november, , issue of the _cornhill magazine_, states: "we had to invest in any amount of nat gould's sporting stories. in fact, a certain type of man would read nothing except nat gould. however ill he was, however suffering and broken, the name of nat gould would always bring a smile to his face. often and often i've heard the whispered words: '_a nat gould--ready for when i'm better_.'" [ ] since this was written ten million more copies have been sold to december, , totalling over twenty millions. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation has been normalized. page : "more more than" replaced with "more than." page : "we'll make things gee" retained as printed. page : "too and fro" replaced with "to and fro." page : "no doubt it was leigh who called" retained as printed. page : "suprised" replaced with "surprised." page : "convalesence" replaced with "convalescence." [illustration] illustrated by bernklau the big fix by george o. smith _anyone who holds that telepathy and psi powers would mean an end to crime quite obviously underestimates the ingenuity of the human race. now consider a horserace that_ had _to be fixed ..._ it was april, a couple of weeks before the derby. we were playing poker, which is a game of skill that has nothing to do with the velocity of horse meat. phil howland kept slipping open but he managed to close up before i could tell whether the combination of three-five-two-four meant a full house of fives over fours or whether he was betting on an open-ended straight that he hadn't bothered to arrange in order as he held them. the greek was impenetrable; he also blocked me from reading the deck so that i could estimate his hand from the cards that weren't dealt out. chicago charlie's mind was easy to read but no one could trust him. he was just as apt to think high to score someone out as he was to think low to suck the boys in. as for me, there i was, good old wally wilson, holding a pat straight flush from the eight to the queen of diamonds. i was thinking "full house" but i was betting like a weak three of a kind. it was a terrific game. between trying to read into these other guy's brains and keeping them from opening mine, and blocking the greek's sly stunt of tipping over the poker chips as a distraction, i was also concerned about the eight thousand bucks that was in the pot. the trouble was that all four of us fully intended to rake it in. my straight flush would be good for the works in any normal game with wild cards, but the way this bunch was betting i couldn't be sure. phil howland didn't have much of a shield but he could really read, and if he read me--either my mind or my hand--he'd automatically radiate and that would be that. i was about at the point of calling for the draw when the door opened without any knock. it was tomboy taylor. we'd been so engrossed with one another that none of us had caught her approach. the greek looked up at her and swore something that he hadn't read in plato. "showdown," he said, tossing in his hand. i grunted and spread my five beauties. phil growled and shoved the pot in my direction, keeping both eyes on tomboy taylor. she was something to keep eyes on, both figuratively and literally. the only thing that kept her from being a thionite dream was the pittsburgh stogie that she insisted upon smoking, and the only thing that kept her from being some man's companion in spite of the stogie was the fact that he'd have to keep his mouth shut or she'd steal his back teeth--if not for fillings, then for practice. "you, wally wilson," she said around the cigar, "get these grifters out of here. i got words." the greek growled. "who says?" "barcelona says." i do not have to explain who barcelona is. all i have to say is that phil howland, the greek, and chicago charlie arose without a word and filed out with their minds all held tight behind solid shields. * * * * * i said, "what does barcelona want with me?" tomboy taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "barcelona wants to see it flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace next month." when i got done gulping i said, "you mean barcelona wants me to fix the kentucky derby?" "oh no," she replied in a very throaty contralto that went with her figure and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "you needn't 'fix' anything. just be sure that it's flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace in that order. one, two, three. do i make barcelona quite clear?" i said, "look, tomboy, neither of them platers can even _run_ that far, let alone running ahead." "barcelona says they can. and will." she leaned forward and stubbed out the pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful as well as beautifully wholesome. as she leaned toward me she unfogged the lighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking concept that she considered me physically attractive. this did not offend me. to the contrary it pleased my ego mightily until tomboy taylor deliberately let the barrier down to let me read the visual impression--which included all of the implications contained in the old cliché: "... and don't he look nacheral?" "how," i asked on the recoil, "can i fix the derby?" "barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than any other big time operator in chicago," she said smoothly. "barcelona says that he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he has great faith in your ability. barcelona says that if anybody can make it flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace, one, two, and three, wally wilson is the man who can do it. in fact, barcelona will be terribly disappointed if you can't." i eyed her carefully. she was a composed and poised beauty who looked entirely incapable of uttering such words. i tried to peer into her mind but it was like trying to read the fine print of a telephone directory through a knitted woolen shawl. she smiled at me, her shapely lips curving graciously. i said, "barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability to arrange things." with those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "barcelona is willing to bet money on your ability as a manager." at this point tomboy taylor fished another pittsburgh stogie out of her hundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even, pearly-white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips. she scratched a big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raising one shapely thigh to stretch the cloth. she puffed the stogie into light and became transformed from a beauty into a hag. my mind swore; it was like painting a mustache on the mona lisa. out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "it helps to keep grippers like you at mind's length." then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eight thousand buck final pot--_and_ the unhappy recollection that barcelona had gotten upset at something harold grimmer had done, and he'd gone into grimmer's place and busted grimmer flat by starting with one lousy buck and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. this feat of skill was performed under the mental noses of about eight operators trained to exert their extrasensory talents toward the defeat of sharpshooters who tried to add paraphysics to the laws of chance. * * * * * lieutenant delancey of the chicago police came in an hour later. he refused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because i didn't wave him to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself into my favorite chair. i think i could have won the waiting game but the prize wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. so i said, "o.k., lieutenant, what am i supposed to be guilty of?" his smile was veiled. "you're not guilty of anything, so far as i know." "you're not here to pass the time of day." "no, i'm not. i want information." "what kind of information?" "one hears things," he said vaguely. "lieutenant," i said, "you've been watching one of those halluscene whodunit dramas where everybody stands around making witty sayings composed of disconnected phrases. you'll next be saying 'evil lurks in the minds of men,' in a sepulchral intonation. let's skip it, huh? what kind of things does one hear and from whom?" "it starts with gimpy gordon." "whose mind meanders." he shrugged. "gimpy gordon's meandering mind is well understood for what it is," he said. "but when it ceases to meander long enough to follow a single train of thought from beginning to logical end, then something is up." "such as what, for instance." the lieutenant leaned back in my easy-chair and stared at the ceiling. "wally," he said, "i was relaxing in the car with sergeant holliday driving. we passed a certain area on michigan near randolph and i caught the strong mental impression of someone who--in this day and age, mind you--had had the temerity to pickpocket a wallet containing twenty-seven dollars. the sum of twenty-seven dollars was connected with the fact that the rewards made the risk worth taking; there were distinct impressions of playing that twenty-seven bucks across the board on three very especial nags at the derby. the impression of the twenty-seven bucks changed into a mental vision of a hand holding a sack of peanuts. there was indecision. should he take more risk and run up his available cash to make a larger killing, or would one joseph barcelona take a stand-offish attitude if some outsider were to lower the track odds by betting a bundle on flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace." i said, "lieutenant, you've a pickpocket to jug. horse betting is legal." "since wagering on the speed of a horse has been redefined as 'the purchase of one corporate share to be valid for one transaction only and redeemable at a par value to be established by the outcome of this aforesaid single transaction,' horse betting is legal. this makes you an 'investment counselor, short-term transactions only,' and removes from you the odious nomenclature of 'bookie.' however, permit me to point out that the buying and selling of shares of horseflesh does not grant a license to manipulate the outcome." "you sound as though you're accusing me of contemplating a fix." "oh no. not that." "then what?" "wally, flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace were refused by the national association of dog food canners because of their substandard health. if i'm not mistaken, the derby association should have to run the race early that saturday afternoon." "early?" "uh-huh. early. y'see, wally, the blue laws of the blue grass state make it illegal to run horseraces on sunday, hence the start of the derby must be early enough to let our three platers complete the race before midnight." "lieutenant, there still stands a mathematical probability that--" "that the rest of the field will catch the martian glanders as they lead our three dogs past the clubhouse turn?" "lieutenant, you are wronging me." "i haven't said a thing." "then why have you come here to bedevil me, lieutenant? if barcelona has ideas of arranging a fix--" "if barcelona has such notions, wally wilson would know about it." "everybody," i said, "entertains notions of cleaning up a bundle by having the hundred-to-one shot come in by a length. even barcelona must have wild dreams now and then--" "come off it," he snapped. "something's up and i want to know what's cooking." * * * * * "lieutenant, you're now asking me to describe to you how someone might rig the kentucky derby in a world full of expert telepaths and perceptives and manipulators, a large number of which will be rather well-paid to lend their extrasensory power to the process of keeping the derby pure." he eyed me sourly. "remember, 'fireman' o'leary?" "that's an unfair allegation," i replied. "the rumor that he started the chicago fire is absolutely unfounded." "as i recall, 'fireman' o'leary came by his nickname about one hundred years after the holocaust that started on dekoven street in . it seems that 'fireman' o'leary was most useful in helping the fillies home at washington park by assaulting them in the region of the bangtail with small bollops of pure incandescence. he was a pyrotic." "that is a false accusation--" "it was never proved," admitted the lieutenant, "because any one who accused anybody of making use of extrasensory faculties in would have been tossed into that establishment out on narragansett avenue where the headshrinkers once plied their mystic trade." "things are different now." "indeed they are, wally. which is why i'm here. no one but a fumbling idiot would try anything as crude as speeding a dog over the line by pyrotics or by jolting the animals with a bolt of electrical energy." "so--?" "so considering the sad and sorry fact that human nature does not change very much despite the vast possibility for improvement, we must anticipate a fix that has been contrived and executed on a level that takes full cognizance of the widespread presence of psi-function." "but again, why me?" "was not 'fireman' o'leary an ancestor of yours?" "he was my maternal grandparent." "and so you do indeed come from a long line of horse operators, don't you?" "i resent your invidious implications." "and wasn't 'wireless' wilson the paternal ancestor from whom the family name has come?" "i fail to see ... the allegation that my father's father employed telepathy to transmit track information faster than the wire services has never been proved." he smiled knowingly. "wally," he said slowly, "if you feel that allegations have somehow impugned the pure name of your family, you could apply for a review of their several appearances in court. it's possible that 'fireman' o'leary did _not_ use his pyrotic talent to enhance the running speed of some tired old dogs." "but--" "so i think we understand one another, wally. there is also reason to believe that psionic talent tends to run in families. you're a psi-man and a good one." "if i hear of anything--" "you'll let me know," he said flatly. "and if flying heels, moonbeam, _and-or_ lady grace even so much as succeed in staying on their feet for the whole race, i'll be back demanding to know how you--wally wilson--managed to hold them up!" after which the good lieutenant delancey left me to my thoughts--which were most uncomfortable. barcelona had to be kept cheerful. but the dogs he'd picked could only come in first unassisted if they happened to be leading the field that started the _next_ race, and even then the post time would have to be delayed to give them a longer head start. that meant that _if_ our three platers came awake, _everybody_ would be looking for the fix. anybody who planned a caper would sure have to plan it well. barcelona hadn't planned the fix, he merely stated a firm desire and either barcelona got what he wanted or i got what i didn't want, and i had to do it real good or delancey would make it real hot for me. i was not only being forced to enter a life of crime, i was also being forced to perform cleverly. it wasn't fair for the law to gang up with the crooks against me. and so with a mind feeling sort of like the famous sparrow who'd gotten trapped for three hours in a badminton game at forest hills, i built a strong highball, and poured it down while my halluscene set was warming up. i needed the highball as well as the relaxation, because i knew that the "drama" being presented was the hundred and umpty-umpth remake of "tarzan of the apes" and for ninety solid minutes i would be swinging through trees without benefit of alcohol. tarzan, you'll remember, did not learn to smoke and drink until the second book. * * * * * the halluscene did relax me and kept my mind from its worry even though the drama was cast for kids and therefore contained a maximum of tree-swinging and ape-gymnastics and a near dearth of lady jane's pleasant company. what was irritating was the traces of wrong aroma. if one should not associate the african jungle with the aroma of a cheap bar, one should be forgiven for objecting to lady jane with a strong flavor of tobacco and cheap booze on her breath. and so i awoke with this irritating conflict in my senses to discover that i'd dropped out of my character as tarzan and my surroundings of the jungle, but i'd somehow brought the stench of cheap liquor and moist cigarettes with me. there was an occupant in the chair next to mine. he needed a bath and he needed a shave but both would have been wasted if he couldn't change his clothing, too. his name was gimpy gordon. i said, "get out!" he whined, "mr. wilson, you just gotta help me." "how?" "fer years," he said, "i been living on peanuts. i been runnin' errands for hard coins. i been--" "swiping the take of a red cross box," i snapped at him. "aw, mr. wilson," he whined, "i simply gotta make a stake. i'm a-goin' to send it back when i win." "are you going to win?" "can't i?" for a moment i toyed with the idea of being honest with the gimp. somehow, someone should tell the duffer that all horse players die broke, or that if he could make a living i'd be out of business. gimpy gordon was one of life's unfortunates. if it were to rain gold coins, gimpy would be out wearing boxing gloves. his mental processes meandered because of too much methyl. his unfortunate nickname did not come from the old-fashioned reason that he walked with a limp, but from the even more unfortunate reason that he _thought_ with a limp. in his own unhealthy way he was--could we call it "lucky" by any standard of honesty? in this world full of highly developed psi talent, the gimp _could_ pick a pocket and get away with it because he often literally could not remember where and how he'd acquired the wallet for longer than a half minute. and it was a sort of general unwritten rule that any citizen so utterly befogged as to permit his wealth to be lifted via light fingers should lose it as a lesson! but then it did indeed occur to me that maybe i could make use of the gimp. i said, "what can i do, gimpy?" "mr. wilson," he pleaded, "is it true that you're workin' for barcelona?" "now, you know i can't answer that." i could read his mind struggling with this concept. it was sort of like trying to read a deck of chinese fortune cards being shuffled before they're placed in the machine at the penny arcade. as the drunk once said after reading the telephone directory: "not much plot, but _egad_! what a cast of characters!" the gist of his mental maundering was a childlike desire to have everything sewed up tight. he wanted to win, to be told that he'd win, and to have all the rules altered ad hoc to assure his winning. just where he'd picked up the inside dope that barcelona favored flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace in the derby i could not dig out of him. just how gimpy had made the association between this clambake and me--good old wally wilson--i couldn't dig either. but here he was with his--by now--sixty-five bucks carefully heisted, lifted, pinched and fingered, and by the great harry, gimpy was not a-goin' to lay it across the board on those three rejects from a claiming race unless he had a cast-iron assurance that they'd come in across the board, one, two, and three. i said slowly, "_if_ i were even thinking of working for mr. barcelona," i told him, "i would be very careful never, never to mention it, you know." * * * * * this bundle of the awful truth hit him and began to sink in with the inexorable absorption of water dropping down into a bucket of dry sand. it took some time for the process to climax. once it reached home base it took another period of time for the information to be inspected, sorted out, identified, analyzed, and in a very limited degree, understood. [illustration] he looked up at me. "i couldn't cuff a hundred, could i?" i shook my head. i didn't have to veil my mind because i knew that gimpy was about as talented a telepath as a tallow candle. frankly between me and thee, dear reader, i do not put anybody's bet on the cuff. i do a fair-to-middling brisk trade in booking bets placed and discussed by telepathy, but the ones i accept and pay off on--if they're lucky--are those folks who've been sufficiently foresighted to lay it on the line with a retainer against which their losses can be assessed. on the other hand i could see in gimpy's mind the simple logic that told him that as a bookmaker i'd be disinclined to lend him money which he'd use to place with me against a sure-thing long shot. if i were to "lend" him a century for an on-the-cuff bet on a : horse, especially one that i knew was sure to come in, i might better simply hand him one hundred times one hundred dollars as a gift. it would save a lot of messy bookkeeping. so the fact that i wouldn't cuff a bet for gimpy gave him his own proof that i was confirming the fix. then i buttered the process. "gimp, do you know another good bookmaker?" "sure. but you're the best." "know one that'll take a bet from you--one that you don't like?" "sure, mr. wilson." "then," i said hauling a thousand out of my wallet, "put this on _our horses_ for me." he eyed the grand. "but won't mr. barcelona be unhappy? won't that run down the track odds?" i laughed. "the whole world knows them dogs as also-rans," i said. "gimpy, they put long shots like those into races just to clip the suckers who think there is a real hundred-to-one chance that a : horse will outrun favorites." "well, if you say so, mr. wilson." "i say so." "thanks. i'll pay it back." he would. i'd see to that. gimpy gordon scuttled out of my bailiwick almost on a dead run. he was positively radiating merriment and joy and excitement. the note in his hand represented a sum greater than he had ever seen in one piece at any time of his life, and the concept of the riches he would know when they paid off on the kentucky derby was vague simply because gimpy could not grasp the magnitude of such magnificence. oddly, for some unexpected reason or from some unknown source hidden deep in his past, his mind pronounced it "darby." * * * * * i returned to my african jungle still bored with the lack of anything constructive. i returned at about the point where tarzan and jane were going through that silly, "me tarzan; you jane" routine which was even more irritating because the program director or someone had muffed the perfume that the lady jane wore. instead of the wholesome freshness of the free, open air, jane was wearing a heady, spicy scent engineered to cut its way through the blocking barrier of stale cigar smoke, whisky-laden secondhand air, and a waft of cooking aroma from the kitchen of the standard cosmopolitan bistro. worse, it got worse instead of better. where a clever effects-director might have started with the heavy sophisticated scent and switched to something lighter and airier as jane was moved away from civilization, this one had done it backwards for some absolutely ridiculous reason. it finally got strong enough to distract me out of my characterization, and i came back to reality to realize once more that reality had been strong enough to cut into the concentration level of a halluscene. there was strong woman-presence in my room, and as i looked around i found that tomboy taylor had come in--just as gimpy gordon had--and was sitting in the other halluscene chair. she was probably playing lady jane to my tarzan. tomboy taylor had changed to a short-skirted, low-necked cocktail dress; relaxed with her eyes closed in my halluscene chair she looked lovely. she looked as vulnerable as a soft kitten. remembering that it's the soft vulnerable ones that claw you if you touch, i refrained. i went to my little bar and refilled my highball glass because swinging through the jungle makes one thirsty, and while i was pouring i took a sly peek into tomboy taylor's mind. she was not halluscening. she was watching me. and when i made contact with her, she radiated a sort of overall aura of amusement-emotion, covered up her conscious deliberation, and blocked any probing by directing me mentally, "make it two, wally." i built her one, handed it to her, and then said, "folks these days sure have forgotten how to use doorbells." "if you don't want people coming in, wally, you should restrict your mindwarden a little. it's set to admit anybody who does not approach the door with vigorous intent to commit grave physical harm. when the thing radiates 'come in and relax' is a girl supposed to stand outside twiggling on the doorbell?" i dropped the subject thinking that maybe i shouldn't have brought it up in the first place. it's one that can't be answered by logic, whereas a firm emotional statement of like or dislike stops all counter-argument and i'd made the mistake of questioning my own judgment. so i eyed her and said, "tomboy, you did not come here to indulge in small talk." "no," she admitted. "i'm here to keep track of you, wally." "oh?" "our great and good friend wants me to make notes on how clever you are at arranging things." "you mean barcelona sent you." "that's about it." i looked at her askance. "and how long are you going to stay?" she smiled. "until flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace come across the finish line one, two, and three at churchill downs on derby day." i grinned at her. "considering that trio of turtles, tomboy, it may be for years and it may be forever." she held up her glass in a sort of a toast. "or," she said, "'til death do us part!" a little bitterly i said, "one might think that barcelona doesn't trust me." she replied, "it isn't a matter of trust. barcelona holds you among his very closest friends. he is well aware of the fact that you would do anything for him, that you prize his friendship so highly yourself that you would go to the most desperate lengths to keep it firm and true. yet he realizes that the simple desire he has recently expressed does place you in a delicate mental attitude. you are likely to feel that he shouldn't have expressed this desire since you feel obligated to fulfill it. he feels that maybe this obligation to maintain friendship at all costs may cause resentment. since barcelona does not want you to resent him, he sent me to be your companion in the hope that i might get some forewarning should your friendship for him begin to weaken." * * * * * just why in this day and age she didn't just come out and say--or think--flatly that she was there to keep me in line, i don't know. but there she was, talking all around the main point and delivering the information by long-winded inference. even so, without her pittsburgh stogie, tomboy taylor was a mighty attractive dish, and i knew that she could also be a bright and interesting conversationalist if she wanted to be. under other circumstances i might have enjoyed the company, but it was no pleasure to know that every grain of her one hundred and fourteen pounds avoirdupois was barcelona's personal property. at that moment i realized that i was not too much concerned with what barcelona's reaction might be. instead, i was wishing that things were different so that any activity between us would be for our own personal gain and pleasure rather than the order of or the fight against one joseph barcelona. there was one consolation. tomboy taylor had not come equipped with a box of pittsburgh stogies with which to make my appreciation of beauty throw up its lunch. she said, sweetly, "the better to ensnare you, my dear." but as she spoke, for just a moment her thick woolly mind shield thinned out enough for me to catch a strange, puzzled grasp for understanding. as if for the first time she had been shown how admiration for physical attractiveness could be both honest and good. that my repugnant attitude over her pittsburgh stogies was not so much based upon the spoiling of beauty by the addition of ugliness, but the fact that the act itself cheapened her in my eyes. then she caught me peeking and clamped down a mind screen that made the old so-called "iron curtain" resemble a rusty sieve. "i'm the one that's supposed to keep track of you, you remember," she said, once more covering up and leaping mentally to the attack. "i'll remember," i said. "but will you tell me something?" "maybe," she said in a veiled attitude. "is your boy friend really interested in cleaning up, or is he interested in watching me squirm out of a trap he set for me?" "in the first place," she said, "i may have been seen in barcelona's presence but please remember that my association with mr. joseph barcelona has always been strictly on a financial plane. this eliminates the inference contained under the phrase 'boy friend.' check?" "o.k., tomboy, if that's the--" "that's not only the way i want it," she said, "but that's the way it always has been and always will be. second, i have been getting tired of this nickname 'tomboy'. if we're going to be racked this close together, you'll grate on my nerves less if you use my right name. it's just plain 'nora' but i'd like to hear it once in a while." i nodded soberly. i held out a hand but she put her empty highball glass in it instead of her own little paw. i shrugged and mixed and when i returned and handed it to her i said, "i'll make you a deal. i'll call you 'nora' just so long as you maintain the manners and attitude of a female, feminine, lady-type woman. i'll treat you like a woman, but you've got to earn it. is that a deal?" she looked at me, her expression shy and as defenseless as a bruiser-type caught reading sentimental poetry. i perceived that i had again touched a sensitive spot by demanding that she be more than physically spectacular. her defenses went down and i saw that she really did not know the answer to my question. i did. it had to do with something that only the achievement of a god-like state--or extreme old age--would change. this time it was not so much the answer to why little boys walk high fences in front of little girls. it had much more to do with the result of what happens between little boys when the little girl hides her baseball bat and straightens the seams of her stockings when one certain little boy comes into sight. joseph barcelona did not admire my ability. he had, therefore, caused me to back myself into a corner where i'd be taken down a peg, shown-up as a second-rater--with the little girl as a witness. and why had barcelona been so brash as to send the little girl into my company in order for her to witness my downfall? let me tell you about joe barcelona. * * * * * normally honest citizens often complain that barcelona is living high off'n the hawg instead of slugging it out in residence at stateville, joliet, illinois. with their straight-line approach to simple logic, these citizens argue that the advent of telepathy should have rendered the falsehood impossible, and that perception should enable anybody with half a talent to uncover hidden evidence. then since mr. joseph barcelona is obviously not languishing in jail, it is patent that the police are not making full use of their talented extrasensory operators, nor the evidence thus collected. and then after having argued thus, our upstanding citizen will fire off a fast thought to his wife and ask her to invite the neighbors over that evening for a game of bridge. none of these simple-type of logicians seem to be aware of the rules for bridge or poker that were in force prior to extrasensory training courses. since no one recognized psionics, the rules did not take telepathy, perception, manipulation, into any consideration whatsoever. psionics hadn't done away with anything including the old shell game. all psionics had done was to make the game of chance into a game of skill, and made the game of skill into a game of talent that required better control and longer training in order to gain full proficiency. in barcelona's case, he had achieved his own apparent immunity by surrounding himself with a number of hirelings who drew a handsome salary for sitting around thinking noisy thoughts. noisy thoughts, jarring thoughts, stunts like the concentration-interrupter of playing the first twenty notes of brahms' lullaby in perfect pitch and timing and then playing the twenty-first note in staccato and a half-tone flat. making mental contact with barcelona was approximately the analogue of eavesdropping upon the intimate cooing of a lover sweet-talking his lady in the middle of a sawmill working on an order three days late under a high priority and a penalty clause for delayed delivery. people who wonder how barcelona can think for himself with all of that terrific mental racket going on do not know that barcelona is one of those very rare birds who can really concentrate to the whole exclusion of any distraction short of a vigorous threat to his physical well-being. and so his trick of sending nora taylor served a threefold purpose. it indicated his contempt for me. it removed nora from his zone of interference so that she could really witness firsthand my mental squirmings as i watched my own comeuppance bearing down on me. it also gave him double the telepathic contact with me and my counter-plans--if any. in the latter, you see, barcelona's way of collecting outside information was to order a temporary cease-fire of the mental noise barrage and then he'd sally forth like a one-man mental commando raid to make a fast grab for what he wanted. since the best of telepaths cannot read a man's opinion of prunes when he's thinking of peanuts, it is necessary for someone to be thinking of the subject he wants when he makes his raid. having two in the know and interested doubled his chance for success. there was also the possibility that barcelona might consider his deliberate "leak" to gimpy gordon ineffective. most sensible folks are disinclined to treat gimpy's delusions of grandeur seriously despite the truth of the cliché that states that a one-to-one correspondence does indeed exist between the perception of smoke and the existence of pyrotic activity. nora taylor would add some certification to the rumor. one thing simply had to be: there must be no mistake about placing information in lieutenant delancey's hands so as to create the other jaw of the pincers that i was going to be forced to close upon myself. * * * * * i tried a gentle poke in the general direction of barcelona and found that the mental noise was too much to stand. i withdrew just a bit and closed down the opening until the racket was no more than a mental rumor, and i waited. i hunched that barcelona would be curious to know how his contact-girl was making out, and might be holding a cease-fire early in this phase of the operation. i was right. the noise diminished with the suddenness of turning off a mental switch, and as it stopped i went in and practically popped barcelona on the noodle with: "how-de-do, joseph." he recoiled at the unexpected thrust, but came back with: "wally wilson! got a minute?" i looked at the calendar, counted off the days to derby day in my mind and told him that i had that long--at the very least and probably much, much longer. "thinks you!" "methinks," i replied. "wally boy," he returned, "you aren't playing this very smart." "suppose you tell me how you'd be playing it," i bounced back at him. "tell you how i have erred?" he went vague on me. "if i were of a suspicious nature, i would begin to wonder about certain connective events. for instance, let's hypothecate. let's say that a certain prominent bookmaker had been suspected of planning to put a fix on a certain important horse race, but of course nothing could be proved. now from another source we suddenly discover strong evidence to suggest that this bookmaker is not accepting wagers on the horses he is backing, but conversely is busy laying wagers on the same nags through the help of a rather inept go-between." i grunted aloud which caused nora taylor to look up in surprise. i was tempted to say it aloud but i did not. i thought: "in simple terms, joseph, you are miffed because i will not cover your bets." "i thought nothing of the sort." "let's hedge? i love you too, joseph." "well, are you or aren't you?" "are i what? going to top the frosting by financing your little scheme to put the pinch on me?" "now, wally--" "can it, joseph. we're both big boys now and we both know what the score is. you know and i know that the first time i or one of my boys takes a bet on any one of the three turtles you like, the guy who laid the bet is going to slip the word to one of your outside men. and you're going to leap to the strange conclusion that if wally wilson is accepting bets against his own fix, he must know something exceedingly interesting." [illustration] "now, who's been saying anything about a fix, wally?" "the people," i thought bluntly, "who have most recently been associated with your clever kind of operator." "that isn't very nice, wally." if it had been a telephone conversation, i'd have slammed the telephone on him. the mealymouthed louse and his hypocritical gab was making me mad--and i knew that he was making me mad simply to make me lose control of my blanket. i couldn't stop it, so i let my anger out by thinking: "you think you are clever because you're slipping through sly little loopholes, joseph. i'm going to show you how neat it is to get everything i want including your grudging admission of defeat by the process of making use of the laws and rules that work in my favor." "you're a wise guy," he hurled back at me. "i'm real clever, barcelona. and i'm big enough to face you, even though phil howland, the greek, and chicago charlie make like cold clams at the mention of your name." "why, you punk--" "go away, barcelona. go away before i make up my mind to make you eat it." i turned to nora taylor and regarded her charms and attractions both physical and mental with open and glowing admiration. it had the precalculated result and it wouldn't have been a whit different if i'd filed a declaration of intent and forced her to read it first. it even satisfied my ambient curiosity about what a telepathed grinding of the teeth in frustrated anger would transmit as. and when it managed to occur to an unemployed thought-center of my brain that the lines of battle were soft and sweetly curved indeed, joseph barcelona couldn't stand it any more. he just gave a mental sigh and signaled for the noisemakers to shut him off from contact. * * * * * derby day, the first saturday in may, dawned warm and clear with a fast, dry track forecast for post time. the doorbell woke me up and i dredged my apartment to identify nora fiddling in my two-bit kitchen with ham and eggs. outside it was lieutenant delancey practising kinematics by pressing the button with a levitated pencil instead of shoving on the thing directly. (i'd changed the combination on the mindwarden at nora's suggestion.) as i struggled out of bed, nora flashed, "you get it, wally," at me. she was busy manipulating the ham slicer and the coffee percolator and floating more eggs from the refrigerator. the invitation and the acceptance for and of breakfast was still floating in the mental atmosphere heavy enough to smell the coffee. i replied to both of them, "if he can't get in, let him go hungry." lieutenant delancey manipulated the door after i'd reset the mindwarden for him. he came in with a loud verbal greeting that nora answered by a call from the kitchen. i couldn't hear them because i was in the shower by that time. however, i did ask, "what gives, lieutenant?" "it's derby day." "yeah. so what?" "going to watch it from here?" he thought incredulously. "why not? be a big jam down there." "i've a box," he said. "no ... how--?" "both the derby association and the chicago police force have assigned me to protect you from the evil doings of sinners," he said with a chuckle. "and i suggested that the best way of keeping an official eye on you was to visit you at the scene of the alleged intended crime and to serve that end they provided me with a box where we can all be together." i tossed, "and if we do not elect to go to kentucky?" he chuckled again. "then i shall have to arrest you." "for what?" "there is an old law in the city statute that declares something called 'massive cohabitation' to be illegal. you have been naughty, wally." nora exploded. "we have not!" she cried. lieutenant delancey laughed like a stage villain. "the law i mention," he said after a bit of belly-laughing, "was passed long, long ago before telepathy and perception were available to provide the truth. at that time the law took the stand that any unmarried couple living together would take advantage of their unchaperoned freedom, and if this state of cohabitation went on for a considerable length of time--called 'massive' but don't ask me to justify the term--the probability of their taking pleasure in one another's company approached a one hundred per cent positive probability. "now this law was never amended by the review act. hence the fact that you have been chastely occupying separate chambers has nothing to do with the letter of the law that says simply that it is not lawful for an unmarried couple to live under the same unchaperoned roof." i came out of the shower toweling myself and manipulating a selection of clean clothing out of the closet in my bedroom. "the law," i observed, "is administered by the _intent_ of the law, and not by the letter, isn't it?" "oh, sure," he said. "but i'm not qualified to interpret the law. i'll arrest you and bring you to trial and then it's up to some judge to rule upon your purity and innocence of criminal intent, and freedom from moral taint or turpitude. maybe take weeks, you know." "and what's the alternative?" i grunted. "flight," he said in a sinister tone as i came out of my bedroom putting the last finishes on my necktie. "flight away from the jurisdiction of the law that proposes to warp the meaning of the law to accomplish its own ends." "and you?" "my duty," he grinned, "is to pursue you." "in which case," observed nora taylor, "we might as well fly together and save both time and money." "that is why i have my personal sky-buggy all ready to go instead of requisitioning an official vehicle," he said. he scooped a fork full of eggs and said, "you're a fool, wally. the lady can cook." i chuckled. "and what would happen if i hauled off and married her?" "you mean right here and now?" "yes." "sorry. i'd have to restrain you. you see, you couldn't get a legal license nor go through any of the other legal activities, ergo there would be a prima facie illegality about some part of the ceremony. without being definite as to which phase, i would find it my duty to restrain you from indulging in any act the consummation of which would be illegal." nora said in pseudo-petulant tone, "i've been damned with very faint praise." "how so?" "wally wilson has just said that he'd rather marry me than go to the kentucky derby with you." lieutenant delancey said, "i urge you both to come along. you see, my box is also being occupied by an old friend of yours. i managed to talk him into joining us, and with reluctance he consented." "i'm a mind reader," i said. "our friend's name is joseph barcelona?" "as they say on the space radio, 'aye-firm, over and out!'" * * * * * barcelona was there with two of his boys. watching them were four ununiformed officers. nora and i and the lieutenant were joined later by gimpy gordon, who might have been radiating childlike wonder and a circus-air of excitement at actually being _at_ the derby. he might have been. no one could cut through the constant, maddening mental blah-blah-blah that was being churned out by barcelona's noisemakers. he greeted me curtly, eyed nora hungrily. he said: "you look pretty confident, wilson." "i can't lose," i said. "no? frankly i don't see how you can win." i smiled. "without mentioning any names, joseph, i feel confident that the final outcome of this racing contest will be just as you want it to be. i shall ask that no credit be given me, although i shall be greatly admired by our mutual friend miss nora taylor who will think that i am truly wonderful for making you happy. and it is more than likely that she may marry me once i have shown you, and she, _and_ lieutenant delancey, that i am a law-abiding citizen as well as a man who values friendship enough to do as his old pal joe barcelona desires." "it's going to be one of the neatest tricks of the week," he said. "it will be done by the proper application of laws," i said modestly. behind us, gimpy gordon light-fingered a half dollar out of delancey's pocket and was attracting the attention of a hot dog peddler by waving his program. some folks nearby were eying barcelona's noisemakers angrily but making very little visible protest once they identified him. nora was reading her program and underlining some horses. the whole place began to grow into a strange excited silence as the track board began to go up. it was to be a nine-horse race, and at the top of the list were three--count them--three odds-on favorites: . murdoch's hoard : . mewhu's jet : . johnny brack : . piper's son : . daymare : . helen o'loy : and then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have been entered by someone who thought that the kentucky derby was a claiming race and who hoped that the lepage's glue people would make a bid for the three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in the backstretch: . flying heels : . moonbeam : . lady grace : the rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of mass-movement towards the mutuel windows. the ones who didn't go in person tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early and failing this they arose and followed the crowd. slowly the odds began to change; the figures on our three platers began to rise. there was very little activity on the other six horses. slow-thinking gimpy gordon started to get up but i put out a hand to stop him. "but the odds are dropping," he complained. "gimpy," i said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. but would you like a tip?" "sure," he said nervously. "my tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. put it on the nose of some horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind." the odds were changing rapidly. what with psionic information receivers, trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept up with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and flipped the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. in no more than a few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like the odds on horses that stood a chance of winning. * * * * * barcelona looked at me. "what did you do, wise guy?" "who ... me? why, i didn't do anything that you did not start--except that maybe i was a little more generous." "_spiel!_" he snarled. "why, shucks, joseph. all i did was to slip good old gimpy gordon a tip." "how much?" "just a lousy little thousand dollar bill." "a grand! for what, wise guy?" "why, just for telling me what horses you picked for the derby." barcelona looked at the odds on his horses. flying heels had passed even money and was heading for a one-to-two odds-on. the other platers were following accordingly. "and what did you tell gimpy, wilson?" "you tell him, gimp," i said. "why, wilson just said that we should ride along with you, mr. barcelona, because you are such a nice guy that everybody works awfully hard to see that you get what you want." "there's more!" roared barcelona. "only that i shouldn't mention it to anybody, and that i shouldn't place my bet until the mutuel windows open because if i did it would louse up the odds and make you unhappy." gimpy looked at barcelona's stormy face and he grew frightened. "honest, mr. barcelona, i didn't say a word to nobody. not a word." he turned to me and whined plaintively, "you tell him, mr. wilson. i didn't say a word." i soothed him. "we know you didn't, gimpy." barcelona exploded. "ye gods!" he howled. "they used that gimmick on me when i lost my first baby tooth. 'don't put your tongue in the vacant place,' they said, 'and don't think of the words _gold tooth_ and it'll grow in natural gold!'" as he spoke the odds on flying heels changed from a staggering one-to-eight to an even more staggering one-to-ten. that meant that anybody holding less than a ten-dollar bet on such a winner would only get his own money back because the track does not insult its clients by weighing them down with coins in the form of small change. they keep the change and call it "breakage" for any amount over an even-dollar money. delancey said to barcelona, "you have had it, joseph." barcelona snarled, "put the big arm on wilson here. he's the fast man with the big fix." "wilson didn't fix any race, joseph. he just parlayed some of the laws of human nature into a win for himself and a lose for you." "now see here--what's this guff about human nature?" "well, there's the human desire to ride with a winner, and the human frailty that hopes to get something for nothing. to say nothing of the great human desire to be 'on the inside' track or 'in the know' so that they can bet on the 'sure thing'. and so," said delancey, "we've about twenty thousand human beings full of human nature holding tickets on your three dogs, joseph. they bet their money because the 'inside dope' said that the big fix was in. and i can tell you that what twenty thousand people are going to do to this 'inside dope' when their nags run last is going to make torquemada ask permission to return to life for a second inquisition, this time with extrasensory tortures." he turned to me as barcelona went pale. "wally," he asked, "want to bet that someone doesn't remember that old question of whether it is possible to break every bone in a man's body without killing him?" "i'd be a fool to cover that one," i said. "but i'll play even money and on either side of whether joseph dies or lives through the process." "stop it!" screamed barcelona. he grabbed me by the arm. "wilson," he pleaded, "can you? stop it, i mean? can you fix it?" "sure," i said. "legally?" "yep. but it'll cost you." "just money?" "just money--and admitting that you lost, joseph!" "i lose," he said. "go ahead!" "o.k., joseph. now, let's be real honest. those three longshore turtles belong to you, don't they?" "yes." "and right now you wouldn't even want to see them run, would you? in fact, you really want that they shouldn't run." "yes." "all right, joseph. call off your noisemakers and toss the head steward a thought. tell him you're scratching your entries." "but that won't stop the people from losing their money." "natch. so next you broadcast a thought that because of this terrible, grievous error you are refunding their money out of your own pocket since the track association will not or is not obliged to." he turned to his pair of rattleheads and snarled, "all right. shut up!" a mental silence fell that was like the peace of rest after a busy day. as barcelona was tossing his cancellation at the steward and preparing to make a full and plausible explanation to the gambling instinct of the kentucky derby crowd, i considered the matter carefully: "let's see," i thought. "he wants 'em not to run and so he can't complain to me if they do not. i didn't fix the race, so lieutenant delancey can't accuse me of that. that makes everybody happy, and i win!" a small hand stole into mine. "how about me, wally?" nora asked sweetly. i looked down at a thionite dream come true by the glow in her eyes that admired no one else but me. "you're mine," i reminded her, "until flying heels, moonbeam, and lady grace win one, two, and three at the kentucky derby." "or," she said mischievously, "'til death do us part!" * * * * * i was instructing her how to respond to a kiss as a lady should respond when about two hundred thousand noisy, exuberant human natures yelled and radiated and thought: "they're off!" but they didn't mean us. they were watching a bunch of long-faced hayburners chasing one another around a dusty track. human nature ain't changed a bit. it's just more complicated in an extrasensory sort of way. the end [illustration] transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _astounding science fiction_ december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. books for sportsmen published by bellairs & co., hart street, bloomsbury. in scarlet and silk. recollections of hunting and steeplechase riding. by fox russell. with two drawings in colour by finch mason. s. net. new sporting stories. by g. g. s. d. net. _the times_ says:--"new sporting stories are written by a man who evidently knows what he is writing about.... the sketches are short, racy and to the point." travel and big game. by percy selous and h. a. bryden. with illustrations. [_in the press._ the chase: a poem. by william somerville. illustrated by hugh thomson. s. net. in this fine old poem now ably illustrated by mr hugh thomson are the original lines, quoted by the immortal jorrocks-- "my hoarse-sounding horn invites thee to the chace, the sport of kings, image of war, without its guilt." great scot the chaser, and other sporting stories. by g. g. s. d. net. _the daily telegraph_ says:--"g. g. is a benefactor to his species." curiosities of bird life. by charles dixon, author of "the migration of birds." [_in the press._ animal episodes and studies in sensation. by george h. powell. s. d. net. tales of the cinder path. by an amateur athlete [w. lindsey]. s. d. net. reminiscences of a yorkshire naturalist. by the late w. crawford williamson, ll.d., f.r.s. edited by his wife. s. net. entertaining books published by bellairs & co., hart street, bloomsbury. a man and a woman. faithfully presented by stanley waterloo. s. d. net. beyond atonement. a story of london life. by a. st john adcock. s. d. net. a husband's ordeal; or, the confessions of gerald brownson, late of coora coora, queensland. by percy russell. s. d. net. a bride's experiment. a story of australian bush life. by charles j. mansford. s. d. net. eighty years ago; or, the recollections of an old army doctor, his adventures on the fields of quatre bras and waterloo, and during the occupation of paris, . by the late dr gibney of cheltenham. edited by his son, major gibney. s. net. the soldier in battle; or, life in the ranks of the army of the potomac. by frank wilkeson, a survivor of grant's last campaign. s. d. net. nephelÈ. the story of a sonata for violin and piano. by f. w. bourdillon. s. d. net. a darn on a blue stocking. a story of to-day. by g. g. chatterton. s. d. net. the mystery of the cordillera. a tale of adventure in the andes. by a. mason bourne. illustrated. s. d. net. the lure of fame. by clive holland, author of "my japanese wife." s. d. net. the old ecstasies. a modern romance. by gaspard tournier. s. d. net. the tantalus tour. a theatrical venture. by walter parke, joint-author of "les manteaux noirs," and other comic operas. illustrated. s. d. net. sporting society [illustration: going to cover. by r. caldecott.] sporting society or _sporting chat and sporting memories_ stories humorous and curious; wrinkles of the field and the race-course; anecdotes of the stable and the kennel; with numerous practical notes on shooting and fishing from the pen of various sporting celebrities and well-known writers on the turf and the chase edited by fox russell illustrations by randolph caldecott. _in two volumes--vol. i._ london bellairs & co. contents page the influence of field sports on character by sir courtenay boyle old-fashioned angling by captain r. bird thompson partridge day as it was and as it is by "an elderly sportsman" simpson's snipe by terence le smithe podgers' pointer by ben b. brown the dead heat by "old calabar" only the mare by alfred e. t. watson hunting in the midlands by t. h. s. escott a military steeplechase by captain r. bird thompson how i won my handicap told by the winner the first day of the season and its results by "sabretache" a day with the drag by the editor stag-hunting on exmoor by captain redway sport amongst the mountains by "sarcelle" a birmingham dog show by "old calabar" huntingcrop hall by alfred e. t. watson a dog hunt on the berwyns by g. christopher davies some odd ways of fishing by g. christopher davies shooting by captain r. bird thompson [symbol: asterism] "the dead heat," by "old calabar," was originally contributed by the veteran sportsman to the pages of "baily's magazine," and is here reproduced by the permission of the proprietors. the influence of field sports on character field sports have been generally considered solely in the light of a relaxation from the graver business of life, and have been justified by writers on economics on the ground that some sort of release is required from the imprisoned existence of the man of business, the lawyer, or the politician. apollo does not always bend his bow, it is said, and timely dissipation is commendable even in the wise; therefore by all means, let the sports which we english love be pursued within legitimate bounds, and up to an extent not forbidden by weightier considerations. but there seems to be somewhat more in field sports than is contained in this criticism. the influence _of_ character on the manner in which sports are pursued is endless, and reciprocally the influence of field sports _on_ character seems to deserve some attention. the best narrator of schoolboy life of the present day has said that, varied as are the characters of boys, so varied are their ways of facing or not facing a "hilly," at football; and one of the greatest observers of character in england has written a most instructive and amusing account of the way in which men enjoy fox-hunting. if, therefore, a man's character and his occupations and tastes exercise a mutual influence upon each other, it follows that while men of different dispositions pursue sports in different ways, the sports also which they do pursue will tell considerably in the development of their natural character. now, the field sport which is perhaps pursued by a greater number of englishmen than any other, and which is most zealously admired by its devotees, is fox-hunting. it is essentially english in its nature. "a fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange, 'tis likewise subject to the double danger of falling first, and having in exchange some pleasant laughter at the awkward stranger." and it is this very falling which adds in some degree to its popularity; _suave mari magno_, it is pleasant to know that your neighbour a.'s horse, which he admires so much, has given him a fall at that very double over which your little animal has carried you so safely; and it is pleasant to feel yourself secure from the difficulties entailed on b, by his desire to teach his four-year-old how to jump according to his tastes. but apart from this delight--uncharitable if you like to call it--which is felt at the hazards and failures of another, there is in fox-hunting the keenest possible desire to overcome satisfactorily these difficulties yourself. not merely for the sake of explaining to an after-dinner audience how you jumped that big place by the church or led the field safely over the brook, though that element does enter in; but from the strong delight which an englishman seems by birthright to have in surmounting any obstacles which are placed in his way. put a man then on a horse, and send him out hunting, and when he has had some experience ask him what he has discovered of the requirements of his new pursuit, and what is the lesson or influence of it. he will probably give you some such answer as the following. the first thing that is wanted by, and therefore encouraged by, fox-hunting, is decision. he who hesitates is lost. no "craner" can get well over a country. directly the hounds begin to run, he who would follow them must decide upon his course. will he go through that gate, or attempt that big fence, which has proved a stopper to the crowd? there is no time to lose. the fence may necessitate a fall, the gate must cause a loss of time, which shall it be? or again, the hounds have come to a check, the master and huntsmen are not up (in some countries a very possible event), and it devolves upon the only man who is with them to give them a cast. where is it to be? here or there? there is no time for thought, prompt and decided action alone succeeds. or else the loss of shoe or an unexpected fall has thrown you out, and you must decide quickly in which direction you think the hounds are most likely to have run. experience, of course, tells considerably here as everywhere; but quick decision and promptitude in adopting the course decided on will be the surest means of attaining the wished for result of finding yourself again in company with the hounds. further, fox-hunting teaches immensely self-dependence; every one is far too much occupied with his own ideas and his own difficulties to be able to give more than the most momentary attention to those of his neighbour. if you seek advice or aid you will not get much from the really zealous sportsman; you must trust to yourself, you must depend on your own resources. "go on, sir, or else let me come," is the sort of encouragement which you are likely to get, if in doubt whether a fence is practicable or a turn correct. thirdly, fox-hunting necessitates a combination of judgment and courage removed from timidity on the one side and foolhardiness on the other. the man who takes his horse continually over big places, for the sake of doing that in which he hopes no one else will successfully imitate him, is sure in the end to kill his horse or lose his chance of seeing the run; and on the other hand, he who, when the hounds are running, shirks an awkward fence or leaves his straight course to look for a gate, is tolerably certain to find himself several fields behind at the finish. "what sort of a man to hounds is lord a----?" we once heard it asked of a good judge. "oh, a capital sportsman and rider," was the answer; "never larks, but will go at a haystack if the hounds are running." it is partly from the necessity of self-dependence which the fox-hunter feels, that his sport is open to the accusation that it tends to selfishness. the true fox-hunter is alone in the midst of the crowd; he has his own interests solely at heart--each for himself, is his motto, and the pace is often too good for him to stop and help a neighbour in a ditch, or catch a friend's runaway horse. he has no partner, he plays no one's hand except his own. this of course only applies to the man who goes out hunting, eager to have a run and keen to be in at the death. if a man rides to the meet with a pretty cousin, and pilots her for the first part of a run, he probably pays more attention to his charge than to his own instincts of the chase; but he is not on this occasion purely fox-hunting; and, if a true nimrod, his passion for sport will overcome his gallantry, and he will probably not be sorry when his charge has left his protection, and he is free to ride where his individual wishes and the exigencies of the hunt may lead him. what a knowledge of country fox-hunting teaches! a man who hunts will, at an emergency, be far better able than one who does not to choose a course, and select a line, which will lead him right. generals hold that the topographical instinct of the fox-hunter is of considerable advantage in the battle-field; and it is undoubtedly easy to imagine circumstances in which a man accustomed to find his way to or from hounds, in spite of every opposition and difficulty, will make use of the power which he has acquired and be superior to the man who has not had similar advantages. finally, fox-hunting encourages energy and "go." the sluggard or lazy man never succeeds as a fox-hunter, and he who adopts the chase as an amusement soon finds that he must lay aside all listlessness and inertness if he would enjoy to the full the pleasures which he seeks. a man who thinks a long ride to cover, or a jog home in a chill, dank evening in november, a bore, will not do as a fox-hunter. the activity which considers no distance too great, no day too bad for hunting, will contribute first to the success of the sportsman, and ultimately to the formation of the character of the man. fishing teaches perseverance. the man in _punch_, who on friday did not know whether he had had good sport, because he only began on wednesday morning, is a caricature; but, like all caricatures, has an element of truth in it. to succeed as an angler, whether of the kingly salmon, or the diminutive gudgeon, an ardour is necessary which is not damped by repeated want of success; and he who is hopeless because he has no sport at first will never fully appreciate fishing. so too the tyro, who catches his line in a rock, or twists it in an apparently inexplicable manner in a tree, soon finds that steady patience will set him free far sooner than impetuous vigour or ruthless strength. the skilled angler does not abuse the weather or the water in impotent despair, but makes the most of the resources which he has, and patiently hopes an improvement therein. delicacy and gentleness are also taught by fishing. it is here especially that-- "vis consili expers mole ruit suâ, vim temperatam di quoque provehunt in majus." look at the thin link of gut and the slight rod with which the huge trout or "never ending monster of a salmon" is to be caught. no brute force will do there, every struggle of the prey must be met by judicious yielding on the part of the captor, who watches carefully every motion, and treats its weight by giving line, knowing at the same time--none better--when the full force of the butt is to be unflinchingly applied. does not this sort of training have an effect on character? will not a man educated in fly-fishing find developed in him the tendency to be patient, to be persevering, and to know how to adapt himself to circumstances. whatever be the fish he is playing, whatever be his line, will he not know when to yield and when to hold fast? but fishing like hunting is solitary. the zealot among fishermen will generally prefer his own company to the society of lookers-on, whose advice may worry him, and whose presence may spoil his sport. the salmon-fisher does not make much of a companion of the gillie who goes with him, and the trouter does best when absolutely alone; and nothing is so apt to prove a tyrant, and an evil one, as the love of solitude. on the other hand, the angler is always under the influence, and able to admire the beauties of nature. whether he be upon the crag-bound loch or by the sides of the laughing burn of highland countries, or prefer the green banks of southern rivers, he can enjoy to the full the many pleasures which existence alone presents to those who admire nature. and all this exercises a softening influence on his character. read the works of those who write on fishing--scrope, walton, davy, as instances. is there not a very gentle spirit breathing through them? what is there rude or coarse or harsh in the true fisherman? is he not light and delicate, and do not his words and actions fall as softly as his flies? shooting is of two kinds, which, without incorrectness, may be termed wild and tame. of tame shooting the tamest, in every sense of the word, is pigeon-shooting; but as this is admittedly not sport, and as its principal feature is that it is a medium for gambling, or, at least, for the winning of money prizes or silver cups, it may be passed over in a few words. it undoubtedly requires skill, and encourages rapidity of eye and quickness of action; but its influence on character depends solely on its essential selfishness, and the taint which it bears from the "filthy" effect of "lucre." other tame shooting is battue shooting, where luxuriously clad men, who have breakfasted at any hour between ten and twelve, and have been driven to their coverts in a comfortable conveyance, stand in a sheltered corner with cigarettes in their mouths, and shoot tame pheasants and timid hares for about three hours and a half, varying the entertainment by a hot lunch, and a short walk from beat to beat. two men stand behind each sportsman with breech-loaders of the quickest action, and the only drawback to the gunner's satisfaction is that he is obliged to waste a certain time between his shots in cocking the gun which he has taken from his loader. this cannot but be enervating in its influence. everything, except the merest action of pointing the piece and pulling the trigger, is done for you. you are conveyed probably to the very place where you are to stand; the game is driven right up to you; what you shoot is picked up for you; your gun itself is loaded by other hands; you have no difficulty in finding your prey; you have no satisfaction in outwitting the wiliness of bird or beast; you have nothing whatever except the pleasure--minimised by constant repetition--of bringing down a "rocketter," or stopping a rabbit going full speed across a ride. the moral of this is that it is not necessary to do anything for yourself, that some one will do everything for you, probably better than you would, and that all you have to do is to leave everything to some person whom you trust. or, again, it is, get the greatest amount of effect with the least possible personal exertion. stand still, and opportunities will come to you like pheasants--all you have to do is to knock them over. but it is not so with wild-shooting. not so with the man, who, with the greatest difficulty, and after studying every available means of approach, has got within range of the lordly stag, and hears the dull thud which tells him his bullet has not missed its mark. nor with him, who, after a hurried breakfast, climbs hill after hill in pursuit of the russet grouse, or mounts to the top of a craggy ridge in search of the snowy ptarmigan. not so either with him, who traverses every bit of marshy ground along a low bottom, and is thoroughly gratified, if, at the end of a long day, he has bagged a few snipe; nor with him, who, despite cold and gloom and wet, has at last drawn his punt within distance of a flock of wild duck. in each of these, endurance and energy is taught in its fullest degree. it is no slight strain on the muscles and lungs to follow ronald in his varied course, in which he emulates alternately the movements of the hare, the crab, and the snake; and it is no slight trial of patience to find, after all your care, all your wearisome stalk, that some unobserved hind, or unlucky grouse, has frightened your prey and rendered your toil vain. but, _en avant_, do not despair, try again, walk your long walk, crawl your difficult crawl once more, and then, your perseverance rewarded by a royal head, agree that deer-stalking is calculated to develop a character which overcomes all difficulties, and goes on in spite of many failures. the same obstinate determination which is found in this, the _beau ideal_ of all shooting, is found similarly in shooting of other kinds; and it is a question whether to the endurance inculcated by this pursuit may not be attributed that part of an englishman's character which made the peninsular heroes "never know when they were licked." it is objected by foreigners to many of our national sports that they involve great disregard for animal life. "let us go out and kill something," they say, is the exhortation of an englishman to his friend when they wish to amuse themselves. sport consists, they hold, in slaughter; sport therefore is cruel, and teaches contempt for the feelings of creatures lower than ourselves in the scale of existence. i do not wish to enter into this question, which has been a source of considerable controversy; but i would say three things in reference to it. first, that it is difficult to answer the question, why should man be an exception to the rule of instinct--undoubtedly prevalent throughout the world--which leads every animal to prey upon its inferior? secondly, that every possible arrangement is made by man for the comfort and safety of his prey--salmon, foxes, pheasants or stags--until the actual moment of capture, and that every fair chance of escape is given to it; and thirdly, that whatever the premises may be, the conclusion remains, that there is no race so far removed from carelessness of animal life and happiness as the english. there are, however, other field sports which do not involve any destruction of life, and which, from the general way in which they are pursued, may fairly be called national. foremost amongst these is racing. were racing freed from any influence, other than that which distinguished the races of past epochs, the desire of success; were the prize a crown of parsley or of laurel, and the laudable desire of victory the only inducement to contention, the effect on the men who are devoted to it could not be otherwise than for good. in modern racing, however, the element of pecuniary gain comes in so strongly, that the worst points of the human character are stimulated by it instead of the best, and the improvement of horseflesh and the breed of horses is sacrificed to the temporary advantage of owners of horses. to say, now, that a man is going on the turf, is to say, that he had almost be better under it; and though a few exceptional cases are found, in which men persistently keeping race horses have maintained their independence and strict integrity in spite of the many temptations with which they are assailed, yet, even they, have probably done so at the sacrifice of openness of confidence and perhaps of friendship. trust no one is the motto of turfites. keep the key of your saddle-room yourself; let no one, not even your trainer, see your weights. pay your jockey the salary of a judge, and then have no security that he will not deceive you. the state of the turf is like the state of corcyræa of old. every man thinks, that unless he is actually plotting against somebody, he is in danger of being plotted against himself, and that the only safety he has lies in taking the initiative in deceit. the sole object is to win-- "rem si possis recte, si non quocunque modo rem." take care you are not cheated yourself, and make the most of any knowledge of which you believe yourself to be the sole possessor. what is the result of such a pursuit? what its moral? the destruction of all generosity, all trust in others, all large-mindedness: and the encouragement instead, of selfishness, of extravagance, and of suspicion. the man whose friendship was warm and generous, who would help his friend to the limit of his powers, goes on the turf and becomes warped and narrow, labouring, apparently, always under the suspicion, that those whom he meets are trying, or wish to try, to get the better of him, or share, in some way, the advantages which he hopes his cunning has acquired for himself. a thorough disregard for truth, too, is taught by horse-racing; not, perhaps, instanced always by the affirmation of falsehood, but negatively by the concealment or distortion of fact. an owner seldom allows even his best friend to know the result of his secret trials, and in some notable cases such results are kept habitually locked in the breast of one man, who fears to have a confidant, and doubts the integrity of everyone. whether this is a state of things which can be altered, either by diminishing the number of race-meetings in england, or by discouraging or even putting down betting, i have no wish to consider; but that the present condition of horse-racing and its surroundings is very far removed from being a credit to the country, i venture to affirm. cricket is another field sport, the popularity of which has rapidly increased; partly from the entire harmlessness which characterises it, and leads to the encouragement of it by schoolmasters and clergymen, and partly from the fact that it is played in the open air, in fine weather, and in the society of a number of companions. i do not propose to inquire whether there is benefit in the general spreading of cricket through the country, or whether it may not be said that it occupies too much time and takes men away from other more advantageous occupations, or whether the combination of amateur and professional skill which is found in great matches is a good thing; but i wish, briefly, to point out one or two points in human nature which seem to me to be developed by cricket. the first of these is hero-worship. the best player in a village club, and the captain of a school eleven, if not for other reasons unusually unpopular, is surrounded by a halo of glory which falls to the successful in no other sport. great things are expected of him, he is looked upon with admiring eyes, and is indeed a great man. "ah, it is all very well," you hear, "but wait till brown goes in, smith and robinson are out, but wait till brown appears, then you will see how we shall beat you, bowl him out if you can." his right hand will atone for the shortcomings of many smaller men, his prowess make up the deficiency of his side. or look at a match between all england and twenty-two of clodshire, watch the clodsmen between the innings, how they throng wonderingly round the chiefs of the eleven. that's him, that's abel, wait till he takes the bat, then you'll "see summut like play." or go to the "bat and ball" after the match, when the eleven are there, and see how their words are dwelt on by an admiring audience, and their very looks and demeanour made much of as the deliberate expressions of men great in their generation. again, see the reception at kennington oval of a "surrey pet" or a popular amateur, or the way in which "w. g." grace is treated by the undemonstrative aristocracy of "lord's," and agree with me that cricket teaches hero-worship in its full. what power the captain of the eton or the winchester eleven has, what an influence over his fellows, not merely in the summer when his deeds are before the public, but always from a memory of his prowess with bat or ball. there is one awkward point about this; there are many cricket clubs, and therefore many captains, and when two of these meet a certain amount of difficulty arises in choosing which is the hero to be worshipped. in a match where the best players of a district are collected, and two or more good men, known in their own circle and esteemed highly, there play together, who is to say which is the best; who is to crown the real king of brentford? each considers himself superior to the other, each remembers the plaudits of his own admirers, forgets that it is possible that they may be prejudiced, and ignores the reputation of his neighbour. the result is a jealousy among the chieftains which is difficult to be overcome, and which shows itself even in the best matches. on the other hand, the effect of this hero-worship which i have described, is to produce a harmony and unity of action consequent on confidence in a leader which is peculiar to cricket. watch a good eleven, a good university or public school team, and see how thoroughly they work together, how the whole eleven is like one machine, "point" trusting "coverpoint," "short slip" knowing that if he cannot reach a ball, "long slip" can, and the bowler feeling sure that his "head" balls, if hit up, will be caught, if hit along the ground, will be fielded. or see two good men batting, when every run is of importance, how they trust one another's judgment as to the possibility of running, how thoroughly they act in unison. such training as this teaches greatly a combination of purpose and of action, and a confidence in the judgment of one's colleagues which must be advantageous. the good cricketer is obedient to his captain, does what he is told, and does not grumble if he thinks his skill underrated: the tyro, proud of his own prowess, will indeed be cross if he is not made enough of, or is sent in last; but the good player, who really knows the game, sees that one leader is enough, and obeys his orders accordingly. there are other lessons taught by cricket, such as caution by batting, patience and care by bowling, and energy by fielding; but i have no space to dwell on these, as i wish to examine very briefly one more sport, which, though hardly national, is yet much loved by the considerable number who do pursue it. boating is seen in its glory at the universities or in some of the suburbs of london which are situated on the thames. it is also practised in some of the northern towns, especially newcastle, where the tynesiders have long enjoyed a great reputation. by boating, i do not mean going out in a large tub, and sitting under an awning, being pulled by a couple of paid men or drawn by an unfortunate horse, but boat-racing, for prizes or for honour. the oxford and cambridge race has done more than anything to make this sport popular, and the thousands who applaud the conquerors, reward sufficiently the exertions which have been necessary to make the victory possible. the chief lesson which rowing teaches is self denial. the university oar, or the member of the champion crew at henley, has to give up many pleasures, and deny himself many luxuries, before he is in a fit state to row with honour to himself and his club; and though in the dramatist's excited imagination the stroke-oar of an oxford eight may spend days and nights immediately before the race, in the society of a formosa, such is not the case in real life. there must be no pleasant chats over a social pipe for the rowing man, no dinners at the mitre or the bull, no _recherché_ breakfasts with his friends; the routine of training must be strictly observed, and everything must give way to the paramount necessity of putting on muscle. in the race itself, too, what a desperate strain there is on the powers! how many times has some sobbing oarsman felt that nature must succumb to the tremendous demand made on her, that he can go no further; and then has come the thought that others are concerned besides himself, that the honour of his university or his club are at stake, which has lent a new stimulus and made possible that final spurt which results in victory. the habits taught by rowing, whether during training or after the race has commenced, lead to regularity of life, to abstemiousness, and to the avoidance of unwholesome tastes, and their effect is seen long after the desire for aquatic glory have passed away. such are some of the most prominent influences of english field sports, and as long as amusements requiring such energy, such physical or mental activity, and such endurance as fox-hunting, stalking, and cricket, are popular, there is little fear of the manly character of the english nation deteriorating, or its indomitable determination being weakened. old-fashioned angling angling is, i think, one of the most popular of british field sports; certainly, for one book written about any other kind, there must be half-a-dozen on the subject of fishing. i met lately with a most amusing old book on the "art of angling," published in ; and illustrated with very quaint old wood engravings of both fresh and sea water fish. it commences with a long anatomical and physiological description of fish, giving an account of their habits, method of feeding, &c. for this last the author draws considerably on his own imagination. for instance, he declares that mussels and oysters open their shells for the purpose of catching crabs, closing them when one creeps in, and thus securing their prey. the oyster also is declared to change sides with each tide, lying with the flat shell uppermost one time, and the convex the next. after this the author goes regularly through the alphabet, treating everything connected with fresh-water angling under its respective initial letter. i suppose that at this time there were few, if any tackle shops, for most elaborate directions are given for making lines. these were to be of horse hair, and twisted in a "twisting instrument," whatever that was. the hair was to be with the top of one to the tail of the other, so that every part might be equally strong, and turned slowly, so as to allow it "to bed" properly; the different lengths were to be tied together either "by a water knot, or dutch knot, or a weaver's." the line was to taper, beginning with three hairs down to a single one, where the hook was whipped on. the rod, as a matter of the greatest importance, is duly treated. the wood was to be procured between the middle of november and christmas day; the stock or butt to be made of ground hazel, ground ash, or ground willow, not more than two or three feet long. the wood chosen to be that which shot directly from the ground--not from any stump--and every joint beyond was to taper to a top made preferably of hazel, though yew, crab, or blackthorn might be used. if it had any knots or excrescences, which were to be avoided if possible, they must be removed with a sharp knife. five or six inches of the top were to be cut off, and a small piece of round, smooth, taper whalebone spliced on with silk and cobbler's wax, and the whole finished with a strong noose of hair to fasten the line to. this was for an ordinary rod; the best sort was made as follows:--a white deal or fir board, thick, free from knots, and seven to eight feet long, was to be procured, and a dexterous joiner was to divide this with his saw into several breadths; then with a plane to shoot them round, smooth, and rush-grown or taper. one of these would form the bottom of the rod, seven or eight feet long in the piece. to this was fastened a hazel six or seven feet long, proportioned to the fir; this also rush-grown, and it might consist of two or three pieces, to the top of which a piece of yew was to be fixed about two feet long--round, smooth, and taper; and, finally, a piece of round whalebone, five or six inches long. some rings or eyes were to be placed on the rod in such a manner that when you laid your eye to one, you could see through all the rest. a wheel or winch must be fixed on, about a foot from the end of the rod, and, as a finish, a feather dipped in _aqua fortis_ was passed over it, so as to make it a pure cinnamon colour. "this," the author adds, "will be a curious rod if artificially worked!" the subject of fly-making, and how and when to use flies, is treated most exhaustively--no less than twenty-four pages being devoted to the subject. the materials named for fly-dressing are very good indeed, and very much the same as used now; but when the author tries to explain the _actual_ method of using them he utterly fails. anyone who attempted to tie flies in the way explained would produce most extraordinary specimens. the author has taken very great pains, not only in naming the flies to be used each month, but the actual time of day for them, and the hours between which they must be used. worms for bait are described and named with great exactness, and the best way to catch and keep them, also how best to scour them previous to use. i think, however, the method recommended for scouring one kind would be too much for any but a _very_ enthusiastic angler--namely, to put them in a woollen bag, and keep them in your waistcoat pocket. few persons could stand that, i think. many recipes for different sorts of pastes are given, but it is hard to believe that any fish would take them--"bean flour, the tenderest part of a kitten's leg, wax and suet beaten together in a mortar," scarcely sounds alluring; neither does a mixture of "fat old cheese (the strongest rennet), suet, and turmeric," appear to be very nice. to any of these pastes you may add "assafoetida, oil of polypody of the oak, oil of ivy, or oil of peter." well, i do not suppose that they would make much difference. a great number of recipes for unguents, to smear over the worms used so as to make them more attractive, are given; and most extraordinary they are:--assafoetida, three drachms; camphire, one drachm; venice turpentine, one drachm; beaten up with oils of lavender and camomile, is one recipe. another is, "mulberry juice, hedgehog's fat, oil of water-lilies and oil of pennyroyal," mixed together; but the most elaborate one is as follows:--"take the oils of camomile, lavender, and aniseed, of each a quarter of an ounce; heron's grease and the best of assafoetida, each two drachms; two scruples of cummin seed finely beaten to powder; venice turpentine, camphire, and galbanum, of each a drachm; add two grains of civet and make into an unguent. this must be kept close in a glazed earthenware pot, or it loses much of its virtue; anoint your line with it and your expectation will be abundantly answered. some anglers, however, place more confidence in a judicious choice of baits and a proper management of them, than in the most celebrated unguents." i think the concluding paragraph is delightful. i suppose it did at length dawn on the author's mind that people might object to carrying about such hideously stinking compositions. the angler is told that "his apparel must not be of a light or shining colour, but of a dark brown, fitting closely to the body, so as not to fright the fish away." the impediments to our anglers' recreation are named. "the fault may be occasioned by his tackle, as when his lines or hooks are too large, when his bait is dead or decaying. if he angles at a wrong time of day, when the fish are not in the humour of taking his bait. if the fish have been frightened by him or with his shadow. if the weather be too cold. if the weather be too hot. if it rains much or fast. if it hails or snows. if it be tempestuous. if the wind blows high or be in the east or north. want of patience and the want of a proper assortment of baits." anglers are also warned "never to fish in any water that is not common without leave of the owner, which is seldom denied to any but those that do not deserve it." another direction is given that would greatly horrify any blue ribbon army man who might see it, namely, "if at any time, you happen to be over-heated with walking or other exercise, you must avoid small liquors as you would poison, and rather take a glass of brandy, the instantaneous effects of which in cooling the body and quenching drought are amazing." the laws as to angling and fishing generally are quoted at considerable length and seem most of them to be aimed at preventing immature fish being taken and preserves damaged. the penalties did not err on the side of clemency. by th elizabeth, destroying any dam of any pond, moat or stew, &c., with intent to take the fish, was punished with three months' imprisonment and to be bound to good behaviour for seven years after; also by st elizabeth, "no servant shall be questioned for killing a trespasser within his master's liberty who will not yield; if not done out of former malice. yet if the trespasser kills any such servant it is murder." i fancy the following, if carried out now, would rather astonish many fish dealers in the city of london:--"those that sell, offer, or expose to sale or exchange for any other goods, bret or turbot under sixteen inches long; brill or pearl under fourteen; codlin twelve; whiting six; bass and mullet twelve; sole, plaice, and dab eight; and flounder seven, from their eyes to the utmost extent of the tail; are liable to forfeit twenty shillings, by distress, or to be sent to hard labour for not less than six or more than fourteen days, and to be _whipped_." i suppose most, if not all, of these enactments are now repealed, but if not, and they were enforced, a considerable sensation would be created by them. one paragraph is very remarkable, as showing that over ninety years ago, the same views were promulgated, relating to the profit that might be obtained from fish in ponds, as have been brought forward in the _times_ and other papers during recent years. our author says: "it is surprising that, considering the benefit which may accrue from making ponds and keeping of fish, it is not more generally put in practice. for, besides furnishing the table and raising money, the land would be vastly improved and be worth forty shillings an acre; four acres converted into a pond will return every year a thousand fed carp from the least size to fourteen or fifteen inches long, besides pike, perch, tench, and other fish. the carp alone may be reckoned to bring one with another, sixpence, ninepence, or perhaps twelvepence apiece, amounting at the lowest rate to twenty-five pounds, and at the highest to fifty, which would be a very considerable as well as useful improvement." exactly; this has been written and pointed out in the papers year after year. there are wood-cuts of every fish and full directions how to angle for them. for pike, trolling, live baiting, fishing with frogs, are all lengthily described; and also a curious sort of spinning, the motion being caused by cutting off one of the fins close to the gills and another behind the vent on the contrary side. i am sorry to say the author winds up by full directions for snaring and snatching. it seems curious to be told that good places for roach fishing are by blackfriars, westminster and chelsea bridges, or by the piles at london bridge; but that the best way by far was to go below the bridges and fasten your boat to the "stern of any collier or other vessel whose bottom was dirty with weeds," to angle there, as "you would not fail to catch many roach, and those very fine ones." the sailors on board colliers must have been a very different set in those days from what they are now. i fancy anyone trying to tie his boat to the stern of a collier, whether for fishing or any other purpose, would have a pretty hot time of it. the thames, of course, is mentioned as one of the rivers where salmon were caught, though the localities are not named. exact particulars are given for fishing for eels, but in those days they must have been a very amiable sort of fish, not at all like the obstinate and perverse creatures they are now, if they allowed themselves to be caught by sniggling in the way mentioned. you were to "get a strong line of silk and a small hook bated with a lob worm; next get a short stick with a cleft in it, and put the line into it near the bait; then thrust it into such holes as you suppose him to lurk in. if he is there, it is great odds that he will take it." the stick was then to be detached from the line and the eel allowed to gorge the bait. you were not to try and draw him out hastily, but to give him time to tire himself out by pulling. all i can say is, that if anyone ever managed to get an eel out in this way he must have had an uncommon share of luck. my own experience shows me that when an eel gorges your bait and gets into his hole, it is quite hopeless to attempt to get him out, and the only plan is to pull until something gives way, and that is never the eel, but usually your hook, and sometimes the line. our author having given every kind of advice and direction about angling, adds the following admonition:--"remember that the wit and invention of mankind were bestowed for other purposes than to deceive silly fish, and that, however delightful angling may be, it ceases to be innocent when used otherwise than as a mere recreation"; and he winds up all he has to say about fresh-water angling thus:--"the editor having gone through the english alphabet, takes the liberty to tell gentlemen that the best way to secure fish is to transport poachers." a very wise piece of advice, no doubt much acted on in those days. in the second part of the book, devoted to sea fish, no directions are given for fishing, but merely descriptions of them, and very curious some of these are. we are told of dolphins, that "they sleep with their snouts out of water," and that "some have affirmed that they have heard them snore; they will live three days out of water, during which time they sigh in so mournful a manner as to affect those with concern, who are not used to hear them." another fish, the "sea-wolf, taken off heligoland, is a very voracious animal, and well furnished with dreadful teeth. they are so hard that if he bites the fluke of an anchor you may hear the sound and see the impression of his teeth." certainly the engraving of it makes it an awful-looking thing, with a body like a codfish and an enormous head, with a huge mouth full of teeth like spikes. when the herring fishery is mentioned, it is curious that the author gives a full account of the dutch fishery but passes over the english with a very brief notice. the account of the former is remarkable. their vessels were a kind of barque called a buss, from forty-five to sixty tons burden, carrying two or three small cannon; none were allowed to steer out of port without a convoy unless they carried twenty pieces of cannon amongst them all. what can have been the use of this regulation i cannot imagine. a pirate would never attack a fishing-boat, and against a vessel of war they would have been useless. the regulations for fishing were very distinct. no man was to cast his net within fathoms of another's boat; whilst the nets were cast, a light was to be left in the stern; if a boat was by any accident obliged to leave off fishing, the light was to be thrown into the sea, and when the greater part of the fleet left off fishing and cast anchor, the rest were to do the same. of the english fishery, the date of its commencement, the size of the nets and the names of the different sorts of herrings are merely given; these names are very curious, i wonder whether they are known on the coast now. six sorts are given,--the fat herring, the largest and best; the meat herring, large, but not so thick as the first; the night herring, a middle-sized one; the pluck, which has been hurt in the net; the shotten herring, which has lost its spawn; and the copshen, which by some accident or other has been deprived of its head. when the whale fishery is mentioned, here too the description given relates entirely to the dutch. as to the english it only says that in the south sea company began to work it with pretty good success at first, but that it dwindled away until , when parliament thought fit to give greater encouragement to it. the discipline in the dutch whale fleet seems to have been very good; the following are some of the standing regulations:--in case a vessel was wrecked and the crew saved, the first vessel they met with was to take them in and the second half of those from the first, but were not obliged to take in any of the cargo; but if any goods taken out of such vessel are absolutely relinquished and another ship finds and takes them, the captain was to be accountable to the owner of the wrecked ship for one-half clear of all expenses. if the crew deserted any wrecked vessel, they would have no claim to any of the effects saved, but the whole would go to the proprietor. however, if present when the effects were saved and they assisted therein, they would have one-fourth. that if a person piked a fish on the ice, it was his own so long as he left anyone with it, but the minute he left it, the fish became the property of the first captain that came along. if it was fastened to the shore by an anchor or rope, though left alone it belonged to its first captor. if any man was maimed or wounded in the service, the commissioners of the fishery were to procure him reasonable satisfaction, to which the whole fleet were to contribute. they likewise agreed to attend prayers morning and evening, on pain of a forfeit at the discretion of the captain; not to get drunk or draw their knives on forfeiture of half their wages, nor fight on forfeiture of the whole. they were not to lay wagers on the good or ill-success of the fishing, nor buy or sell with the condition of taking one or more fish on the penalty of twenty-five florins. they were likewise to rest satisfied with the provisions allowed them and never to light candle, fire, or match, without the captain's leave on the like penalty. these regulations were read out before the voyage commenced and the crew were then called over to receive the customary gratuity before setting out and were promised another on return in proportion to the success of the voyage. the vessels went north leaving iceland on the left, to parallel °, but some, the author says, ventured as far as ° or °. i fancy he had rather vague ideas on the subject of north latitude, as it was not until that sir e. parry reached °, the farthest point north ever attained up to that time. amongst other fish "stock fish" is mentioned, which is described as "cod fish caught in the north of norway by fishermen who cut holes in the ice for the purpose. on hooking one, as soon as they pulled it out, it was opened, cleaned, and then thrown on the rocks where it froze and became as hard as a deal board, and never to be dissolved. this the sailors beat to pieces, often calling it fresh fish, though it may have been kept seven years and worms have eaten holes in it." but if the letter-press is curious, the engravings with which the book is illustrated are still quainter. the fish, whether minnows or salmon, reach the same length; the only difference being made in their breadth, even the whale is merely represented as rather thicker and with two little men with axes in their hands walking on it. the author undoubtedly took great pains in compiling his work, and in spite of all eccentricities there are many hints and suggestions that are useful even nowadays. partridge day as it was and as it is by an elderly sportsman the world advances--good. having accepted which tenet, it would be unreasonable to deny that the pleasures and indulgences of the world advance also. luxury is one of the pleasures and indulgences of the world. therefore luxury advances. the syllogism is complete and sound; there is fault in neither major nor minor premiss; and we have therefore arrived at the ultimate conclusion that luxury is on the move--that is, has increased. i have seldom come across a more perfect illustration of my argument than in the early days of this month of september. i am not an old fogey; i do not set up pretensions to a claim for talking, with a kind of accompanying sigh, of the days "when i was a boy," when "we managed things so much better," &c., &c. yet perhaps i am not exactly middle-aged either, and can at all events look sufficiently far back to note a material change in the manner in which old september is ushered in now as compared with its reception some years ago. there are probably few, who, if lacking experience of its pleasures, can duly appreciate the ardour with which a sportsman looks forward to the "glorious first." but let the appreciative observer note how manifestly that ardour has of late years abated. it has been my frequent custom ere autumn has made her final curtsey, to take up my quarters at the country house of a certain relative, and witness the unprovoked assault on, and reckless massacre of divers unoffending partridges in the ensuing month. the relative referred to is an elderly gentleman, and, in addition to the possession of lands of his own, and liberties to shoot over those of other people, is also the happy father of three stalwart sons, not to mention the complementary portion of the family with whom at present i have nothing to do. these three stalwart sons, beknown to me as mere brats, i have watched grow up with some interest, and that not only as regards their moral and intellectual training, but also as regards the physical culture of their frames, and the sporting bent of their mind. the youngsters were always fond of me. i have always been their _fidus achates_, in their adventures by land and water, from teaching them to swim and row, down to setting night lines for eels, or traps for rats. well do i recollect arriving, on the evening of the st of august, some years ago, at the old place in lincolnshire, and finding all three in a state of wild exuberance of spirits in anticipation of the morrow's sport; jack, the eldest, just then promoted to a gun of his own, of which he was enormously proud, and the other two contenting themselves with the exciting prospect of plodding after us the whole day in the hopes of being allowed to let off our charges at its conclusion. everybody was eager enough then, and the squire after an evening spent--much to the disgust of the ladies--in discussing the all-engrossing topic of "the birds," sends us off early to bed, that we may all be up betimes in the morning. we wake at seven, or rather are awoke, for the boys have been up since five, "chumming" (i know no word so appropriate) with the keepers; and even the squire himself overhead i have heard stamping across his room to look out at the weather several times since four o'clock. we are awoke, then, at seven, and ere we have had time to take that fatal turn, the sure forerunner of a second sleep, a knock, or rather a thunderclap, is heard on the outer panels of the door, and uncle sam (they always call me uncle sam, though i am not their uncle, and my name is not samuel) is summoned to "look sharp, and dress." too cognizant of the fact that uncle sam's only chance of peace is to obey, we splash into our tub forthwith, encase our person in an old velveteen and gaiters, and having gulped our coffee and hastily devoured our toast, find ourself at nine o'clock standing on the hall steps, and comparing guns with jack, previous to a start for the arable. two keepers, a brace of perfect pointers, and a retriever, are awaiting, even at that hour, impatiently, our departure for the scene of action. two miles' walk in the soft september air serves to brace our nerves for the work before us; and the head keeper and the squire having conferred together like two generals, on our arrival at the seat of war, we at length find ourselves placed--i should perhaps rather say marshalled--in the turnips and ready for the fray. what a picture it is! how truly english! each sportsman's eye glistening with excitement and pleasure, as he poises his gun, each in his own readiest manner and favourite position, the squire casting his eye along the line with the careful scrutiny of a field-marshal examining his forces previous to a final and decisive struggle; the two pointers, too well disciplined to show their ardour in gestures, standing mute behind the keeper; jack with his gun full-cocked and ready to fire almost before the quarry is started; and his two brothers bursting with excitement, talking in hurried and ceaseless whispers behind the back of uncle sam, bearing no distant resemblance, as far as their half-checked ardour is concerned, to the brace of pointers behind the keeper. but there is no time for indulging in reverie as to the scene; a low "hold up, then!" is heard from the head-keeper, the two graceful dogs bound forward, the line advances, and the action has commenced. a rabbit starts from under jack's feet: bang!--and the shot enters a turnip, a yard behind the little white stern hopping and popping to his burrow, despite the reiterated assurances of master jack that he is hit, and who forgets to reload accordingly. "hold up!" to the crouching pointers, and away we move again, watching the graceful movements of the dogs as they work the field before us. rake, a young dog in his first season, is breaking a little too much ahead; but ere the keeper's "gently, boy!" had reached him, he has suddenly pulled up, and, with tail stiff and leg up, is standing, motionless as a statue, over a covey. we advance, in the highest excitement:--whirr! goes bird after bird almost singly; and our first covey of the season leaves two brace and a half on the field. one o'clock comes; we have steadily beaten turnips and stubble, clover and mustard, and we spy a man with a donkey and panniers on the brow of the hill in front of us. we beat up to him, bagging a hare and a single bird on our way, and during the half-hour that is allowed us for our bread and cheese and one glass of sherry, we enjoy to our heart's content the large delights of loosing our tongues, after several hours' rigid silence. but "time is up," and we are again on the move till six; we are tired, but we don't know it; we are hungry and thirsty, but we feel not their pangs, till, with our five-and-twenty brace behind us in the bags, we strike across the park on our homeward journey. uncle sam's gun is yielded up to master tom to let off the charge with the shot drawn; but he manages surreptitiously to obtain our shot-flask, and joins us on the hall steps with a dead rabbit, somewhat mauled, however, from the young rascal's having fired at it at ten paces. we sit down to dinner in high good-humour:--who is not, after a good day? we defend our sport before the ladies from the charge of cruelty, and retire to roost so tired that we take the precaution to lock our door, to prevent the too early and too sure incursion of the young visigoths in the morning. alas! for the days that are no more. seven or eight years have passed since that pleasant day, and downcharge hall again welcomes uncle sam on the evening of the st, under its hospitable roof; i find the boys all grown into young men; jack is a captain of hussars, tom is a subaltern in the engineers, and dick has just left christ church. they are still as fond as ever of uncle sam, though they occasionally venture so far nowadays, as to offer an opinion adverse to his on sporting matters, in which his word was formerly supreme. as i descend to dinner, i pass jack's room. hailed by its tenant, of course. i enter, and find him occupied, with care above his years, in the adjustment of his spotless white necktie, two of which articles, crumpled too much in the operation, are at present adorning the floor. "think of shooting to-morrow, sam?" (the title of "uncle" has been dropped since jack first stroked his downy upper lip as a second lieutenant). i stand aghast. here is a young man, full of health and vigour, on the evening of the st august, questioning a fellow-man, who has just travelled some hundred miles and more to downcharge hall, with his arm round his gun-case, as to his intention of shooting on the st of september. entertaining a faint hope that, in the exuberance of his youthful spirits, he may be chaffing his old relative, i gasp out an affirmative, and, obeying the summons of the dinner-bell, descend the stairs. there is a large party of guests, but dinner proceeds with but one allusion to the morrow and that is from dick, who exclaims, as he fingers the delicate stem of his champagne glass, "by-the-by, to-morrow will be the st." the piece of fowl i was that moment in the act of swallowing stuck in my throat; my appetite was destroyed, and i silently, but sorrowfully, resolved that for the future no prodigy could have power to amaze me. our guests stayed late, and at half-past eleven o'clock, mindful of my early rising the next day, i began to grow fidgetty. by twelve o'clock, however, they had all gone; and having despatched the ladies of the house to bed, my hand was already grasping my bed-candle, when tom arrested my intention, bidding me, in a voice of manifest astonishment at what he was pleased to call my "early roost," to come and do a pipe or two first in dick's room. labouring under the delusion that a quarter of an hour was about to be devoted to arranging our sporting plans, i obeyed, and after two hours in dick's room, spent almost entirely in discussing the relative merits and demerits of certain ladies and horses, found myself between the sheets at last. awaking with a start, in the morning, to discover it is eight o'clock, i dress with all possible speed, haunted the while with terrible pictures of impatient sportsmen below anathematizing my tardiness as they wait breakfast for me. i hurry down stairs,--the breakfast room is tenantless. my first impression is that they have been unable to curb their sporting ardour, and have started without me. hearing a footstep on the gravel sweep without, i step through the open casement, and confront a pretty dairymaid bringing in the milk and cream for breakfast. "fine mornin', sir." "yes. which way have they gone--can you tell me?" "same gait as ever, sir. joe have druv 'em down agin the fenny pasture, arter milkin' up hinder." "ah! but the gentlemen, not the cows." "the gentlemen, is it? maybe if ye look in their beds ye'll see 'em this time o' day." heaving a mighty sigh, i leave the dairymaid, and stroll up and down the garden, listening with increasing impatience to the distant call of the partridges in the park. nature at downcharge hall that morning was at all events beautifully still; there was a slight mist, too, gradually clearing off from the distance, which betokened very surely a broiling day, and made me long the more to get our seven or eight brace before the mid-day heat should come upon us. my longings and reflections, however, were suddenly cut short by a pitying butler, who had brought me out the _times_, with the remark that "master and the young gentlemen seldom has their breakfasts before ten." this was cheerful; however, i consoled myself with the paper, and just as i had finished discovering who was born, married, or dead, and had commenced reading the entreaties to return to afflicted initial letters, &c., &c., dick's terrier entered the room, the forerunner of his master, who, remarking on my actually being an earlier bird than himself, was followed, in the course of about twenty minutes, by the others. "i suppose we shoot to-day: where shall we begin?" asks tom. "oh! we will shoot up from brinkhill," answers the squire. "brinkhill--two miles;--must have a trap," says jack. the two-mile walk used to be part of the order of the day; it gave us a little time for conversation, prohibited from its conclusion till lunch; it braced one up, and made one, in sporting phraseology, "fit"; but nowadays a carriage is necessary, and the young nimrod is unequal to any fatigue beyond that which he must necessarily undergo in pursuit of his game. however, we are late, so i can't object to it; and, burning my throat in my hasty disposal of my second cup of coffee, i rush upstairs to get ready my trusty westley richards, which, by the way, is a muzzle-loader, yet does not take so long to load as to require a man behind me with a second gun. five minutes, and fully equipped i re-enter the breakfast-room, where i am astonished to find my "get-up" creates unfeigned amazement. "what! ready now!" says tom; "what's the use of being in such a hurry?--let's do a pipe and a game of billiards first." "ah, by-the-by," adds dick, "what time shall we start? better have the trap at twelve--quite early enough, eh?" so jack betakes himself to the newspaper; i am dragged off in disgust to the billiard-room; and the squire goes off to show old jones, who is staying here, all about the gardens, &c. how i loathe the gardens from that moment!--how every shrub became a bugbear, every flower a poisonous weed, to my jaundiced eye, as i mentally abused my host for not turning out everybody sooner, and doing things smarter! my temper is rapidly vanishing; i have been beaten in two games by tom, to whom i used formerly to allow fifteen out of fifty; i am smoking a cigar of dick's (a bad one i think it, of course), when suddenly the sound of wheels breaks on my ear, and rushing madly to my room again, i don my shot-belt, i pocket wads, powder, and caps, shoulder my gun, and in two minutes am seated in the elegant little double dog-cart, waiting in a broiling sun for these tardy sportsmen. i have sat for full a quarter of an hour, when jack strolls out, and, in a voice as though nothing had or was about to happen, exclaims-- "hallo, sam! are you ready? i must go and dress." and this to a man who has been gaitered since half-past eight. at half-past twelve he reappeared, dressed in magnificent apparel, the result of poole's and anderson's united efforts, and examining, to the increase of my impatience, the elaborate locks of a brand new breech-loader. formerly, we used to take care of that sort of thing the night before at the latest. however, our horses are good ones, and dick, who knows very well how to handle them--about the only thing i can say for him--puts them along in very neat form at a brisk pace to brinkhill. this is all very pleasant; and as we near the ground my spirits begin to rise again. it takes us, however, at least twenty minutes to discuss which is the most advantageous beat--a matter which used to be settled as we came along; but i am at last on the move, and begin to forget the past grievances, only hoping they won't strike work too early. it is the same old field in which i so well remember jack making his _debût_ and missing the rabbit; but i miss the eager faces of those days sadly; it doesn't seem the same thing to me; half the pleasure of a thing, after all, is in enjoying it in company; but that half is sadly marred if the said company are cool in their enjoyment. the dogs, too, are disgustingly wild now. old rake breaks fence and flushes our first covey long out of gunshot, my disgust at which is further augmented by one of the keepers, as wild as the dog, breaking line and starting a hare, as remote as the partridges, by his loud imprecations after the miscreant, who is utterly deaf alike to whistle, threats, and entreaties. there is fault enough here; but it doesn't lie entirely with the keeper; it is too evident there is an absence of the eye of the master. if the squire grows indifferent to their proceedings, he can scarcely expect his dogs and keepers to be what they were; the keeper gets lazy or dishonest, the dogs' training is neglected, and by-and-by they become useless or worse than useless, and their services are discarded. now if there is one thing more than another which enhances the pleasure of a day's partridge-shooting, it is to watch a brace of well-trained pointers work a field. why is it then--for obviously it is so--that the use of dogs, and especially of setters and pointers in the field, is gradually being discarded? but to proceed. as soon as order is tolerably restored, we advance again, and pretty steadily beat two or three fields, bagging, with an unheard-of amount of missing, about two brace of birds. we are just entering the next field, when the brinkhill tenant rides up and asks us all in to lunch. ye gods, what a feast! some years ago some bread and cheese, and perhaps a couple of glasses of sherry under a hedge was considered ample on these occasions. now, however, i have before me an elegant repast of ham and tongue, of fowls and lamb, of pies and fruit, of beer and sherry, port and claret, such as would have shamed the epicurean deities of heathen mythology quaffing ambrosial nectar on the heights of olympus. with a hopeless shudder i deposit my gun in a corner of the room and take my seat. we breakfasted at ten, but the "unwonted" exercise (alas! it should be so) has given the youngsters an appetite, and their tongues are tied for ten minutes, before worthy mr shorthorn, the tenant, produces a bottle of "that very fine old port" he so wishes the squire to taste. i am not exaggerating when i state that lunch lasted a good hour. then his pigs are inspected, and what with the wine and the waiting, i can well foresee what will happen to our sport: tongues will be loosed; misses will, if possible, increase; and i feel convinced that the partridges will have little to fear from us for this afternoon, at all events. however, we do manage at last to get away by about half-past three or four o'clock, and commence beating a very promising piece of stubble. i have just bagged a hare, and the dogs have been reduced, by dint of much rating, into a state of downcharge whilst i load, when something is heard galloping behind us, and dick, who had stayed behind, as we thought, to fill his powder-flask, appears in the field trying the paces of the tenant's young one. although he is well behind the beat, the galloping horse forms a disturbing element to the guns. dick rides over the low fence at the end, round the next field, and finally returns right in the way of a shot i might have had at a landrail. i don't swear, because i don't approve thereof, and, moreover, am moderate in my temper; but this is indeed trying, and, to make matters worse, the fellow doesn't appear in the least bit ashamed of himself, but quietly dismounts, feels the legs of the colt carefully down, and, refusing to take his gun from the keepers, remarks that he is tired of missing, and (to my joy) shall go home. a prudent resolve, as he had fired at least twenty or thirty shots without touching a feather, as it seemed to my heated imagination; but the keeper, with a presence the late duc de morny might have envied, urges him "not to give over yet; he might 'ave a haccident and hit summut." laughter is irresistible, but dick's ardour is not equal to trusting to this remote contingency, so he wends his way homewards, for a wonder, on his own legs. the rest of us proceed again, but the shooting is, if possible, worse than before lunch; and as we enter the park again i ask, in a dejected tone of the head keeper, "what is the bag?" "seven brace, three hares, and one rabbit." i turn away with a sigh, and mentally resolve to remove from my head, in the solitude of my chamber, on my return, the hairs--the many hairs--that must have turned grey during that terrible day; and i join the rest to reseek the hall, a sadder and a sulkier man. we enter the billiard-room at six, to find dick engaged in a game of billiards with his pretty cousin, lucy hazard--the dog! but feeling that he deserves nothing at our hands, we break the _tête-à-tête_ and summon the other ladies for a pool. lucy has been chaffing master dick about "being such a muff as to return so soon." quite right--an uncommonly nice girl is miss lucy, and with £ , of her own, too, they say. if i were ten years younger, i think i would marry her (i am far too vain to doubt her consent), and get some shooting of my own,--some shooting, sir, conducted on my own principles: i don't care much for the downcharge hall style of doing business. "c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre," remarked a french general, as he levelled his glass at our light squadrons charging through the bloody vale of balaklava. "c'est luxurieux, mais ce n'est pas le sport," remarks the writer of this grumble, as he levels his pen at the sportsmen of downcharge hall and all who may resemble them. simpson's snipe "who is mr simpson?" asked my wife, tossing a letter across the breakfast-table. this same little lady opens my correspondence with the _sang-froid_ of a private secretary. "who is mr simpson?" she repeated. "if he is as big as his monogram, we shall have to widen all the doors, and raise the ceilings, in order to let him in." the monogram referred to resembled a pyrotechnic device. it blazed in all the colours of the rainbow, and twisted itself like the coloured worsted in a young lady's first sampler. "simpson," i replied, in, i must confess, a tremulous sort of way, "is a very nice fellow, and a capital shot." "i perceive that you have asked him to shoot." "only for a day and a night, my dear." "only for a day and a night! and where is willie to sleep, and where is blossie to sleep? you know the dear children are in the strangers' rooms for change of air, and really i _must_ say it is very thoughtless of you;" and my wife's _nez retroussé_ went up at a very acute angle, whilst a general hardness of expression settled itself upon her countenance, like a plaster cast. i had a bad case. i had been dining with a friend, my friend captain de britska. i had taken sherry with my soup, hock with my fish, champagne with my entrée, and a nip of brandy before my claret. what i imbibed after the lafitte i scarcely remember. mr simpson was of the party, and sat next to me. he forced a succession of cigars into my mouth, and subsequently a mixture of tobacco, a special thing. (what smoker, by the way, hasn't a special thing in the shape of a mixture? what _gourmet_ has no special tip as regards salad-dressing?) we spoke of shooting. he asked me if i had any. i replied in the affirmative, expressing a hope that he would at some time or other practically discuss that fact. somehow i was led into a direct invitation, and this was the outcome. i had committed myself beneath my friend's mahogany, and under the influence of my friend's generous wine. i was in a corner; and now, ye gods! i had to face mrs smithe. there are moments when a man's wife is simply awful. snugly entrenched behind the unassailable line of defence, duty, and with such "woolwich infants" as her children to hurl against you, which she does in a persistent remorseless way, she is a terror. no man, be he as brave as leonidas or as cool as sir charles coldstream, is proof against the partner of his bosom when she is on the rampage; and, as i have already observed, mrs s. was "end on." "another change will do the children good, maria," i observed. "yes, i suppose so. it will do willie's cold good to sleep in your dressing-room without a fire, won't it? and blossie can have a bed made up in the bath. is this mr simpson married or single?" _hinc illæ lachrymæ._ i couldn't say. i never asked him. "what does it matter?" i commenced, with a view to diplomatising. "yes, but it does," she interposed. "if he is a respectable married man, which i very much doubt, he must have dear willie's room." "i am very sorry that i asked him at all, maria; but as he has been asked, and as i must drive over to meet him in a few minutes, for heaven's sake make the best of it." "oh, of course; i receive my instructions, and am to carry them out. all the trouble falls upon me, while you drive off to the station smoking a shilling cigar, when you know that every penny will be wanted to send willie to eton." i got out of it somehow. not that mrs s. was entirely pacified. she still preserved an armed neutrality; yet even this concession was very much to be coveted. she's a dear good little creature, but she has fiery moods occasionally; and i ask you, my dear sir, is she one whit the worse for it? how often does your good lady fly at _you_ during the twenty-four hours? how often! the theme is painful. _passons._ my stained-wood trap was brought round by my man-of-all-work, billy doyle. billy is a tight little "boy," over whose unusually large skull some fifty summers' suns have passed, scorching away his shock hair, and leaving only a few streaks, which he carefully plasters across his bald pate till they resemble so many cracks upon the bottom of an inverted china bowl. billy is my factotum. he looks after my horse, dogs, gun, rod, pipes, and clothes, with a view to the reversion of the latter. he was reared, "man an' boy," on the estate, and is upon the most familiar yet respectful terms with the whole family. billy continually lectures me, imparting his opinions upon all matters appertaining to my affairs, as though he were some rich uncle whose will in my favour was safely deposited with the family solicitor. "we've twenty minutes to meet the train, billy," i observed, giving the reins a jerk. "is it for to ketch the tin-o'clock thrain from dublin?" he asked. "yes." "begorra, ye've an hour! she's like yourself--she's always late." "there's a gentleman coming down to spend the day and shoot," i said, without noticing billy's sarcasm. "shoot! arrah, shoot what?" "why, snipe, plover--anything that may turn up." "be jabers, he'll have for to poach, thin." "what do you mean, billy?" "divvle resave the feather there is betune this an' ballybann; they're dhruv out av the cunthry." "nonsense, man. we'll get a snipe in booker's fields." "ye will, av ye sind to dublin for it." i felt rather down in the mouth, for i had during the season given unlimited permission to my surrounding neighbours to blaze away--a privilege which had been used, if not abused, to the utmost limits. scarce a day passed that we were not under fire, and on several occasions were in a state of siege, in consequence of a succession of raids upon the rookeries adjoining the house. "we can try mr pringle's woods, billy." "yez had betther lave _thim_ alone, or the coroner 'ill be afther havin' a job. pringle wud shoot his father sooner nor he'd let a bird be touched." "this is very awkward," i muttered. "awkward! sorra a shurer shake in chrisendom. it's crukkeder nor what happened to ould major moriarty beyant at sievenaculliagh, that me father--may the heavens be his bed this day!--lived wud, man an' boy." billy was full of anecdote, and being anxious to pull my thoughts together, i mechanically requested him to let me hear all about the dilemma in which the gallant major had found himself. "well, sir, th' ould major was as dacent an ould gintleman as ever swallied a glass o' sperrits, an' there was always lashins an' lavins beyant at the house. if ye wor hungry it was yerself that was for to blame, and if ye wor dhry, it wasn't be raisin av wantin' a _golliogue_. th' ould leddy herself was aiqual to the major, an' a hospitabler ould cupple didn't live the shannon side o' connaught. well, sir, wan mornin' a letther cums, sayin' that some frind was comin' for to billet on thim. "'och, i'm bet!' says the mrs moriarty. "'what's that yer sayin' at all at all?' says th' ould major; 'who bet ye?' says he. "'shure, here's sir timothy blake, and misther bodkin bushe, an' three more comin',' says she, 'an' this is only wednesday.' "'arrah, what the dickens has that for to say to it?' says the major. "'there's not as much fresh mate in the house as wud give a brequest to a blackbird,' says she; 'an' they all ate fish av a friday, an' how are we for to get it at all at all? an' they'll be wantin' fish an' game.' "ye see, sir," said billy, "there was little or no roads in thim ould times, an' the carriers only crassed that way wanst a week." "'we're hobbled, sure enough,' says the major, 'we're hobbled, mam,' says he, 'an' i wish they'd had manners to wait to be axed afore they'd come into a man's house,' he says. "'couldn't ye shoot somethin'?' says mrs moriarty. "'shoot a haystack flyin', mam,' says the major, for he was riz, an' when he was riz the divvle cudn't hould him; 'what is there for to shoot, barrin' a saygull? an' ye might as well be aitin' saw-dust.' "'i seen three wild duck below on the pond,' she says. "'ye did on tib's eve!' says the major. "'och, begorra, it's thruth i'm tellin' ye', says she; 'i seen thim this very mornin', when i was comin' from mass--an' be the same token,' says she, lukkin' out av the windy, 'there they are, rosy an' well.' "'thin upon my conscience, mam,' roared the major, 'if i don't hit thim i'll make them lave that!' "so he ups an' loads an ould blundherbuss wud all soarts av combusticles, an' down he creeps to the edge av the wather, and hides hisself in some long grass, for the ducks was heddin' for him. up they cum; an' the minnit they wor within a cupple av perch he pulls the thrigger as bould as a ram, whin by the hokey smut it hot him a welt in the stummick that levelled him, an' med him feel as if tundher was inside av him rumblin'. he roared millia murdher, for he thought he was kilt; but howsomever he fell soft an' aisy, an' he put out his hand for to see if he was knocked to bits behind, whin, begorra, he felt somethin' soft an' warm. 'arrah, what the puck is this?' sez he; an' turnin' round, what was he sittin' on but an illigant jack hare. 'yer cotch, _ma bouchal_,' sez he; 'an' yer as welkim as the flowers o' may.' "wasn't that a twist o' luck, sir?" asked billy pausing to take breath. "not a doubt of it. but what became of the ducks?" "troth, thin, ye'll hear. the major dhropped two av thim wud the combusticles in the blundherbuss, but th' ould mallard kep' floatin' on the wather in a quare soart av a way, an' yellin' murdher. when the major kem nigh him, he seen that he was fastened like to somethin' undher the wather; an' whin he cotch him, what do you think he found? it's truth i'm tellin' ye, an' no lie: he found the ramrod, that he neglected for to take out o' the gun, run right through th' ould mallard. half av it was in the mallard, an' be the hole in me coat, th' other half was stuck in a lovely lump av a salmon; and the bould major cotch thim both. 'now,' says he, 'come on, sir tim an the whole creel of yez, who's afeard?' an' i'm just thinkin' sir," added billy, as we dashed into the railway yard, "that if ye don't get a slice av luck like major moriarty's, yer frind might as well be on the hill o' howth." the force of billy's remark riveted itself in my mind, and the idea of asking a man so long a distance to shoot nothing was very little short of insult. mr simpson arrived as we drove in, arrayed in an ulster just imported from inverness. his hat was new; his boots were new; his gloves awfully new, yellow and stiff, and forcing his fingers very far apart, as though his hands were wooden stretchers. his portmanteau, solid leather, was brand new; the very purse from which he extracted a new sixpence to tip the porter was of the same virgin type. he was mistaken for a bridegroom, and the fair bride was eagerly sought for by the expectant porter whilst removing a new rug from the compartment in which mr simpson had been seated. to crown all this newness, his gun-case, solid leather, had never seen the open air till this day, and the iron which impressed upon it mr rigby's brand could scarcely have had time to grow cold. "begorra, it's in the waxworks he ought for to be," muttered billy doyle, grimly surveying him from head to foot. mr simpson's thick moustache possessed a queer sort of curl, his nose too, followed this pattern, so that his face somewhat resembled those three legs which are impressed upon a manx coin. his eyes were long slits, with narrow lids, not unlike a cut in a kid glove: one of these eyes he kept open by means of an eyeglass. this eyeglass was perpetually dropping into his bosom and disappearing, never coming to the surface when required, and only coming up to breathe after a succession of prolonged and abortive dives. "it's very cold," he exclaimed, grasping my hand, or rather endeavouring to grasp it, for the new gloves would admit of no loving contact. "there's likker over beyant at the rifrishmint-bar," observed billy, whose invariable habit it was to cut into the conversation with such comments or observations as suggested themselves to him at the moment. perceiving an inclination on the part of my guest to profit by the hint, i interposed by informing him that the refreshment was of the meanest possible character, in addition to its possessing a very inflammatory tendency. "thrue for ye, sir. the sperrits is that sthrong that it wud desthroy warts, or burn the paint off av a hall dure." "that will do, billy," i said, as simpson's face bore silent tokens of wonder at the garrulity of my retainer. "we don't require your opinion at present." "och, that's hapes, as missis dooley remarked whin she swallird the crab," said billy very sulkily, as he mounted behind. "how is our friend de britska?" i asked. "oh, very well indeed. he quite envied me my trip. he says your shooting is about the best thing in this part of the world." "oh, it's not bad," i replied, assuming an indifference that i was far from participating in; "but there are times when i assure--ha, ha! it may appear incredulous, that we cannot stir a single feather." "have you much snipe, mr smithe?" "sorra a wan," replied billy. "your gamekeeper?" asked simpson, jerking his head in the direction of my retainer. "my _factotum_. he is one of the family. a regular character, and i trust you will make allowances for him." "i love characters. depend upon it we shall not fall out." simpson chatted very agreeably, and very small. he had read the _irish times_ during the rail journey, and was master of the situation. some men take five shillings-worth out of a penny paper. this was one of them. he had sucked it all in, and the day's news was coming out through the pores of his skin. as a rule, such men are to be avoided. the individual who persistently asks you "what news?" or "is there anything new to-day?" is a wooden-headed gossiping bore, who cannot start an idea, and oils the machinery inside his skull with the twopenny-halfpenny daily currency. simpson spoke a great deal of the army, quoted the various changes mentioned in that day's _gazette_ with a vigour of memory that was perfectly astounding. although personally unknown to the countrymen around me, he seemed thoroughly acquainted with their respective pedigrees, their intermarriages, their rent-rolls, and in fact with their most private concerns; so that before we reached our destination i knew considerably more of my neighbours than i, or my father before me, had ever known. his shooting experiences were of the most extensive and daring character. he had tumbled tigers, stuck pigs, iced white bears, and ostracised ostriches. he had been in the tiger's mouth, on the boar's tusks, and in the arms of the bear. his detailed information on the subject of firearms was worthy of a gunmaker's pet 'prentice. "i've shot with greener's patent central-fire choke-bore, and i pronounce it a handy tool. westley richards has made some good instruments, and purdy's performances are crack. i've taken down one of rigby's with me, as i have some idea of experimentalising; rigby is a very safe maker. i expect to do some damage to-day, friend smithe." what a laughing-stock i should be, when this man unfolded the tale of his being decoyed into the country by a fellow who bragged about his preserves, upon which there wasn't a feather! would i make a clean breast of it? would i say that-- while this struggle was waging beneath my waistcoat, we arrived, and there was nothing for it but to trust to luck and billy doyle. when we alighted, i asked simpson into the drawing-room, as his bed-chamber had not yet been allotted to him. my wife was still sulky and did not appear, so i had to discover her whereabouts. "simpson has arrived, my dear." "i suppose so," very curtly. "he is a very agreeable entertaining fellow." "i suppose so," she snapped. "where have you decided on putting him?" "in your dressing-room." "my dressing-room?" "yes, your dressing-room. i wouldn't disturb the children for the prince of wales." now this was very shabby of my wife. my dressing-room was my _sanctum sanctorum_. there were my papers, letters, pipes, boots, knick-knacks, all laid out with a bachelor's care, and each in its own particular place. to erect a bedstead meant an utter disturbance of my effects, which weeks could not repair, especially as regards my papers. i expostulated. "there is no use in talking," said my wife; "the bed is put up." tableau. whilst my guest was engaged in washing his hands before luncheon, i held a conference with billy doyle with reference to the shooting, our line of country, and the tactics necessary to be pursued. "me opinion is that he is a _gommoch_. he doesn't know much. av he cum down wud an old gun-case that was in the wars, i'd be peckened; but wud sich a ginteel tool, ye needn't fret. we'll give him a walk, anyhow. he'll get a bellyful that will heart scald him." "but the honour of the country is at stake, billy. i asked mr simpson to shoot, promising him good sport, and surely _you_ are not going to let him return to dublin to give us a bad name." this appeal to billy's feelings was well timed. he knew every fence and every nest in the barony, and it was with a view to putting things into a proper training that i thus appealed to his better feelings. billy scratched his head. "begorra, he must have a bird if they're in it; but they're desperate wild, and take no ind of decoyin'." simpson's politeness to my wife was unbounded. he professed himself charmed to have the honour of making her acquaintance, took her in to luncheon with as much tender care as though she had been a cracked bit of very precious china ware; invited her to partake of everything on the table, shoving the dishes under her chin, and advising her as to what to eat, drink, and avoid. he narrated stories of noble families with whom he was upon the most intimate terms, and assured my wife that he was quite startled by her extraordinary likeness to lady sarah macwhirter; which so pleased mrs s. that later on she informed me that as blossie was so much better, she thought it would be more polite to give mr simpson the blue bedroom. i found this ardent sportsman very much inclined to dally in my lady's boudoir, in preference to taking the field, and i encouraged this proclivity, in the hope of escaping the shooting altogether, and thus save the credit of my so-called preserves. but here again i was doomed to disappointment. mrs s., who now began to become rather anxious about the domestic arrangements, politely but firmly reminded him of the object of his visit, and insisted upon our departing for the happy hunting-grounds at once. and at length, when very reluctantly he rose from the table, he helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, in order, as he stated, to "steady his hand." i must confess that i was rather startled when he announced his intention of shooting in his ulster. the idea of dragging this long-tailed appendage across ditches and over bogs appeared _outré_, especially as the pockets bulged very considerably, as though they were loaded with woollen wraps; but i was silent in the presence of one who had sought his quarry in the jungle, and shoved my old-fashioned idea back into the fusty lumber-room of my thoughts. billy doyle awaited us with the dogs at the stable gate. these faithful animals no sooner perceived me than they set up an unlimited howling of delight; but instead of bounding forward to meet me, as was their wont, they suddenly stopped, as if struck by an invisible hand, and commenced to set at simpson. this extraordinary conduct of these dogs--there are no better dogs in ireland--incensed billy to fever heat. "arrah, what the puck are yez settin' at? are yez mad or dhrunk? whoop! gelang ow a that, feltram! hush! away wud ye, birdlime!" "take them away; take them away!" cried simpson, very excitedly. "i don't want them; i never shoot with dogs. remove them, my man." billy caught feltram, but birdlime eluded his grasp; and having released feltram and captured birdlime, the former remained at a dead set, whilst the latter struggled with his captor, as though the lives of both depended on the issue. "may the divvle admire me," panted billy, "but this bangs banagher. is there a herrin' stirrin', or anything for to set the dogs this way?--it bates me intirely." i naturally turned to my guest, who looked as puzzled as i did myself. "i have it!" he cried; "it's the blood of the sperm-whale that's causing this." "arrah, how the blazes cud the blood av all the whales in ireland make thim shupayriour animals set as if the birds were foreninst them?" demanded billy, his arms akimbo. "i will explain," said simpson. "last autumn i was up whaling off the coast of greenland. we struck a fine fish; and after playing him for three-and-twenty hours, we got him aboard. just as we were taking the harpoon out, he made one despairing effort and spurted blood; a few drops fell upon this coat, just here," pointing to the inside portion of his right-hand cuff, "and i pledge you my veracity no dog can withstand it. they invariably point; and i assure you, smithe, you could get up a drag hunt by simply walking across country in this identical coat, built by john henry smalpage." this startling and sensational explanation satisfied me. not so my _factotum_, who gave vent in an undertone to such exclamations as "_naboclish! wirra, wirra!_ what does he take us for? whales, begorra!" the riddance of the dogs was a grand _coup_ for me. in the event of having no sport the failure could be easily accounted for, and i should come off with flying colours. "i make it a point" observed simpson, "to shoot as little with dogs as possible. i like to set my own game, shoot it, and bag it; nor do i care to be followed by troublesome and often impertinent self-opinionated game-keepers" (billy was at this moment engaged in incarcerating feltram and birdlime). "these fellows are always spoilt, and never know their position." i was nettled at this. "if you refer to----" "my dear smithe, i allude to my friend lord mulligatawny's fellows, got up in lincoln green and impossible gaiters, who insist upon loading for you, and all that sort of thing. you know mulligatawny, of course?" i rather apologised for not having the honour. "then you shall, smithe. i'll bring you together when you come to town. leave that to me; a nice little party: mulligatawny, sir percy whiffler, colonel owlfinch of the st life guards--they're at beggar's bush now, i suppose--belgum, yourself, and myself." this was very considerate and flattering; and i heartily hoped that by some fluke or other we might be enabled to make a bag. when we arrived upon the shooting-ground, i observed that it was time to load; and calling up billy doyle with the guns, i proceeded to carry my precept into practice. my weapon was an old-fashioned muzzle-loader, one of truelock & harris's; and as i went through the process of loading, i could see that mr simpson was regarding my movements with a careful and critical eye. "i know that you swells despise this sort of thing," i remarked; "but i have dropped a good many birds with this gun at pretty long ranges, and have wiped the eyes of many a breech-loading party." "i--i like that sort of gun," said simpson. "i'd be glad if you'd take this," presenting his, with both barrels covering me. "good heavens, don't do that!" i cried, shoving the muzzle aside. "what--what--" he cried, whirling round like a teetotum--"what have i done?" "nothing as yet; but i hate to have the muzzle of a gun turned towards me since the day i saw poor cousin jack's brains blown out." "what am i to do?" exclaimed simpson. "i'll do anything." "it's all right," i replied; "you won't mind my old-world stupidity." my guest's gun was a central-fire breech-loader of rigby's newest type, which he commenced to prepare for action in what seemed to me to be a very bungling sort of way. he dropped it twice, and in releasing the barrels, brought them into very violent collision with his head, which caused the waters of anguish to roll silently down his cheeks and on to his pointed moustache. if i had not been aware of his manifold experiences in the shooting line, i could have set him down as a man who had never handled a gun in his life; but knowing his powers and prowess, i ascribed his awkwardness to simple carelessness, a carelessness in all probability due to the smallness of the game of which he was now in pursuit. i therefore refrained from taking any notice, and from making any observation until he deliberately proceeded to thrust a patent cartridge into the _muzzle_ of the barrel of his central-fire. "hold hard, mr simpson; you are surely only jesting." "jesting! how do you mean?" "why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing." "what other way should i use it?" "may i again remind you that i am utterly averse to facetiousness where firearms are concerned, and----" "my dear smithe, i meant nothing, i assure you. i pledge you my word of honour. here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun. "there'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled billy. "what do you mean, sir?" exclaimed simpson, rather savagely. "mane! there's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry, sir--that's what i mane," and billy started in advance with the air of a man who had to do or die. mr simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the uttermost uneasiness. first, he held it at arm's length as if it was a bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to ascertain their exact position. he would pause, place the butt against the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising gaze of a cavalry patrol. "hush!" he suddenly exclaimed. "we lost something that time; i heard a bird." "nothin', barrin' a crow," observed billy. "a plover, sir; it was the cry of a plover," evasively retorted the other. "holy vargin! do ye hear this? a pluvver! divvle resave the pluvver ever was seen in the barony!" "silence, doyle!" i shouted, finding that my retainer's observations were becoming personal and unpleasant. "troth, we'll all be silent enough by-an'-by." we had been walking for about half an hour, when mr simpson suggested that it might be advisable to separate, he taking one direction, i taking the other, but both moving in parallel lines. having joyfully assented to this proposition, as the careless manner in which he handled his gun was fraught with the direst consequences, i moved into an adjacent bog, leaving my guest to blaze away at what i considered a safe distance. i took billy with me, both for company and for counsel, as my guest's assumed ignorance of the fundamental principles of shooting had somewhat puzzled me. "it's a quare bisniss intirely, masther jim. he knows no more how to howld a gun nor you do to howld a baby, more betoken ye've two av the finest childre--god be good to them!--in europe. i don't like for to say he's coddin' us, wud his tigers an' elephants an' combusticles, but, be me song, it luks very like it. i'd like for to see him shootin', that wud putt an ind to the question." at this moment, bang! bang! went the two barrels of my guest's gun. billy and i ran to the hedge, and peeping through, perceived simpson running very fast towards a clump of furze, shouting and gesticulating violently. i jumped across the fence, and was rapidly approaching him, when he waved me back. "stop! don't come near me! i'm into them. there are quantities of snipe here." "arrah, what is he talkin' about at all at all?" panted billy. "snipes! cock him up wud snipes! there ain't a snipe----" here simpson, who had been groping amongst the furze, held up to our astonished gaze _two brace of snipe_. billy doyle seemed completely dumbfounded. "that bangs anything i ever heerd tell of. man nor boy ever seen a snipe in that field afore. begorra, he's handy enough wud the gun, after all." i was very much pleased to find that our excursion had borne fruit, and that my vaunted preserves were not utterly barren. "that's a good beginning, simpson," i cried. "go ahead; you'll get plenty of birds by-and-by." "i'll shoot at nothing but snipe," he replied. "here you, billy, come here and load for me." "let's look at the birds, av ye plaze, sir," said billy, who began to entertain a feeling akin to respect for a man who could bring down his two brace at a shot. "i'll be bound they're fat an' cosy, arter the hoighth av fine feedin' on this slob." "they're in my bag. by-and-by," replied simpson curtly. "now, my man, follow your master, and leave me to myself;" and my guest strode in the opposite direction. bang! bang! "be the mortial, he's at thim agin. this is shupayriour," cried my retainer, hurrying towards the place whence the report proceeded. simpson again held up _two brace of snipe_, and again plunged them into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them. "this is capital sport. why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "depend upon it, it's a mistake to take dogs. the birds smell them. i'll try that bit of bog now." "ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed billy. "it's crukked an' crass enough in some spots; i'd betther be wid ye." "certainly not," said my guest. "i always shoot alone." "och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'." mr simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated, and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels. "be jabers, i'm bet intirely. thim snipes must have been dhruv from the say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. ay, bawl away! whisht! be the hokey, he's into the bog!" a dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the bog, where we found poor simpson almost up to his chin, and endeavouring to support himself by his elbows. "ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! my new clothes--this coat that i never put on before" (his whaling garment)--"why did i come to this infernal hole. ugh! ugh!" we dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him. billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and arrayed in evening costume. from the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn out for drying purposes, mr william doyle extracted no less than _six brace of snipe_. unfortunately for mr simpson the bill was attached to the leg of one of the birds. they had been purchased at a poulterer's in dublin. * * * * * mr simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. he pleaded a business engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the . train. "av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears an' algebras! an' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! pah! the naygur!" and billy doyle's resentment recognised no limits. it is scarcely necessary to observe that i was _not_ invited to meet lord mulligatawny, sir percy whiffler, and colonel owlfinch of her majesty's guards, and that my wife holds simpson over me whenever i hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis. podger's pointer i am not a sporting man--i never possessed either a dog or a gun--i never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. the th of august is a mystery, and the st of september a sealed book. i have been regarded with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the month of june, and for woodcock in september. i think it is just as well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that i desire to sail under false colours. i am acquainted with several men who shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. the former very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors, turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me, especially when i decline on the grounds of disinclination and incapacity. "i wish i had your chances, brown," howls poor little binks, who can bring down any known bird at any given distance. "you're always getting invitations because you _can't_ shoot; and i cannot get one because i _can_. it's too bad, by george!--it's too bad!" one lovely morning in the month of september i was sauntering along the shady side of sackville street, dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me. "the very man i wanted," he exclaimed. "i've been hunting you the way o'mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire." "what can i do for you, mr podgers?" i asked. "i want a day's shooting at o'rooney's of ballybawn," responded podgers. now, i was not intimate with mr o'rooney. we had met at the club; but as he was a smoking man, and as i, after a prolonged and terrific combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had bidden a long farewell to the indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to mention that, although mr o'rooney and myself were very frequently beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in a casual sort of way. "i assure you, mr podgers, that i----" "pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "you can do it if you like. sure we won't kill _all_ the game. and i have the loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. i want to get a chance of showing him off. he'll do you credit." i was anxious to oblige podgers. he had stood by me in a police-court case once upon a time, and proved an _alibi_ such as must have met the approval even of the immortal mr weller himself; so i resolved upon soliciting the required permission, and informed podgers that i would acquaint him with the result of my application. "that's a decent fellow. come back to my house with me now, and i'll give you a drop of john jameson that will make your hair curl." declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of mr jameson's unrivalled whisky, i wended my way towards the club, and, as luck would have it, encountered o'rooney lounging on the steps enjoying a cigar. after the conventional greetings, i said, "by the way, you have some capital partridge shooting at ballybawn." "oh, pretty good," was the reply, in that self-satisfied, complacent tone in which a crack billiard-player refers to the spot-stroke, or a rifleman to his score when competing for the queen's prize. "i'm no shot myself--i never fired a gun in my life; but there's a particular friend of mine who is most anxious to have _one_ day's shooting at ballybawn. do you think you could manage to let him have it?" i emphasised the word "one" in the most impressive way. "i would give one or two days, mr brown, with the greatest pleasure; but the fact is, i have lent my dogs to sir patrick o'houlahan." "oh, as to that, my friend has a splendid dog--a most remarkable dog. i hear it's a treat to see him in front of a bird." i stood manfully by podgers' exact words, adding some slight embellishments, in order to increase o'rooney's interest in the animal. "in that case, there can be no difficulty, mr brown. i leave for ballybawn on saturday--will you kindly name monday, as i would, in addition to the pleasure of receiving you and your friend, like to witness the performance of this remarkable dog; and i _must_ be in galway on wednesday." having settled the preliminaries so satisfactorily, i wrote the following note to podgers:-- "dear podgers, "it's all right. mr o'rooney has named monday. _be sure to bring the dog, as his dogs are away._ come and breakfast with me at eight o'clock, as the train starts from the king's bridge terminus at nine o'clock.--yours, "benjamin b. brown. "p.s.--_i praised the dog sky high._ o'r. is most anxious to see him in front of the birds." i received a gushing note in reply, stating that he would breakfast with me, and bring the dog, adding, "it's some time since he was shot over; but that makes no difference, as he is the finest dog in leinster." knowing podgers to be a very punctual sort of person, i had ordered breakfast for eight o'clock sharp, and consequently felt somewhat surprised when the timepiece chimed the quarter past. i consulted his letter--day, date, and time were recapitulated in the most businesslike way. some accident might have detained him. perhaps he preferred meeting me at the station. i had arrived at this conclusion, and had just made the first incision into a round of buttered toast, when a very loud, jerky, uneven knocking thundered at the hall door, and the bell was tugged with a violence that threatened to drag the handle off. i rushed to the window, and perceived podgers clinging frantically to the area railings with one hand, whilst with the other he held a chain, attached to which, at the utmost attainable distance, stood, or stretched, in an attitude as if baying the moon, the fore legs planted out in front, the hind legs almost _clutching_ the granite step, the eyes betraying an inflexible determination not to budge one inch from the spot--a bony animal, of a dingy white colour, with dark patches over the eyes, imparting a mournfully dissipated appearance--the redoubtable dog which was to afford us a treat "in front of the birds." "hollo, podgers!" i cried, "you're late!" "this cursed animal," gasped podgers; "he got away from me in merrion square after a cat. the cat climbed up the prince consort statue. this brute, somehow or other got up after her. she was on the head, and he was too high for me to reach him, when i got the hook of this umbrella and----" at this moment the hall-door opened, and the dog being animated with an energetic desire to explore the interior of the house, suddenly relaxed the pull upon the chain, which utterly unexpected movement sent podgers flying into the hall as though he had been discharged from a catapult. my maid-of-all-work, an elderly lady with proclivities in the direction of "sperrits," happened to stand right in the centre of the doorway when podgers commenced his unpremeditated bound. he cannoned against her, causing her to reel and stagger against the wall, and to clutch despairingly at the nearest available object to save herself from falling. that object happened to be the curly hair of my acrobatic friend, to which her five fingers clung as the suckers of the octopus cling to the crab. by the aid of this substantial support she had just righted herself, when the dog, finding himself comparatively free, made one desperate plunge into the hall, entwining his chain round the limbs of the lady in one dexterous whirl which levelled her, with a very heavy thud, on the body of the prostrate podgers. now, whether she was animated with the idea that she was in bodily danger from both master and dog, and that it behoved her to defend herself to the uttermost extent of her power, i cannot possibly determine; but she commenced a most vigorous onslaught upon both, bestowing a kick and a cuff alternately with an impartiality that spoke volumes in favour of her ideas upon the principles of even--and indeed i may add, heavy-handed justice. i arrived upon the scene in time to raise the prostrate form of my friend, and to administer such words of consolation and sympathy as, under the circumstances, were his due. his left eye betrayed symptoms of incipient inflammation, and his mouth gave evidence of the violence with which miss bridget byrne (the lady in the case) had brought her somewhat heavy knuckle-dusters into contact with it. "bringin' wild bastes into a gintleman's dacent house, as if it was a barn, that's manners!" she muttered. "av i can get a clout at that dog, i'll lave him as bare as a plucked thrush!" at this instant a violent crash of crockery-ware was heard in the regions of the kitchen. "holy vargin! but the baste is on the dhresser! _i'll_ dhress the villian!" and seizing upon a very stout ash stick which stood in the hall, she darted rapidly in the direction from whence the dire sounds were proceeding. "hold hard, woman!" cried podgers. "he's a very valuable animal. i'll make good any damage. use your authority, brown," he added, appealing to me. "she's a terrible person this; she'd stop at nothing." ere i could interpose, a violent skirmishing took place, in which such exclamations as "take that, ye divvle! ye'll brake me chaney, will ye? there's chaney for ye!" followed by very audible whacks, which, if they had fulfilled their intended mission, would very speedily have sent the dog to the happy hunting-grounds of his race. one well-directed blow, however, made its mark, and was succeeded by a whoop of triumph from miss byrne and a yell of anguish from her vanquished foe. "gelang, ye fireside spaniel! ye live on the neighbours. how dar' ye come in here? ye'll sup sorrow. i'll give a couple more av i can get at ye." podgers rushed to the rescue, and, after a very protracted and exciting chase, during which a well-directed blow, intended by bridget for the sole use and benefit of the dog, had alighted on the head of its master, succeeded in effecting a capture. this, too, was done under embarrassing circumstances; for the dog had sought sanctuary within the sacred precincts of miss byrne's sleeping apartment, beneath the very couch upon which it was the habit of that lady to repose her virgin form after the labours of the day; and her indignation knew no bounds when podgers, utterly unmindful of the surroundings, hauled forth the dog. "there's no dacency in man nor baste. they're all wan, sorra a lie in it!" at this crisis podgers must have developed his pecuniary resources, for her tone changed with marvellous rapidity, and her anger was melted into a well-feigned contrition for having used her fists so freely. "poor baste! shure it's frightened he is. i wudn't hurt a fly, let alone an illigant tarrier like that. thry a bit o' beefsteak in regard o' yer eye, sir. ye must have hot it agin somethin' hard; it will be as black as a beetle in tin minits." podgers uttered full-flavoured language. i looked at my watch and found that we could only "do" the train. having hailed an outside car, the breakfastless podgers seated himself upon one side, whilst i took the other, and after a very considerable expenditure of hard labour and skilful strategy, in which we were aided by the carman and miss byrne, we succeeded in forcing albatross (the pointer) into the well in the middle. i am free to confess that i sat with my back to that animal with considerable misgivings. he looked hungry and vicious, and as though a piece of human flesh would prove as agreeable to his capacious maw as any other description of food. it was his habit, too, during our journey, to elevate his head in the air, and to give utterance to a series of the most unearthly howlings, which could only be partially interrupted, not by any means stopped, by podgers' hat being pressed closely over the mouth, whilst podgers punched him _a tergo_ with no very light hand. "that's the quarest dog i ever seen," observed the driver. "he ought to be shupayrior afther badgers. he has a dhrop in his eye like a widdy's pig, and it's as black as a christian's afther a ruction." "he's a very fine dog, sir," exclaimed podgers, in a reproving tone. "he looks as if he'd set a herrin'," said the cab-man jocosely. "mind your horse, sir!" said podgers angrily. the driver, who was a jovial-tempered fellow, finding that his advances towards "the other side" were rejected, turned towards mine. "are you goin' huntin' wid the dog, sir?" he asked. "we're going to shoot," i replied, in a dignified way. "to shoot! thin, begorra, yez may as well get off the car an' fire away at wanst. there's an illigant haystack foreninst yez, and--but here we are"--and he jerked up at the entrance to the station. the jerk sent albatross flying off the car, and his chain being dexterously fastened to the back rail of the driver's seat, the luckless animal remained suspended whilst his collar was being unfastened, in order to prevent the not very remote contingency of strangulation. finding himself at liberty, he bounded joyously away, and, resisting all wiles and blandishments on the part of his master, continued to bound, gambol, frisk, bark, and yowl in a most reckless and idiotic way. it would not be acting fairly towards podgers were i to chronicle his language during this festive outbreak. if the dog was in a frolicsome mood, podgers was not, and his feelings got considerably the better of him when the bell rang to announce the departure of the train within three minutes of that warning. finding that all hopes of securing the animal in the ordinary way were thin as air, podgers offered a reward of half-a-crown to any of the grinning bystanders who would bring him the dog dead or alive. this stimulus to exertion sent twenty corduroyed porters and as many amateurs in full pursuit of albatross, who ducked and dived, and twisted and twined, and eluded detention with the agility of a greased sow; and it was only when one very corpulent railway official fell upon him in a squashing way, and during a masterly struggle to emerge from beneath the overwhelming weight, that he was surrounded and led in triumph, by as many of his pursuers as could obtain a handful of his hair, up to his irate and wrathful master. each of the captors who were in possession of albatross claimed a half-crown, refusing to give up the animal unless it was duly ransomed; and it was during a fierce and angry discussion upon this very delicate question that the last bell rang. with one despairing tug, podgers pulled the dog inside the door of the station, which was then promptly closed, and through the intervention of a friendly guard our _bête noire_ was thrust into the carriage with us. having kicked the cause of our chagrin beneath one of the seats, i ventured to remark that in all probability the dog, instead of being a credit to us, was very likely to prove the reverse. "it's only his liveliness, and be hanged to him," said podgers. "he has been shut up for some time, and is as wild as a deer." he would not admit a diminished faith in the dog; but his tone was irresolute, and he eyed the animal in a very doubting way. "his liveliness ought to be considerably toned down after the rough handling he received from my servant, and----" "by the way," podgers went on, "that infernal woman isn't safe to have in the house; she'll be tried for murder some day, and the coroner will be sitting upon _your_ body. is my eye very black?" "not very," i replied. it had reached a disreputable greenish hue, tinged with a tawny red. at ballybricken station we found a very smart trap awaiting us, with a servant in buckskin breeches, and in top-boots polished as brightly as the panels of the trap. "you've a dog, sir?" said the servant. "yes, yes," replied podgers, in a hurried and confused sort of way. "in the van, sir?" "no; he is here--under the seat. come out, albatross!--come out, good fellow!" and podgers chirruped and whistled in what was meant to be a seductive and blandishing manner. albatross stirred not. "hi! hi! here, good fellow!" albatross commenced to growl. "dear me, this is very awkward!" cried podgers, poking at the animal in a vigorous and irritated way. "time's up, sir," shouted the guard, essaying to close the door. "hold hard, sir! i can't get my dog out!" cried podgers. "i'll get him out," volunteered the guard; and, seizing upon the whip which the smart driver of the smart trap held in inviting proximity, he proceeded to thrust and buffet beneath the seat where albatross lay concealed. the dog uttered no sound, gave no sign. "there ain't no dog there at all," panted the guard, whose exertions rendered him nearly apoplectic, proceeding to explore the recesses of the carriage--"there ain't no dog here." a shout of terror, and the guard flung himself out of the carriage, the dog hanging on not only to his coat-tails, but to a portion of the garment which their drapery concealed. "take off your dog--take off your dog. i'll be destroyed. police! police! i'll have the law of you!" he yelled, in an extremity of the utmost terror. podgers, who was now nearly driven to his wits' end, caught albatross by the neck, and, bestowing a series of well-directed kicks upon the devoted animal, sent him howling off the platform, but right under the train. the cry of "the dog will be killed!" was raised by a chorus of voices both from the carriages and the platform. happily, however, the now wary albatross lay flat upon the ground, and the train went puffing on its way; not, however, until the guard had taken podgers' name and address, with a view to future proceedings through the medium of the law. "i had no idea that the o'rooneys were such swells," observed my companion as we entered, through the massive and gilded gates, to the avenue which sweeps up to ballybawn house. "somehow or other, i wish i hadn't fetched albatross, or that you hadn't spoken about him;" and podgers threw a gloomy glance in the direction of the pointer, who lay at our feet in the bottom of the trap, looking as if he had been on the rampage for the previous month, or had just emerged from the asylum for the destitute of his species. "he won't do us much credit as regards his appearance," i said; "but if he is all that you say as a sporting dog--of which i have my doubts--it will make amends for anything." podgers muttered something unintelligible, and i saw dismal forebodings written in every line of his countenance. mr o'rooney received us at the hall-door. beside him crouched two magnificent setters, with coats as glossy as mirrors, and a bearing as aristocratic as that of bethgellart. "where's the dog?" asked our host, after a warm greeting. "i hope that you have brought him." i must confess that i would have paid a considerable sum of money to have been enabled to reply in the negative. i muttered that we had indeed fetched him, but that owing to his having met with some accidents _en voyage_, his personal appearance was considerably diminished; but that we were not to judge books by their covers. as if to worry, vex, and mortify us, albatross declined to stir from the bottom of the trap, from whence he was subsequently rooted out in a most undignified and anti-sporting way. the expression upon mr o'rooney's face, when at length the animal, badger-like, was drawn, was that of an intense astonishment, combined with a mirth convulsively compressed. the servants commenced to titter, and the smart little gentleman who tooled us over actually laughed outright. albatross was partly covered with mud and offal. his eyes were watery, and the lids were of a dull pink, imparting a sort of maudlin idiotcy to their expression. his right ear stood up defiantly, whilst his left lay flat upon his jowl, and his tail seemed to have disappeared altogether, so tightly had he, under the combined influence of fear and dejection, secured it between his legs. "he's not very handsome," observed our host laughingly, "but i dare say he will take the shine out of york and lancaster, by-and-by," pointing to the two setters as he spoke. this hint was enough for albatross, as no sooner had the words escaped the lips of o'rooney than, with a yowl which sent the rooks whirling from their nests, he darted from the trap, and, making a charge at york, sent that aristocratic animal flying up the avenue in a paroxysm of terror and despair; whilst lancaster, paralysed by the suddenness of the onslaught, allowed himself to be seized by the neck, and worried, as a cat worries a mouse, without as much as moving a muscle in self-defence. this was too much. i had borne with this hideous animal too long. my patience was utterly exhausted, and all the bad temper in my composition began to boil up. i had placed myself under an obligation to a comparative stranger for the purpose of beholding his magnificent and valuable dogs scared and worried by a worthless cur. seizing upon a garden-rake that lay against the wall, i dealt at albatross what ought to have proved a crushing blow, which he artfully eluded. it only grazed him, and fell, with almost its full swing and strength, upon the passive setter, who set up a series of unearthly shrieks, almost human in their painful shrillness. "chain up that dog at once!" shouted o'rooney in fierce and angry tones, "and look to lancaster. i fear that his ribs are broken. this is very unfortunate," he added, addressing himself to me. "i don't know what's come over the animal!" exclaimed podgers. "i wish to heaven i had never seen him. i'll part with him to-morrow, if i have to give him to the zoological gardens for the bears." luckily, it turned out, upon examination, that lancaster was not in any way seriously injured. this put us into somewhat better spirits, so that by the time breakfast was concluded we were on good terms with each other, and even with the wretched albatross, in whom we still maintained a sort of sickly confidence. later on we started for the turnips, mr o'rooney and podgers in front--the latter hauling albatross along as if he was a sack of wheat; whilst i brought up the rear with a gamekeeper and york. "i don't think that animal is used to be out at all, at all," observed the keeper. "i'm afraid you are quite right," i replied; "but i hear that he is a very good sporting dog." "sportin'! begorra, he'll give yez sport enough before the day is half over," said the keeper, with a gloomy grin. "there is always a covey to be found in this field," observed our host to podgers, "so we'll give your dog the first chance." "i--i--i'd rather you'd let him see what your dog will do," blurted podgers. "oh, dear no!" returned mr o'rooney. "let him go now. you'll take the first shot." very reluctantly indeed did podgers unloose his pointer, uttering into the dog's ear in a low tone the most terrific and appalling threats should he fail to prove himself all that my fancy had painted him. with a loud bark of defiance albatross darted away, scurrying through the turnips at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, utterly unmindful of whistle, call, blandishment, or threat, appearing now in one direction, now in another, and barking as though it had been part of its training. "stop that dog," cried our host, "he won't leave us a bird," as covey after covey of partridges rose beyond range and flew away, albatross joyously barking after them. "you said i was to have the first shot, mr o'rooney," said podgers, in a tone full of solemnity. "certainly, if you can get it; which i doubt," was the curt reply. albatross had dashed within twenty yards of us, and was plunging off in another direction, when podgers ran forward, raised his gun. bang! albatross was sent to the happy hunting-grounds of his race. "he frightened the partridge," observed podgers, proceeding to reload; "_let him frighten the crows now_." the dead heat no, never had there been such a state of excitement in any ball-room before, when it became known that captain o'rooney had entrapped lieutenant charles fortescue, of the stiffshire regiment, into a thousand guineas match p.p., owners up, twelve stone each, and four miles over the stiffest country in galway. the match had been made at the supper-table, after the ladies had left; but nevertheless, the news had been carried to them, and they were furious. "fancy," said one, a tall, handsome brunette, "that that little wretched bandy-legged o'rooney should have got round our handsome friend in such a mean way. he is jealous and disgusted with fortescue's waltzing, and he _is_ the best waltzer in ireland." "i'll make him a set of colours to ride in," returned the toast of five counties, the beautiful alice gwynne. "i never made any before, but 'there's luck in odd numbers, says rory o'more,' and so he is sure to win in them." "too bad," exclaimed the gray-haired colonel of fortescue's regiment to some gentlemen standing by him at the supper-table, "to have hounded the lad into it. o'rooney is a noted steeplechase rider, and my boy" (he always called the youngsters of his regiment his boys), "though a workman across country, never rode a race in his life; but i hear that captain o'rooney has the character of looking up the griffs." "faith, colonel, ye are about right there," said a jolly-looking young irishman; "he is just the boy that can do that same; he is mad now because fortescue's english horse cut him down to-day, and pounded him--a thing that has never been done before." "bedad, you're out there, mat," put in another; "i'd be after thinking it is because the leaftenent has been making mighty strong running entirely with alice gwynne all this blessed night. o'rooney, by my faith, does not like _that_, devil a hap'orth; he considers himself the favoured one--the consated spalpeen." "he the favoured one!" remarked big h----, of fortescue's regiment; "why, he cannot suppose he would have a ghost of a chance with that pug nose and whisky-toddy countenance of his against fortescue of ours. why, old nick himself could not boast of an uglier face than pat rooney. fortescue is about the handsomest and nicest fellow in the service, and though only a poor man, yet there are devilish few girls, at least of any taste, who would give him the 'cold shoulder.'" the conversation was put an end to by the redoubtable captain o'rooney they were descanting on, and with whom all seemed to be on such bad terms, walking towards them. "i will make one endeavour now," said the colonel, "to put a stop to this match." "captain o'rooney," said he, as that gentleman joined them, "i am sorry to hear of this proposed steeplechase, and for such a sum. mr fortescue is a young man, and has acted very foolishly; moreover, though he holds the post of adjutant, he has little, i know, but his pay, and such a loss as a thousand pounds would seriously inconvenience him. let me recommend, captain o'rooney, that fortescue give you a hundred pounds to-morrow morning and draw the bet. what say you, gentlemen all, is the proposal fair?" "nothing fairer," they exclaimed. "see now, colonel," said captain o'rooney, "let us hear what mr fortescue says: he is not here; he'll be found in the ball-room, i'm after thinking." "true for ye, captain dear," said the jolly-looking young irishman before alluded to. "divil a bit," he continued, with a sly and malicious twinkle of his blue eye, "is fortescue in the ball. be jabers, he is seated in the card-room alone by alice gwynne, playing with her bouquet and fan. i'll go and fetch him; but it's a pity to disturb him. i'd almost take my oath he has been asking her to be mrs fortescue, and by my soul i don't think she has said no." so saying, the young man, without giving the other time to answer, vanished from the room. "what is it, colonel?" said fortescue, coming in almost immediately after. "see now," said o'rooney, interrupting him; "the colonel says this is a foolish match we have entered into, and proposes that ye should pay me a hundred down to-morrow to let ye off. what d'ye say?" "what do i say?" replied the young man; "why, i'll do anything the colonel likes. i think it is a foolish match. i was excited and out of humour when i made it. i'm better now, and if you like to take a hundred and draw, why i'll send you a cheque to-morrow morning for the amount, or run you for a hundred, which you like." "see, now," said the captain, his naturally red face getting purple with anger and excitement. "i've heard ye both--the colonel and yourself; now both of ye hear me. if ye were to offer me nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds, d--n me if i'd take it, for by the rock of cashel, i'll lick ye and break your heart and neck over the country; and see now, fortescue," he continued, "steer clear of the heiress." "what do you mean, sir," retorted the young man, firing up. "steer clear of the heiress? you forget yourself; do you presume to put a lady in the question?" and saying this, he turned away. "all devilish fine," said o'rooney, sticking his hands in his pockets and sauntering away from the supper-table, humming a verse of harry lorrequer's well-known song:-- "the king of oude is mighty proud, and so were onst the caysars (cæsars); but ould giles eyre would make them stare, av he had them with the blazers. "to the devil i'd fling--ould runjeet singh he's only a prince in a small way; and knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall, oh! he'd never do for galway." "won't he?" muttered fortescue to himself, as he caught the last words, "perhaps i'll show you he will." if the captain had not been so blind with passion, he might have heard the gallant adjutant singing _sotto voce_ a verse of a song from the same author, as he strode carelessly from the room:-- "put his arm round her waist, gave ten kisses at laste, 'oh!' says he, 'you're my molly malone, 'my own, 'oh!' says he, 'you're my molly malone!'" what did he mean? "by the great gun of athlone, i'm mighty glad entirely they're both gone from the room," said a hard-riding galway squire, as the illustrious captain o'rooney disappeared from sight. "i thought there was an illigant row brewing. better as it is. where o'rooney is to get the coin from if he loses, divil a one of me knows. he's in 'quare street' long ago. never mind, boys; let us have the groceries. 'o punch! you are my darling,' and the devil fly away with dull care. now colonel," he continued, "upon my conscience, as o'rooney won't listen to reason, you must look after fortescue's interests. o'rooney will endeavour to pick out a country. i mean he will go building up walls, and so on. you must have your own way a little, or, begorra, he'll do as he likes entirely. now, there is one thing that will beat him if anything will--you must insist on that, or i would not give a trauneen for fortescue's chance--and that is" (he dropped his voice to a whisper) _one_ if not _two_ water-jumps; if anything will stop mad moll it is water." "it shall be done," said the colonel; "i'll see that the lad is not taken advantage of." and the old field-officer kept his word, as will be seen in the sequel. o'rooney was greatly disturbed when he knew there were to be one or more water-jumps. he fought hard and gallantly against it; but the colonel was obdurate. "by gad, sir," said he, "you do not want it entirely your own way, do you? i have not interfered with the country in any way. i have said nothing as to the six-foot wall you have built up, and others equally dangerous, and now you cavil at a paltry ditch." "ditch do ye call it, colonel? fifteen feet of water, hurdled and staked, a ditch, and another of eleven. by my troth, no such like ditches are found between this and ballinasloe. but never mind. glory be to moses, i'll get over them. and then, h--ll to my soul, if the english horse will ever come near mad moll's girths again." "we think nothing of nineteen feet, sir," said the colonel. "in england, fifteen feet is nothing; but my youngster shall have a chance." great was the excitement throughout the country--indeed, in all parts of ireland. such a match had not been known for years--"a thousand pounds!" what could the english soldier have been thinking of! the nags went on well in their training, closely guarded by their respective admirers. the english horse took to wall-jumping beautifully; but it was doubted whether, even with his great turn of speed, he had the foot of the irish mare--a clipper. then again, though fortescue was a cool and daring horseman, he had not the experience of the captain, who had ridden many a hard-contested race before, across country and over the flat. the stakes had been made good and deposited according to agreement with the colonel. the captain had found friends to share in the bet, for though he was generally disliked, yet they had confidence in his horse and his horsemanship. fortescue, too, had friends, nor had his commanding officer been idle. men from his own regiment had come forward, so all he stood to lose was two hundred and fifty; this and other matters made him sanguine and light-hearted. in addition to all, he had received a beautiful cap and jacket from miss gwynne. the sporting papers, english and irish, teemed with the forthcoming match. "lieut. charles fortescue's bay horse screwdriver, aged, against capt. o'rooney's chestnut mare mad moll, six years old, for one thousand guineas a side," appeared in the _county chronicle_. the excitement was intense. such a stiff bit of country had not been seen or ridden over for years. the betting would have been decidedly in favour of the captain, but his mare's well-known dislike to water prevented anything like odds being laid--so they were both about equal favourites. "by george, old fellow!" said one of fortescue's chums to him one morning, some six days previous to the race, "i really think your chance is becoming more rosy every hour. the more o'rooney's mare sees the water the less she likes it. a sergeant in my company, a galway man, has a country cousin in the barracks who knows all about it. just go to sergeant blake," he said, turning to a bugler passing by, "and tell him to come here, and bring his cousin with him. mr fortescue wishes to see him." the man soon appeared. "salute your supareor," said the sergeant, as he squared his heels. "touch your caubeen." "arrah, now, patrick, wasn't i after doing it?" "well, do it at onst, ye murdering ruffian, and tell all ye know." "yes, sir, yer honour," commenced the man, "faix, the captain 'av' been trying the mare day after day at the water. onst she jumped finely. the captain made a brook close by our cabin, and is often wid her there. sometimes she jumps and sometimes she won't; and when she won't, mille murther! maybe don't he larrup her! long life to your honour! but i don't think the mare likes water, at all, at all. and by my troth, there's many a man thinks the same. the devil's luck to him! he's been all over the fresh-planted praties, and cut them to smithereens, bad cess to him! but av course, leiftenent, ye won't tell on a poor boy, more by token as he is after doing yer honour a little sarvice. i wouldn't give a handful of prayers for my life if he found me out; for sorra a one knows the captain better than myself, death to his sowl! tear-an-ages! he's a terrible bad man entirely, is the captain. the top of the morning, and long life to your honour!" said the gossoon, as the sergeant led him away, pocketing half a crown. "there, fortescue, what do you think of that?" said his friend, as they sauntered away to the anteroom for a whiskey and soda. "it's evident mad moll is no water jumper. by jupiter! i think you will pull through. quite fair my giving the lad half-a-crown. o'rooney's friends have been doing the same--fair play is a jewel!" somehow the public at last began to lean towards the english horse. he did his work quietly and openly, without any attempt at concealment. but what is this excitement in the barrack yard? officers are rushing to the mess-room. two gentlemen have been driven up there in a car. lord plunger and his friend bradon have arrived. they are old friends of the stiffshire battalion. "by george! plunger and bradon, i'm delighted to see you," said the warm-hearted colonel, hastening in, while endeavouring to make his sword-belt meet about his somewhat bulky waist. "i did not tell the boys i had written for you both. lunch ready in ten minutes--glass of sherry first to wet your mouths. now, fortescue will have a little good advice. you will ride the last gallop to-morrow morning, bradon, and give us your opinion. dammee, i'm so glad to see you both in the wild west. here, some one tell the captain of the day i won't have another roll-call. obliged to do this kind of thing here, bradon--never know what's going to happen from one minute to another. shooting landlords like the devil. potted lambert last week; five shots in him, and the only one that did no harm was the one that took him in the forehead. rest his sowl, as the irishmen say, a near escape for him. lucky dog! here is the sherry!" in this way did the popular colonel rattle on. the gallop is over, and screwdriver has been tried at even weights against a good one. george bradon had thought it better that fortescue should ride his own horse in the trial, which he did. "by jove, you've got a clipper, fortescue!" said the former, as they pulled up; "you don't know how good. i deceived you all when i told you i had borrowed this nag to try you. keep your mouth shut, hermetically sealed, old fellow, and i'll tell you something you will care to know. it is no commoner you have galloped against to-day. mind, on your life, not a word to your dearest friend. it's my own horse, guardsman, you have had a spin with--the winner of the cheltenham grand annual!" the young man thus addressed sat like one in a dream, at this revelation. "it's all old mason's doing, fortescue," said he. "he advised me to bring him over. i'm off now. look at that knot of people coming over the hill; there are some who crossed the channel yesterday with me who would know my old pet, and i would not have it blown upon for a trifle--the horse has been in ireland for a week on the quiet. i'm now off, across country to athenry, where mason is, and has a stable for him. the horse will leave by the late train to-night for england with a lad; so no one will be a bit the wiser. my old stud-groom will come to your diggings this evening with me to give you a help. so _au revoir_ till mess-time, when you will see yours truly;" and putting his horse at a five-foot wall, he sent him over, hurling the loose stones behind him in a cloud, and was quickly out of sight. "so your friend has gone," said the gallant colonel, as fortescue walked his horse up to a host of his brother-officers and friends assembled in a knot on the hill, amongst which several strangers were distinguishable. "yes," replied fortescue, carelessly, "he will be with us at mess. here, take the horse home, forester"--to his man--"see no one comes near him." "that's a horse to back," said a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat; and coming up to fortescue he whispered quietly to him: "i'm on your nag for a plumper. i keep my own counsel, and shall not split. i never come except with a rush at the last minute. my glasses are good. you've had a spin with one of the best cross-country horses in england. clever and fast as that nag is, he can't give you seven pounds. you ran him to a length or two. i know george bradon and guardsman well. i've won a pot full of money on them before. there, don't look scared; you are a youngster. sit well down on screwdriver, hold him together, don't give a lead over the water, and you will land him a winner. i know more than you think; but for my own sake i'm mum!" "news for you all!" said the colonel of fortescue's regiment, bursting into the mess-room, where some nine or ten officers were at breakfast, amongst whom were lord plunger and bradon. "here, fortescue," continued the excited old gentleman, "this letter"--holding out one--"concerns you more immediately. read it out." the young man thus addressed took the letter and read the following:-- "dear colonel, "as you all know, this is the morning of the race. something has happened. for god's sake ride over and see me at once.-- "yours faithfully, "p. o'rooney. "clough-bally-more castle, friday morning." "there, gentlemen, what do you think of that?" cried the colonel, as fortescue slowly folded up the letter and returned it to him. "something in that--no race for a guinea." "race or no race," said lord plunger, "the money is lodged with you. it is a p.p. bet, and must be paid." "mare gone amiss," put in bradon. "i knew he was giving her too much of it. this is a hard, stony country; horses won't stand much continued work. poor brutes! they are galloped shin sore--all the life and energy taken out of them--sweated to death, and made as thin as whipping-posts, and they are said to be in condition. serves him right." "hold, bradon, my boy," interrupted lord plunger, "you do not know that such is the case. the mare was all right last night, that i am certain of. she is about six miles from here, at a mr blake's. i am inclined to think o'rooney has got into trouble." "at any rate we shall soon know," returned the colonel; "for here is my horse coming round. i shall be back in an hour or a little more. i'll look after your interests, fortescue," he continued. "it is only half-past ten now. the race is not till three. keep cool, and don't take too many brandy-and-sodas, till you see me again." and so saying, he took his departure. what was up? had the mare broken down? was o'rooney arrested? it must be one or the other. it could not be about the stakes, for these were lodged to the colonel's credit in the bank of ireland. what could it be then? "i cannot help thinking, fortescue," said lord plunger, "that somehow or other you will have to don the new colours, doeskins, and tops, and give us a sight of your way of crossing the galway country." as he was speaking, one of the mess waiters came in and said a few words to fortescue, which made that gentleman immediately leave the room. on reaching his quarters he found seated there a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "i beg your pardon," said the stranger to the officer as he entered. "you know me, i think?" fortescue slightly inclined his head. "the object of my coming," continued the sly-looking little man, "is to tell you that there is a writ out against captain o'rooney for four hundred pounds. he will not show up to-day. he is a _sunday man_: now the race is ours--yours i ought to say--you will only have to go over the course. good-morning." but he was not allowed to depart in that way. he was soon in the mess-room, and all were put in possession of the facts. in the meantime the good colonel rode on at a rapid pace, wondering at the contents of the note, and conjuring up all sorts of things. five-and-twenty minutes brought him to the gate, or what should have been the gate, of clough-bally-more castle, but it was gone. cantering up the neglected wilderness-like avenue, he was soon in front of a ruinous-looking pile. this was clough-bally-more castle--a place best described by a quotation from hood's beautiful poem of "the haunted house"-- "unhinged the iron gates half open hung, jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters, that from its crumbled pedestal had flung one marble globe in splinters. * * * * * "with shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd; the time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after; and through the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd with naked beam and rafter." getting off his horse and walking up the broken, moss-covered steps, the colonel rang the bell, which gave forth a melancholy sound that scared a colony of jackdaws who had established themselves unmolested for many a year in the chimneys and uninhabited rooms. on the second summons a shock head was cautiously poked out of an upper window. "sure now, it's no use at all, at all, av yer ringing away like that: the master's gone abroad these six months; he told me to say so last night. divil a writ can you serve him wid, my honey; av ye don't be off the master will be after shooting ye for a thafe from the hall windy." "i'm no writ server," returned the colonel. "i come in consequence of a note i received from captain o'rooney this morning." "troth, then, ye are the english soldier colonel. his honour the master will be wid ye at onst," and the head disappeared. presently that of the captain protruded. "see now, colonel," said he, "ould mat thought you were a bum. i'm sorry to say i'm a _sunday man_ now. the thundering thieves they've been about the place all the morning to serve me. i wish they may get it. nabocklish! catch a weasel asleep. i'll let you in." in a minute or so the front door was slowly and cautiously unchained, and the colonel found himself in the hall of clough-bally-more castle. it was a perfect ruin, and, if possible, more ghastly and miserable-looking on the inside than the outside. the captain's room was, however, pretty cosy, and in decent repair. a bright turf fire burnt on the hearth; a couple of guns adorned the walls; rods, fishing-tackle, and various other sporting paraphernalia were scattered about the room in indescribable confusion. "be seated, colonel," said the steeple-chase rider; "i may as well come to the point at once. d----, of galway, has a writ out against my person for four hundred pounds. they tried to serve it on me last night, and again this morning, the divil fly away with them! may the flames of----" "what is to be done, capt. o'rooney?" interrupted the colonel. "you know it is a p.p. bet, and out of my power to do anything. mr fortescue has only two hundred and fifty on it. the rest is made up by gentlemen who will insist on the terms of the bet being adhered to. you ridiculed our offer of scratching the bet for a hundred: far better for yourself had you done so. i should not like any advantage taken of you, and you ought to have a run for your money. what is it you propose?" "see, now, colonel; the only way is, that if you do not hold me to the day, we can run it off on sunday." "sir! captain o'rooney!" hotly interrupted the colonel; "you must be mad! ride a steeple-chase on a sunday! do you suppose, sir, any of my officers would be guilty of such a thing, or that i would allow it?" "see, now, colonel," interposed the captain, "then there is no other way but mr fortescue letting me off altogether. i've five hundred on it on my own account. i'll give a hundred and scratch it." "quite impossible," said the colonel; "you know i can't do it. i am really very sorry for you, but stay, there is yet one way, and if i can manage it the race may yet come off. d----, who has the writ out against you, does the wine for the mess. now, will you agree to this--that if you win, i pay him the four hundred and the balance to yourself? if you do not win you shall be exactly in the same position you are now, namely, locked up in your own house." "tare an' ages, a capital idea! colonel, i agree." and it was forthwith signed and sealed between them. "i'll send out to you in an hour," said the colonel, as he took his departure. "i will write and tell you how it is to be, race or no race. depend on me; i'll do all i can." the colonel succeeded, and the terms he mentioned were acceded to by d----, who thought it was his only chance of ever getting a farthing. "hang it, gentlemen," said the light-hearted old officer, "we could have got the money without a race; but i should not have liked it said of the regiment that we took any advantage. now, win or lose, everyone must say that we have behaved pluckily in this matter." such a crowd as there was on the road all the way to the hill of thonabuckey, where a good view could be had of the race! cars, donkey-carts, wiry-looking horses with wiry and sporting squireens on them crowded the road--all on their way to see the thousand-guinea steeple-chase between the english soldier gentleman and the famous captain o'rooney. such excitement, such running and jostling of the dirty unwashed to get along! there was the old blind fiddler, mat doolan, in a donkey-cart, and perched on the top of a porter-barrel, scraping away, and occasionally giving a song. "sure it's himself that can bring the music out of the instrument. he is the best fiddler in the west," sang out one. then a chorus of voices would break in asking for various tunes and songs. "arrah, now, give us 'croppies lie down.'" "'wreath the bowl,'" cried another. "hell to the bowl, let's 'ave 'tater, jack walsh,' or 'vinegar hill,'" demanded a sturdy ruffian. "no, no; 'the breeze that blows the barley,' 'st patrick's day in the morning,' or 'garry-owen' for me." "begorra, no; 'larry before he was stretched,' is my favourite," said a ragged urchin. "hurrah! here comes the captain," bawled another; and the dirty unwashed yelled as he passed in a tax-cart driven by a friend. "which is the captain?" demanded a soldier. "death! don't you know him? musha, why that one forenent ye in the white caubeen and frieze coat. troth, he's a broth of a boy! devil a one in ireland can bate him on mad moll across country. sure he's an illigant rider." "hould yer noise, here comes squire gwynne and the ladies in the coach, and the english soldier gentleman wid 'em. agra! but he's a mighty fine young man is that same. bedad, it's miss alice that's looking swate on him entirely." it was true: there was charles fortescue of the stiffshire regiment going to the scene of action in the squire's waggonette, and sitting beside his affianced bride, the beautiful alice gwynne with eight thousand a year the instant she married. "hurroo!" shouted the people as the carriage dashed past. "three cheers for the master of gwynne! and another for the lady!" they were in the humour to shout at everything and everybody. the course is reached at last. it is a circular one, and everything has to be jumped twice; hardly anything is to be seen but dark frowning walls. many cars and carriages have got down by the water-jump. there is no end of youth and beauty. all the county _élite_ are there as lookers-on. a place has been kept for mr gwynne, and also one for the large waggonette of the officers. eager spectators are scattered all over the course, but the big wall and the two water-jumps are the centre of attraction. the wall is a fearful one, six feet high, built up of large loose stones. the water-jump is also a pretty good one. a little mountain stream has been dammed up. it is fifteen feet wide, four feet deep, and hurdled and staked on the taking off side. "by jingo, it is a twister!" said mr gwynne, a hunting man, as he looked at it. "i say, ally," to his daughter, "you would not like to ride over that, would you?" "no, indeed, papa," said the poor girl, with her beautiful eyes full of tears--she was terribly agitated. "i never shall be able to look at charles as he jumps it: it's fearful to look at, and it has to be done twice too!" "never mind, alice, dear," said fortescue, "the old horse will carry me over like a bird. the only difficulty in the whole thing is the big wall; that is a rattler! but in your colours, of course, i shall get over all right. let me do that wall and i am pretty safe, for i know screwdriver has the foot of mad moll; and these colours, too, they must not play second fiddle. cheer up!" and he whispered something that made the fair girl smile through her tears. "now, fortescue," said george bradon, taking his friend aside, "let me give you a little advice: this is your maiden effort: whatever you do be cool; don't flurry or worry yourself; you have a knowing fellow to ride against, who is well up to these things. now the wall is the principal thing, and my opinion is, he will try and baulk your horse there; therefore, my boy, don't let him give you a lead over it, _but lead him_. that you have the speed of the mare there is not a doubt. remember, too, you must not go at the wall too fast: keep him well together, with his hind legs well under him, and pop him over. now, with regard to the brook, on no account give him a lead there; if necessary, walk your horse to it rather than go first. keep your head, old fellow, and where you dare, make the pace a cracker, if you can do it without pumping your horse; the mare is overtrained, and will not last if she is bustled. i don't know that i can say any more: now, go and sit by your lady fair till it is time to weigh." the officers had sent their two cricket tents down, the scoring one for the scales, and the other for luncheon. the latter one was filled with gentlemen discussing the merits of the different horses. "here comes your nag, fortescue," said a young sub, running up to the carriage. "oh, what a beauty he is!" said miss gwynne. "who is the little fat man leading him?" "that," said bradon, who had joined them, "is my old stud-groom, one of the best men in europe; he says screwdriver's trained to the hour. here, mason, turn the horse round and show him to the lady." the old man touched his hat as he did so. "he's a good 'un, miss," he said, "and nothing but a good 'un; and if mr fortescue rides him patiently, i think that no mad moll will have a chance with him." and touching his hat again he turned and walked the horse away. the regimental champion was then immediately surrounded by the men of the stiffshire regiment. the weighing is over, and screwdriver mounted. fortescue's colours are crimson, with gold braiding. capt. o'rooney's are all green. both gentlemen look thorough jocks, and sit their horses easily and well; but there is a look of the older hand about the captain. "who will lay me two to one against screwdriver?" cried out a sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "i'll do it to any amount up to a thousand." "i'll take you even money for a hundred," said a flashily-dressed man on a bay horse. "i want odds, sir," said the little man; "but as i see there is no betting to be done here, make it two hundred and i'll take you." "done," said the other. and the bets were booked. all is now excitement, for the horses are walking away to the starting-post. the judge had locked himself up in the little box allotted to him, which has been lent by the race committee, but little did he think he would see such a close finish. "they're off!" is the cry, as the two horses are seen cantering across a field. "fortescue's leading," said lord plunger, with his field-glasses to his eyes. "oh, papa, hold me up so that i may see," said the beautiful and anxious miss gwynne. the eyes of scores were on her as she stood up, for all the gentry were well aware in what relation she stood to fortescue. "well lepped!" roared the multitude, as the horses topped a wall. "capital jumpers both," said the sly-looking little man; "the horse for my money. will nobody bet?" he roared out. but all were too eager to attend to him. fortescue is in front, and going at a good rate across some grass. the first brook is now approached, and the captain in his turn, leads at a strong pace. all are anxiously looking to see how mad moll will like it, for she is twisting her head from side to side. fortescue has taken a pull at screwdriver, who is some six lengths behind. "hang me if she means jumping!" said bradon, as he saw the mare's spiral movements. but he was wrong: a resolute man and a good one was on her back. she jumped the brook, but in bad style, her hind legs dropped in, and as she just righted herself, fortescue's crimson jacket flashed in the air and cleared it splendidly, amidst the shouts of hundreds. "splendidly jumped!" said lord plunger. "fortescue is a fine horseman, bradon, and is riding the horse patiently and well." "he is," was the quiet reply. all eyes are now directed to the wall, which the horses are rapidly approaching. fortescue is seen to lead at it, and the old horse clears it at a bound, as did the mare. "it's all up," said bradon, as he closes his glasses; "fortescue will win in a canter." "the captain's down!" screamed a host of voices, as he and the mare came to grief at the second water-jump. "may he stick there for the next ten minutes!" muttered the sly little man, a wish in which not a few joined--a certain fair lady especially. but he is up and at work again, none the worse. the horses were going at a great pace, and the jumps were taken with beautiful precision by both. bradon began to look anxious, the sly little man fidgety, and lord plunger wore a thoughtful look. the anxious girl's face was flushed to scarlet with excitement and emotion, and she trembled fearfully. "it will be a close thing," said the sly-looking little man; "the mare is better than i thought." there were only a few things to be jumped now of any consequence--the two brooks and the big wall. the horses there turned, ran through an opening made in the wall, and finished on the flat in front of the carriages. the brook is now approached for the second time: the mare comes at it first, jumps it, and topples down on her nose on the opposite side; the captain is pitched forward on her ears, but recovers himself like lightning, and is away again, leading fortescue at a terrific pace. but what is the little sly man doing? as the mare recovers herself he is seen to dart across the course and pick up something flat, and put it into his pocket. "by g--d! turn out as it will we are saved," he muttered. "i'll lay any money against the mare," he screamed out. but no one took him. the wall is now approached again; the captain leads; but as the mare is about to rise he turns her sharply round and gallops in a different direction. screwdriver refuses it too. "damnation! i thought it," said bradon; "there's a blackguard's trick!" "oh! poor charles," ejaculated the beautiful alice; "my poor colours!" "the captain's cleared it!" shouted out the multitude, as the mare was seen to take the wall splendidly. "where's your soldier now?" shouted out a chorus of voices. "shure it's myself," said the captain, "could never be licked." "most unfortunate!" said the old colonel, "a dirty trick; and after my kindness to him, too!" "the soldier is going at it again!" cried the people; and the horse is seen to rise gallantly at it, but both horse and rider came down on the other side. "och, wirra wirra, vo vo! mother of moses, he's kilt entirely!" bawled out a countryman; "poor young fellow!" "miss gwynne's fainted," said a young sub, running into the tent for water. "by g--d! he's up and at it again," screamed out the sly little man: "the mare's baked too; look at her tail." all faces were flushed and eager. the horse was coming along at a tremendous pace. the captain was at work: his legs could be seen sending the spurs deeply into her; and he took an anxious look over his shoulder every now and then. "the mare's beaten!" resounded on all sides, as she was seen to swerve in her stride. "oh that the finish were only a hundred yards farther!" said lord plunger. the winning-post is approached. the old horse has not been touched by fortescue, whose face is seen, even at that distance, to be deluged with blood. he holds screwdriver well in hand; he sees the mare is flagging. "green wins!" "red wins!" shouts the crowd. it is an anxious moment. both horses are seen locked closely together. but the strain on screwdriver's jaw is relaxed, and fortescue is seen to shake him up; the whip hand is at work, and they pass the post abreast. the colonel dashes off, as does the sly little man, and a host of others. "what is it?" said the colonel, as he galloped up. "a dead heat," replied the judge. the sly little man smiles grimly as he hears these words. "is charles hurt, papa?" said the beautiful occupant of the master of gwynne's carriage, opening her eyes languidly, as she rose from her faint. "no, dearest; cut a little, i believe. it is a dead heat." both horses were now returning to scale. "dead heat?" said the captain. "well, we must run it off in an hour. i won't give in." "hurt, sir?" inquired old mason, as he took hold of the old horse's bridle and led him back. "a bit of a cut on the forehead," returned fortescue, "that is all. captain o'rooney pulled his mare round at the wall--little cad!" "a scoundrel's trick," said the colonel. fortescue goes to weigh in first. "all right, sir," said the man in charge of the scales. the captain now approaches, saddle and saddle-cloths in hand, and seats himself. "eleven stone eleven," said he of the scales, looking at them intently. "three pounds short, captain." "what?" yelled out o'rooney. "look again, man, look again!" "eleven stone eleven," replied the clerk. "give me my bridle!" roared the captain. "what the h--ll is the matter?" "ay, give him his bridle!" said the sly-looking little man; "he can claim a pound for it; but that won't make him right. look at your saddle-cloth, sir. you will see it has burst and a three-pounds lead gone. you did it at the big water-jump the second time, and i picked it up. here it is." cheer after cheer rent the air as the fact was announced. the soldiers, of course, went almost frantic. "here, come away," said lord plunger and bradon, seizing charley's arm, "get away as quickly as you can. there will be a row. your horse has already gone, with seventy or eighty of our men with him. you rode the race splendidly, old fellow!" "that he did," said the sly-looking little man. the captain had lost the race. he was short by two pounds, allowing him one for his bridle. the scene of confusion that followed was indescribable. fortescue was taken to the carriage and quickly driven away. "ah, alice!" said he, "i told you i should carry your colours to the fore." "thank god you did so! this is your first and last race, promise me." the captain went back to clough-bally-more castle; but in a day or two he was _non est_, and his creditors were done. the regiment had a jovial night of it. fortescue's health was drunk in bumper after bumper; but he was not there to acknowledge the compliment; some one else had him in charge. a short time after the stiffshire were quartered in manchester, and the colonel one day encountered no less a person than captain o'rooney. "see now, colonel," said the latter, "you must bear me no ill-will. i did a shabby trick, i'll allow, at the wall, but i was a ruined man. i'm all right now. i've married a rich cotton-spinner's widow with some three thousand a year; but it's all settled on her." fortescue and miss gwynne are long ago married; and at the different race meetings that they attended they often saw the celebrated captain o'rooney performing; but in all the numerous races he was engaged in, he never rode--at any rate in a steeple-chase--another dead heat. only the mare when one opens a suspicious-looking envelope and finds something about "mr shopley's respectful compliments" on the inside of the flap, the chances are that mr shopley is hungering for what we have ovid's authority for terming _irritamenta malorum_. not wishing to have my appetite for breakfast spoiled, i did not pursue my researches into a communication of this sort which was amongst my letters on a certain morning in november; but turned over the pile until the familiar caligraphy of bertie peyton caught my eye: for bertie was nellie's brother, and nellie peyton, it had been decided, would shortly cease to be nellie peyton; a transformation for which i was the person chiefly responsible. bertie's communication was therefore seized with avidity. it ran as follows:-- "the lodge, holmesdale. "my dear charlie, "i sincerely hope that you have no important engagements just at present, as i want you down here most particularly. "you know that there was a small race-meeting at bibury the other day. i rode over on little lady, and found a lot of the th dragoons there; that conceited young person blankney amongst the number. now, although blankley has a very considerable personal knowledge of the habits and manners of the ass, he doesn't know much about the horse; and for that reason he saw fit to read us a lecture on breeding and training, pointing his moral and adorning his tale with a reference to my mare--whose pedigree, you know, is above suspicion. after, however, he had kindly informed us what a thoroughbred horse ought to be, he looked at little lady and said, 'now i shouldn't think that thing was thoroughbred!' it ended by my matching her against that great raw-boned chestnut of his: three and a half miles over the steeplechase course, to be run at the holmesdale meeting, on the th december. "as you may guess, i didn't want to win or lose a lot of money, and when he asked what the match should be for, i suggested '£ a-side.' 'hardly worth while making a fuss for £ !' he said, rather sneeringly. '£ , if you like!' i answered, rather angrily, hardly meaning what i said; but he pounced on the offer. of course i couldn't retract, and so very stupidly, i plunged deeper into the mire, and made several bets with the fellows who were round us. they laid me to against the mare, but i stand to lose nearly £ . "you see now what i want. i ride quite stone, as you know; the mare is to carry stone, and you can just manage that nicely. i know you'll come if you can, and if you telegraph i'll meet you. "your's ever, bertie peyton. "p.s.--nellie sends love, and hopes to see you soon. no one is here, but the aunt is coming shortly." i was naturally anxious to oblige him, and luckily had nothing to keep me in town; so that afternoon saw me rapidly speeding southwards, and the evening, comfortably domiciled at the lodge. bertie, who resided there with his sister, was not a rich man. £ was a good deal more than he could afford to lose, and poor little nellie was in a great flutter of anxiety and excitement in consequence of her brother's rashness. as for the mare, she could gallop and jump; and though we had no means of ascertaining the abilities of blankney's chestnut, we had sufficient faith in our little lady to enable us to "come up to the scratch smiling;" and great hopes that we should be enabled to laugh at the result in strict accordance with the permission given in the old adage, "let those laugh who win." it was not very pleasant to rise at an abnormal hour every morning, and arrayed in great-coats and comforters sufficient for six people, to rush rapidly about the country; but it was necessary. i was a little too heavy, and we could not afford to throw away any weight, nor did i wish to have my saddle reduced to the size of a cheese-plate, as would have been my fate had i been unable to reduce myself. breakfast, presided over by nellie, compensated for all matutinal discomforts; and then she came round to the stables to give the mare an encouraging pat and a few words of advice and endearment which i verily believe the gallant little mare understood, for it rubbed its nose against her shoulder as though it would say, "just you leave it in my hands--or, rather, to my feet--and i'll make it all right!" then we started for our gallop, bertie riding a steady old iron-grey hunter. the fourth of december arrived, and the mare's condition was splendid. "as fit as a fiddle," was the verdict of smithers, a veterinary surgeon who had done a good deal of training in his time, and who superintended our champion's preparation; and though we were ignorant of the precise degree of fitness to which fiddles usually attain, he seemed pleased, and so, consequently, were we. unfortunately on this morning bertie's old hunter proved to be very lame, so i was forced to take my last gallop by myself; and with visions of success on the morrow, i passed rapidly through the keen air over the now familiar way; for the course was within a couple of miles of the house, and so we had the great advantage of being able to accustom the mare to the very journey she would have to take. bertie was in a field at the back of the stables when i neared home again. "come on!" he shouted, pointing to a nasty hog-backed stile, which separated us. i gave little lady her head, and she cantered up to it, lighting on the other side like a very bird! bertie didn't speak as i trotted up to him, but he looked up into my face with a triumphant smile more eloquent than words. "you've given her enough, haven't you?" he remarked, patting her neck, as i dismounted in the yard. "you've given her enough," usually signifies "you've given her too much." but i opined not, and we walked round to the house tolerably well convinced that the approaching banking transactions would be on the right side of the book. despite a walk with nellie, and the arrival of a pile of music from town, the afternoon passed rather slowly; perhaps we were too anxious to be cheerful. to make matters worse, dinner was to be postponed till past eight, for the aunt was coming, and nellie was afraid the visitor would be offended if they did not wait for her. "you look very bored and tired, sir!" said nellie pouting prettily; "i believe you'd yawn if it wasn't rude!" i assured her that i could not, under any circumstances, be guilty of such an enormity. "it's just a quarter past seven. we'll go and meet the carriage, and then perhaps you'll be able to keep awake until dinner-time!" and so with a look of dignity which would have been very effective if the merry smile in her eyes had been less apparent, the little lady swept out of the room; to return shortly arrayed in furs, and a most coquettish-looking hat, and the smallest and neatest possible pair of boots, which in their efforts to appear strong and sturdy only made their extreme delicacy more decided. "come, sleepy boy!" said she, holding out a grey-gloved hand. i rose submissively, and followed her out of the snug drawing-room to the open air. bertie was outside, smoking. "we are going to meet the aunt, dear," explained nellie. "i'm afraid she'll be cross, because it's so cold." "she's not quite so inconsequent as that, i should fancy; but it is cold, and isn't the ground hard!" i said. "it is hard!" cried bertie, stamping vigorously. "by jove! i hope it's not going to freeze!" and afflicted by the notion--for a hard frost would have rendered it necessary to postpone the races--he hurried off to the stables, to consult one of the men who was weather-wise. some stone steps led from the terrace in front of the house to the lawn; at either end of the top-step was a large globe of stone, and on to one of these thoughtless little nellie climbed. i stretched out my hand, fearing that the weather had made it slippery, but before i could reach her she slipped and fell. "you rash little person!" i said, expecting that she would spring up lightly. "oh! my foot!" she moaned; and gave a little shriek of pain as she put it to the ground. i took her in my arms, and summoning her maid, carried her to the drawing-room. "take off her boot," i said to the girl, but nellie could not bear to have her foot touched, and feebly moaned that her arm hurt her. "oh! pray send for a doctor, sir!" implored the maid, while nellie only breathed heavily, with half-closed eyes; and horribly frightened, i rushed off, hardly waiting to say a word to the poor little sufferer. "whatever is the matter?" bertie cried, as i burst into the harness-room. "where's the doctor?" i replied, hastily. "nellie's hurt herself--sprained her ankle, and hurt her arm--broken it, perhaps!" "how? when?" he asked. "there's no time to explain. she slipped down. where's the doctor?" "our doctor is ill, and has no substitute. there's no one nearer than lawson, at oakley, and that's twelve miles, very nearly." "then i must ride at once," i reply. "saddle my horse as quickly as possible," said bertie to the groom. "he's lame, sir, can't move!" the man replied, and i remembered that it was so. "put a saddle on one of the carriage horses--anything so long as there's no delay." "they're out, sir! gone to the station. there's nothing in the stable--only the mare; and to gallop her to oakley over the ground as it is to-night, will pretty well do for her chance to-morrow--to say nothing of the twelve miles back again. the carriage will be home in less than an hour, sir," the man remonstrated. "it may be, you don't know, the trains are so horridly unpunctual. saddle the mare, jarvis, as quickly as you can--every minute may be of the utmost value!" as bertie spoke the _faintest_ look of regret showed itself on his face for a second; for of course he knew that such a journey would very materially affect, if it did not entirely destroy, the mare's chance. jarvis, who i think had been speculating, very reluctantly took down the saddle and bridle from their pegs, but i snatched them from his arms, and assisted by bertie, was leading her out of the stable in a very few seconds. "hurry on! never mind the mare--good thing she's in condition," said bertie, who only thought now of his sister. "i'll go and see the girl." "i can cut across the fields, can't i, by the cross roads?" i asked, settling in the saddle. "no! no! keep to the highway; it's safer at night. go on!" i heard him call as i went at a gallop down the cruelly hard road. the ground rang under the mare's feet, and in spite of all my anxiety for nellie i could not help feeling one pang of regret for little lady, whose free, bounding action, augured well for what her chances would have been on the morrow--chances which i felt were rapidly dying out; for if this journey didn't lame her nothing would. stones had just been put down as a matter of course; but there was no time for picking the way, and taking tight hold of her head we sped on. about a mile from the lodge i came to the crossroads. before me was a long vista of stone--regular rocks, so imperfectly were they broken: to the right was the smoother and softer pathway over the fields--perfect going in comparison to the road. just over this fence, a hedge, and with hardly another jump i should come again into the highway, saving quite two miles by the cut. bertie had said "don't," but probably he had spoken thoughtlessly, and it was evidently the best thing to do, for the time i saved might be of the greatest value to poor little suffering nellie! i pulled up, and drew the mare back to the opposite hedge. she knew her work thoroughly. three bounds took her across the road: she rose--the next moment i was on my back, shot some distance into the field, and she was struggling up from the ground. there had been a post and rail whose existence i had not suspected, placed some six feet from the hedge on the landing side. she sprang up, no legs were broken; and i, a good deal shaken and confused, rose to my feet, wondering what to do next. i had not had time to collect my thoughts when i heard the rattle of a trap on the road; it speedily approached, and the moonlight revealed the jolly features of old tom heathfield, a friendly farmer. "accident, sir?" he asked, pulling up. "what! mr vaughan!" as he caught sight of my face. "what's the---- why! that ain't the mare, sure-_lie_?" all the neighbourhood was in a ferment of excitement about the races, and the sight of little lady in such a place at such a time struck horror to the honest old farmer. "yes, it is--i'm sorry to say. miss peyton has met with an accident. i was going for the doctor, and unfortunately there was nothing else in the stable." "you was going to oakley, i s'pose, sir? it'll be ruination to the mare. miss peyton hurt herself! i'll bowl over, sir; it won't take long; this little horse o' mine can trot a good 'un; and i can bring the doctor with me. the fences, there, is mended with wire. you'd cut the mare to pieces." "i can't say how obliged to you i am----" "glad of the opportunity of obliging miss peyton, sir; she's a real lady!" he was just starting when he checked himself. "there's a little public house about a hundred yards further on; if you don't mind waiting there i'll send smithers to look at the mare. i pass his house. all right, sir." his rough little cob started off at a pace for which i had not given it credit; and i slowly followed, leading the mare towards the glimmering light which heathfield had pointed out. my charge stepped out well, and i didn't think that there was anything wrong, though glad, of course, to have a professional opinion. a man was hanging about the entrance to the public-house, and with his assistance the mare was bestowed in a kind of shed, half cow-house, half stable; and as the inside of the establishment did not look by any means inviting, i lit a cigar and lounged about outside, awaiting the advent of smithers. he didn't arrive; and in the course of wandering to and fro i found myself against a window. restlessly i was just moving away when a voice inside the room repeated the name of _blankney_. i started, and turning round, looked in. it was a small apartment, with a sanded floor, and two persons were seated on chairs before the fire conversing earnestly. one of them was a middle-aged man, clad in a brown great-coat with a profusion of fur-collar and cuffs which it would scarcely be libel to term "mangy." he was the owner of an unwholesome-looking face, decorated as to the chin with a straggling crop of bristles which he would have probably termed an imperial. "wust year i ever 'ad!" he exclaimed (and a broken pane in the window enabled me to hear distinctly). "the two thousand 'orse didn't run; got in deep over the derby; hascot was hawful; and though i had a moral for the leger, it went down." his own morals, judging from his appearance and conversation, appeared to have followed the example of that for the leger. "i can't follow your plans about this race down here, though," said his companion, a younger man, who seemed to hold the first speaker in great awe despite his confessions of failure. "don't you say that this young blankney's horse can't get the distance?" "i do. he never was much good, i 'ear; never won nothing, though he's run in two or three hurdle-races; and since phil kelly's been preparing of 'im for this race he's near about broke down. his legs swell up like bolsters after his gallops; and he can't get three miles at all, i don't believe, without he's pulled up and let lean agin something on the journey to rest hisself." "and yet you're backing him?" "and yet i'm backing of him." "this young peyton's mare can't be worse?" said the younger man, interrogatively. "that mare, it's my belief, would be fancied for the grand national if she was entered, and some of the swells saw 'er. she's a real good 'un!" replied the man with the collar. "i see. you've got at her jockey. you're an artful one, you are." as the jockey to whom they alluded, i was naturally much interested. "no, i ain't done that, neither. he's a gentleman, and it's no use talkin' to such as 'im. they ain't got the sense to take up a good thing when they see it--though, for the matter o' that, most of the perfessionals is as bad as the gentlemen. all's fair in love and war," says i; "and this 'ere's war." "does blankney know how bad his horse is?" "no, bless yer! that ain't phil kelly's game." (kelly was, i knew, the man who had charge of my opponent's horse.) "well, then, just explain, will you; for _i_ can't see." from the recesses of his garment the elder man pulled out a short stick about fifteen inches in length, at the end of which was a loop of string; and from another pocket he produced a small paper parcel. "d'yer know what that is? that's a 'twitch.' d'yer know what that is? that's medicine. i love this 'ere young feller's mare so much i'm a-goin' to give it some nicey med'cine myself; and this is the right stuff. i've been up to the 'ouse to-day, and can find my way into the stable to-night when it's all quiet. just slip this loop over 'er lip, and she'll open 'er mouth. down goes the pill, and as it goes down the money goes into my pocket. them officer fellers and their friends have been backing blankney's 'orse; but phil kelly will take care that they hear at the last moment that he's no good. then they'll rush to lay odds on the mare--and the mare won't win." they laughed, and nudged each other in the side, and i felt a mighty temptation to rush into the room and nudge their heads with my fist. little lady's delicate lips, which nelly had so often petted, to be desecrated by the touch of such villains as these! while struggling to restrain myself a hand was laid on my shoulders, and, turning round, i saw smithers. we proceeded to the stable; and i hastily recounted to him what had happened, and what i had heard, as he examined the mare by the aid of a bull's-eye lantern. he passed his hand very carefully over her, whilst i looked on with anxious eyes. "she's knocked a bit of skin off here, you see." he pointed to a place a little below her knee, and drawing a small box from his pocket, anointed the leg. "but she's all right. all right, ain't you, old lady?" he said, patting her; and his cheerful tone convinced me that he was satisfied. "we'll lead her home. i'll go with you, sir; and it's easy to take means to prevent any games to-night." when we reached home the doctor was there, and pronounced that, with the exception of a sprained ankle, nelly had sustained no injury. rejoicing exceedingly, we proceeded to the stable; heathfield, who heard my story, and who was delighted at the prospect of some fun, asking permission to accompany us. "collars" had doubtless surveyed the premises carefully, for he arrived about eleven o'clock, and clambered quietly and skilfully into the hayloft above the stable, after convincing himself that all was quiet inside. he opened the trap-door, and down came a foot and leg, feeling about to find a resting-place on the partition which divided little lady's loose box from the other stalls. bertie and i took hold of the leg, and assisted him down, to his intense astonishment; while heathfield and a groom gave chase to, and ultimately captured his friend, the watcher on the threshold. * * * * * "if i'm well enough to do _anything_ i'm well enough to lie on the sofa; and there's really _no_ difference between a sofa and an easy-chair--if my foot is resting--and i'm sure the carriage is _easier_ than any chair; and it can't matter about my foot being an inch or two higher or lower--and as for shaking, that's all nonsense. it's very unkind _indeed_ of you not to want to take me; and if you won't, directly you've gone i'll get up, and walk about, _and stamp_!" thus nelly, in answer to advice that she should remain at home. how it ended may easily be guessed; and though we tried to be dignified, as we drove along, to punish her for her wilfulness, her pathetic little expressions of sorrow that she should "fall down, and hurt herself, and be such a trouble to everybody," and child-like assurances that she would "not do it again," soon made us smile, and forget our half-pretended displeasure. so with the aunt to take care of her, in case bertie and i were insufficient, we reached the course. the first three races were run and then the card said:-- · match, £ a side, over the steeple-chase course, about three miles and a half. . mr blankney, th dragoons, ch. h. jibboom, years, st. lb., rose, black and gold cap. . mr peyton, b. m. little lady, years, st., sky-blue, white cap. blankney was sitting on the regimental drag, arrayed in immaculate boots and breeches, and, after the necessary weighing ceremony had been gone through he mounted the great jibboom, which phil kelly had been leading about: the latter gentleman had a rather anxious look on his face; but blankney evidently thought he was on a good one, and nodded confidently to his friends on the drag as he lurched down the course. little lady was brought up to me, smithers being in close attendance. "i _shall_ be so glad, if you win," nellie found opportunity to whisper. "what will you give me?" i greedily inquire. "_anything_ you ask me," is the reply; and my heart beats high as, having thrown off my light wrapper and mounted, little lady bounds down the course, and glides easily over the hurdle in front of the stand. bertie and smithers were waiting at the starting-post; and, having shaken hands with blankney, to whom bertie introduced me, i went apart to exchange the last few sentences with my friends. bertie is a trifle pale, but confident; and smithers seems to have a large supply of the latter quality. in however high esteem we hold our own opinions, we are glad of professional advice when it comes to the push; and i seek instructions. "no, sir, don't you wait on him. go away as hard as you can directly the flag drops. i don't like the look of that chestnut's legs--or, rather, i do like the look of them for our sakes. go away as hard as ever you can; but take it easy at the fences; and, excuse me, sir, but just let the mare have her head when she jumps, and she'll be all right. people talk about 'lifting horses at their fences:' i only knew one man who could do it, and he made mistakes." i nod; smiling as cheerfully as anxiety will permit me. the flag falls, and little lady skims over the ground, the heavy chestnut thundering away behind. over the first fence--a hedge--and then across a ploughed field; rather hard going, but not nearly so bad as i expected it would have been: the mare moving beautifully. just as i reach the second fence a boy rushes across the course, baulking us; and before i can set her going again jibboom has come up level, and is over into the grass beyond a second before us; but i shoot past and again take up the running. before us are some posts and rails--rather nasty ones; the mare tops them, and the chestnut hits them hard with all four legs. over more grass; and in front, flanked on either side by a crowd of white faces, is the water-jump. i catch hold of her head and steady her; and then, she rises, flies through the air, and lands lightly on the other side. a few seconds after i hear a heavy splash; but when, after jumping the hurdle into the course, i glance over my shoulder, the chestnut is still pounding away behind. as i skim along past the stand the first time round and the line of carriages opposite, i catch sight of a waving white handkerchief: it is nellie; and my confused glimpse imperfectly reveals bertie and smithers standing on the box of the carriage. i had seen visions of a finish, in which a certain person clad in a light-blue jacket had shot ahead just in the nick of time, and landed the race by consummate jockeyship after a neck-and-neck struggle for the last quarter of a mile. this did not happen, however, for, as i afterwards learned, the chestnut refused a fence before he had gone very far, and, having at last been got over, came to grief at the posts and rails the second time round. little lady cantered in alone; blankney strolling up some time afterwards. there is no need to make record of bertie's delight at the success. we dined next day at the mess of the th, blankney and his brethren were excessively friendly, and seemed pleased and satisfied; as most assuredly were we. blankney opines that he went rather too fast at the timber; but a conviction seemed to be gaining ground towards the close of the evening that he had not gone fast enough at any period of the race. and for nellie? she kept her promise, and granted my request; and very soon after the ankle was well we required the services of other horses--grey ones! hunting in the midlands "jem pike has just come round, gentlemen, to say that they will be able to hunt to-day, after all: and as it's about starting time, and you've some distance to go, i will, if you wish, gentlemen, order your horses round." the announcement, as it came to us over our breakfast at a hostelry which i will call the lion, in a market town which i will call chippington--a highly convenient hunting rendezvous in the midlands--was not a little welcome. jem pike was the huntsman of the pack, and jem pike's message was an intimation that the frost of last night had not destroyed our sport for the day. the morning broke in what jem would call a "plaguey ugly fashion:" from an artistic point of view it had been divine: for hunting purposes it had been execrable. a thin coating of ice on one's bath indoors, a good stiff hoar frost out, crystallized trees, and resonant roads--all this was seasonable, very, and "pretty to look at, too." but it was "bad for riding:" and we had not come to the lion at chippington in order to contemplate the beauties of nature, but to brace our nerves with the healthy excitement of the chase. full of misgivings we descended to breakfast, in hunting toggery notwithstanding. as the sun shone out with increased brilliance we began to grow more cheerful. the frost, we said, was nothing, and all trace of it would be gone before noon. the waiter shook his head dubiously, suggested that there was a good billiard-table, and enquired as to the hour at which we would like to dine. but the waiter, as the event proved, was wrong, and we were still in the middle of breakfast when the message of the huntsman of the chippington pack arrived--exactly what we had each of us said. of course the frost was nothing: we had known as much; and now the great thing was to get breakfast over, and "then to horse away." after all there is nothing for comfort like the old-fashioned hunting hotels, and unfortunately they are decreasing in number every year. still the lion at chippington remains; and i am happy to say that i know of a few more like the lion. they are recognisable at a glance. you may tell them by the lack of nineteenth century filagree decoration which characterises their exterior, by the cut of the waiters, by the knowing look of the boots. snug are their coffee-rooms, luxurious their beds, genial their whole atmosphere. it is just possible that if you were to take your wife to such an establishment as the lion, she would complain that an aroma of tobacco smoke pervaded the atmosphere. but the hunting hotel is conspicuously a bachelor's house. its proprietor, or proprietress, does not lay himself or herself out for ladies and ladies' maids. it is their object to make single gentlemen, and gentlemen who enjoy the temporary felicity of singleness, at home. if it is your first visit, you are met in a manner which clearly intimates that you were expected. if you are an old _habitué_ you find that all your wants are anticipated, and all your peculiar fancies known. the waiter understands exactly--marvellous is the memory of this race of men--what you like for breakfast: whether you prefer a "wet fish" or a "dry:" and recollects to a nicety your particular idea of a dinner. under any circumstances a week's hunting is a good and healthy recreation: but it is difficult to enjoy a week's hunting more perfectly than in one of these hostelries, which have not, i rejoice to say, yet been swept away by the advancing tide of modern improvement. of whom did our company consist? we were not a party of meltonian squires, such as it would have delighted the famous nimrod to describe. we were neither osbaldestones nor sir harry goodrickes: neither myddelton biddulphs nor holyoakes. a warwickshire or an oxfordshire hunting field differs very materially, so far as regards its _personnel_, from a leicester or a northamptonshire gathering. the latter still preserves the memories and the traditions of a past _régime_, when hunting was confined to country gentlemen, farmers, and a few rich strangers: the former is typical of the new order of things under which hunting has ceased to be a class amusement, and has become a generally popular sport. now it is not too much to claim for hunting at the present day this character. the composition of the little band which on the morning now in question left the lion hotel at chippington, bound for covert, was no unimportant testimony to this fact. we were half a dozen in number, and comprised among ourselves a barrister, a journalist, a doctor, and a couple of civil servants, who had allowed themselves a week's holiday, and who, being fond of riding, had determined to take it in this way. in an average hunting field of the present day you will discover men of all kinds of professions and occupations--attorneys, auctioneers, butchers, bakers, innkeepers, artists, sailors, authors. there is no town in england which has not more than one pack of hounds in its immediate vicinity; and you will find that the riders who make up the regular field are inhabitants of the town--men who are at work four or five days in the week at their desk or counter, and who hunt the remaining one or two. there is no greater instrument of social harmony than that of the modern hunting field: and, it may be added, there is no institution which affords a healthier opportunity for the ebullition of what may be called the democratic instincts of human nature. the hunting field is the paradise of equality: and the only title to recognition is achievement. "rank," says a modern authority on the sport, "has no privilege; and wealth can afford no protection." out of the hunting field there may be a wide gulf which separates peasant from peer, tenant from landlord. but there is no earthly power which can compel the tenant to give way to the landlord, or the peasant to the peer, when the scent is good and hounds are in full cry. as we get to the bottom of the long and irregularly-paved street which constitutes the main thoroughfare--indeed, i might add, the entire town of chippington--we fall in with other equestrians bound for branksome bushes--the meet fixed for that day--distant not more than two miles from chippington itself. there was the chief medical man of the place, mounted on a very clever horse, the head of the chippington bank, and some half-dozen strangers. as we drew near to "the bushes" we saw that there had already congregated a very considerable crowd. there were young ladies, some who had come just to see them throw off, and others with an expression in their faces, and a cut about their habits, which looked like business, and which plainly indicated that they intended, if possible, to be in at the death. there were two or three clergymen who had come from adjoining parishes, and one or two country squires. there were some three or four oxford undergraduates--chippington is within a very convenient distance of the city of academic towers--who were "staying up" at their respective colleges for the purpose of reading during a portion of the vacation, and who found it necessary to vary the monotony of intense intellectual application by an occasional gallop with the chippington or bicester pack. then, of course, there was the usual contingent of country doctors: usual, i say, for the medical profession gravitates naturally towards equestrianism. if a country doctor rides at all, you may be sure he rides well, and is well mounted, moreover. there was also a very boisterous and hard-riding maltster, who had acquired a considerable reputation in the district: a fair sprinkling of snobs; one or two grooms and stable cads. there was also an illustrious novelist of the day, the guest of sir cloudesley spanker, bart., and sir cloudesley spanker, bart., himself. we had drawn branksome bushes and the result was a blank. local sportsmen commence to be prolific of suggestions. there was henham gorse, for instance, and two gentlemen asseverated most positively, upon intelligence which was indisputably true, that there was a fox in that quarter. another noble sportsman, who prided himself especially on his local knowledge, pressed upon jem pike the necessity of turning his attention next to the enderby woods, to all of which admonitions, however, mr pike resolutely turned a deaf ear. these are among the difficulties which the huntsman of a subscription pack has to encounter or withstand. every nimrod who pays his sovereign or so a year to the support of the hounds considers he has a right to a voice in their management. marvellous is the sensitiveness of the amateur sportsman. it is a well-established fact, that you cannot more grievously wound or insult the feelings of the gentleman who prides himself upon his acquaintance with horses than by impugning the accuracy of his judgment in any point of equine detail. hint to your friend, who is possessed with the idea that he is an authority upon the manners and customs of foxes in general, and upon those of any one neighbourhood in particular, that there exists a chance of his fallibility, and he will resent the insinuation as a mortal slight. jem pike had his duty to do to the pack and to his employers, and he steadfastly refused to be guided or misguided by amateur advice. so, at jem's sweet will, we jogged on from branksome bushes to jarvis spinney, and at jarvis spinney the object of our quest was obtained. 'tis a pretty sight, the find and the throw off. you see a patch of gorse literally alive with the hounds, their sterns flourishing above its surface. something has excited them, and there "the beauties" go, leaping over each other's backs. then issues a shrill kind of whimper: in a moment one hound challenges, and next another. then from the huntsman comes a mighty cheer that is heard to the echo. "he's gone," say half a score of voices. hats are pressed on, cigars thrown away, reins gathered well up, and lo and behold they are off. a very fair field we were on the particular morning to which i here allude. the rector, i noticed, who had merely come to the meet, was well up with the first of us. notwithstanding remonstrances addressed by timid papas and well-drilled grooms in attendance, alice and clara vernon put their horses at the first fence, and that surmounted had fairly crossed the rubicon. nay, the contagion of the enthusiasm spread, as is always the case on such occasions, for their revered parents themselves were unable to resist the attraction. sir cloudesley spanker asserted his position in the first rank, as did also the distinguished novelist, his guest. it has been remarked that all runs with foxhounds are alike on paper and different in reality. we were fortunate enough to have one that was certainly above the average with the chippington hounds. our fox chose an excellent line of country, and all our party from the lion enjoyed the distinction of being in at the death. mishaps there were, for all the bad jumpers came signally to grief. old sir cloudesley related with much grim humour the melancholy aspect that two dismounted strangers presented who had taken up their lodging in a ditch. the two miss vernons acquitted themselves admirably; so did the rector, and i am disposed to think that the company both of the ladies and the farmers vastly improved our hunting field. it is quite certain that clergymen, more than any other race of men, require active change, and they need what they can get nowhere better than in a hunting field. nor in the modern hunting field is there anything which either ladies or clergymen need fear to face. the strong words and the strange oaths, the rough language--in fine, what has been called "the roaring lion element," these are accessories of the chase which have long since become things of the past. and the consummation is a natural consequence of the catholicity which hunting has acquired. there are no abuses like class abuses. once admit the free light of publicity, and they vanish. there are hunting farmers and hunting parsons, clergymen who make the chase the business of their lives, and those who get a day with the hounds as an agreeable relief to their professional toils. there is not much to be said in favour of the former order, which has, by the way, nearly become extinct. it survives in wales and in north devon yet, and curious are the authentic stories which might be narrated about these enthusiastic heroes of top-boots and spur. there is a little village in north devon where, till within a very few years, the meet of the staghounds used to be given out from the reading desk every sunday after the first lesson. years ago, when one who is now a veteran amongst the fox-hunting clerics of that neighbourhood first entered upon his new duties, he was seized with a desire to reform the ways of the natives and the practices of the priests. installed in his new living, he determined to forswear hounds and hunting entirely. he even carried his orthodoxy to such a point as to institute daily services, which at first, however, were very well attended. gradually his congregation fell off, much to the grief of the enthusiastic pastor. one day, observing his churchwardens lingering in the aisle after the service had been concluded, he went up and asked them whether they could at all inform him of the origin of the declension. "well, sir," said one of the worthies thus addressed, "we were a-going to speak to you about the very same thing. you see, sir, the parson of this parish do always keep hounds. mr froude, he kept foxhounds, mr bellew he kept harriers, and least ways we always expect the parson of this parish to keep _a small cry of summut_." whereupon the rector expressed his entire willingness to contribute a sum to the support of "a small cry" of harriers, provided his congregation found the remainder. the experiment was tried and was completely successful, nor after that day had the new rector occasion to complain of a deficiency in his congregation. tories of the old school, for instance sir cloudesley spanker, who has acquitted himself so gallantly to-day, would no doubt affirm that fox-hunting has been fatally injured as a sport by railways. the truth of the proposition is extremely questionable, and it may be dismissed in almost the same breath as the sinister predictions which are never verified of certain naval and military officers on the subject of the inevitable destiny of their respective services. railways have no doubt disturbed the domestic tranquillity of the fox family, and have compelled its various members to forsake in some instances the ancient lares and penates. but the havoc which the science of man has wrought, the skill of man has obviated. foxes are quite as dear to humanity as they can be to themselves; and in proportion as the natural dwellings of foxes have been destroyed artificial homes have been provided for them. moreover, railways have had the effect of bringing men together, and of establishing all over the country new fox-hunting centres. hunting wants money, and railways have brought men with money to the spots at which they were needed. they have, so to speak, placed the hunting field at the very doors of the dwellers in town. in london a man may breakfast at home, have four or five hours' hunting fifty miles away from the metropolitan chimney-pots, and find himself seated at his domestic mahogany for a seven o'clock dinner. nor is it necessary for the inhabitant of london to go such a distance to secure an excellent day's hunting. to say nothing of her majesty's staghounds, there are first-rate packs in surrey, essex, and kent, all within a railway journey of an hour. here again the inveterate _laudator temporis acti_ will declare he discerns greater ground for dissatisfaction than congratulation. he will tell you that in consequence of those confounded steam-engines the field gets flooded by cockneys who can't ride, who mob the covert, and effectually prevent the fox from breaking. of course it is indisputable that railways have familiarised men who never hunted previously with horses and with hounds, and that persons now venture upon the chase whose forefathers may have scarcely known how to distinguish between a dog and a horse. very likely, moreover, it would be much better for fox-hunting if a fair proportion of these new-comers had never presented themselves in this their new capacity. at the same time with the quantity of the horsemen there has been some improvement also in the quality of the horsemanship. leech's typical cockney nimrod may not have yet become extinct, but he is a much rarer specimen of sporting humanity than was formerly the case. it is a great thing for all englishmen that hunting should have received this new development among us, and for the simple reason that salutary as is the discipline of all field sports, that of hunting is so in the most eminent degree. "ride straight to hounds and talk as little as possible," was the advice given by a veteran to a youngster who was discussing the secret mode in which popularity was to be secured; and the sententious maxim contains a great many grains of truth. englishmen admire performance, and without it they despise words. performance is the only thing which in the hunting field meets with recognition or sufferance, and the braggart is most inevitably brought to his proper level in the course of a burst of forty minutes across a good country. again, the hunting field is the most admirably contrived species of discipline for the temper. displays of irritation or annoyance are promptly and effectively rebuked; and the man who cannot bear with fitting humility the reprimand, when it is merited, of the master or huntsman, will not have long to wait for the demonstrative disapproval of his compeers. hunting has been classed amongst those sports--_detestata matribus_--by reason of the intrinsic risk which it involves. is it in any degree more dangerous than cricket or football, shooting or alpine climbing? in great britain and ireland there are at present exactly two hundred and twenty packs of hounds. of these some hunt as often as five days a week, others not more frequently than two. the average may probably be fixed at the figure three. roughly the hunting season lasts twenty-five weeks, while it may be computed that at least ninety horsemen go out with each pack. we thus have one million four hundred and fifty-eight thousand as the total of the occasions on which horse and rider feel the perils of the chase. "if," said anthony trollope, in the course of some admirable remarks on the subject, "we say that a bone is broken annually in each hunt, and a man killed once in two years in all the hunts together, we think that we exceed the average of casualties. at present there is a spirit abroad which is desirous of maintaining the manly excitement of enterprise in which some peril is to be encountered, but which demands at the same time that it should be done without any risk of injurious circumstances. let us have the excitement and pleasure of danger, but for god's sake no danger itself. this at any rate is unreasonable." these observations have somewhat diverted me from the thread of the original narrative. should, however, the reader desire more precise information as to the particular line of country taken up by the fox on that eventful day with the chippington hounds, will he not find it written for him in his favourite sporting paper? so we met, so we hunted, and so we rode home and dined; and if any person who is not entirely a stranger to horses wishes to enjoy a few days' active recreation and healthy holidays, he cannot, i would submit, for the reasons which i have above attempted to enumerate, do better than go down to the lion at chippington, and get a few days with the chippington hounds. a military steeple-chase we were quartered in a very sporting part of the country, where the hunting season was always wound up by a couple of days' steeple-chasing. the regiment stationed here had usually given a cup for a military steeple-chase, and when we determined to give one for an open military handicap chase, the excitement was very great as to our chances of winning the cup we had given. as there were some very good horses and riders in the regiment, it appeared a fair one, eight nominations having been taken by us. there were also about the same number taken by regiments in the district. our major, who was a first-rate horseman, entered his well-known horse jerry; i and others nominated one each, but one sub., a very celebrated character amongst us, took two. this man's father had made a very large fortune by nursery gardens, and put his son into the army, where, of course, he was instantly dubbed "the gardener." he was by no means a bad sort of fellow, but he never could ride. the riding-master almost cried as he said he never could make "the gardener" even look like riding; not that he was destitute of pluck, but he was utterly unable to stick on the horse. he had a large stud of hunters, but when out he almost invariably tumbled off at each fence. amongst those who nominated horses was the celebrated captain lane, of the hussars, who was said to be so good a jockey that the professionals grumbled greatly at having to give him amateurs' allowance. no one was better at imperceptibly boring a competitor out of the course; and at causing false starts and balking at fences he was without a rival. the way he would seem to be hard on his horse with his whip, when only striking his own leg, was quite a master-piece. report declared that he trained all his own horses to these dodges, and i believe it was quite true, as his were quite quiet and cool under the performances when the rest were almost fretted out of their lives. when the handicap came out i found, to my great disgust, that such a crusher had been put on my horse that i at once put the pen through his name--not caring to run him on the off-chance of his standing up and the rest coming to grief, or with the probability, anyhow, of a punishing finish. however, the next night after mess, the major called me up to him in the ante-room, and said: "i hear you have scratched your horse, and quite right, too. i have accepted, and if you like to have the mount, you are quite welcome." of course, i was greatly delighted, but told him that i had never ridden in steeple-chase before. "but i have," growled the major, "and am not going to waste over this tin-pot," as he irreverently called the cup, "so i can show you the ropes. come to my quarters after breakfast to-morrow, and we will try the horse." the next day i went there, and found the major mounted, awaiting me, and jerry--a very fine brown horse, with black points. i soon discovered that he had one decided peculiarity--viz., at his first fence, and sometimes the second, instead of going up and taking it straight, he would whip round suddenly and refuse. on thinking what could be the cause of this trick, i came to the conclusion that his mouth must have been severely punished by the curb when he was first taught jumping; and on telling the major my idea, he allowed me to ride him as i pleased, so instead of an ordinary double bridle, i put one with a couple of snaffles in his mouth, and very soon found that this had the desired effect. indeed, after a few days, he took his first fence all right, unless flurried, and before the day seemed quite trustworthy. when we got back after our first day's ride, the major told me, rather to my amusement, that i must go into training as well as the horse,--adding, what was quite true, that he had seen more amateur races lost through the rider being beat before the horse than by any other means; so when i had given jerry his gallops in the morning, i had to start a mile run in the afternoon in flannels or sweaters. the course was entirely a natural one, about three miles and a half round, and only two ugly places in it, chiefly grass, with one piece of light plough and some seeds. the first two fences were wattles on a bank, with a small ditch, then an ordinary quickset hedge, followed by an old and stiff bullfinch. after this a post and rails, a bank with a double ditch, and merely ordinary fences till we came to a descent of about a quarter of a mile, with a stream about twelve feet wide, and a bank on the taking-off side. next came some grass meadows, with a very nasty trappy ditch, not more than four feet wide, but with not the slightest bank or anything of the kind on either side,--just the thing for a careless or tired horse to gallop into. the last fence, which was the worst of all, was, i fancy, the boundary of some estate or parish, and consisted of a high bank, with a good ditch on each side--on the top a young, quick-set hedge, and, to prevent horses or cattle injuring it, two wattle fences, one on each side, slanting outwards. after this, there was a slight ascent of about yards; then there was dead level of about a quarter of a mile up to the winning-post. on the evening before the chase, we had a grand guest night, to which, of course, all the officers of other regiments who had entered horses were invited. we youngsters were anxious to see captain lane, of whom we had heard so much. on his arrival, after the usual salutations, he enquired of the major whether he was going to ride, and, on receiving a negative, asked who was; and on having the intending jockeys pointed out to him, just favoured us with a kind of contemptuous glance, never taking any further notice of us. the celebrated captain was a slight man, about five feet eight inches, with not a particularly pleasant look about his eyes, and looking far more the jock than the soldier. the steeple-chases were fixed for the next day at . p.m., but, as a matter of fact, all the riders were on the ground long before that for the purpose of examining the ground and the fences. the major came to see me duly weighed out, and gave me instructions as to riding--that i was not on any account to race with everyone who came alongside me, nor to make the running at first, unless the pace was very slow and muddling, of which there was little danger, for quite half the jocks, he said, would go off as if they were in for a five furlong spin, and not for a four mile steeple-chase. i was to lie behind, though handy, until we came to the descent to the stream and then make the pace down and home as hot as i could,--to find out the "dicky forelegs," he said, knowing that jerry's were like steel. we all got down to the post pretty punctually, and, of course, in a race of this description, the starter had no difficulty in dropping his flag at the first attempt. i gave jerry his head, and to my joy he took the first fence as straight and quietly as possible, so taking a pull at him, i was at once passed by some half dozen men (the gallant "gardener" amongst them) going as hard as they could tear. it was lucky for them that the fences were light and old, as most of the horses rushed through them. when they got to the bullfinch, one horse refused, and another attempting to, slipped up and lay in a very awkward looking lump, jock and all close under it. the rest having been a little steadied took it fairly enough. jerry jumped it as coolly as possible, like the regular old stager that he was, in spite of captain lane coming up at the time with a great rush, evidently hoping to make him refuse. when we landed on the other side a ludicrous spectacle presented itself, the gallant "gardener" being right on his horse's neck, making frantic attempts to get back into his saddle, which were quite unsuccessful, and the horse coming to the next fence, a post and rail, quietly took it standing, then putting down his head slipped his rider off and galloped on without him. the field now began to come back to us very quickly, and soon the leading lot were vincent of ours, a splendid rider, as i thought, and as it turned out, my most dangerous opponent, with a carabinier in close attendance; then myself, with captain lane waiting on me, and watching the pair of us most attentively, so that it seemed almost impossible that i should have any chance of slipping him. however, an opportunity did present itself at length, which i took advantage of--hearing a horse coming up a tremendous "rattle" on my right. i looked round to see who and what it was. lane, noticing what i was doing, looked round too. seeing this i loosed jerry's head, and giving him at the same time a slight touch with the spur, he shot out completely--slipping the captain, passing the carabinier, and getting head and head with vincent. down the hill we went as hard as we could, clearing the water side by side. at the grip in the fields beyond i gained slightly by not taking a steadier at jerry, trusting to his eyesight and cleverness to avoid grief. as we got to the best fence, the ugly boundary one, i did take a pull, the jump looking as nasty a one as could well be picked out; however, the old horse did it safely, and vincent and myself landed side by side in the winning field, amidst most tremendous shouting and cheering from our men, who were standing as thick as thick could be on each side of the course. the excitement was terrific as we came up, apparently tied together, but giving jerry a couple of sharp cuts with the whip, i found my leg gradually passing vincent's, until at length i was nearly opposite his horse's head, and thus we passed the winning post, to my great relief. i did not know how much my opponent's horse had left in him, and expected him to come up with a rush at the last, in which case i doubted whether i should be able to get anything more out of jerry in time, as he was rather a lazy horse, though possessing enormous "bottom." i had scarcely pulled up and turned round to go to the scales, before i met the major, who told me i was "not to make a fool of myself and dismount," before the clerk of the scales told me to, and then he pitched into me for riding at the "grip," as i did, apprising me at the same time that he did not care how i risked my neck, but "i might have hurt the horse," adding, after a pause, and with a grunt, "but you won." the delight of our men was so great at two of their officers being first and second, that it was all that vincent and myself could do to avoid being carried about on their shoulders after we had weighed in. the gallant captain was most awfully disgusted at being beaten by "a couple of boys," and went off immediately--resisting all invitations to stop and dine at mess. i subsequently found out that when i slipped him (at which he was particularly angry) he gave his horse a sharp cut with his whip, which seemed quite to upset it. on coming down to the water the horse jumped short--dropping his hind legs in, and at the "grip," nearly got in, only saving itself by bucking over it, and at the big boundary absolutely came down on landing, though his rider managed to keep his seat. as for myself, i need not say how delighted i was at winning my first steeplechase, though the major did tell me that a monkey would have ridden as well, and helped the horse as much as i did. "_but i won_" was always my reply. how i won my handicap told by the winner it was a foot-racing handicap, run just after christmas at sheffield, and how i came to win happened in this wise. at eighteen i found myself still living, say, at stockton-on-tees, on the borders of yorkshire, the town of my birth. my trade was that of a wood-turner, and with but half my time served. "old tubby" found me an unwilling apprentice, who had not the least inclination for work. stockton, though only a little place, is noted for sporting and games of all sorts--but particularly for cricket. i played, of course, but they didn't "reckon" much of me, except for fielding. "sikey," who was a moulder, and i, kept ferrets and dogs, too, and on sundays we used to go up the "teeside" after rabbits, or rats, or anything we could get. sometimes we stripped and had a "duck," and then we ran on the bank barefoot. i could give him half a score yards start in a field's length, and win easily; but often i didn't try to get up till close upon the hedge we had agreed should be the winning-post. my father had been coachman to a sporting gent who kept race-horses, and the old man used to talk for everlasting about the "chifney rush." when first sikey and i ran i tried to beat him, so he made me give a start. then i thought of the 'cute old jockey, and i used to try and get up and win in the last yard or so. one day locker, who had formerly kept a running ground at staleybridge, met me, and asked if i'd go out with him next saturday and have a spin. i told him i "didn't mind;" so we went up the turnpike till a straight level bit was found, and he stepped yards, leaving me at the start, saying, "come away as hard as thou can, whenever thou art ready." he had his hands in his topcoat pocket all the while, and when i finished, we walked on a bit, neither speaking for a quarter of a mile further, when he looked at his watch and said it was "getting dinner-time." soon after he looked again, and then "took stock o' me from head to foot," and as we passed the ground i had run over, he asked, "canst run another hundred?" i told him i could; but this time he pulled off his own coat, and said, "we'll go together." he was quickest off, but i could have passed him any time, just as i used to pass sikey. when we got nearly to the finish i "put it on" and just got home first. he seemed pleased and told me not to say a word to anybody, but come down and meet him again. i didn't know what he was about at all, but i said "all right," and next saturday went to the same place. locker was there, and two other coves with him, as i hadn't seen before. one was a tall thin un he called "lanky," and the other was little and wiry, and rather pock-pitted. he said, "let's all four run for a 'bob' a-piece, and you three give me two yards start?" but they wouldn't; so he said, i should run the "long un" for a crown. that was soon settled, and just before we started, locker whispered to me, "beat him, lad, if thou canst; i want him licked, he is such a bragger. we'll share t' crown if thou wins." the little un set us off, and locker was judge. well, we got away together, and i headed him in by five yards easy. locker fairly danced, he was so pleased; and though lanky grumbled a bit at first to part with his "crown," he was soon all right. we went to locker's to dinner, and talked about "sprinting," as they called it, all the afternoon. i told 'em i'd never run at all before except for fun, and they seemed "fairly staggered." they asked if i would run a match for £ next week, and i told 'em i didn't mind. locker said i was a "good un," and i might "win £ if i'd nobbut stick tu him." well, we agreed that i was to do just as he directed, and receive a sovereign for myself if i won by just a foot, and two pound if i ran a dead heat, letting the "novice" who was to be my opponent catch me at the finish. i never "split" to anybody except sikey, and he went to see the race. over a hundred people were there, and off we started. everybody thought i was winning, but i "shammed tired," and he beat me about three inches, the judge said. locker swore it was a dead heat, and as he had laid to on me i thought he'd lost a lot of money. as we went home, he said, "there's £ for thee, lad; thou did it wonderful well; i shall match thee again next saturday for £ : we might as well have it as anybody else." well, during the week i was out with him every night, and he said, "stick to me, and we'll mak these coves sit up. thou'rt a thunderin' good un, and we'll gan to sheffield together in less nor six months if thou can keep thysel to thysel." of course i was pleased, and i bought a new pair of running-shoes with spikes in. he showed me _the sporting life_ next week, with a challenge in that "'locker's lad,' not satisfied with his late defeat, will take a yard in a from the 'stockton novice,' for £ or £ a-side. a deposit to the editor and articles sent to mr locker's running-grounds, stockton, will meet with immediate attention." i was quite struck, and said i wondered what "old tubby" would think if he knew. locker said, "go ask him for thy indentures, and if he won't give 'em up, ask him what he'll tak for 'em." so i did, and if i hadn't been in such a hurry, he'd have thrown 'em at me, and said he was glad to get rid of an idle rascal. as it was, i told him i'd something else to do, and he demanded £ for my release. locker gave me the money next day, and i soon put the indentures in the fire; thanking my stars for the escape. after this i lived at locker's altogether, and in two or three days an answer came from the "novice," to say he'd give yards start in . well, that didn't seem to suit locker, so he replied, through the paper again, that "sooner than not run again, his lad should run the 'novice' yards level at kenham grounds for £ a side. to run in three weeks." articles came and were signed on these terms. then he said, "thou needn't train at all, though i want thee to win this time by nearly a yard; just stay a bit longer than before, and don't let him quite catch thee. make a good race of it, but be sure and win." we often went to the old spot on the turnpike, and once he took a tape and measured the ground. he had stepped it within a yard and a half. at last he showed me his watch that he had won in a handicap. there was a long hand which jumped four times in a second, and he could start it or stop it by pressing a spring whenever he liked. then i held it while he ran, and found he was just sec. doing his yards. i tried, and was "ten and a beat," which he told me was reckoned first-rate time. while i stopped with him i found out all about "sprints" and "quarters," and how long a man ought to be running different distances. i asked, too, about the last race; why he could afford to give me £ when i lost? he said the two "fivers" he had bet were with "pals," and he lost nothing but my stake. then he told me about the little man and lanky, whom i had met with him and run against. the "long 'un," he said, was a very good "trial horse," who could keep his tongue in his head, and would "stand in" if i won anything. the little un had been on business in the north, and came round to see him (locker). it was all chance his being there, but i should see him again, farther south, where he kept a running ground. well, the day for our race came at last, and we went to kenham. i was wrapped in a blanket after we stripped, and a stout man, called woldham, who stood referee, whispered something to locker, who replied that i was fit and sure to win. they laid to against me at first, but presently i heard evens offered, and then £ to £ on me, and that was as far as locker's friends would go. we had a lot of "fiddling," as they call it, at the mark, but presently we jumped away, i with an advantage of about a yard. i had made the gap quite four yards at half the distance, and then "died away" till near the post, where, as the _chronicle_ next monday said, i "struggled manfully, and took the tape first by half a yard; time, - / sec." hadn't we a jaw as we went back! locker said i was a "wonderful clever lad," and that woldham had told him i should be "heard of again." we both laughed, and i got £ for winning. with this i bought a new rig out, and everybody at stockton that knew me said i was "ruined for life." they all wanted to know where the togs came from, however, but i kept that to myself. it was now september, and locker said, "i'll enter thee for a handicap." so he did, and shortly afterwards we went to kenham again, where, by his directions, i was beat for my heat, with yards start in . about a week later, we had a long talk, and then he said, "dost know what i've been doing, lad?" i told him i thought he meant to get me a good start and try if i could win. "thou'rt partly right," he said, "but i've been running thee yards, and letting thee lose in t' last few strides. this makes 'em think thou can't stay. i know thou'rt as good at as , so i shall train thee and run thee at sheffield this christmas. if thou can win there, we can earn £ between us, and if thou can only run into a place, we shall make £ or £ apiece; but mind, we shall let t' cat out o' t' bag: thou'll never get on a mark again after trying once." presently, merling and stemmerson advertised a £ handicap at kenham, and i entered; then came the big sheffielder of £ , and down went my name for that too. i lived very regular all this time, went to bed early, and practised the distance every day, till locker said i was a "level time" man, and if i didn't win it would be a "fluke." at last the start appeared: i got in at yards in the at newcastle, and my mark was in yards at ryde park. locker was delighted: "thou can win 'em both in a walk, lad," he said, again and again. then the betting quotations were sent up week after week, and i was at to long enough at sheffield. there wasn't much doing on the yards race, so locker said i might go there on the saturday and lose my first heat. he didn't lay out a penny any way till we went into alf wilner's, the punch bowl, on sunday night. somebody presently asked my price, and, to my surprise, up got the little pock-marked man i had met, and said he was commissioned to take to to £ , just for a "fancy" bet. a big sheffielder opened his book and said he might as well have the "fiver" as not, and there i was backed to win £ already. locker and i went away to bed about nine o'clock, and next morning in came the little 'un at six to tell us he'd ta'en five fifties more, then five forties, ten thirties, and ten twenties, and i was now in the market at to taken and offered. my heat was the sixth, and there were five starters marked. first came "old scratch" of pendleton at yards, then roundtree of huddersfield at , and myself at ; the other didn't turn up. the pistol was fired and away we went, and, as locker had started me hundreds of times, so that i could "get off the mark" well, i don't think i lost any ground. at about half way i could hear somebody on my left, but i daren't look round. afterwards i found "scratch" had tried to "cut me down," but it was all no use, and i took away the tape by two yards good. everybody cheered, for betting on the heat had been to on "scratch" and to against me. at the close of the day there were ten runners left in for the final heat, and "my price" was to , roper of staleybridge being the favourite at to against him. locker said he had laid off £ at to directly after the heat, so that our party stood to win £ exactly, of which i was to have £ if i "landed." we were together till bedtime, and slept in a double room. at seven next morning we took a stroll, and just as we got to alf's to breakfast somebody put a bit of paper into my hand and then shot away. i slipped it in my pocket, and said "nowt" till after breakfast, when i read on it, "£ for thyself before the start if thou'll run fourth." i asked locker what it meant, and he laughed, and said they wanted me to "rope." when we went out again the little fellow pulled out a roll of notes and showed 'em to me; but i meant to win if possible, so i shook my head. as the morning passed i "sort of funked" the race, but then i thought, "i were a made man if i copped." so i just said to mysel', "bill, lad, haul in the slack," and off we went to the grounds. i never felt fitter either before or since; and after roper got off badly and was beat a short foot, i was sure the final heat was my own. my second heat was an easy win, and "lord, how the sheffielders did shout" when i ran in three yards ahead without being fully extended! they laid to on me for the deciding race, which was the hardest of the lot. hooper of stanningly went from the same mark; we afterwards found out they'd played a similar game with him. they'd "pulled" him for two handicaps, and let him lose all his matches, and now he had been backed to win £ . he beat me at starting, and before we got half way they cried "hooper wins." i was a good yard behind him, but with a hard strain i got level, and we ran shoulder and shoulder till just on the tape, where i threw myself forward, with the old "chifney rush," and just won by a bare half-yard. locker fairly hugged me, and, half blind though i was with the tough race, the "tykes" shoulder-heighted and carried me off to the house. in presents, and with my share, i got £ , and thought i'd put it away in the bank. but that night we all had champagne, and i went to bed quite queer and dizzy-like. next day was the same, and on thursday we took train to manchester, where i was invited to stop a week or two. locker left me and went home, telling me to take care of myself. i wish i'd gone too, for what with meeting betting-men and playing cards and buying swell clothes, to say nothing of dresses for a fresh sweetheart, i soon got awful "fast." then we used to sit up at nights playing "seven's the main," and i wasn't lucky or summut; but, however, in six weeks i'd got through half my money. one night we started cutting through the pack, and then played "blind hookey," and next morning the little pock-pitted man came up and called me a "flat," and said i'd fair thrown my winnings into the fire. he didn't know much about what had gone on, and when i told him "i knocked down close on £ ," he said he daren't send me back to stockton. well, i stopped at manchester altogether; and during the next two or three years i won heaps of races, learned the "rope trick," and found out whose "stable" every lad trained from. i won hundreds of pounds, which, having all come over the "devil's back," went the same way. i'm twenty-three now, but i can't do "level time" any longer without six weeks' training, although even yet, at yards, very few lads can "pull off their shirt" every day in the week and lick me. i like the life very well--it's free and easy; but i wish locker had ta'en me back and made my matches. he's clever, he is, and knows when to "let a fellow's head loose" without halloaing. the first day of the season, and its results "when at the close of the departing year is heard that joyful sound, the huntsman's cheer, and wily reynard with the morning air scents from afar the foe, and leaves his lair." i quite agree with the distinguished foreign nobleman who declared that "nothing was too good to go foxing in;" and with the immortal jorrocks of handley cross fame, i exclaim, "'unting, my beloved readers, is the image of war with only ten per cent. of its dangers." ever since i was an unbreeched urchin, and my only steed a rough shetland pony, across whose bare back my infantine legs could scarcely stride, i have looked forward to a day's hunting with the keenest relish. the preliminary sport of cub-hunting--with its early-dawn meets: bad scent, consequent upon fallen leaves and decayed vegetable matter; riotous young hounds, which can scarcely be brought to hunt upon any terms; timid, nervous young foxes, who hardly dare poke their sharp noses out of covert--only serves to give a greater zest as it were to the opening day. one or two woodland runs, just sufficient to breathe the well-trained hunter or take the exuberant spirits (the accompaniments of high feeding and no work) from the young one, after a stripling reynard, who as yet has no line of country of his own, and hardly dares to venture far from the place of his birth, ending with a kill just to blood the young hounds, only makes the longing for the first day of the season more intense. not one of her majesty's subjects throughout her vast dominions--so vast indeed are they that, as the song tells us, "the sun never sets on them"--not one, i say, of her majesty's lieges looked forward more anxiously than i did to the first day of the hunting season of --, for why should i be too explicit about dates, or let all the world know that i am so ancient as to remember anything so long buried in the past? i had just returned to old england with a year's leave from my regiment, then in india. i was possessed of capital health and spirits, was only just six-and-twenty years of age, had five hundred pounds at my bankers, and two as good nags in my stable as ever a man laid his leg across. "hunting for ever!" i cried, as i strolled into seamemup and bastemwell's, the unrivalled breechesmakers' establishment in the strand, to order a few pair of those most necessary adjuncts to the sporting man's wardrobe previous to leaving town. "hunting for ever!" and of all the packs in england, commend me to my old acquaintance, those friends of my boyhood, the easyallshire muggers. i am not sure but that, strictly speaking, the term "mugger" ought only be applied to those packs of hounds which are used for that peculiar pastime which, to again quote the immortal jorrocks, "is only fit for cripples, and them as keeps donkeys," viz., harriers. be that as it may, the pack i now speak of were, though called muggers, _bonâ fide_ foxhounds, and as such, only used in the "doing to death" of that wily animal. the country which had as it were given birth to this distinguished pack presented to the hunting man very much the same features as do most parts of england. there were the same number of ditches and dingles to be got over somehow, the same gates which would and would not be opened, the same fences, stiles, and heavers to be cleared, the same woodland parts to be hunted, from which it was next to impossible to get a fox away, and to which every one said he would never come again; but for all that no one ever kept his word, for there were just the very same number of sportsmen to be seen at the very next meet held in the district; thus proving that foxhunting, even under difficulties, is still a most fascinating diversion; and there were the same snug-lying gorse coverts, from which a run was sure to be obtained over a flat well-enclosed country, which gave both man and horse as much as ever their united efforts could accomplish, to be there or thereabouts at the finish. nor were the meets of the easyallshire muggers, advertised in _the field_, dissimilar in any respect to those of other packs of hounds, for there were an equal number of cross roads, turnpike gates, public houses, gibbets, woods, sign-posts, and milestones, as elsewhere. well, to enjoy a season's sport with this so distinguished hunt was my intention; and no sooner had i completed the requisite arrangements with regard to my hunting toggery, which a residence of some half dozen years in india had rendered necessary, than i took up my abode in the little town of surlyford, at the comfortable hotel rejoicing in the mythological sign of the silent woman, a fabulous personage surely, to be classed with swans with two necks, green men, and other creatures who never had any existence. the first meet of the easyallshire muggers was settled, so said the county paper, to take place at the fourth milestone on the surlyford road. thither i repaired, fully equipped in all the splendour of a new pink, immaculate cords, brown-tinted tops, my blue birds'-eye scarf, neatly folded and fastened with a pin bearing a most appropriate device, viz., a real fox's tooth. in my impatience to be up and doing on this our opening day, i arrived at the trysting-place, from whence i was to woo my favourite pastime, some half hour or more before the master and his pack were due. i had, therefore, ample leisure to receive the greetings of my numerous old friends and acquaintances, as they came up from all parts, and in all directions, on all sorts and all sizes of nags, and at all kinds of paces, to the place of meeting. first to arrive on that useful steed yclept "shanks's pony," slouching along, clad in rusty velveteen, baggy brown cord breeches and gaiters, billycock, as he termed his wideawake hat, on head, a stout ashen stick, cut from a neighbouring coppice, in hand, and ten to one a quantity of wires in his pockets, was handsome, dark-eyed, good-for-nothing, scampish, dishonest gipsy jim--the sometime gamekeeper, when he could get any to employ him, but oftener the poaching, drinking, thieving vagabond of the neighbourhood. a broad grin of recognition, and a touch of the hat on the part of the gipsy one, and an exclamation on mine of "bless me, jim! not hanged yet?" placed us once again on the old familiar footing of "i will tell you all i know about foxes" (and who could afford better information than one whose habits and disposition partook more of the vermin than the man?), "providing you give me a shilling to drink your health." gipsy jim and i had hardly interchanged these civilities, when, trotting along on a stout, handsome, six-year-old, in capital condition, though, if anything, a little too fat (not a bad fault, however, at the beginning of the season), came farmer thresher, of beanstead, a florid, yellow-haired, red-whiskered, jovial, hard-riding, independent agriculturist, who, on the strength of having been at school in years gone by with some of the neighbouring squires, myself amongst the number, called us all freely by our surnames, forgetting to prefix the accustomed mister, and thus giving great umbrage to some and causing them always to pointedly address him as "mr thresher." our mutual salutations had hardly come to an end when we were joined by half a dozen more sturdy yeomen, able and willing to go, let the pace be ever so severe, and all of them contributing their five pounds yearly to the support of the easyallshire muggers, "spite of wheat, sir, at fourteen shillings a bag." young boaster next turns up, a swaggering blade from a neighbouring hunt, who is always abusing the easyallshire hounds, and bragging of his own prowess, which consists of riding extraordinary distances to far-off meets, and doing nothing when he gets there, save telling wonderful and fabulous stories of what he had done last time he was out, and what he intended to do then. he is succeeded by dr bolus, "the sporting doctor," as he is called, who must be making a very handsome fortune in his profession, if his knowledge of medicine is anything like his judgment in horseflesh, his skill in the pigskin, or his acquaintance with the line of a fox. after bolus, on a three-legged screw, a wonder to every one how it is kept at all on its understandings, comes aloes, the veterinary surgeon, a pleasant-spoken, florid, little old man, skilful in his business, ever agreeing, with his "that i would, sir," and one whom i would much prefer to attend me when sick than many a professor of the healing art among men. the majesty of the law is upheld next by mr sheepskin, the attorney, a gentlemanly man, a lightweight, and one who rides, when need be, as hard as if not harder than any one. nor is the church absent (for we have not a few clerical subscribers to the easyallshire muggers), but is well represented in the person of the rev. mr flatman, a good-looking, well-built, foxy-whiskered divine, whose handling of the ribbons on the coach-box, and seat on horseback, would entitle him to a deanery at the very least, could the broad-church party but come into power. his small country parish, however, does not suffer by the fondness of its rector for the sports of the field; having a hard-working and most exemplary curate, he is still a painstaking and estimable parish priest, and much preferred, i doubt not, by all his parishioners to any more busy and interfering divine of either of the other two schools of divinity. i myself am by no means the sole member of the military profession present, for we are here of all ranks, from the just-joined subaltern to the gallant colonel of the county militia, a stout fine-looking veteran, none of your feather-bed soldiers, and one who, spite of his weight, is an exceedingly difficult man to beat across country. "mammon," as it is the fashion nowadays to call that useful article, money, is seen approaching in the person of the surlyford banker, who, wisely flinging business to the winds at least twice in the week, gets astride a good-looking, nearly thoroughbred nag, and finds accepting bullfinches, negotiating ditches, and discounting gates, stiles, &c., a much more healthy and more pleasant, if not more profitable, occupation than everlastingly grubbing after filthy lucre. the master now makes his appearance, tall and upright, knowing thoroughly the duties of his office, and if not quite so bold and determined a rider as in years gone by, still making up for want of nerve in knowledge of the country, and for lack of dash in careful riding and judicious nicking-in. suffice it to say, that at the finish, his absence is never observed, though how he came to be there is better known to the second-rank horsemen than to the flyers. the huntsman and whip are much the same as those worthies are everywhere; but the hounds, how to describe them i know not. the easyallshire muggers set all rules regarding the make, size, and symmetry of foxhounds at defiance. they show almost better sport, and kill more foxes, than any pack in the kingdom; and yet they are as uneven as a ploughed field, and as many shapes and sizes as a charity school. i can only say, "handsome is as handsome does;" and if my canine friends are not pleasant to the eye of the connoisseur--if they come not up to the standard of beckford somerville, and other writers who have described a perfect foxhound, still they work beautifully--which to my mind is far preferable to looking beautiful--and will run and kill foxes with any hounds in england. the huntsman and whip, though not so well mounted (economy is the order of the day with the easyallshire muggers) as we would wish to see them, yet manage somehow to get across the country, and to be with their hounds; though for the matter of that, such is the sagacity of the easyallshire pack, they can very frequently do quite as well without the assistance of their ruler and guide as with it. the easyallshire hunt, as the name implies, is an easy-going sort of concern, in which every man, gentle and simple, has a finger in the pie; every subscriber imagining that he has a perfect right, on the strength of his subscription, to hunt, whip-in, or otherwise direct the movements of the hounds whenever opportunity occurs. but for-rard! for-rard on! or i shall be at the fourth milestone on the surlyford road all day, instead of drawing that inviting piece of gorse covert which lies so pleasant and warm, with its southern aspect on yonder bank. a guinea to a gooseberry, a fox lies there! joe, the huntsman, now trots along through the somewhat bare and brown pasture fields towards the covert; the pack, eager and keen for the fray, clustering round the heels of his horse. a few moments only elapse, and the sea of gorse is alive with hounds poking here, there, and everywhere, seeking the lair of sly reynard. old experience having taught me that gipsy jim's knowledge of the fox and his habits (for being half-brother to the varmint in his nature, how can it fail to be otherwise?) would serve me in good stead, i station myself near to him in order to have a good view of "mr reynolds," as jim calls the cunning animal, when he breaks covert. nor am i wrong in my conjecture; for after a few pleasant notes from old bellman, who hits upon the place where master fox crossed a ride early this morning, and a "hark to bellman" from joe the huntsman, out jumps, almost into jim's arms, as fine a fox as ever wore a brush. master reynard looks somewhat astonished at being brought so suddenly face to face with a two-legged monster, and seems half inclined to turn back again to his hiding-place; but, perhaps judging from jim's varmint look that no danger might be apprehended from that quarter, and being warned by the deep notes of old bellman that his late quarters were untenable, he throws back his head as if to sniff the pleasant morning breeze, and giving his brush a gentle wave of defiance, boldly takes to the open, and starts across the field which surrounds the covert at a good rattling pace. gipsy jim grins from ear to ear with delight, showing his white regular teeth, at the same time holding up his hand as a warning to me to keep silence for a few seconds, so as not to spoil sport by getting the fox headed back. the moment, however, master reynard is safely through the neighbouring hedge, jim's tremendous view-halloa makes the whole country ring again. this is the signal for every bumpkin and footman to shout and halloa with might and main, thus making the necessary confusion of the find worse confounded still. "hold your noisy tongues," shout the master, huntsman, whip, and all the horsemen; but "hold your noisy tongues" they cry in vain. "tallyho! tallyho! tallyho!" yell the footmen, totally regardless of all expostulation. but crafty jim, knowing the idiosyncrasy of the yokels, has made all safe by his silence, until the red-coated rascal is well away. "hark! halloa!" "hark! halloa!" roar the field. "tootle, tootle!" goes joe's horn, reëchoed by an asthmatical effort in the same direction, on the part of the worthy master, who blows as if his horn was full of dirt. the hounds, however, are accustomed to the sound, feeble as it is, and all rush to the spot where master, huntsman, and gipsy jim are all cheering them exactly at the place where foxy broke away. what a burst of music now strikes upon the ear, far superior to the delights of any concert it has ever been my lot to be present at, as the hounds acknowledge with joy the rapture they feel at the strong scent left behind by him they had so unceremoniously disturbed from his comfortable lodgings! but the scent is too good for us to dwell here for description, and away they go at a killing pace, which, if it lasts long enough, will get to the bottom of many a gallant steed there present. and now comes the rush of horsemen amidst the cries of "hold hard! don't spoil your sport!" of the master, and the "'old 'ard!" of the huntsman, who has an eye to tips, and therefore restrains his wrath in some measure. but the easyallshireans are not to be kept back by any such remonstrances and expostulations as these, and those who mean to be with the hounds throughout the run, hustle along to get a forward place; whilst the knowing and cunning ones, with the master at their head, turn short round, and make for a line of gates which lie invitingly open, right in the direction which the fox has taken. i get a good start, and being well mounted, sail away, and am soon alongside of joe the huntsman, whose horse, though a screw, and not very high in condition, is obliged to go, being compelled thereto by its rider. a stiff-looking fence, which i charge at the same moment as joe, who takes away at least a perch of fencing, and thus lets many a muff through, lands us into the next field, and affords a fair view of the hounds streaming away a little distance before us. but why should i describe the run? the _field_, weekly, gives much more graphic descriptions of such things than i am able to write; let me, therefore, confine my narrative to what befell my individual self. a rattling burst of twenty minutes rendered the field, as may be well imagined, very select, and it would in all probability have become still more so, had not a fortunate check given horses and men a few moments' breathing time, thus enabling the cunning riders to get up to the hounds. "away we go again, and i will be there at the finish," i exclaimed, as pressing my cap firmly on my head, and shutting my eyes, i ride at a tremendous bullfinch, the thick boughs and sharp thorns of which scratch my face all over and nearly decapitate me as i burst through it. but, as in the case of the renowned john gilpin, it is-- "ah, luckless speech and bootless boast, for which i paid full dear." another ten minutes' best pace and the fox is evidently sinking before us; but, alas! it was not to be my lot to see the gallant animal run into and pulled down in the open, after as fine a run as was ever seen. trim-kept hedges, well-hung, stout, and newly-painted white gates, had shown me that for the last few moments, he had entered the domain of some proprietor, whose estate certainly presented the very pink of neatness. little indeed did i dream that there would exist in the very heart of easyallshire one so benighted as to object to the inroads made upon him by that renowned pack, the muggers. but i reckoned without my host, or rather, as the sequel will show, with my host; for as, in my endeavours to save my now somewhat exhausted horse, i rode at what appeared an easy place in a very high fence, bounded on the off-side with a stiff post and rail, an irate elderly gentleman, gesticulating, shouting, and waving an umbrella in his hand, suddenly rose up as it were from the very bowels of the earth, just as my steed was preparing to make his spring, thus causing the spirited animal to rear up, and, overbalancing himself, to fall heavily to the ground with me under him. when i next recovered consciousness and opened my eyes, i was being borne along on a hurdle, by the author of my misfortunes--a gray-haired, piebald-whiskered, stout, little, red-faced old gentleman--and two of his satellites, whom i rightly conjectured to be the coachman and gardener; but the pain of my broken leg made me relapse into unconsciousness, nor did the few wits i by nature possess return to me again until i was laid on a bed, and a medical practitioner of the neighbourhood was busy at work setting my fractured limb. to make a long story short, i remained under the roof of major pipeclay--for that was the name of the irascible little gentleman whose hatred of hunting, hounds, and horses had caused my suffering--until my wounded limb was well again, the worthy old major doing all in his power to make amends for the catastrophe his absurd violence had brought about. at the expiration of six weeks i was able to move about on crutches; at the termination of twice that period, i was well again, and had, moreover, fallen irretrievably in love with the bright eyes and pretty face of belinda pipeclay, one of the major's handsome daughters. thinking, in my ignorance of the fair sex, that the child of so irascible a papa--having been in her juvenile days well tutored under the solomonian code of "sparing the rod, and spoiling the child"--must therefore, of necessity, make a submissive and obedient wife, i proposed, was accepted, obtained the major's consent, and became a benedict. dear reader, i am really ashamed to confess the truth: i have been severely henpecked ever since. whether belinda possesses the same antipathy to hounds, horses, and hunting men as her progenitor, i cannot possibly tell; for returning to india soon after my marriage, i had no opportunity of there testing her feelings in that respect. now the increasing number of mouths in our nursery compels a decreasing ratio of animals in my stable, and i am reduced to one old broken-winded cripple, which i call "the machiner." he takes mrs sabretache and myself to the market town on a saturday, and mamma, papa, and the little sabretaches to church on the following day. a day with the drag by the editor to my mind there are few more pleasant ways of spending an afternoon, than in having a good rousing gallop with the drag. of course there be drag-hunts and drag-hunts, and unless the sport is conducted smartly and well, 'twere better far that it should not be done at all. the hounds need not be bred from the beaufort justice, but on the other hand, they need not be a set of skulking, skirting brutes, that one "wouldn't be seen dead with." of course the members of such hunts ride in mufti--more familiarly called, in these degenerate days, "ratcatcher"--but i always think that huntsman and whips should be excepted from this rule, and anyone who is privileged to share the fun of the royal artillery draghounds will find that the high officials of the hunt are arrayed, not _certes_, as was solomon in all his glory, but in the very neatest and smartest of "livery," and nothing could look more sportsmanlike than the dark-blue coat, red collar and cuffs, surmounted by the orthodox black velvet hunting-cap, which are _de rigeur_ at woolwich now. when i first joined in their cheery gallops, there was no hunt uniform, and the appearance of the "turn out" suffered accordingly. now, nothing is left to be desired in this direction. good fellowship in the field we have always had, and does not this go far indeed to make up the sum of one's enjoyment? when every man out, almost without exception, knows the rest of the field personally; when a kindly hand is always ready to be stretched forth to aid a brother in distress--when you know every man well enough to say "mind you don't jump on me, old chap, if this 'hairy' comes base over apex at the next fence!" or, "let me have that place first; i can't hold this beggar!" things all seem so much pleasanter than they are in a country where you know few people, and don't know them very well: yes, sociability, depend upon it, goes very far indeed to make up the charm of any sport, and in none more so than in that of crossing a country. let us imagine ourselves arrived at woolwich and "done well" at luncheon in the r.a. mess. and here i would observe, _par parenthese_, that it would require a big effort of imagination to picture to yourself any occasion upon which you were _not_ "done well" within those hospitable portals. about . when we are half way through that cigar in the ante-room, which alone "saves one's life" after such a luncheon, a crack of the whip, and a "gently there, waterloo!" brings us quickly to the window overlooking the parade ground, where hounds have just arrived in charge of the master and two whips. we hurry out, after a farewell to such of our kindly hosts as are not intending to accompany us, and find that that big-boned black horse with a hog mane, is intended to carry "cæsar and his fortunes" this afternoon. a right good one he is, too, with a perfect snaffle mouth. he is "not so young as he was," but "sweet are the uses of adversity," and this fact has its advantages, as he will not fret and worry, and pull one's arms off before starting: he has "joined the band," which is also an excellent thing in its way, because the man just ahead of you can hear him coming, and will, you hope, get out of the way at the next fence! after a short period of moving up and down the parade ground, and exchanging greetings with a few whom you have not had a chance of speaking to before, the word is given, and at that indescribable and, to me, most direful pace, a "hound's jog," off we go along the road over the common. how the bricks and mortar fiend has been working his wicked will with the place since last we saw it! the trots out to the several meets get longer and longer as season after season rolls by. what was once almost our best line, and where for two or three years the annual point-to-point race was held, is now an unwieldy mass of buildings, prominent amongst which stands that gigantic fraud on the long-suffering ratepayers, the fever hospital, with its staff of to wait on a maximum of patients! at last we emerge from the region of building and railway "enterprise" (save the mark!) and see glimpses of the country ahead of us. a winding lane traversed, and we find a gate propped open on our left: here a halt is called. the master rides into the field, whilst the whips remain where they are in charge of the pack. two minutes later our worthy chief returns and addresses the assembled company, not in the studied beauty of language employed by cicero, nor in the perfervid oratory of demosthenes, but in a manner very much more to the point than most of the harangues of those somewhat long-winded classics. "let 'em get over the first fence: then you can ride like blazes!" he says. the whips move forward gently: hounds are all bristling with excitement, for they seem to know as well as we that the moment for action has arrived. "gently there, safety! have a care, then!" yow, yow, yow! from the hounds. toot, toot, from the master's horn, and away they go. "do wait, you dev---- fellows! you'll be bang into the middle of 'em! there, now, you can go and be blessed to you!" amid a confused rush of horses, clatter of hoofs, and babel of tongues, we are away, and thundering down to the first fence, a big quickset. with a crash the first whip is over or through; it doesn't matter which so long as he finds himself "all standing" on the right side. half-a-dozen men make for the same place and great is the thrusting thereunto. the first and second get over: the third man falls: the next alights almost on top of him: now comes a gallant "just joined" one, who does not jump when his horse does, and then that first fence becomes of no further interest to us, for are we not over it, and speeding along at our best sprinting pace towards a line of post and rails, where, the powers be praised! there is plenty of room for the whole field to have it abreast, if they wished. two refuse at this: it is a pretty big one, and worse still the timber is new: but the next comer smashes the top rail and lets everyone through: then for three or four fields all is plain sailing--brush fences that our steeds almost gallop through, form the only obstacles. we jump into a park, and "ware hole!" is the cry: we pull off to the right of where hounds are running in order to avoid the home of the ubiquitous bunny, but not soon enough, unluckily, to save one youngster from a tumble: the horse puts his foot in a rabbit hole and rolls over as if he is shot. "not hurt a bit! go on," calls out the rider, pluckily. yes, no doubt about it, this is the game for the making of young soldiers. on we go, now descending a gentle slope to where an ominous little crowd of yokels and loafers are lining a narrow strip of green on each side: a second glance, as we rise in our stirrups for inspection purposes, shows us that this is evidently looked upon as the sensation "lep" of the run: a good sized brook, in front of which have been placed some stout, well furze-bushed hurdles. the scent has been thoughtfully laid a little on one side of this, so there is no fear of stray hounds getting in one's way. one look shows us that it will take a bit of doing, and hats are crammed on, and horses "taken by the head" in earnest, as the three leading men come along at it. a quick glance round and a lightning calculation as to where you'll go to, should your neighbour whip round or fall just in front of you, and then a vigorous hoist over the hurdles carries you just clear--and no more than just clear--of the frowning and muddy stream just beyond. the man on your left gets over also, but with one hind leg dropped in: three come slashing over, all right: then little miffkins, in an agony of incertitude, takes a pull at his horse when within three lengths of where he should take off. fatal mistake! for he merely succeeds in putting the break on: the horse jumps short, and just clearing the hurdles drops helplessly into the turbid stream amid the ribald jeers and laughter of the crowd assembled. baulked by this _contretemps_ the next horse refuses, and though ridden at the obstacle again and again, resolutely persists in remaining on the wrong side of the water. but "forrard on, forrard on!" miffkins will get dry again--he is not hurt, in the least--and his horse will be taught an invaluable lesson in swimming. the pack is still racing away half a field ahead, but they are beginning to "string" a good deal now, from the severity of the pace. and by the same token, most of our good nags are obviously feeling that this sort of fun can't go on for ever. my own musical steed is, in especial, making the most appalling observations on the subject as we breast the next sharp slope. i feel, somehow, that he is using the equinese for "hang it all, you know, i'm not a steam roundabout, my dear chap!" and my heart smites me. before, however, i can make up my wavering mind as to whether conscience imperatively demands of me "a pull," or not, to my great joy, hounds suddenly throw up their heads where the drag has evidently been lifted, and we find ourselves at the ever welcome check. most of us slip off our smoking steeds, whose shaking tails and sweat-lathered coats attest the rate at which these three miles have been covered. by twos and threes, the stragglers, and those whose luck is "out," arrive. one man has broken the cantle of his saddle, another has managed to pull his horse's bridle off in the floundering of a fall: here is a rider whose spur has been dragged off his boot: there one who has broken his girths: two men are hatless and another has lost his cigarette case, presumably whilst standing on his head after trying unsuccessfully to negotiate a stile without jumping it. however, these are but common incidents of the chase, and "all in the day's work." the troubles are taken good humouredly, and in the true spirit of philosophy. the men who have second horses out, have now mounted them, whilst the rest of us who intend riding the concluding half of the line, resume acquaintance with our splashed saddles and mud-stained steeds. trotting off across a road, we again lay on, and have a gallop of quite five hundred yards before coming to anything in the way of an obstacle. over a piece of timber, to the tune of a most unholy cracking of top rails, we go, and soon find ourselves approaching the far boundary which offers us the choice of a blind, hairy place, with a big ditch on the far side, a gate securely nailed up, and a greasy-looking foot-bridge adorned with several dangerous-looking holes. this last we all--as i think, wisely--eschew. some make for the gate: the rest of us try the first-named place. one of the whips goes at it "hell for leather," and gets over. i, following him, i blush to say, rather--just a very little--too closely, utter a silent prayer that my leader may not fall, and somewhat to my astonishment feel "the musician" apparently disappearing into the bowels of the earth beneath me whilst i shoot over his head and sprawl, spread-eagled, on my hands and face into the ploughed field beyond. he has jumped short and paid the penalty by dropping into the ditch. i shout back "no" to a kindly enquiry as to whether i am hurt, and the questioner gallops on, leaving me to wrestle with the problem of how i am to extract the hog-maned one from his present retreat. as i take him by the rein and wonder how deeply his hind legs are imbedded in the sticky clay, he makes a wild flounder, plunges up the bank, rams his big, bony head into my chest and causes me to take up a most undignified position, for nothing can look much more aimless than to see the ardent sportsman attired in boots and breeches, seated involuntarily in the wet furrow of a ploughed field, his horse standing over him in an apparently menacing attitude. however, although i felt damped--and was--the animal was out of what might have been "a tight place," and i climbed into the saddle again with muddy breeches, but a cheerful heart. to catch hounds after this was, of course, out of the question, but i jogged slowly across the field i was in, and felt, i humbly confess, a thrill of unholy joy, as from the farther side of the thick hedge there, i heard a plaintive voice saying: "come through the gap and give us a hand, old fellow; i've come down, busted both girths and a stirrup leather, lost my curb chain and split my br--waistcoat!" i was happy again. i had a companion in misfortune, and, better still, one in sorrier plight than my own. by the time we had (as far as a piece of string, two torn handkerchiefs and a necktie, the thongs of both hunting crops, and a pair of braces would allow) repaired damages, lighted and smoked a couple of cigars, and talked the day's doings over as we rode back to the cheery lights shining from the barrack windows, i for one felt just as happy as if i had managed to live through the whole, instead of only part, of that invigorating gallop with the woolwich drag. stag-hunting on exmoor we sons of devon are, i doubt not, too prone to dwell and enlarge upon the fact that we are not quite as other men, that when all things were made none was made better than this, our land of sunny skies and mystic moors, of lane and hedgerow, of sea and river, where the balmy fragrance of torbay invites the winter, and the chill grandeur of exmoor repels the summer's heat; with goodness overflowing from porlock to penzance; the home of traditions and folkspeech that mark us out a people meet to enjoy the wholesomest clime under the canopy of heaven. i say we are too apt to allow these matters to weigh with us, and breed a smiling contentment and ease of living perhaps not good for those who shall come after us--for those who may be forced to quit their native soil and sojourn among aliens of sharper wits and noisier mode of life. soft as a dartmoor bog the south devon man has been found by those of northern blood, who in mean ways despoil him. yet if history doth not lie, there have been sundry occasions when, for stoutness of heart and a kind of obstinacy of courage, the men of the west of england had no need to suffer by comparison with any. to many of us now, alas, the home of our fathers, the haunts of our boyhood, are no longer daily present; but the exile's memory is strong and vivid, and, aided as is natural by not infrequent visits to them, yields abundant pleasure in the contemplation of spots hallowed to us by fond associations, the tombs of our sires, the scenes of early passion, and perhaps above all, to him of man's estate, the otter bank and exmoor. stronger than death, more lasting than love of woman, is the passion for the chase, and of all those who ride to hounds, the hunter of the wild deer of devon must surely bear the palm for all the qualities that go to make up the sportsman; and as i have been challenged to show that this at least is no empty boast, nor figment of the brain, i proceed to tell, for all but those who know it better than i, how the men of devon hunt the wild red deer. it was ordained that i should be the first of my race born out of devon, and there was perhaps allotted to me lacking that birthright a keener relish for all that devon yields, so that a certain home-sickness will often befall me, which that sweet air and homely speech and hospitable fare only may cure. it is then i go west, go where merrie england is merrie england still, remote from stir and traffic of modern life, forgotten of civilization and the so-called march of mind. cathay within three hundred miles of paddington station! not many years ago there came over me the old longing. as summer merged into autumn it got into my blood and there being no help for it, ere september waned i packed my bag and set out for exmoor. there, descendants of the tall deer whom the conqueror "loved as if he were their father," were to be found in plenty, hunted with horn and hound, captured and slain. as much in the spirit of the pilgrim as of the sportsman, i made my way to where the river exe and its big brother barle have union. to dulverton i fared, even as john ridd had fared two hundred years before, and as i crossed the threshold of the red lion, recalled john fry's striding into the hostel, "with the air and grace of a short-legged man, and shouting as loud as if he were calling sheep upon exmoor." "hot mootton pasty for twoo trarv'lers, at number vaive, in vaive minnits! dish un up in the tin with the grahvy, zame as i hardered last tuesday." in these days dulverton may be said to exist for one purpose only, that of hunting the stag--with perhaps a little fishing thrown in. the oldest inhabitant will meet you upon the bridge, and with true devonshire garrulity discourse of stag. sauntering alongside you the length of its single street, he will point out the abode of the tailor (who makes hunting garments), of the cobbler (who makes riding boots). a saddler's shop is almost an appanage of the inn under whose portico, on the day of my arrival, a fuming sportsman and a well "done" horse were eloquent of stag. in the town there was suppressed excitement, and what passes in those parts for bustle and stir. the traffic had a way of suddenly disappearing down an alley which led to the banks of the barle, and so to exford. needless to say, the attraction at exford was mr bisset's kennels, nor would any peace or comfort reign in dulverton until such time as news should arrive of the find and the kill. that evening we sat in the stone-floored parlour of the inn and drank cider out of blue pint mugs--no true son of devon drinks from a tumbler--and by my side was the warped old man who had weathered eighty exmoor winters, and who told of the season of bitter frost when the red deer would come by the score of a morning to the farmers' ricks of corn and hay and clover, and some of them so tame that they would present themselves at the back door for a drink of water. on the following day, things had quieted down. the staghounds were in kennel; and although the exmoor foxhounds met in the neighbourhood for cub-hunting, heedless people went their way and took no notice of a pursuit only distantly connected with stag. at last the eventful or stag-hunting day is ushered in, and as usual one's preparations are discovered at the last moment to be incomplete. a refractory boot causes delay and consequent anguish to a small party who have to travel with me on wheels from dulverton to the meet at venniford cross; for eighteen devonshire miles are before us, and it is conceivable that the day would have ended before our journey, had our coachman been other than a native jehu. a man must live in the west of england to get used to driving horses at a hand-gallop up and down hills of which the gradient is sometimes less than in and sometimes more. and so we go on, our driver singing-- "when the wind whistles cold on the moors of a night, all along, down along, out along lee, tom pearce's ould mare doth appear gashly white, wi' bill brewer, jan slewer, peter gurney, peter davy, dan'l whiddon, harry hawke; old uncle tom cobleigh and all, old uncle tom cobleigh and a--a--ll." at noon we reach venniford cross and find our horses who were sent on yesterday, little short-legged animals with perfect shoulders and forelegs of iron; as well they may have, to climb almost perpendicular hills and gallop over the rugged devonian slate country, which attains its greatest elevation on exmoor. the stream of traffic was enormous, or so it seemed in those unfrequented parts. the countryside was agog, and for twenty miles round few devonians able to sit a horse can have been absent from the meet. here leaked out a change of venue: it had been determined to draw the gorse and the combes which seam the side of dunkery, and so for some miles we jogged on by road, sometimes at a walk, often at a fast trot, but always ascending higher and higher. we seemed to be climbing heights of stupendous proportions. cloutsham is at length reached, and on the plateau assembled the sort of "field" that devon and somerset turn out when the staghounds are afoot. there are the sporting farmer, a doctor or two, boys on ponies, parsons on cobs, strangers from london, neighbours from south devon, the master of pixton and other "county" people, and of course every hunting lady of the district, not all of whom use the side saddle! among this goodly company hardly one is there whose thoughts and anxieties are not centred on the chase--the chase stripped of polish and luxury, the chase divorced from good cheer and even from opportunities for vain display. the instinct and passion of the hunter possesses them all. we have all come long journeys and have perhaps many hours to remain in the saddle; and now is the time to ease our horses. the field dismounts, and booted ladies are seen seated by the roadside, or seeking refreshment of milk and bread and clotted cream at an adjacent farmhouse. while the "tufters" are drawing, we look round again and inly rejoice that exmoor is still a vast wild tract hardly civilised. around it brendon common lies unenclosed, and the miles from alderman's barrow to the east of dunkery are unbroken by a fence. we are told of rare birds and beasts to be seen there along with the red deer which have had a home in exmoor from time immemorial; polecats are found, though now somewhat rarely; the montagu's harrier is occasionally seen; a snowy owl was shot some few years back, and only two years ago a pelican was found walking about on the north forest if the story of a somersetshire farmer may be believed. the stag-hunting country is a matter of six and thirty miles, which often the tireless hounds will cross from end to end after their quarry. surely the most important, interesting, and difficult part of the chase of the wild deer is the "harbouring," as it is called. how fine an exercise of woodcraft! the harbourer's best guide is the slot, or footprint of the deer, which, to the experienced eye, tells whether the deer afoot be stag or hind, and whether of proper age to hunt and kill. four or five hours are often spent by the most skilful harbourer in tracking a warrantable stag to his lair. the deer duly harboured, the next thing is to rouse him, and force him to break cover and run for dear life. selected hounds called "tufters" are laid on the drag, and master, huntsman, whip and harbourer, post themselves where they will be able to stop the hounds after this purpose is served. looking across the declivity in front of us, we see the wooded slopes where a stag has been harboured. the scarlet jackets of huntsman and whips move about in the distance, directing the tufters by horn and voice. "there he goes, sir," at length cries a schoolboy on his pony, whose sharp eyes have detected the graceful bound of a deer; but it is a hind, and the schoolboy is told that, although hinds are hunted later on, the present is a close time for them, and that our jolly company of sportsmen and ladies will not ride to hounds this day unless a warrantable stag be found. our "harboured" stag had evidently wandered on. let us leave the field to indulge in that gossip for which devonians are famous, and follow at a respectful distance the tufters now moving across cloutsham ball to ten acre cleeve. we of course find it necessary almost immediately to negotiate a combe, that is, to descend the sides of one of those deep ravines with which exmoor abounds. we yield the reins and see our horse's head disappear between our knees, his croup rises to our neck, and so we slip, shuffle, and slide down the precipitous pathway. in the bottom of the combe, we meet the tufters returning; they have roused their stag, and now rejoin the pack. jogging forward, we see a noble beast of chase, large as an eastern donkey, the antlered monarch of exmoor, trotting in a leisurely way, and evidently making for holm wood. jumping the fence into the fields by bucket hole, our stag has met a woman and two children, who flourished a pink apron at him, so he has turned back, showing how easily sometimes a stag may be headed if he has formed no definite plan as to where he will go; within five minutes we were to see how hopeless a task it is to head a stag when he is determined to make his point. crossing the combe towards us, the stag came up to the edge of the bushes and coasted along the side, while we rode along the heather on the ridge, in the vain hope that we could keep him out of the porlock coverts. just by whitestones he turned up, and, undismayed by the shouting and smacking of whips, trotted up to our horses. riding at him was no good; a sudden stop with lowered antlers--all his rights and three on top both sides--a bound to one side or another, and he is behind you, and perfectly ready to encounter the next one; horses, too, will not go near a stag if they can help it. although we did all we knew to turn him, i do not think we forced him fifty yards from the course he would have taken had he been left to himself. andrew miles always declared that there was only one way to turn a stag, and it would have required an exceedingly well-drilled field, proof against the temptation to look at the stag, to carry out his plan. "get right in front of the stag," miles would say, "and ride as hard as you can go for the point to which he is making; he will dodge round you if you ride at him, but he will not deliberately follow you." but now our stag, with an air of insulted majesty, turns his back upon us and sets out for his long last journey. he must rouse himself, for the soul-stirring notes of the hounds float towards us. the pack is at length laid on, the sweet scent fills the big hounds with delirious joy, and in long drawn file they race forward, and the chase begins. we had a nice gallop over skilgate common and down a steep, root-grown slope, through the bittscombe plantations. the stag turned down the valley to raddington. despite the blazing sun and intense heat, hounds ran fast, but devonia's wilds are not everywhere to be invaded, and here the sobbing horses must pound along the road, while the hounds turn up over a grass field as steep as the side of a house; some riders indeed climbed up, some cast forward, others like myself cast back towards skilgate, on the chance of the stag swinging round towards haddon again; but we were wrong, as he went straight over the top, past hove and quarterly, into the exe valley by morebath, running through several little coverts. from this point i was beaten out of my country and hardly know how to tell of our wanderings. the stag worked the line of a brook past shillingford as far as hockley bridge where he soiled, but the eager hounds gave little respite, and our new-found stag went away up a little valley to the left. hounds ran on fast, keeping about a hundred yards from the lane, which helped us to get along, for devonshire banks with the leaves on cannot be ridden over in september. the heat and dust were something to be remembered, but hounds pushed on, hovering a minute where bullocks had been over the line, and again where a mare and foal charged them in a most determined manner doing, luckily, no harm. huntsham seemed to be the point, a good old-fashioned line often travelled by deer fifty years ago, but most unusual now. leaving huntsham on the right, we went on by cudmore to hole lake, hounds running on grass, horses again pounding along the road. now we turn into the fields and gallop alongside the pack, which kept on in most determined manner, and with more music than is usually given on so hot a day. we soon got into a maze of small combes running down to the brook which passes under huntsham wood. from gate to gate, and gap to gap we hie, keeping as near hounds as may be, and passed a farm which i was told is redwood. a patch of ferny gorse-covered ground is bere down, across which hounds ran fast, much disturbing a pony at grass, who jumped the fence down the biggest drop i ever saw anything except a deer come over in safety. the stag went down the line of the brook till its junction with the bigger loman water near chief loman. here a long check refreshed us, the stag having worked first the road and then the water for a long distance. the pack puzzled it out slowly, both anthony and col. hornby dismounting to keep close to them through the impassable places. then we heard a holloa ahead, and hounds were lifted about a quarter of a mile to land's mill, when they hit off the line, just owning it down the road, and so recall us to the chase. the field seemed hardly to diminish, though it kept changing; many of those from the minehead and dunster side stopped and went home, but every hamlet, every farm we passed, brought out recruits eager to see the hounds, for they do not often come this way. the whole country was in a wild state of commotion and excitement. a capital gallop over a ridge of hills, where the chase went through a field of roots, which some gentlemen were just beginning to shoot over (and much i fear we spoiled their sport), brought us to the western canal, where the stag swam over, while we crossed by a bridge, and went on again to the halberton lane. in the field beyond, sheep had foiled the ground, but hounds cast forward, and were soon running again down to the canal, which here "ran a ring." hounds feathered down the towing-path and over the railway, where we had to make a _détour_. we had just rejoined them when there was a burst of music, and the stag was seen swimming in the canal. he scrambled out, ran down the road a few hundred yards with the pack at his heels, and then jumped over the fence into ploughed ground, where he fell, and was rolled over a moment afterwards, when he was found to have a broken leg. the fatal stab to the heart was dealt as soon as our stag was taken, and now the hounds must be given their portion. "look at that!" exclaims a sporting farmer as the body is turned over and the legs are seen standing stark and stiff in the air. "ay, properly runned up, poor thing," answers the huntsman, who is busy anatomising. "brisher, bother your old head, you'm always after the venison." and brusher, who has stolen forward and began licking the haunch, beats a hasty retreat, not without a taste of whipcord. then the hounds' portion is made over to them, the huntsman reserves his perquisites, and the head being claimed by the master, all the farmers of the district account for the venison share and share alike. the run lasted exactly seven hours from the lay on; the last hour and a-half we hunted in the dark. eight only of us saw the finish. and now looking over my record of this memorable run how bare an itinerary it seems, lacking the mental eye to fill up the scene with luscious autumn tints, and lacking too the stir and movement of the chase. then the blood boils in veins of horse and man, then a fierce energy urges on the pursuers. what can compare with it, but the wild charge of cavalry? the occasion past, however, our pulse resumes its normal beat, and presently in slumber the scene and all its glories fade away. but not the memory fades! year by year while trouble, sickness, hopes and longings get blotted from our recollection, the printed page or glance at whip and spur, shall revive with more than pristine splendour, the memory of the chase. and what of the stag? well, the stag's life is not, i fear, a happy one; for him no sooner is one trouble past than another is upon him. during the summer his horns are growing and keep him in constant irritation and anxiety. the velvet is hardly lost when the fever of the rutting season consumes him. then there is the hard winter to live through, and with the return of spring returns also the period for the shedding of old horns, and sprouting of new ones. indeed, it is only for a few weeks in every year that the stag is his perfect self, and those weeks, with a small margin before and after, constitute what is called the stag-hunting season, a season of relief to the farmer whose turnip crops have been ruined by the herd's depredations, a season of anxiety to the master of the devon and somerset staghounds, a season of delight to him who loves the chase. pleasure unalloyed, indeed, for so long as fortune favours him, but assuredly the day will sooner or later arrive when a grip or cart rut on exmoor will turn horse and rider over, when the red grass or white bog flower that should warn the horseman to "take a pull" is overlooked or disregarded, with alarming results. the least of the ills that flesh is heir to, when stag-hunting on exmoor, is to lose one's way twenty miles from home, and be found a solitary horseman wandering on the moor, soaked to the skin, out of hail of any living creature but forest ponies, and uneasily musing on the old nurse-tales of pixies. if, in such case, you are fortunate enough to stumble upon a moorland farm, do not fail to accept the shelter which will surely be offered; and so shall the congratulations of your friends sound sweet in your ears when you return safe and sound on the morrow. your landlord also, if you are staying at an inn and hunting on a hired mount, will welcome you with such evident sincerity that you feel sure it is not unconnected with the recovery of his horse. sport amongst the mountains by "sarcelle" it is a gloriously bright, glowing autumn morning, a light breeze ruffles the clear, blue surface of the atlantic, or rather of a little bay thereof, which lies in a pretty setting of hills and mountains just in front of the window whereat i am writing, beyond the hydrangeas and fuchsias of the garden and an intervening stretch of marshland, home of many a snipe and duck. as the day is bright, and the water in the river low, there is but little chance of hooking either salmon or trout before evening; therefore, instead of "dropping a line" to those finny aristocrats, i will endeavour to "improve the shining hour" by writing a few lines about them, and their "followers." truly a fitting room is this in which to write of matters piscatorial--ay, of sport in general. in a corner, just two feet to the left of me, are my two beloved rods, a trout fly-rod and a trolling-rod; by the opposite end of the fire-place repose a handsome salmon-rod, and a landing-net of portentous dimensions, so huge that it looks more suitable for og, king of bashan, or goliath of gath, than for any modern mortal: but it is not upon record that those large gentlemen ever studied the quaint pages of "the contemplative man's recreation." two chairs off me lies my old creel, which had eleven good sea-trout in it yesterday, but now contains only my precious fly-book, its cover shiny with hundreds of glittering scales of the beautiful fish, which i shall be at no pains to remove; for when i am far away from these charming scenes those scales shall remind me of the river and the lough, of the mountains and the heather, of the grouse and the snipe, and of the genial companions it has been my good luck to meet in old ireland. a little beyond my fishing-basket is a sideboard which is littered with central-fire cartridges, tins of powder, and bags of shot. it is also adorned by one or two short clay pipes, and by a "billy-cock" hat, which, like almost every other hat in this inn, is covered with the most approved "casts" of salmon and trout-flies. in the corner, by the sideboard, two more rods and another landing-net; on the floor, sundry and divers pairs of sturdy-looking shooting boots. next we come to a big salmon-creel, three central-fire guns, and a muzzle-loader; more hats, adorned with bunches of heather and casts of flies; a big shrimp-net (by the way, i and a fellow-sportsman took about five quarts of beautiful prawns with that latter one afternoon); more pipes, more fishing-rods. in one corner of the room is a stuffed badger, which was pulled out of a deep and narrow hole, after a struggle of nearly two hours, by a white bull-terrier with a brown patch over one eye, who is now lying at my feet. on the chimney-piece are a grouse and a peregrine falcon, the latter incurring grave penalties by "the wearing of the green," for some friendly hand has adorned it with a little dolly varden hat of that colour. now to complete his notion of my immediate surroundings, the reader must picture another window at the other end of this room, looking out not upon the sea, but upon a high heathery mountain, the home of the grouse and the hare; and he must imagine frequent interruptions from the incursions of friendly dogs, pointers, setters, retrievers, greyhounds, and terriers. yes, the whole atmosphere of this house is evidently of the sport, sporting; the "commercial" would be at a discount here; all are lovers of the rod or gun, many of both; and those of the fair sex who honour us with their presence--thank goodness we are not without their refining and humanising influence--take a keen interest in our sport, and are proud of the doings of their respective husbands, brothers, or sons--for there are several family-parties staying here. some of my readers with sporting proclivities are already beginning to ask, "where is this 'happy hunting ground?'" alas, i fear me that i must not proclaim it in the pages of so popular a periodical as this, for there were nine rods on the little river yesterday, and our worthy hostess has her house nearly full of people, and her hands quite full of work; and if it were only generally known in london how delightful a place is the white trout inn (that is the most appropriate _sobriquet_ i can think of for the moment), we should be flooded with eager sportsmen, the rivers would be over-fished, the moors over-shot, and the place spoiled. before i dilate further on the delights of the white trout inn and its surroundings, i must lay down my pen for a brief space, and devote myself to the consumption of a hearty breakfast, at which some of the fish, from which the inn takes its name, invariably figure, accompanied generally by eggs and bacon, grilled mutton, and other solid viands. it is done, the inner man is refreshed; and though a stronger breeze has sprung up, bringing clouds with it, and rods are off to the river, and guns to the mountain, and a knowing old professional angler in long-tailed frieze coat, indescribable hat, knee breeches, and black stockings, opines that there is a good chance for both trout and salmon, i must forego the sport for the present, and finish my appointed task. the white trout inn is not situated in a town, nor even in a village, though there are a few scattered houses here and there, but the place has the inestimable advantage to the sportsman of being twenty miles distant from a railway. within a comfortable hour's walk of mine inn is a lovely lake five miles in length, surrounded by mountains as grand as artist could desire. white villas nestle here and there on the wooded slopes that lead down to the clear blue water, dotted with sundry fishing-boats, from which anglers are throwing the fly for salmon or trout, both of which swarm in the lake. from the lake down to the sea a beautiful river runs a picturesque course of about four miles, in a valley with mountains on the one side and well-cultivated hills and slopes on the other; and in every part of the river are to be found the noble salmon, the brilliant white or sea-trout, and their humble relative, the brown trout--in england a prize coveted by most anglers, and esteemed by most _gourmands_, but here looked upon with contempt alike by fishermen and epicures, being far exceeded both in strength and gamesomeness, and in delicacy of flavour, by its migratory brother from the sea. the fishing in both river and lake is free to visitors at this inn, who have, moreover, the privilege of shooting over some of the neighbouring mountains, where may be found grouse, hares, woodcock, and snipe. there is grand duck-shooting here in the season, and the lovely bay affords an immense abundance and variety of sea fish to those who like a good breeze and a bit of heavy hand-pulling, as an occasional change after many days' fly-fishing. we have a glorious sandy beach, where sea-bathing may be enjoyed untrammelled by conventionalities of machines or costumes. we have always some of "the best of all good company" here; in fact, one gentleman, as true a sportsman as ever crossed country, drew trigger, or threw salmon-fly, has taken up his abode here _en permanence_, and finds sport of some kind for nearly every day in the year. i must not omit to mention that, for those who like to take rifle or shot-gun out to sea with them, we have seals pretty frequently, and a great abundance of large wild-fowl. our larder, i need hardly say, is kept constantly supplied with the best of fish and game, and the "cellar's as good as the cook," the whisky especially being undeniable and insinuating, and "divil a headache in a hogshead of it." but i am to say something about salmon-fishing. faith, it's difficult to say anything new about it, inspiring and exciting theme though it be. the _rationale_ of it i utterly renounce. we know pretty well why a trout takes an artificial fly. it is a tolerably correct imitation of a natural insect, which is the natural food of our spotted friend; and the different flies which are used on different waters, and during the various months, are constantly changed to correspond with the proper insects frequenting each locality at each period. of course, this is reasonable enough. a trout is lying on the look-out for flies, and something comes floating down the stream towards him, which so closely resembles his natural food, that he sees no earthly (or watery) reason to suppose it to be unwholesome, and he takes it, and--it disagrees with him. but why on earth a salmon should ever make such a fool of himself as to jump at a huge, gaudy arrangement of feathers, fur, silk, &c., which is not an imitation of anything "in the heavens above or the earth below, or the waters under the earth," the nearest approach to a faithful simile for which would seem to be an imaginary cross between a humming-bird and a butterfly, altogether passes my comprehension. still more astonishing is it that these extraordinary objects must be varied in size, colours, and sundry other particulars, according to locality and time of year. but let not the reader, who is yet unlearned in the craft, imagine that _every_ salmon is such a fool as to leap at the gaudy lure. from my little experience of the number of these princely fish which run up certain rivers, and the small proportion of them which fall victims to the rod, i would rather be inclined to come to the conclusion that these unhappy individuals must either be lunatics or morbid misanthropical (misopiscical?) specimens of the genus, that a fish who takes the fly is either entirely bereft of his senses, or has firmly made up his mind, wearied with subaqueous trials, to hang himself--upon a hook--and that his vigorous struggles after he is hooked are to be accounted for by that instinct of self-preservation which is the first law of nature, and which often leads a would-be suicide, after he has jumped into the water, to exert himself might and main to get out of it again. not the least charm of salmon-fishing is the wild grandeur of the scenery in which the best of it is found, heather-clad mountains, ravines, and gorges, rapid, rushing streams, splashing waterfalls, deep smooth pools, and huge rocks here and there in the river, adding picturesqueness to the scene and increased danger to the line. who has not read vivid descriptions of the killing of a salmon? first comes the "rise," no little circling splash like that of a trout, but a rushing boil in the water, hailed with a joyous shout by the angler and his attendant; then there is a momentary check; then the merry music of the clicking reel as the fish rushes off, perchance quite slowly at first, not apparently quite alive to the danger of his position; but when the fact dawns upon him that the little sting in the tail of the fly he snapped at is attached to something that is seriously menacing his liberty, his struggles become exciting in the extreme. now comes a swift rush, taking out some fifty yards of line without a check. now he is seen for a moment--of extreme danger to the tackle--throwing himself high out of water, a huge bar of brightest silver, falling back into it again with a splash. instantaneous guesses are made at his weight; then comes a long run, fatiguing for both fish and fisherman, up and down stream; then the salmon, getting rather fagged, half turns on his side near the opposite bank, but he is of no use over there. a little later on he comes over to our side, and sandy or patsy, as the case may be, "makes an offer" at him with the gaff, but it is too soon; the fish, roused to fresh life by the sight of the horrid biped, exerts all his remaining strength--we have two or three last frantic rushes, moments of intense excitement, during which we have not one single thought for anything in the wide world but that salmon and that gaff. at last the gallant fellow is near the bank, thoroughly tired this time--the gaff is in his quivering flesh; patsy struggles up the bank with our glittering prize; the fish is knocked on the head, the fly carefully cut out, the hackles blown and cleared of blood or dirt--for some salmon-flies are worth from fifteen shillings to two pounds each--and then we and patsy, or sandy, can sit down on the bank and enjoy our well-earned rest. first we must have a "tot" of whisky to "wet that fish"; then patsy says, "sure now, yer honour'll be afther giving the blessed pool a bit of rest, an' we'll thry another directly." so we sit and enjoy the beauty of the mountain and river scenery, with a pipe of good tobacco and a frequent furtive glance at the salmon, till a freshening breeze, or the sight of a rising fish, inspires us with fresh courage, to result, if we are lucky, in a fresh capture. pleasant, too, is the fishing from a boat on the rippling surface of our fair gem of a lake in the grand setting of those majestic mountains; ay, and pleasant too when the salmon are sulky, is the fishing for the beautiful white trout in the various streams between the lake and the tideway; and exciting indeed is the struggle when a white trout with glittering scales, only a few hours from the sea, is hooked on a small trout-fly and fine drawn gut--for your sea-trout is the most active of fish, and will give the angler a braver fight than a brown trout of more than double his size, flinging himself constantly high into the air, a silvery flash of light, game to the very last, making rush after rush, and spring after spring, when you think he should be quite safe for the landing-net. ay, and when the shades of evening are falling over mountain and valley, river, lake, and bay, when the smoke from the chimney of our inn, rising from amongst the trees which surround it, suggests busy doings at the huge peat-fire in the kitchen, pleasant is the walk or drive back to that snug hostelry, and jovial the dinner--with salmon and trout fresh from lake and river, grouse not _quite_ so fresh from the mountain, and snipe from the marsh. genial and jolly, too, is the evening talk over our glasses of punch, the recital of incidents of sport during the day, the comparison of flies, the arrangement of plans for the morrow. "early to bed and early to rise," is a very good motto generally for the sportsman; but there _are_ seasons when the morning fishing is of but little account, and, mindful of this, we prolong our _symposia_ and our yarns far into the small hours till our stock of anecdotes and tobacco are alike exhausted. many a rich man has paid down his hundreds for the rental of part of a salmon river, and perhaps his fish have cost him twenty to a hundred guineas each. but then again the poor professional anglers often make a good living by it, partly by the salmon they catch, and partly by acting as guides and instructors to tourists and amateurs. and here let me tell the reader to take the anecdotes of his tourist friends anent the salmon they have killed in ireland or scotland _cum grano salis_. i believe that about nineteen out of twenty fish "taken" by non-resident amateurs are risen and hooked by patsy or sandy aforesaid. the most delicate part of the negotiation having thus been effected, the rod is carefully handed to the amateur, and he is instructed how to humour and play the fish, which is gaffed at last, and he may certainly be _said_ to have _killed_ it, though he was not exactly the man who caught it. but to do patsy or sandy justice he is--though sometimes, _sub rosâ_, a bit of a poacher--a keen lover of real sport, and infinitely prefers accompanying anyone who can throw a fly and kill a fish himself to one of the amateurs aforesaid, in spite of the heavier fee he may expect from the latter. a friend called one day on a professional fisherman near here, and found him lugging a big table about his cabin by the aid of a hook and a bit of a line. "what the divil are ye doin' at all at all?" asked his friend corny. "sure, thin, i'd betther be brakin' the hook in the table than brakin' it in a salmon," was the reply. and this little yarn bears a very good practical moral. see that your tackle is sound and perfect in every respect before you go after salmon. ludicrous incidents sometimes happen in salmon-fishing. a bungling amateur on the bandon river, near cork, hooked something which seemed to him to be an immense and very sulky salmon. the stream was swift, but the fish never travelled very far, moving sluggishly about and resisting all his efforts to bring it to the surface. at last, after a long but very uneventful play of about two hours, the thing came into a more rapid part of the stream, lifted to the top of the water, and behold, a big ox-hide, which had been sunk in that part of the river! the disgust of that angler, and the profane language he gave way to, may be imagined. a friend of mine had a long play with what seemed to be a very heavy spring fish, but at last it came to the top, when the attendant patsy exclaimed, "bedad, it's a judy, sir!" and a "judy" it was, that is, a spent fish or kelt, but it was hooked by the tail, which accounts for the vigorous play it gave. there is a rather strong religious sentiment among some of our irish professional salmon-fishers. one of them has been known at the commencement of a season to sprinkle his patron's rod, line, and flies with holy water, as a potent charm. another worthy was out the other day with a friend of mine fishing for white trout. my friend hooked a nice strong fish over two pounds, which got away after a brief play. in the first excitement of this loss his attendant exclaimed, "oh, the divil carry him then!" but, suddenly bethinking himself, added, "an' may god forgive me for cursin' the blessed fish--that didn't take a good hould!" but the day has become so beautifully breezy and cloudy that i can't possibly sit here any longer, knowing that all my brethren of the craft are on the river or the lake, so i will e'en pick up rod, shoulder basket, and be off after them. kind reader, i crave your indulgence, and--_au revoir_. a birmingham dog show[ ] by "old calabar" fourteen years have passed away and somewhat mildewed my hair since the first show of dogs took place at birmingham. [ ] it should be mentioned that this paper was written several years ago.--ed. _s.s._ how many glorious fellows connected with that and subsequent exhibitions have "gone from our gaze," never again to be seen by those who were "hail-fellow well met" with them! poor frederick burdett, paul hakett, george jones, george moore, that inimitable judge of a pointer; joseph lang, and lately, major irving, with a host of others, have passed away. ruthless death, with his attendant, "old father time," has mowed them down in quick succession without favour or distinction. it makes one sad to think of it; and also to know that some who are in the land of the living have, to use a sporting expression, "cut it." for years i have not seen "the prior," "idstone," the revs. o'grady and mellor, john walker of halifax, and croppen of horncastle. yet i know that some of them are still to the fore in dog matters, and are running their race against "all time." poor walker, by-the-by, i saw last year. he was unfortunately shot by accident some two or three seasons back by a friend; he has never, if i may so term it, "come with a rush" again. william lort, one of our oldest judges, is hard at work here, there, and everywhere, with one or two more of the old circuit. what has become of viscount curzon, who so well filled the chair at the annual dinner? death has been busy again, for viscount curzon is, by the demise of his father, now earl howe. the last time i saw his lordship was at the "hen and chickens" at birmingham, in . poor lord garvagh was on his right hand; he too has gone "the way of all flesh." on that occasion i remember that prince of good fellows, r. l. hunt, who has been connected with the show from its commencement, singing a song that made our hair curl, and drove one or two white-tied gentlemen from the room. the earl howe has been chairman of the committee ever since the show was started, and mr george beech, the secretary, nearly as long; and right well has he done his work. i do not exactly know with whom the idea of dog shows originated. my old friend, the late major irving, told me it was with frederick burdett; others have informed me it was mr brailsford, the father of the present men, and formerly keeper to the earl of derby, the present earl's father. whoever it originated with, it was a happy idea, and has given endless amusement to thousands. as i have often stated, i do not think shows have improved the breed of dogs, but they have brought many strains forward which were known nothing about before, except to a few. dog shows have opened the door to a good deal of roguery; unscrupulous breeders have bred dogs for size, head, coat, and colour. to effect this they have mixed up strains; the consequence is that, although it cannot be detected by the judges, the animals are, in reality, nothing more or less than mongrels; this has been done more particularly in the sporting classes, and with fox-terriers especially. but dog shows are wonderfully popular all over the kingdom. it has not rested with us alone, for the french have for years had exhibitions, and this year there was one at vienna. it has often surprised me there is so much wrangling, and so many letters from disappointed exhibitors, after a dog show. the same thing does not occur in cattle and horse shows; why then with dog shows? the birmingham dog show is a favourite of mine. everything is so well conducted and carried out. the comfort of the animals is strictly attended to, and the building is spacious and airy. you see so many old friends you would not otherwise meet, which makes it very enjoyable. one of the most celebrated breeders of bloodhounds is major john a. cowen, of blaydon burn, blaydon-on-tyne; and he has also a famous breed of setters, but he never has a bad one of any sort. all coursing men breed good greyhounds, so i cannot pitch on anyone in particular for these--and foxhounds, deerhounds, otterhounds, harriers or beagles, are bred by so many that i cannot pick out anyone in particular. the most celebrated breeders of fox-terriers are messrs murchison and gibson, brokenhurst, lymington, hants; mr cropper, of horncastle, and mr t. wootton, mapperley, near nottingham. of pointers, small and medium-sized, perhaps mr whitehouse, ipsley court, redditch, warwickshire, is the best known; of the large size, mr thomas smith, the grange, tettenhall, wolverhampton; richard garth, esq., q.c.; lord downe, danby lodge, yarm, yorkshire; mr francis r. hemming, bentley manor, bromsgrove, and others. of setters, r. ll. purcell-llewellin, esq., willesley hall, ashby-de-la-zouche, leicestershire; edward laverack, esq., broughall cottage, near whitchurch, shropshire; geo. jones, esq., ivy cottage, ascott; thomas pilkington, esq., lyme grove, prescot, lancashire; major john a. cowen, blaydon burn, blaydon-on-tyne; captain thomas allaway, highbury house, near lydney; captain richard cooper, thornly hall, welford, rugby; capt. hutchison; the prior, and many others. of retrievers, i shall only name one, mr j. d. gorse, old manor house, radcliffe-on-trent, notts. his curly black-coated dogs are the handsomest i ever saw. there are so many different breeds of spaniels that i will not attempt to name any breeders--their name is legion--neither do i intend to touch on the non-sporting classes; but should anyone wish to know where any particular sort of dog is to be had, and will write to me, i shall have great pleasure in giving him every information. gentlemen who are anxious to become members of a canine society, cannot, i imagine, do better than belong to the national, which is composed of many of the first noblemen and sportsmen in the united kingdom. the society held their show the latter part of last year at nottingham, and a very capital show it was, too, and bids fair to be second to none. to exhibitors, disappointed or otherwise, i would say, never mind the reports you read in papers as to the merits or demerits of your dogs; remember that such reports are only the production of _one_, and that one may know just as much of a dog as he does of the man in the moon. it is amusing to read the accounts of a show in the different papers. i have very frequently seen every one of them disagree; one calling a dog a splendid animal; another, that the said splendid animal was nothing but a cur: so i say, never be disheartened at what the papers may write, and remember the fable of the old man and his ass. curzon hall has been much enlarged of late years, and it is now not nearly big enough for the number of dogs that are sent. it is a fine building, and eminently adapted for the purpose. walking along the galleries, which are very spacious, you can look over and see all the dogs below and the people as well. the entries this year are exactly thirty-three in advance of . take it altogether, it is the best entry, as to numbers and quality, they have ever had. the total entries in the sporting classes were ; viz.:-- bloodhounds, deerhounds, greyhounds, otterhounds, harriers, beagles, fox-terriers, pointers, setters, retrievers, spaniels, dachshunds, and in the extra class for any foreign breed of sporting dogs. for dogs not used in field-sports there were entries; viz.:-- mastiffs, st bernards, newfoundlands, sheep-dogs, dalmatians, bull-dogs, bull-terriers, smooth-haired terriers, black-and-tan terriers, skye terriers, dandie dinmonts, broken-haired terriers, bedlington terriers, wire-haired terriers, pomeranians, pugs, maltese, italian greyhounds, blenheim spaniels, king charles spaniels, toy terriers, and foreign dogs. i have before remarked that many, very many, find fault with the decisions of judges when there is no occasion to do so, and some when there is just reason; but they should remember it is not etiquette to question the judges' fiat. they enter their dogs subject to those who are chosen to adjudicate on their merits; and after the awards are made, right or wrong, there should be an end to the matter. i have always thought, and always shall think, that the public would be much more satisfied if they knew who the judges would be at the time a show was advertised. those intending to exhibit could then do as they liked, enter or not. but, on the other hand, if this were done, the entries would not be nearly so numerous, and the receipts smaller in proportion; but in such a show as birmingham, where the committee have a good balance in hand, it would not much matter. at any rate, it is worth the trial. the birmingham committee is composed of men who are thoroughly well up on the subject, and have, doubtless, good reasons for continuing as they do. an attempt was made, some years ago, of judging by points--a thoroughly absurd notion, and one worthy of those from whom it emanated. fancy men who really knew what a dog was, going about with a tape, like a tailor! would you see judges of horses or cattle doing this? perhaps to take the girth of a bullock it might be, and is done; but that is all, except weighing them. when the entries are numerous, of course it takes time to judge them. in such a class as the fox-terriers, which is extremely large at birmingham--this year it being no less than , and many of the animals being very evenly balanced--it is anything but an easy task; but with all this, judges generally manage to spot the right animals. it does not follow that sporting dogs who gain a prize at a show are any good for the field. many first-prize dogs are utterly useless for it, never having been broken: and, if they had, might perhaps have turned out worthless. dogs of the first breed are often gun-shy, want nose, face, method of range, will not back or stand, and are otherwise utterly unmanageable. it is not every dog that breaks well; not one in ten makes what is called a first-class animal. all judges can do, when the dogs are led from their benches, is to give prizes to those who come up to the standard in head, shape, strength, colour, and general goodness of formation. at some shows judging in public is the fashion; but this is a very great mistake, and has been proved to be so time after time. judges should be quite to themselves when they are giving their awards; and not have a crowd around them making their remarks, which are sometimes anything but flattering. a dog, to win at such a show as birmingham, must not only be handsome, but he must go up in good coat and in the pink of condition. having now given a general outline of the birmingham dog show from its commencement, i will turn to the show itself for this year. take it altogether, it has been the most successful one that has yet taken place; and when in class , bloodhounds (dogs), the following prices are attached to them, perhaps all readers may form some idea how the owners value their animals:--rival, £ ; brutus, £ ; baron, £ ; draco, £ , , , . of course these prices are only put against them to show they are not for sale. another, by the same owner as draco, was merely £ , . so highly are stock dogs and breeding bitches valued, that it is simply impossible to get them; and it is very rarely the best pups are sold, and if they are, at an enormous price. altogether, there were classes, so it will be impossible for me to notice all; in fact, i must leave the non-sporting classes, and confine myself to pointers, setters, spaniels, and retrievers. i will take three gentlemen who sent heavy entries:--mr price of rhiwlas, bala, north wales, had fourteen entries, comprising fox-terrier, pointers, setter, retrievers, spaniel, sheep-dog, dalmatian and bull-dog. he only got with these, two first prizes, one commended, and five highly commended. notwithstanding all the puff and long pedigrees given by this gentleman in the catalogues, it will be seen he did not do very much. two of the highly commended ones, ginx's baby, and a dog with an unwriteable name, were bred by mr purcell llewellin, who has three more of the same litter in his kennel far superior to these. his pointer bitch, belle, was absent, but in her place was a large photograph--another species of puff. the bitch is not a , being a soft, tiring animal. in the catalogue she appears with £ , , , as her price. take away the figure , and we should then get at her right value. as regards his old setter, regent, who took a first in class , it is an incomprehensible bit of judgment; for mr llewellin's eleven months old, flame, was the best in the class, far away. i am forced to admit that the rhiwlas kennel is but a second-rate one. mr purcell llewellin had eight entries, one absent (nellie). none of his dogs were in feather, yet so good are they that out of the seven who represented him six were to the fore--two first prizes, one second prize, and three highly commended. this is something like form. prince took the first in the champion class. he is, without doubt, the handsomest headed setter in england, and the champion countess not only very beautiful, but _the best in the field_. prince won at the crystal palace this year, taking champion prize and extra cup--the same at birmingham in and ; first prize and extra cup at the crystal palace in ; at birmingham in and , first prize and extra cup. he has never been shown anywhere else, and has never been beaten. countess, the nonpareil, though out of feather, was in good muscle and condition, and beat mr dickens's celebrated belle. countess has only been exhibited four times--at the crystal palace and birmingham--has won each time and never been beaten. take her altogether she is _the_ setter of england. mr whitehouse of ipsley court, warwickshire, had an entry of twelve-- pointers and retriever. out of these there were three first prizes, one second, one highly commended, and one commended. it will thus be seen that, as breeders, both mr whitehouse, for pointers, and mr purcell llewellin, for setters, are far before mr price--and will be, for his animals are not up to the mark. mr thomas smith of the grange, tettenhall, wolverhampton, had a grand entry of ten; and he spotted three first prizes and one commended. take the setters all through, they were very good. the black-and-tan setters in class (dogs) were good; but in class (bitches) were still better. class , setters (irish dogs), was good. curiously enough, there was exactly the same entry this year as last, viz., . mr stone, with dash, spotted the first prize; mr purcell llewellin, the second with kite, v.h.c. with kimo, and three others got v.h.c. in the entry for class , setters (irish bitches), was ; this year it was only ; but they were the best lot that have ever been shown at the hall, and so highly were they thought of by the judges that every one in the class was highly commended. here three gentlemen, probably the best breeders of the irish setter we have, contended, viz.:--captains cooper and allaway and mr purcell llewellin. captain cooper exhibited three, captain allaway one, mr llewellin one; but the first prize fell to neither of these gentlemen, mr jephson beating them on the post with lilly ii., and captain cooper running a good second with eilie; though neither were bred by the same gentleman, yet each was two years and four months old. there were entries for retrievers. for the best in all classes (curly-coated), mr morris took it with true; he also secured the champion class bitches (curly-coated) with x l; second prize in class with marquis; highly commended in same class with monarch; first prize in class with moretta. so with an entry of six he secured three first prizes, one second, and one highly commended--good form indeed. my old friend mr gorse, one of our very best breeders, took the champion prize in smooth or wavy-coated dogs with sailor, four years old; and a fine animal he is. the spaniels were entries, and some very good ones, too, there were among them. classes and were capital. better have never been seen at curzon hall. the greyhounds were a poor lot. it is not the time of year for hounds or greyhounds, as they are all at work. the non-sporting and toy classes were well represented. and it was amusing to see the excitement and hear the exclamations of some of the ladies on looking at the cages which held these beautiful little animals. i have often thought how much better it would be if ladies, or others who want dogs, instead of sending to a london dealer, who is almost sure to "do" them, were to attend such shows as birmingham, the crystal palace, or nottingham. there you can pick out what you want--always remembering you must give a good price for a good article. but, then, if you intend to exhibit, and you have a good animal, it will soon pay itself; and if you breed, the pups will see your money back. good as the other exhibitions have been at birmingham, this must be considered the best; and with an entry of against of last year. at the time of writing this--the rd december--i have seen no letters from disappointed exhibitors or others. but then, "bell's life," "land and water," and the authority (_query_) have not yet appeared. the "times," however, for the nd december, says it was a most capital show. both mr murchison and the rev. mr tennison mosse were conspicuous by their absence, but i hope to see them to the fore again at the crystal palace show, with their unapproachable fox and dandie dinmont terriers. talking of fox-terriers, i have overlooked them. not only was the entry a grand one ( ), but the quality was good too. i love the terrier, for he is a sporting little dog, no matter what breed; but the fox-terrier is the favourite, if one may judge from the entries. but why other terriers, such as smooth-haired, black-and-tan, skye, drop-eared, and others, dandie dinmont, broken-haired, wire-haired, and bedlington should not be included in the sporting classes, i have ever been at a loss to imagine. there is no better terrier exists to drive heavy gorse for rabbits than the dandie dinmont. he is the gamest of the game, and no cover, however thick, will stop him. mr wootton of mapperley, near nottingham, has a magnificent breed of wire-haired terriers, the best in england. for this class ( ), there were twelve entries; but mr wootton skinned the lamb, taking first and second prizes with venture and tip, and the highly commended spot being bred by him. whatever sort of terrier mr wootton has, you may be sure of one thing--that it is the right sort. i confess to a _penchant_ for the wire-haired terrier, rather than the fox-terrier, for the latter are now bred very soft and delicate--there is too much italian greyhound in them for me. of course i am speaking generally. give me, if i must have fox-terriers, hard ones, such as old jock was--something that will stand wet and cold, the cut-and-come-again sort. one thing i sincerely hope will be done away with next year at birmingham, viz.:--the photographic dodge of advertisement, as was the case with mr price's belle. it is quite wearying enough to inflict his long-winded pedigrees on the public, without the picture puff; and i trust the committee will see the necessity of putting a stop to this, or in a few years curzon hall will be turned into a photographic gallery instead of a dog show, which i hardly think would be pleasing to the visitors. the next dog show of any importance will be at the crystal palace, held from june th to the th. it is to be hoped that the judges this year will be properly selected; but as it is to be held under the auspices of the kennel club, i suppose none but their own clique will officiate. but let me hope they will see the folly of such a course, and that they will select judges that do not belong to their association--then the public will have confidence, which they will not if _members of the club exhibit_, and _members of the club adjudicate_. huntingcrop hall. "reputation! reputation! oh, i have lost my reputation!" it was, i believe, one michael cassio, a florentine, who originally made the remark; and i can only say i sincerely wish i were in michael cassio's position, and could lose mine. it may be a "bubble," this same reputation; indeed, we have high authority for so terming it: but "bubble" rhymes with "trouble," and that is the condition to which such a reputation as mine is apt to bring you; for it supposes me to be a regular nimrod, whereas i know about as much of the science of the chase as my supposititious prototype probably knew of ballooning: it sets me down as being "at home in the saddle;" whereas it is there that i am, if i may be allowed the expression, utterly at sea. when, last november, i was seated before a blazing fire in major huntingcrop's town house, and his too charming daughter, laura, expressed her enthusiastic admiration for hunting, and everything connected with it--mildly at the same time hinting her contempt for those who were unskilled in the accomplishment--could i possibly admit that i was amongst the despised class? was it not rather a favourable opportunity for showing our community of sentiment by vowing that the sport was the delight of my life, and firing off a few sentences laden with such sporting phraseology as i had happened to pick up in the course of desultory reading? laura listened with evident admiration. i waxed eloquent. my arm-chair would not take the bit between its teeth and run away; no hounds were in the neighbourhood to test my prowess; and i am grieved to admit that for a fearful ten minutes "the father of ---- stories" (what a family he must have!) had it all his own way with me. "_atra cura sedet post equitem_ indeed!" i concluded. "you may depend upon it, miss huntingcrop, that man was mounted on a screw! black care would never dare to intrude his unwelcome presence on a galloper. besides, why didn't the fellow put his horse at a hurdle? probably black care wouldn't have been able to sit a fence. but i quite agree with you that it is the _duty_ of a gentleman to hunt; and i only wish that the performance of some of my other duties gave me half as much pleasure!" where i should have ended it is impossible to say; but here our _tête-à-tête_ was interrupted by the advent of the major, who heard the tag end of my panegyric with manifest delight. "huntingcrop is the place for you, mr smoothley," said he, with enthusiasm, "and i shall be more than pleased to see you there. i think, too, we shall be able to show you some of your favourite sport this season. we meet four days a week, and you may reckon on at least one day with the grassmere. it is always a sincere pleasure to me to find a young fellow whose heart is in it." as regards my heart, it was in my boots at the prospect; and, despite the great temptation of laura's presence, i paused, carefully to consider the _pros_ and _cons_ before accepting. how pleasant to see her fresh face every morning at the breakfast-table--how unpleasant to see a horse--most likely painfully fresh also--waiting to bear me on a fearsome journey as soon as the meal was concluded! how delightful to feel the soft pressure of her fingers as she gave me morning greeting: how awful to feel my own fingers numbed and stiff with tugging at the bridle of a wild, tearing, unmanageable steed! how enjoyable to-- "are you engaged for christmas, mr smoothley?" laura inquired, and that query settled me. it might freeze--i could sprain my ankle, or knock up an excuse of some sort. yes, i would go; and might good luck go with me. for the next few days i unceasingly studied the works of major whyte-melville, and others who have most to say on what they term sport, and endeavoured to get up a little enthusiasm. i did get up a little--_very_ little; but when the desired quality had made its appearance, attracted by my authors' wizard-like power, it was of an extremely spurious character, and entirely evaporated when i arrived at the little railway station nearest to the hall. a particularly neat groom, whom i recognised as having been in town with the huntingcrops, was awaiting me in a dogcart, and the conveyance was just starting when we met a string of horses, hooded and sheeted, passing along the road: in training, if i might be permitted to judge from their actions, for the wildest scenes in "mazeppa," "dick turpin," or some other exciting equestrian drama. i did not want the man to tell me that they were his master's: i knew it at once; and the answers he made to my questions as to their usual demeanour in the field plunged me into an abyss of despair. [illustration: "i unceasingly studied the works of major whyte-melville, and endeavoured to get up a little enthusiasm."--_page ._] the hearty welcome of the major, the more subdued but equally inspiriting greeting of his daughter, and the contagious cheerfulness of a house full of pleasant people, in some measure restored me; but it was not until the soothing influence of dinner had taken possession of my bosom, and a whisper had run through the establishment that it was beginning to freeze, that i thoroughly recovered my equanimity, and was able to retire to rest with some small hope that my bed next night would not be one of pain and suffering. alas for my anticipations! i was awakened from slumber by a knock at the door, and the man entered my room with a can of hot water in one hand and a pair of tops in the other; while over his arm were slung my--in point of fact, my breeches; a costume which i had never worn except on the day it came home, when i spent the greater portion of the evening sportingly arrayed astride of a chair, to see how it all felt. "breakfast at nine, sir. hounds meet at blackbrook at half-past ten; and it's a good way to ride," said the servant. "the frost's all gone, i fea---- i hope?" i said, inquiringly. "yes, sir. lovely morning!" he answered, drawing up the blinds. in his opinion a lovely morning was characterised by slightly damp, muggy weather; in mine it would have been a daybreak of ultra-siberian intensity. i ruefully dressed, lamenting that my will was not a little stronger (nor were thoughts of my other will--and testament--entirely absent), that i might have fled from the trial, or done something to rescue myself from the exposure which i felt must shortly overwhelm me. the levity of the men in the breakfast-room was a source of suffering to me, and even laura's voice jarred on my ears as she petitioned her father to let her follow "just a little way"--she was going to ride and see the hounds "throw off," a ceremony which i devoutly hoped would be confined to those animals--"because it was _too_ hard to turn back when the real enjoyment commenced; and she would be good in the pony-carriage for the rest of the week." "no, no, my dear," replied the major; "women are out of place in the hunting field. don't you think so, mr smoothley?" "i do, indeed, major," i answered, giving laura's little dog under the table a fearful kick as i threw out my foot violently to straighten a crease which was severely galling the inside of my left knee. "you had far better go for a quiet ride, miss huntingcrop, and"--how sincerely i added--"i shall be delighted to accompany you; there will be plenty of days for me to hunt when you drive to the meet." "no, no, smoothley. it's very kind of you to propose it, but i won't have you sacrificing your day's pleasure," the major made answer, dashing the crumbs of hope from my hungering lips. "you may go a little way, laura, if you'll promise to stay with sir william, and do all that he tells you. you won't mind looking after her, heathertopper?" old sir william's build would have forbidden the supposition that he was in any way given to activity, even if the stolidity of his countenance had not assured you that caution was in the habit of marking his guarded way; and he made suitable response. i was just debating internally as to the least circuitous mode by which i could send myself a telegram, requiring my immediate presence in town, when a sound of hoofs informed us that the horses were approaching; and gazing anxiously from the window before me, which overlooked the drive in front of the house, i noted their arrival. now the horse is an animal which i have always been taught to admire. a "noble animal" he is termed by zoologists, and i am perfectly willing to admit his nobility when he conducts himself with reticence and moderation; but when he gyrates like a teetotum on his hind legs, and wildly spars at the groom he ought to respect, i cease to recognise any qualities in him but the lowest and most degrading. laura hastened to the window, and i rose from the table and followed her. "you pretty darlings!" she rapturously exclaimed. "oh! are you going to ride the sultan, mr smoothley? how nice! i do so want to, but papa won't let me." [illustration: "gazing anxiously from the window before me, i noted the arrival of the horses. laura hastened to the window. 'you pretty darlings!' she rapturously exclaimed."--_pages - ._] "no, my dear; he's not the sort of horse for little girls to ride;--but he'll suit you, smoothley; he'll suit you, i know." without expressing a like confidence, i asked, "is that the sultan?" pointing to a large chestnut animal at that moment in the attitude which, in a dog, is termed "begging." "yes; a picture, isn't he? look at his legs. clean as a foal's! good quarters--well ribbed up--not like one of the waspy greyhounds they call thoroughbred horses now-a-days. look at his condition, too; i've kept that up pretty well, though he's been out of training for some time," cried the major. "he's not a racehorse, is he?" i nervously asked. "he's done a good deal of steeplechasing, and ran once or twice in the early part of this season. it makes a horse rush his fences rather, perhaps; but you young fellows like that, i know." "his----eye appears slightly blood-shot, doesn't it?" i hazarded; for he was exhibiting a large amount of what i imagine should have been white, in an unsuccessful attempt to look at his tail without turning his head round. "is he quiet with hounds?" "playful--a little playful," was his not assuring reply. "but we must be off, gentlemen. it's three miles to blackbrook, and it won't do to be late!" and he led the way to the hall, where i selected my virgin whip from the rack, and swallowing a nip of orange-brandy, which a servant providentially handed to me at that moment, went forth to meet my fate. laura, declining offers of assistance from the crowd of pink-coated young gentlemen who were sucking cigars in the porch, was put into the saddle by her own groom. i think she looked to me for aid, but i was constrained to stare studiously in the opposite direction, having a very vague idea of the method by which young ladies are placed in their saddles. then i commenced, and ultimately effected, the ascent of the sultan: a process which appeared to me precisely identical with climbing to the deck of a man-of-war. "stirrups all right, sir?" asked the groom. "this one's rather too long.--no, it's the _other_ one, i think." one of them didn't seem right, but it was impossible to say which in the agony of the moment. he surveyed me critically from the front, and then took up one stirrup to a degree that brought my knee into close proximity with my waistcoat: the sultan meanwhile exhibiting an uncertainty of temperament which caused me very considerable anxiety. luckily i had presence of mind to say that he had shortened the leather too much, and there was not much difference between the two, when, with laura and some seven companions, i started down the avenue in front of the house. the fundamental principles of horsemanship are three: keep your heels down; stick in your knees; and try to look as if you liked it. so i am informed, and i am at a loss to say which of the three is the most difficult of execution. the fact that the sultan started jerkily, some little time before i was ready to begin, thereby considerably deranging such plans as i was forming for guidance, is to be deplored; for my hat was not on very firmly, and it was extremely awkward to find a hand to restore it to its place when it displayed a tendency to come over my eyes. conversation, under these circumstances, is peculiarly difficult; and i fear that laura found my remarks somewhat curt and strangely punctuated. the sultan's behaviour, however, had become meritorious to a high degree; and i was just beginning to think that hunting was not so many degrees worse than the treadmill, when we approached the scene of action. before us, as we rounded a turning in the road, a group of some thirty horsemen--to which fresh accessions were constantly being made--chatted together and watched a hilly descent to the right down which the pack of hounds, escorted by several officials, was approaching. the major and his party were cordially greeted, and no doubt like civilities would have been extended to me had i been in a position to receive them; but, unfortunately, i was not; for, on seeing the hounds, the "playfulness" of the sultan vigorously manifested itself, and he commenced a series of gymnastic exercises to which his previous performances had been a mere farce. i lost my head, but mysteriously kept what was more important--my seat, until the tempest of his playfulness had in some measure abated; and then he stood still, shaking with excitement. i sat still, shaking--from other causes. "keep your horse's head to the hounds, will you, sir?" was the salutation which the master bestowed on me, cantering up as the pack defiled through a gate; and indeed the sultan seemed anxious to kill a hound or two to begin with. "infernal cockney!" was, i fancy, the term of endearment he used as he rode on; but i don't think laura caught any of this short but forcible utterance, for just at this moment a cry was raised in the wood to the left, and the men charged through the gate and along the narrow cart-track with a wild rush. again the sultan urged on his wild career--half-breaking my leg against the gate-post, as i was very courteously endeavouring to get out of the way of an irascible gentleman behind me, who appeared to be in a hurry, and then plunging me into the midst of a struggling pushing throng of men and horses. if the other noble sportsmen were not enjoying themselves more than i, it was certainly a pity that they had not stayed at home. where was this going to end? and--but what was the matter in front? they paused, and then suddenly all turned round and charged back along the narrow path. i was taken by surprise, and got out of the way as best i could, pulling my horse back amongst the trees, and the whole cavalcade rushed past me. out of the wood; across the road; over the opposite hedge, most of them--some turn off towards a gate to the right--and away up the rise beyond; passing over which they were soon out of sight. that the sultan's efforts to follow them had been vigorous i need not say; but i felt that it was a moment for action, and pulled and tugged and sawed at his mouth to make him keep his head turned away from temptation. he struggled about amongst the trees, and i felt that, under the circumstances, i should be justified in hitting him on the head. i did so; and shortly afterwards--it was not exactly that i was _thrown_, but circumstances induced me to _get of rather suddenly_. my foot was on my native heath. i was alone, appreciating the charms of solitude in a degree i had never before experienced; but after a few minutes of thankfulness, the necessity of action forced itself on my mind. clearly, i must not be seen standing at my horse's head gazing smilingly at the prospect--that would never do, for the whole hunt might reappear as quickly as they had gone; so, smoothing out the most troublesome creases in my nether garments, i proceeded to mount. i say "proceeded," for it was a difficult and very gradual operation, but was eventually managed through the instrumentality of a little boy, who held the sultan's head, and addressed him in a series of forcible epithets that i should never have dared to use: language, however, which, though reprehensible from a moral point of view, seemed to appeal to the animal's feelings, and to be successful. [illustration: "i proceeded to mount. i say proceeded, for it was a difficult and very gradual operation, but was eventually managed through the instrumentality of a little boy, who held the sultan's head, and addressed him in a series of forcible epithets that i should never have dared to use."--_page ._] he danced a good deal when i was once more on his back, and seemed to like going in a series of small bounds, which were peculiarly irritating to sit. but i did not so much mind now, for no critical eye was near to watch my hand wandering to the convenient pommel, or to note my taking such other little precautions as the exigencies of the situation, and the necessity for carrying out the first law of nature, seemed to suggest. hunting, in this way, wasn't really so very bad. there did not appear to be so very much danger, the morning air was refreshing and pleasant, and the country looked bright. there always seemed to be a gate to each field, which, though troublesome to open at first, ultimately yielded to patience and perseverance and the handle of my whip. i might get home safely after all; and as for my desertion, where everyone was looking after himself, it was scarcely likely they could have observed my defection. no; this was not altogether bad fun. i could say with truth for the rest of my life that i "had hunted." it would add a zest to the perusal of sporting literature, and, above all, extend the range of my charity by making me sincerely appreciate men who really rode. but alas! though clear of the trees practically, i was, metaphorically, very far from being out of the wood. when just endeavouring to make up my mind to come out again some day, i heard a noise, and, looking behind me, saw the whole fearful concourse rapidly approaching the hedge which led into the ploughed field next to me on the right. helter-skelter, on they came! hounds popping through, and scrambling over. then a man in pink topping the fence, and on again over the plough; then one in black over with a rush; two, three, four more in different places. another by himself who came up rapidly, and, parting company with his horse, shot over like a rocket! all this i noted in a second. there was no time to watch, for the sultan had seen the opportunity of making up for his lost day, and started off with the rush of an express train. we flew over the field; neared the fence. i was shot into the air like a shuttlecock from a battledore--a moment of dread--then, a fearful shock which landed me lopsidedly, somewhere on the animal's neck. he gives a spring which shakes me into the saddle again, and is tearing over the grass field beyond. i am conscious that i am in the same field as the major, and some three or four other men. we fly on at frightful speed--there is a line of willows in front of us which we are rapidly nearing. it means water, i know. we get--or rather _it comes_ nearer--nearer--nearer--ah-h-h! an agony of semi-unconsciousness--a splash, a fearful splash--a struggle.... i am on his back, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the saddle: without stirrups, but grimly clutching a confused mass of reins as the sultan gently canters up the ascent to where the hounds are howling and barking round a man in pink, who waves something brown in the air before throwing it to them. i have no sooner reached the group than the master arrives, followed by some four or five men, conspicuous among whom is the major. [illustration: "an agony of semi-unconsciousness--a splash, a fearful splash--a struggle.... i am on his back, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the saddle; without stirrups, but grimly clutching a confused mass of reins as the sultan gently canters up the ascent to where the hounds are howling."--_page ._] he hastens to me. to denounce me as an impostor? have i done anything wrong, or injured the horse? "i congratulate you, smoothley,--i congratulate you! i promised you a run, and you've had one, and, by jove! taken the shine out of some of us. my lord"--to the master--"let me present my friend, mr smoothley, to you. did you see him take the water? you and i made for the narrows, but he didn't turn away, and went at it as if sousemere were a puddle. eighteen feet of water if it's an inch, and with such a take-off and such a landing, there's not a man in the hunt who'd attempt it! well, heathertopper! laura, my dear,"--for she and the bulky baronet at this moment arrived at the head of a straggling detachment of followers--"you missed a treat in not seeing smoothley charge the brook: 'down in the hollow there, sluggish and idle, runs the dark stream where the willow trees grow, harden your heart, and catch hold of your bridle-- steady him--rouse him--and over we go!' "isn't that it? it was beautiful!" it might have been in his opinion; in mine it was simply an act of unconscious insanity, which i had rather die than intentionally repeat. "i didn't see you all the time, mr smoothley; where were you?" laura asked. "where was he?" cried the major. "not following you, my dear. he took his own line, and, by jove! it was a right one!" it was not in these terms that i had expected to hear the major addressing me, and it was rather bewildering. still i trust that i was not puffed up with an unseemly vanity as laura rode back by my side. she looked lovely with the flush of exercise on her cheek, and the sparkle of excitement in her eyes; and as we passed homewards through the quiet country lanes i forgot the painful creases that were afflicting me, and with as much eloquence as was compatible with the motion of my steed--i ventured! the blushes deepen on her cheek. she consents on one condition: i must give up hunting. "you are so rash and daring," she says, softly--_very_ softly, "that i should never be happy when you were out." [illustration: "i trust i was not puffed up with an unseemly vanity, as laura rode back by my side.... 'you are so rash and daring,' she says softly, 'that i should never be happy when you were out.'"--_pages - ._] can i refuse her anything--even _this_? impossible! i promise: vowing fervently to myself to keep my word; and on no account do anything to increase the reputation i made at huntingcrop hall. a dog hunt on the berwyns thanks to the columns of the sporting papers, every englishman, whatever his occupation, is sufficiently familiar with the details of fox-hunting, and all other kinds of hunting usually practised in merry england; but few, i fancy, have either seen or heard of a dog-hunt. it has fallen to my lot to participate in such a hunt; one, too, which was quite as exciting as a wolf-hunt must have been in the olden time, or as that most glorious of sports, otter-hunting, is now. imagine to yourself a three days' chase after a fierce and savage dog, a confirmed sheep worrier, and that in the midst of the picturesque ruggedness and grandeur of the welsh hills. some three or four miles east from bala, the berwyn mountains raise their heathery summits in the midst of a solitude broken only by the plaintive bleat of a lost sheep or the shouts of men in search of it. for miles the purple moorland rolls on without a moving creature to break the stillness. deep ravines run down on either hand through green, ferny sheep-walks, dotted with innumerable sheep. these ravines in winter time, when the snow lies deep on the hills, are, when not frost-bound, roaring torrents. in the summer, huge blocks of stone are scattered about in strange confusion, and a tiny stream can scarcely find its way between them. lower down still can be seen, here and there, a farm-house, in some sheltered glen, kept green all the year round by the trickling moisture. further off still, in the valleys, are villages and hamlets tenanted by hardy welsh sheep-farmers and dealers. in the least-exposed corners of the sheep-walks are folds built of loose, unmortared stones, in which the sheep huddle to find shelter from the fury of the frequent storms which sweep over the mountains. as the wealth of the hill farmers consists chiefly of sheep, if a dog once takes to worrying them, he is either kept in durance vile, or killed. the habit once acquired is never got rid of; and after a sheep-dog has once tasted blood, it becomes practically useless to the farmer. the quantity of sheep that can be killed by such a dog in a short time is almost incredible. it may be imagined, therefore, with what feelings the berwyn farmers heard of sheep after sheep being killed on their own and neighbouring farms, by a dog which nobody owned, and which ran loose on the mountains catering for itself. descending from the lonelier parts of the hills, it would visit the sheep-walks and kill, as it appeared, for the pure love of killing; in most cases leaving the mangled bodies on the spot. month after month ran by, and it still eluded the vengeance of the indignant hillmen. the most exaggerated accounts were current respecting its size and ferocity. no two versions agreed as to its colour, though all gave it enormous size. as it afterwards turned out, it was a black and white foxhound bitch. everybody carried a gun, but on the few occasions that the dog came within shot, it appeared to be shot proof. the loss of numerous sheep was becoming serious; in some instances the farmers suffered heavily. it was the staple topic of conversation. from time to time, paragraphs, such as the following, appeared in the papers published in the neighbouring towns:-- "the rapacious dog.--the noted sheep destroyer on the berwyn hills still continues to commit his depredations, in spite of all efforts to kill him. "the last that was seen of him was on sunday morning, by mr jones on the syria sheep-walk, when the dog was in the act of killing a lamb. mr jones was armed with a gun at the time, and tried to get within gunshot range; but it seems that the animal can scent a man approaching him from a long distance, so he made off immediately. after it became known to the farmers and inhabitants of llandrillo that he had been seen, a large party went up to the mountain at once, and were on the hills all day, but nothing more was heard of him till late in the evening, when he was again seen on hendwr sheep-walk, and again entirely lost. on monday a number of foxhounds were expected from tanybwlch, and if a sight of him can be obtained, no doubt he will be hunted down and captured, and receive what he is fully entitled to--capital punishment." on a bright may morning, five months after the first appearance of the sheep-destroyer, a pack, consisting of a dozen couple of fox-dogs, with their huntsman, started up the lane from llandderfel to the hills, followed by a motley crowd of farmers and labourers, armed with guns and sticks, and numbering many horsemen. up the lane till the hedges gave place to loose stone walls, higher still till the stone walls disappeared, and the lane became a track, and then a lad came leaping down the hill, almost breathless, with the news that the dog had been seen on a hill some six miles away. up the mountain, down the other side, up hill after hill, following the sheep-tracks, the cavalcade proceeded, until we reached the spot where our quarry had been last seen. a line of beaters was formed across the bottom of a glen, and proceeded up the hill. up above was dolydd ceriog, the source of the ceriog, which came through a rent in the moorland above. a wilder scene could not be imagined. on either side the hills rose up, until their peaks were sharply defined against the blue. the steep sides were covered with gorse and fern, with fantastic forms of rock peering through. at the bottom the infant ceriog eddied and rushed over and among rocks of every shape and size, forming the most picturesque waterfalls. in front up the ravine the numerous cascades leaped and glittered, growing smaller and smaller, until the purple belt of moorland was reached. the hounds quartered to and fro, and the men shouted in welsh and english. the hardy welsh horses picked their way unerringly over the _débris_. "yonder he is," was the cry, as up sprang the chase a hundred yards ahead. from stone to stone, from crag to crag, through the water, through the furze and fern fled the dog, and the foxhounds catching sight and scent, followed fast. at first they gained, but when the pursued dog found it was terrible earnest for her, she laid herself well to her work--mute. startled by the unusual noise, the paired grouse flew whirring away. the sheep were scattered in confusion, and a raven flew slowly away from a carcase. upward still we went, the footmen having the best of it on the uneven ground-- "upward still to wilder, lonelier regions, where the patient river fills its urn from the oozy moorlands, 'mid the boulders; cushioned deep in moss, and fringed with fern." now the hounds are over the crest, and soon we followed them. we now had the bogs to contend with, worse enemies than the rocks. "diawl! john jones, i am fast," we heard and saw an unfortunate pony up to its belly in the bog. another stumbles in a crevice and sends its rider headlong. we footmen have still the best of it, although it is no easy matter to run through the heather. we had now reached the other side of the mountain, and were fast descending into the valley of the dee. there seemed a probability of our catching the quarry here; but no, she left the heather--much to my relief, it must be confessed--and made for the valley, past a farm; now well in advance of her pursuers; over the meadows; then, for a short distance, along the bala and corwen line. then past cynwyd village, where the crowd of people, and the various missiles sent after her, failed to stop her. then through the churchyard, and along the road for some distance. here a man breaking stones hurled his hammer at the bitch, but missed her. turning again, she made for the hills, running with unabated speed, although she had been hunted for nearly ten miles. the original pursuers had melted away, but we were reinforced by numbers of others. here i obtained a pony and set off again. by this time the hounds were in full cry up the hillside. mile after mile, over the hills we followed, now only by scent, as the dog had made good use of her time, while the hounds were hampered by people crossing the scent at the village. "the shades of night were falling fast," when we came to a brook flowing from the moorland. here the scent was lost, and the wild dog was nowhere to be seen. we held a council of war as to what was to be done. i was the only horseman present at first, but by-and-by the huntsman and others came up, bog-besmeared, and in a vicious frame of mind. we looked a queer group, as we sat in the light of some dead fern that somebody had kindled. some were sitting on stones; others kneeling down, drinking from the brook; some whipping the tired dogs in, and others gesticulating wildly. one thing was evident--nothing more could be done that evening; and the hounds were taken to their temporary home, to rest all the morrow, and resume the hunt on the day after. on the morrow, from earliest dawn, messengers were coursing the glens in all directions, with invitations to people far and near to come and assist in the hunt. for myself, i was glad to rest my tired limbs. although pretty well used to mountain work, i was quite done up; still, i resolved to see the end of the fun, and hired another pony. the day after, the men kept pouring in to the place of rendezvous, till i was sure the majestic hills had never before witnessed such an assemblage. from far and near they came. many, like myself, were mounted upon welsh ponies. we commenced beating; and the berwyns rang with the unearthly yells of the crowd. we reached cader fronwen, one of the highest of the berwyns, without meeting with a trace. here i was put _hors de combat_ by my pony sticking fast in a bog; and as every one was too busy to help me, there i had to stay, and the hunt swept on. soon the noise of the beaters died away, and i was left alone, sitting on a stone which peered out of the bog, holding the bridle of my unfortunate steed, and every now and then cutting heather and pushing it under its belly, to prevent the poor creature sinking any deeper into the mire. here's a pretty fix, i thought. soon the mist which enveloped the summit of cader fronwen came sweeping down the gorge in a torrent of rain; and, even if my pony had been free, it would have been madness to stray from where i was, as i could not see two yards before me, and i did not know the paths. by-and-by i heard them coming back, and then saw them looming gigantic in the mist. after having extricated my pony, as i was chilled and wet through, i made the best of my way to llangynog, while the rest of the party--or multitude, rather--made for the llanrhaiadr hills, but as i afterwards learnt, without success. tired with a hard and long day's work, the men separated, and made off for their respective homes. no traces of the dog had been found, although every likely hill had been well scoured. some of the people averred that the devil must be in the dog. the major part of the farmers believed that the savage animal had been frightened away, and most probably would not be met with again for some time. acting under this conviction, the hounds were sent back by train the next morning. the morrow was beautifully fine; and, little expecting that i should see the death of the sheep-worrier, i had gone for a ramble over the hills, armed with my geological hammer. i was sitting on a slab in an isolated quarry, watching the varying tints of the hillside, as shadow and sunshine coursed each other over the tender spring green of the grass, the darker green of the new fern, and the warm yellow-brown of last year's fronds, and admiring the contrast of the grey rocks angrily jutting out amidst the loveliness, and the whole crowned with the purple heather, rising above a narrow belt of mist, when a man, gun in hand, came clinking down the sloping rubbish, digging his heels in at each step, and excitedly told us--the two or three quarrymen and myself--that he had seen the dog lying on a rock about a mile away. a boy was despatched to summon the neighbouring farmers. in a very short space of time about fifty were on the spot, armed with guns of every conceivable make and age. stealthily creeping up the hill, we were sent in different directions, so as to surround the sheep-walk where she lay. in half an hour's time a gradually lessening circle was formed, all proceeding as silently as possible, and taking advantage of every tuft of fern or stunted thorn, so as to get as near as possible before arousing the sleeping dog. there was a distance of about eighty yards between each man, when the brute rose up, and stretched herself, showing her white and glistening fangs. uttering a low growl as she became aware of her position, she set off in a long swinging gallop towards the heather. just in that direction there appeared to be a man missing from the cordon, and a wide gap was left through which it seemed probable she would escape, and a storm of shouts arose. just, however, as escape seemed certain, a sheet of flame poured out from behind a clump of thorn bushes and fern, and a loud report went reverberating over the glens. the dog's neck turned red, and she rolled over and over, uttering yelp after yelp in her agony. there was a miscellaneous charge from all sides. crash came the butt-end of the gun which had shot her on her body, with such force that the stock was splintered. bang! bang! everybody tried to get a hit at her, even after she was dead. when life was quite extinct we all gathered together, and a whoop of triumph awoke the echoes, startling the lapwings on the moorland. as we marched down to the village we fired a volley in token of our success, and cheer after cheer told of the gladness with which it was welcomed by the villagers. the man who fired the lucky shot was carried through the streets of the village on the shoulders of two stout quarrymen, and the whole population gave themselves a holiday and made merry. a large subscription was started, and contributed to handsomely, in order to pay for the hounds and other expenses. upon examination the bitch was found to be branded on the left side with the letter "p;" so if any of my readers have lost such a dog, they will know what has become of it. i do not suppose that a more exciting chase was ever witnessed since the old wolf-hunting days. it may seem strange to many, as it did to me, that foxhounds should chase one of their own breed, but the fact remains that they did so. on some odd ways of fishing by the author of "mountain, meadow, and mere" the maxim that one half the world does not know how the other half lives may, with slight variation, be applied to the world of sportsmen. the "sportsman" is not of any particular class. the highest in the land and the lowest may rub against each other in the broad field of sport. this is peculiarly true as regards the gentle art. wandering by the side of an unpreserved stream you may see my lord casting a fly over this shallow; and, twenty yards further down, tinker ben seated by the side of a chub hole watching his float circling round in the eddy, and as the noble passes the boor an honest angler's greeting may be interchanged, and a light for the latter's pipe asked for and given. it may be taken as a general rule that between anglers who pursue their sport by fair means there is a levelling freemasonry of the craft which is as pleasant as it is right. between the fair fisherman and the poacher, there is, however, a broad line of demarcation--a line which bars the interchange of even the commonest civilities on the mutual ground of pursuing the same object. the fair fisherman hates the man who captures the finny tribe by unfair or illegal means as strongly as a foxhunter hates a foxkiller, or a strict sabbatarian hates a sinner who enjoys a sunday afternoon's walk and the glimpses of nature it may afford him. there is also a line drawn between the man who fishes for amusement alone and he who fishes for profit. the division in the latter instance may not be so broad as it is in the former, but, nevertheless, it is wide enough to distinctly separate the two classes. now i think the fair and amateur angler is in a great many instances unaware of the shifts and dodges adopted by the poacher and the pothunter to fill their pockets, and of the consequent hindrance to his own sport. therefore by way of warning, of information, and possible amusement, i have noted down a few of the more singular instances which have come under my own observation. let anyone take a boat and row down the sluggish yare from the dirty old city of norwich as the shades of evening are darkening the river, and he will see several uncouth, rough-looking boats being slowly impelled down stream by rougher looking men. he will notice that they have short, stout rods and poles in the boats, and if he watches them, he will presently see them take up their stations by the margin. driving poles in the mud at the stems and sterns of their boats, the men make them fast; and, taking their seats, proceed to "bob" for eels. a quantity of earthworms are strung on worsted, and, after being weighted, are suspended by a stout line from a short thick rod. the solitary fisherman holds one of these rods in each hand on each side of the boat, just feeling the bottom with the bait, and now and then pulling it up and shaking the eels, whose teeth get entangled in the worsted, into the boat. there he sits silent and uncommunicative, the greater part of the night and in all weathers, for the sake, perhaps, of, on the average, a shilling's worth of eels each night. altogether his berth must be a lonely one. his companions take their positions too far off to hold conversation with him, and the splash of a water-rat or the flaps of the canvas of a belated wherry and the cheery good-night of its steersman are the only sounds to beguile the tedium of his midnight watching. another mode of capturing eels is by "eel picking" in the lower waters of the yare near cantley. the man, armed with his eel spear, takes his stand in the bows of his craft, and, stealing along by the edge of the reeds, plunges his spear at random in the mud. he uses his spear also as the means of propelling his tiny boat. i have seen four or five boats following each other along the side of the river in a queer-looking procession. those centres of interest to the angler--the norfolk broads--are, alas! the strongholds of poaching. norfolk anglers plead their great expanse of water as an excuse for "liggering" or trimmering to an enormous extent. taking norfolk anglers as a class, if they _can_ "ligger" they will. the amount of destruction is something wonderful. the only time i ever yielded to the temptation of going with a friend "liggering," i am thankful to say, we caught nothing, and i am not in a hurry to repeat the experiment. yarrell gives an account of four days' sport (?) at heigham sounds and horsea, where in , in the month of _march_, his informants caught in that space of time pike weighing altogether lbs. what wonder that it is now difficult to get really good sport at these places with rod and line! my favourite fish, the tench, has a bad habit of basking on the surface of some of these broads on hot summer's days in weedy bays, where he deems himself perfectly secure. but the amphibious broadsman paddles quietly up to him, and actually scoops him out with his hand. you may touch his body with your hand and he shall not move, but if you touch his tail he darts away. i have seen a somewhat similar thing in shallow pools in shropshire. when the big carp come to the side to spawn, their bodies are half out of the water, and they may be approached and shovelled out with a spade. in the reeds adjoining a carp pool i once found a murderous instrument which was used by a gang of sawyers at work in the adjacent wood, for destroying the basking carp. it consisted of a large flat piece of wood, in which were set long nails like the teeth of a garden rake. this was attached to a long pole, and woe betide the unfortunate carp on whose back it descended. groping for trout in the shallow streams is a well-known amusement of country boys; but the dastardly and cruel practice of _liming_ a brook is not now so often resorted to as it used to be. i have seen it done in a mountain brook, when, on account of my extreme youth, i have been powerless to prevent it, and the schoolboy notion of honour prevented my "peaching." a shovelful of quicklime is taken up the brook to some shallow ford, and then thrown into the water and triturated so that the stream carries it in a milk-white stream downwards. in a short time the poachers follow it, and pick up the trout, which are floating dead on the surface, or swimming in circles on the top of the water, with scorched and blinded eyeballs. the lime penetrates into every crevice of the stream bed, and if it does not kill every trout within its range, it cruelly tortures all. i well remember the sickening sense of shame that crept over me as, an unwilling participator in the outrage, i crept over the mossy ground, when the noise made by every water-ouzel that took wing and every sheep that leaped down the hill side seemed to herald the approach of a keeper, with awful penalties of the law in his train. diverting the course of a brook, and emptying the pools of their water, and afterwards of their fish, is a long operation, and therefore not so frequently resorted to; but that poaching instrument called the twopole net i have known to clear many a nice little pool in a stream of its spotted denizens. do my readers know what a cleeching net is? it is in effect a magnified landing-net at the end of a long pole, and its use is to grab fish from under clumps of weed and overhanging banks. i once had one made for the purpose of catching bait, and a ludicrous incident occurred to a friend of mine who used it. he plunged it in too far from the side where the water was deeper than he imagined, and the consequence was that he fell forward, his feet still on the bank, but his hands resting on the top of the pole within a foot of the water, into which he gradually subsided, in spite of our efforts to pull him back by the slack of his trousers. i have seen the cleeching net used in a very effective manner by bargees on canals. as their vessel is towed along, they put the net into the water alongside the bows, and walk back to the stern as the boat moves, so as to keep the net in the same position. the rush of the water, displaced by the passage of the barge, drives a good many fish into the net, and i have even known fair-sized pike to be captured in this way. once i was cruising down the severn, and had moored the canoe under some bushes in a very secluded part of the river to take my midday rest. presently i saw two men in coracles coming down the river. they stopped just opposite me, and commenced to net the river with a small meshed net. they paid the net out in a semi-circle, and then, beating the water with their paddles, they closed and completed the circle; and with their coracles side by side hauled their net in. it was a caution to see the fish they caught. great chub of five, and one of nine pounds' weight, roach, pike, and dace. in half an hour they had caught a great number. they looked rather frightened when i shot out from my hiding-place and examined their sport and the net. i have not space to chat about setting night lines, in which art the norfolk yachtsmen are no mean proficients; of smelting in the yare; of netting the weedy pools in cheshire with a flue net; of setting hoop nets for tench baited with a bunch of flowers or a brass candlestick, which attract the too curious fish; of eel bays and weirs, and the large eel nets set in the bure from below acle to yarmouth; of leistering salmon and snaring pike; of casting nets used for unlawful purposes; of snatch-hooks and salmon roe, and other like deadly means of compassing the destruction of the finny tribe; but i fancy i have said enough to call to the angler's remembrance that his rod and line have formidable rivals, and that it behoves him to do all in his power to suppress and punish illegal and unfair sport. shooting the st of september is a day more looked forward to by the general sporting public than any other. august th and october st may be eagerly anticipated by the wealthy sportsman, but september st is the day most generally looked forward to. nor is the reason difficult to discover. partridge-shooting is comparatively the cheapest of sports. so long as vermin is kept down by trapping, and the fields properly bushed in the season, to prevent the birds being netted, a fair number are sure to be found. there are few better or more exciting sports than partridge-driving. people who have never tried and those who have tried and failed, affect to despise it; but, in spite of all, it is an excellent sport, if only for the reason that all can join in it. the old and young, the weak and strong, and even ladies, honour the stands with their presence; though this cannot be said to add to the accuracy of the shooting, for partridge-driving arrangements are usually made so as to arrive at the first set of stands somewhere about eleven. here the head-keeper is met, who, after giving directions about watching particular lines, and begging that gentlemen will not put up their heads too soon, but keep down and "give the birds a chance," as he calls it, on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle, i suppose, mounts his old horse and trots off after the drivers, receiving, first of all, you may be sure, some chaff from the youngsters about his horse and his seat, to which he good-humouredly rejoins that "he hopes they will shoot better than he can ride." the party now disperse to their several stands, each one accompanied by his loader, and, as you stroll down with your old loader, he greatly amuses you by his observations on the party and shrewd forecast of their respective powers. in a short time the distant sound of a horn is heard, which makes your old man break off his stories and reflections altogether, as he knows it is the signal for the line of drivers to start; you yourself peer eagerly through the screen, though really knowing that there is no chance of a shot for a long time yet. presently a series of unearthly yells are heard, as some obstinate covey rises and breaks back over the drivers' heads. and here let me remark that the arrangement of a successful drive requires a great deal of forethought and knowledge; the wind and sun must be studied, and also the habits of the birds. partridges are thorough tories, and like to take the same line that their fathers before them did, so it is useless to try to drive them far out of it. presently, as you are looking through the screen, a dark object comes into view that appears rather like a bumble bee; in another second you perceive it is an old cock french partridge, when, just as you are in the act of firing, down drops the bird, and commences running like a racehorse. naturally you bring your gun down, but the old loader whispers, "shoot un, sir, shoot un; he be the blarmed old cock, and mayhap, if you kills un, t'others will be obliged to fly;" so you pot him, and the cloud of feathers that comes out is wonderful. a novice would think that it was blown to bits; but the fact is, nothing of the kind has happened, the cloud being caused by the great thickness of plumage. it is very curious to shoot one in snow: the stream of feathers lying on it looks as if a small pillow had been ripped open. soon a distant cry of "mark over!" showing that a covey has risen and is coming right for the stands, puts every one on the _qui vive_. here they come straight for the man on the right, and you feel almost inclined to envy his chance, when suddenly the covey mount straight up like so many sky-rockets; your friend, fresh to the sport, has put up his head just a minute or so too soon, and the birds saw him. firing a hasty right and left as they pass over, he is greatly surprised at a bird falling nearly on the top of him, the fact being that the two he shot at were clean missed, but one of the hindmost of the covey flew into the shot. and now the scene begins to be very interesting; the birds are beginning to run out of the roots on to the large stubble in front, not by ones and twos, but by twenties at a time, the french birds of course being first. it is most curious to notice their dodges--how they run about looking for places to hide in, and when they discover the least shelter drop down into it at once; but you cannot spare much attention to them, as the coveys begin to rise thick and fast, and cries of "mark over!" are incessant. the work now begins to be very exciting, and the fusillade kept up reminds one of the commencement of a general action, so sustained is it. some of the younger hands, thoroughly overcome by the excitement of their first drive, are firing wildly, as if they thought they should not have a second chance. by way of contrast, look at the man stationed three or four stands from you, and see the machine-like regularity with which he knocks the birds over; no flurry of any sort, the gun brought up easily, the two sharp reports, and a brace of birds tumbling; the empty piece handed to the loader, and the other gun taken and discharged in the same cool way with the like unfailing result. both master and man are perfect specimens of their kind, the former as a shot and the latter as a loader. and now, as the drivers get further through the roots, the hares begin to bolt out, running wildly in every direction, utterly bewildered at the shouts and yells that greet them. not many are shot at except by those who have utterly muffed the birds, and are anxious to show that they can hit something. next, as the drivers come out on to the stubble, the french birds begin to get up by ones and twos. many of these get off, for they rise from such queer places, often close to the stands. the first drive being over, the head-keeper comes up to see the game collected, pausing by the stands of those who have been unlucky, and gravely telling their loaders that they "need not trouble to pick up their master's birds," as he always sees to that; whereupon very frequently the occupier tries to explain how the birds twisted or the sun was in his eyes, or makes one of the thousand excuses that men give for missing. the game being now collected, the party stroll off to the next set of stands, and the same thing goes on again, with the exception that some of the excited sportsmen cool down a little, and, in consequence, improve in their shooting. driving is the least fatiguing of any sport to the shooters, the drivers having to go such long rounds to their different starting-points that there is not the least need to hurry from stand to stand, but you can pick your way and go by the easiest route. the actual shooting, however, is difficult; it requires skill and coolness to get the exact knack of the thing. i well remember, after one drive, a man, who really was a remarkably good shot over dogs or walking up birds, coming to me with an expression of the greatest disgust on his face, and saying, "i have actually missed eight shots running!" however, he soon got into the way of it; but at first you do not discover the pace the birds go at, and are rather bothered by their coming right at you. after a morning's driving very good sport can be got in the afternoon by going out with a couple of steady spaniels after the french partridges. you will find these birds have hidden themselves in the most wonderful places, under clods and small lumps of hedge-cuttings, in tufts of grass, holes by gate-posts; in fact, there is no telling where they may have got to. a rabbit-hole is a very favourite place; so if one of your dogs seems inclined to stop and scratch at one, do not tell your keeper to "call the tiresome beast off," as he is always after rabbits, for it is ten to one that a frenchman has taken refuge there. you will often find that the birds have got down almost to the end of the hole. however, they give capital sport, as they rise out of such unexpected places that you must always be ready for a shot. besides the sport, it is an excellent way of keeping these "pests" down; for they really are "pests," driving about the english birds in the breeding season, and bothering your dogs awfully in the beginning of the shooting season by their habits of running; indeed, until driving commences, you hardly ever kill a frenchman; but this is not much of a loss, as when they are shot they are not worth eating. one thing, you can send them away as presents to people who do not know their merits, and are very much pleased with them on account of their size and the beauty of their plumage, doubtless putting down their hardness and want of flavour to their cook! but partridge-shooting _par excellence_ is over dogs. it is a treat indeed to see a brace of well-broken pointers or setters at work: the speed with which they quarter their ground, and yet their perfect steadiness; to see the dog that finds the game stop dead in his gallop, limbs all rigid, as if he was turned into stone, ears pricked and eyes almost starting out of his head with excitement; then his companion backing steadily, the attitude the same, but no eagerness shown; the rapid shots, and the dogs both down in an instant,--all this is delightful to witness, but is very seldom seen now-a-days. after the first week dogs are very little use, the birds will not lie to them; high farming, with its machine-cut stubbles, clean ploughs, and widely-drilled root-crops, has almost abolished shooting over dogs. the birds will not wait on the bare stubbles, and if you get them into roots, the rattle of the leaves when the dogs are at work is a signal for their flight. the only chance is where seeds have been sown in barley; then the reaping-machine cannot be set very low or it clogs, and in this there is fair lying; but as for the fine stubbles knee-high that our fathers enjoyed, and the broadcast turnips--why, they have gone, and pointers and setters have, alas, nearly disappeared with them. when the birds have become so wild that they will not lie to the dogs at all, the best and most sportsmanlike way is to walk them up; but to do this with any success requires a man to be in excellent training. walking over fallows deeply ploughed by steam-power is no joke, and the birds invariably select these. your plan is to have about four guns and five keepers or beaters, and take the fields in line, of course driving in the direction of any pieces of cole-seed, mustard, or roots that you may have on your ground; for when once the birds get into these, particularly into cole-seed, they will remain the rest of the day. it is surprising how many are bagged when walking: sometimes the coveys seem bothered by the line of men, and will rise within an easy shot; but they often seem to know by some sort of intuition the bad shot of the party, and will allow him to get fairly into the middle of them, when they rise with a rush, and fly off none the worse for his too hurried shots. in this sport there is not half the firing to be heard which there is in "driving;" but the deadly single shot or the steady double is heard pretty regularly, and the bag at the end of the day is usually heavier. you commonly find that a very fair bag is made before entering the cole-seed or roots where the coveys have principally gone; but when this cover is entered, unless very unlucky, you may fairly reckon on the bag being doubled, for the birds cannot run much, and are forced to rise fairly, so that even a moderate shot ought to be pretty sure of his birds. one great advantage of this kind of shooting is that so few birds get away wounded; as a rule they are either dropped at once or get off scot-free, whereas in "driving" an immense number go away wounded; and if there are any crows in the district, it is most curious to see them on the day after a "drive" hunting the fields regularly and systematically after the cripples. there is still another method of partridge-shooting, but this mode is only adopted by wealthy cits, and brand-new peers. the keepers, with a strong force of beaters, are sent out to drive the birds into cover, and, when there, men are left as stops to keep the birds from straying out; then about twelve the party drive up in wagonettes, well wrapped up, and with plenty of foot-warmers, &c., to the nearest piece of cover, get out, take their guns, and walk right through it, blazing at everything that shows itself; when they have done one field, they get into their carriages and drive to the next, where the same amusement is carried on; then comes hot lunch at the nearest keeper's house, which lasts for an hour or more, and the afternoon sport is a repetition of the morning's. there is no stopping to pick up the game,--keepers are left behind for that, and are told to take their guns, so as to stop any cripples, the "writing between the lines" being in this case that they are to kill all they can, so as to make the bag sound better at the end of the day. as partridge-shooting is one of the cheapest amusements, pheasant-shooting, on the other hand, is one of the dearest. what with feeding the young birds and doctoring them, and the constant watching they require when they are turned into the cover; and lastly, the large staff of beaters, the calculation of ten shillings per head for every one killed is not far beyond the mark. pheasant-shooting can really only be managed by one method, and that is by having a body of well-trained beaters; so cunning are these birds that there is no chance of giving your friends the desired sport, if you do not have them. it is true a very pleasant day may often be had on the outskirts of your grounds by going round with some well-broken spaniels; but for real pheasant-shooting beaters are indispensable. a well-arranged and successful beat requires almost as much generalship as an ashanti campaign. the covers must be watched from the earliest season, but the watchers must show themselves as little as possible; if the pheasants come out, they should put them back by rattling a stick or shaking some branches, for by showing themselves the chances are that the pheasants would fly off at once, but the rattle of a stick merely makes them run back into cover. then the corners where they are to rise must be netted most carefully, perfect silence being kept, and as little noise of any kind made as possible. when the beat has actually commenced not a point must be left unguarded, the smallest ditch or grip with grass in it must have a "stop" at it, and any hare or rabbit runs that there may be must be stopped also. the boys who act as "stops" have to be well drilled in their parts, just to keep a subdued kind of rattle with their two short sticks, and by no means to strike the bushes in cover--merely to use their sticks as a kind of castanet. in fact, pheasants are at once the keeper's greatest pride and greatest plague, from the time when he has to guard the wild birds' nests against egg-stealers, and to watch those brought up under hens--ever on the look-out for gapes or croup when they are quite young, and then when older, and turned into the covers, on the watch for poachers or vermin, until the grand shooting-day; and even until that is over his anxiety is unceasing. it is very difficult to prevent them straying, particularly in a district where there are many oaks, as they will, however well fed, roam after acorns. and then to insure there being a proper quantity of pheasants in the required places is no easy work. with all the pains possible, it is extraordinary how they will stray away. two instances of this straying propensity came under my individual notice. i was staying with a large party at a friend's house for pheasant-shooting, and as the covers had not been beaten before, my friend was sanguine of some first-rate sport, knowing the large number of pheasants that had been reared, and the trouble that had been taken with them. we went out, and everything seemed to promise an excellent day's shooting; the pheasants were all reported safe the night before, and "stops" had been sent out early to prevent them straying, nets put down, and all complete. well, the first cover that was beaten yielded only about thirty or forty pheasants, instead of three or four times that number, and the second and third the same. the host looked much annoyed, and his keeper almost heart-broken; and this kind of sport continued until the afternoon, when my friend called up the keeper, and in desperation ordered him to beat a small covert standing by itself about three-quarters of a mile off. the man said he did not think it was any use, as no pheasants were ever there; however, as his master wished it, it should be done, and he sent off some men to put down the nets very carefully. when we came up the under-keeper said there certainly were some pheasants there, though he had never known them to be in that place before; so we began, and very soon found that they had nearly all migrated from their usual quarters to this place, above four hundred being killed in this small cover. how they got there no one could guess; there were not any connecting hedgerows or ploughed fields, and they had roosted in their usual places. the second case occurred to myself. i wished to beat a small cover of my own of about four acres, as we knew there were some pheasants there, and being an outlying one it was not altogether safe; so i gave orders that the place should be netted, and "stops," &c., sent out, and then went and beat it, but to my great surprise found scarcely anything. the keeper was utterly puzzled too; we tried all the likely spots round with no result, and i came to the conclusion that some poachers must have beaten the wood very early that day. however, as we were going off, the quick eye of my keeper detected a pheasant running in an old grassy lane near, and we resolved to try this; and well it was we did; every bush and tuft of grass seemed to hold a pheasant, and we made a capital bag, killing all but one, to my keeper's great satisfaction. several more were got than the number he had mentally put down for the cover to yield; however, in this case we at length detected the way they had got out. the end of the wood had been netted, and a "stop" put on one side where there was an old ditch; but on the other a little grip with long grass in it, leading from the cover across a field to the old lane, had been left unguarded, as the net was thought to have been fastened down so closely that nothing could get out; but the pheasants found the weak place, and undoubtedly strayed by it. to insure a good day's pheasant-shooting, thoroughly trained beaters are absolutely necessary; and it is equally needful that the guns should remain where they are posted, or if they are to move, only do so exactly as the head-keeper directs. nothing is more annoying, both to master and keeper, than having a good day spoiled because two or three of the guns will get together to hear or tell the last new story, and consequently let the pheasants escape by not being at their proper posts. if you have the good fortune to be placed by the net at the end of the beat, you will find that, besides having the best place for sport, great amusement can be derived by noticing the behaviour of the various kinds of game as they come up to it. soon after you have taken your position, the rattle of sticks is heard, showing that the beat has begun, and shortly a suppressed shout indicates that a rabbit is up; for the best-trained beaters in england cannot resist giving a shout at the sight of one, and if they are a scratch lot, the yells that greet its appearance could not be exceeded if half a dozen foxes had been unkennelled at once. they will allow a pheasant or woodcock or, in fact, any other kind of game, to get away silently; but a rabbit is too much for them--why, i do not know; but such is the fact. in a short time something may be heard coming very rapidly towards the net, and in a minute a splendid old cock-pheasant appears, who runs right up to it; then, suddenly catching sight of you, back he goes like a racehorse, and you hear the whirr as he rises on meeting the line of beaters, and the cry of "mark back," succeeded as a rule by two rapid shots, sometimes only by a single one, followed by a crash as he comes down through the trees. next a lot of hen-pheasants come pattering along, crouching as they run with outstretched neck. these come up very quietly, and begin to examine the net closely, walking along it, trying whether they can find a place to pass underneath, and, if they do, they infallibly lead all the rest away; but, failing this, they squat down and become at once almost invisible; so exactly does their plumage assimilate itself to the dead leaves that, unless you happen to catch their eye, you would never detect them. then come a lot of young cocks in a terrible flurry, running here, there, and everywhere, occasionally twisting round like teetotums; these, too, at length squat, picking out tufts of brake or grass, where their dark heads are covered, and their back and long tail-feathers just match the stuff they are lying in. presently some hares come along, and these are all listening so intently to the beaters, and looking back as well, that they blunder against the net, greatly to their astonishment; for they sit up and stare at it, and then trot away to see if they can make off by one of their visual runs; failing in this, they lie down in some of the thickest cover, hoping to escape by this plan. numerous rabbits come hopping along, and, meeting the net, turn and hide themselves in stumps or any other place they can find. and really, as the beaters come nearer and nearer, you would never imagine the quantity of game there is; a novice would at once declare there was none, so absolutely motionless does it remain until it is forced up; and then, although you have been at the post all the time, the quantity seems quite astonishing. pheasants begin to whirr up, at first by twos and threes, and then almost by scores at a time, and the firing is incessant; it seems now that every tuft of grass or piece of fern has a pheasant under it; but in spite of the beaters, several old cocks run back between them, being far too clever to rise and be shot at, knowing that a beater may almost as well strike at a flash of lighting as at an old cock running. i may here remark that some of these old cocks will often escape being killed season after season by some dodge or other. in a cover of my own there was an old cock-pheasant who lived between six and seven years, always escaping the guns. we used to drive this cover regularly to the same point, and just before the beaters had finished, this old fellow would get up close to the outside hedge, rising above the underwood as if he would give an excellent shot; but, just as you thought he was as good as bagged, closing his wings, he would drop into the field close to the hedge, turn round, and run back like a racer, hopping over the fence again into the cover just behind the beaters. he practised this dodge successfully for several years; but at length the keeper complained so much that he disturbed the cover, and would not let any other bird come near, that i had to devise means to kill him, which was effected by driving the cover the opposite way to which he was accustomed. the old fellow was so bewildered that he rose, gave a fair shot, and was killed. a more splendid bird than he was could scarcely have been seen--in full plumage, a broad and perfect white ring round his neck, and spurs an inch long, and as sharp and hard as if they had been made of iron. very amusing it is, too, to watch the shooters. there stands one man, picking his birds, and dreading a miss for the sake of his reputation; here is a greedy shot, firing at everything, blowing much of his game to pieces, for fear anyone else should get a shot; and again, there is the keeper's horror and detestation--a man who sends off his birds wounded, as a rule hitting them, but very seldom killing one clean, with the exception of those that he utterly annihilates. lookers-on are apt to laugh at sportsmen for missing pheasants, so large do they look, and such apparently easy shots do they give; and until a person tries himself, he has no idea how fast they really do fly, or how easy it is to miss them. rabbit-shooting is capital sport; indeed, none can be better for affording sport to a large christmas-party in the country. everybody enjoys it, and brightens up at the idea, from the schoolboy home for the holidays--who has been in and out of the house scores of times already to see how the weather looked, whether the beagles would be ready, or on some other wonderful pretext--to the old sportsman, who did not know whether he should come, but cannot resist the temptation, merely trying at first to save his dignity by saying he should just come and see if any woodcocks were sprung, and ending in being as enthusiastic about it as the youngest. the "form" displayed by the shooters is diverse. there is the elderly gentleman who gets away by himself to a quiet corner, and is found at lunch-time with three or four mangled rabbits, none of them having been more than a couple of yards from his gun when they were shot. then there is the man who will always fire both barrels; if he misses with the first, of course he tries with his second; but if he does hit the first time, discharges the second barrel as a sort of salute in honour of his successful first. and here is an amateur--this one usually a schoolboy or 'varsity man--who fires at whatever he gets the slightest glimpse of; a robin flitting about amongst the brambles is safe to have a shot fired at it; and indeed the dogs, keepers, and shooters have all, in their turns, very narrow escapes from this gentleman: the position he has held is well and distinctly marked by the cut-down underwood and well-peppered trunks of trees. then there is the sportsman, generally a great swell, who fires at everything he sees in the distance, and claims all game killed within a radius of a quarter of a mile. he cannot be induced to shoot at a rabbit or any game within a reasonable distance, his excuse always being, "choke-bore, my dear fellow--blow it to bits;" the fact being that he never hits anything except by accident, and fancies by this plan that he is not detected. i once saw a capital trick played on a person of this kind by a couple of mischievous schoolboys. they procured a dead rabbit, and fixed it firmly in a lifelike position by means of sticks, &c.; then tying a long piece of string to each foreleg, they went and ensconced themselves behind two large trees in the cover, one on each side of the road, about seventy yards from the gentleman's stand. putting down the rabbit, one of them drew it slowly across the road, the other giving a shout, which made their friend look round and immediately shoot at it, when the string was jerked and the rabbit fell on its side. whilst he was reloading and fiddling with his gun, the rabbit was drawn away, and in a short time the game was played again; in the end about twenty shots were fired at it by the victim, not one of which touched it, and the string was only cut once. when lunch-time came, and the keeper went round to collect the rabbits, he was saluted by the gentleman with: "well, smith, got my eye in to-day. never saw such a gun; killed at least thirty rabbits straight off crossing the road up there. must have been one of their regular runs." off went the keeper to pick them up, and of course detected the trick at once. his good manners would not allow him to laugh there; so he had to make a bolt for it, and, to my great surprise, i saw this staid and serious head-keeper burst through the cover into the ride i was in, and begin to shout with laughter in the most uproarious manner. for a moment i thought he had gone mad, and on walking up to him could get nothing out of him, except between his fits of laughter, "beg pardon, sir, but them 'limbs,' them two 'limbs!'" at last he got sufficiently calm to tell me what had occurred, and i need hardly say that i laughed almost as heartily. the indignation of the victim was great when he discovered the trick, and he stalked off to the house at once; and perhaps it was well that he did, for the two young scamps' account of the whole thing was enough to send anyone into fits. it is needless to say that they ever after occupied the foremost place in the keeper's affections. it is, indeed, a very pretty sight to see a pack of beagles working in cover. how they try every tuft of grass or rushes! soon you notice that they are working more eagerly, and some begin to lash their tails, and suddenly out bolts "bunny" from his seat, sure to be saluted by a hasty shot from some one, not the least to its detriment, but a very narrow escape for the leading dogs. away go the pack, making the woods ring with their tongues. excited individuals race after them, often with their guns on full cock, and their fingers on the trigger. what their ideas may be in this performance is difficult to say, but i suppose it is the effect of that temporary insanity that seizes many people at the sight of a rabbit. as a rabbit invariably runs a ring, and returns to its starting-place, there is not the least use, except for the sake of the exercise, in trying to follow it; and the first one put up is safe to run his ring, as the good shots will not fire at him, that the youngsters may have a chance, and the indifferent shots are sure to miss the first through excitement. you hear plenty of shots whilst the dogs are running, as other rabbits, frightened by their noise and passage, bolt from their seats and scuttle about everywhere. besides these, a few old cock-pheasants, who have strayed from the preserves, are sure to be found and shot. you shortly hear a shot from the cover the rabbit was found in, followed by "who-whoop!" showing that the hunted one has been killed. the keeper then begins to draw afresh, and you may notice that certain of the older sportsmen are very attentive to the hounds whilst drawing, the reason being, as is soon evident, that they hope a woodcock may be flushed, and their hopes are usually realised. if you mark one beagle poking about by himself, sniffing along, evidently on scent, yet not opening, you may be pretty sure he is on a woodcock. but very soon another rabbit is found, and away goes the pack, this time not quite so steadily, as the number of rabbits up tempt the younger hounds after them. however, this adds (except in the opinion of the staid elders) to the sport; and soon, by the noise of the beagles' tongues and the rapid shooting, it appears as if every hound had a rabbit to himself. there certainly must be some "sweet little cherub" sitting "up aloft," who protects rabbit-shooters and beagles, so reckless does the shooting always appear. here you see an excited youth fire at a rabbit not a yard in front of the dog. how he manages to miss both seems incomprehensible, but he does. there another rushes round a corner, and blazes both barrels at one, just in a line with another gun, and only a few yards from him; but he escapes too. in a word, rabbit-shooting with beagles is one of the most amusing, but at the same time one of the most dangerous, sports going. the advance of civilisation and cultivation has almost entirely spoiled snipe and wild-fowl shooting. in the districts where, thirty years ago, ducks might be found by dozens and snipe in swarms, the former are extinct; and as for the latter, if there happens to be one, it flies off before you are within half a mile of it, as if it was ashamed of being seen in such a place. i well remember the capital shooting i used to get in berkshire. there was a large swampy common of several hundred acres, all rough sedgy grass and rushes; on one side was a wide ditch full of twists and turns, with high reedy banks, and at the further end a narrow tributary of the thames, with beds of water-rushes on both sides; and on the other side were acres of small meadows of from six to ten acres, divided by high hawthorn hedges and deep wide ditches. it was a real "happy hunting-ground" for anyone fond of the sport, and many have been the long days that i and my retriever passed on it. the common itself was invariably full of snipe, and they behaved themselves properly in those days, not rising and going off in whisps directly you appeared, but trying to be shot at decently, like respectable birds. then the ditch and river were sure to hold ducks; and after you had hunted the common, it was very exciting work, creeping up the various well-known curves and turns in the ditch, where the ducks usually remained, my dog creeping after me, quite as much interested as i was myself, and showing most wonderful intelligence in avoiding stepping on any little pieces of thin ice or anything that would make a noise; then the careful look over the bank, and if the stalk had been successful, the rapid double shot at the ducks, as they rose with a rush, followed by the drop of killed or wounded, if the shot had been lucky, and the subsequent hunt after the cripples, if unfortunately there were any, for nothing on earth is so difficult to get as a wounded duck. the way they will dive, and the time they can keep under water, only rising and putting the tip of their beak up to get air, and the extraordinary places they get into, will puzzle the best retriever, and weary out his master's patience, unless he has a very large stock of that, or obstinacy, in his composition. but very often, when i peered cautiously over the bank, the ducks could just be seen swimming away down a further reach of the ditch, making for the larger stream below, and then it was a race as to which should get there first, as the cunning birds knew as well as i did that if they once got there, and into the reed-beds, they were comparatively safe. it was no joke, running as hard as you could go, in a stooping position, for several hundred yards; and often they would escape me, an unfortunate step on a piece of thin ice, or a stick, making them rise, and i then had the pleasure of seeing them fly off and drop into a reed-bed half a mile off, which i could not get at. i had often been warned that the ditch was dangerous, and proved it on one occasion, very nearly to my cost. some ducks dropped into a rushy pool in a field on the opposite side of it, and as i should have had a walk of a mile to get round to them, i determined to try and cross, fortunately for myself selecting a place where there was a stout young willow; so putting down my gun, and catching firm hold of the tree, i put one leg into the ditch, and soon found, though it passed down through the mud above my knee, that no bottom was to be found, and on trying to withdraw it, discovered that my leg was fixed as if in a vice. fortunately the willow was strong, and having one leg on the bank, after pulling until i thought the other must be dislocated, i succeeded in extricating myself. but the meadows on the further side were where the best sport used to be got. these, as i have said, were divided by large hawthorn hedges fully twelve feet high, and intersected by deep ditches full of reeds, with an open pool here and there. the meadows, too, had narrow gutters cut in them to act as drains, i believe, and these abounded with snipe; and after you had flushed the common ones, if you hunted carefully a good many jacks could be found. the ditches were very good for ducks. by help of the hedges you could get up to them unperceived, and many a fine mallard i got here. hares were also fond of the rough grass, and partridges might usually be found in the middle of the day. i remember bagging one december day six and a half couple of ducks, eleven couple of snipe, besides some jacks, three hares, and three and a half brace of birds. this does not sound much, but to me it was a thoroughly enjoyable day. no keeper following at one's heels, full of advice, but just going where and how i pleased; then the successful stalk after ducks, and the unexpected luck with partridges and hares, in addition to the snipe, have indelibly impressed this day on my memory. being in this neighbourhood a short time ago, i went down to look at my favourite ground, and found that the large marshy common, with a few donkeys and some wretched cows trying to get a living off it, had been drained, and subdivided by neat post and rail fences, and sheep were grazing where snipe used to abound. the only thing unchanged was the old ditch. i suppose it is all right, but i prefer the ducks and snipe. many years ago very fair duck-shooting, and some snipe as well, might be got on the thames between marlow and windsor, and this was a very luxurious kind of wild-fowl shooting; for all you had to do was to hire a punt and a good puntsman who knew the river well, and, wrapping yourself up comfortably in a warm coat, drop down the river, going into the quiet back waters and round the eyot-beds. in favourable weather a good many ducks might be found, and it was curious to notice how they would hide themselves under the banks where they were undermined by the stream, and the roots of the osiers hung down. an old mallard would constantly stay until fairly poked out; and often when you thought you had tried them thoroughly, after you left an old fellow would rise and go quacking off. the eyot-beds were favourite places for snipe; but you could not do much with these unless with a steady old dog, who would poke slowly all over the place, the stumps and stalks of the osiers entirely preventing any walking. but now, i believe, this style of shooting is at an end. my last attempt at duck-shooting was very exciting, in fact rather too much so. a friend, who knew my weakness for it, wrote and asked me to come to his house, as i could get capital flight-shooting close to his place. of course i went, and in the evening we started for the river, which was much flooded, and embarking in a boat, i was soon landed on a small mound in the middle of the floods, about twelve feet square, and was told it was a first-rate place, as the ducks, in their flight from some large ponds about five miles off, always passed over it. i was also told i might be sure to know when they were coming by the flashes of the guns of other wild fowlers on the banks some miles away. a whistle was given me to signal for the boat when i wanted it, and i was left alone in my glory. it was very cold, and my island was too small for exercise. soon a flash caught my eye, and then the report of a gun fired some miles off came to my ears, soon followed by a succession of flashes and reports from gunners posted along each side of the river. the effect was very pretty, and i admired it greatly, until an idea struck me that there might be guns posted on the bank behind. just then some ducks came along, and i fired rapidly at them; almost simultaneously came two reports from the bank, and some heavy charges of shot cut up the water all round; in addition something weighty struck the ground just in my rear, covering me with mud. instantly blowing my whistle, the boat soon came, and on landing i saw two men, one of whom coming up asked me where i had been. i told him "on the mound"; to which he rejoined, "was you, really? lor, now, if i didn't think it was the miller's old donkey! and, thinks i, if the aggravating old beast gets there, a shot or two won't hurt un, and teach him not to get there again; so i lets 'goo' when the ducks comes along. there, and so 'twas you, sir; lor, now, to think of that!" and the old fellow went off into a series of chuckles. his gun was an extraordinary one--a single barrel, something like four feet long, about eight bore. i asked what charge he put in, and he showed me a measure that held at least four drachms of powder, and another that would contain about three ounces of number two shot. this was how he loaded, and in addition, he said, he always put in a couple of pistol-shots--"they did bring anything down so sweet that they hit." so these were the pleasant things i heard strike the ground just behind me. i went home at once, thankful that i had not been bagged. generously made available by kentuckiana digital library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) note: images of the original pages are available through the kentuckiana digital library. see http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc= &idno=b - - &view=toc history of the kentucky derby - by john l. o'connor copyright john l. o'connor contents preface first derby second derby third derby fourth derby fifth derby sixth derby seventh derby eighth derby ninth derby tenth derby eleventh derby twelfth derby thirteenth derby fourteenth derby fifteenth derby sixteenth derby seventeenth derby eighteenth derby nineteenth derby twentieth derby twenty-first derby twenty-second derby twenty-third derby twenty-fourth derby twenty-fifth derby twenty-sixth derby twenty-seventh derby twenty-eighth derby twenty-ninth derby thirtieth derby thirty-first derby thirty-second derby thirty-third derby thirty-fourth derby thirty-fifth derby thirty-sixth derby thirty-seventh derby thirty-eighth derby thirty-ninth derby fortieth derby forty-first derby forty-second derby forty-third derby forty-fourth derby forty-fifth derby forty-sixth derby preface with no pretense to authorship or claim for originality on the part of the compiler, this work is offered as a reference book. for many, the plain facts of each year's kentucky derby will be of sufficient interest. to the countless followers of turf happenings the material herein will refresh the memory and awaken happy reminiscence. this compilation is made mainly from the columns of _the thoroughbred record_, a kentucky publication, and i am indebted to the graciousness of its editor, mr. john e. rubbathan, for the privilege to use the material from his invaluable repository. mr. douglas anderson, author of "making the american thoroughbred," by his encouragement has made light the labor incident to compilation. to mr. gurney c. gue, of the _new york herald_, i owe a debt of gratitude for his helpful advice. in conclusion, if these efforts prove acceptable to my brethren of the turf and tend in any degree to promote and keep up the spirit of racing, the object in giving as much time to the subject as i have done, will be accomplished and my end attained. white plains, n. y. april first, . first derby to-day will ever be historic in the turf annals of kentucky, as the first "derby day," of what i hope to see a long series of turf festivities. if the officers of the association could have had the pick from the calendar of the year, there could not have been a more delightful and charming day. the morning broke without a cloud visible in the heavens, while a cool breeze was wafted over the course, tempering the increasing rays of the sun. it was just such a day in may when the sun is rejoicing above in heaven, the clouds have all hurried away. down in the meadow the blossoms are waking, light on their twigs the young leaves are shaking, round the warm knolls the lambs are a leaping, the colt from his fold o'er the pasture is sweeping, but on the bright lake, the little waves break, for there the cool west is at play. the course was in splendid order, and all the appurtenances requisite for the comfort and convenience of racing was ready to hand. in company with a friend we started early for the course, thinking that we would reach it before the crowd, but by half past eleven o'clock we found enough people to make a respectable show. as the hour approached for the opening of the ball, every avenue leading to the course was thronged with people making their way to it. it was indeed a derby day in all respects. with the two railroads leading to the course, the street cars, hacks and private vehicles, when the first bell was rung for the riders, the grand stand presented one solid mass of human faces, while the quarter-stretch, the public stand, and a portion of the field was covered with people. there could not have been less than , persons on the course, composed of all grades of society, the banker, the merchant, the gentleman of leisure and pleasure seeker, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, _et id omne genus_. that portion of the grand stand devoted to the ladies was one grand bouquet of beauty, refinement and intelligence. the ladies in the various costumes looked like so many parti-colored butterflies, balancing themselves on their wings, in the slanting rays of the bright sun. at one time you met a beauty with such sweetness in her upturned eyes, such as fancy lends to the madonna; at another point, one on whose lips the words laugh, and whose stately steps are light, as though a winged angel trod over earth flowers, and fear'd to brush away their delicate hues. all the shades of beauty is fully represented, from the blonde to the brunette, from the matron, whose hair is threaded with the silver, to the young girl just blushing into womanhood, whose cheeks are as ruby red as a peach that has been kissed by the sun. the derby came next, and fifteen finer or handsomer youngsters never faced a starter. mcgrath's entries had the call in the betting and many thought he would win with chesapeake, but aristides, the son of leamington, carried off the honors, and worthily earned a chaplet, one of the best three-year-olds ever stripped for a race in this country. it was extremely gratifying to the friends of the liberal laird of mcgrathiana, and will be doubly gratifying to aristides welch, the owner of leamington, after whom the colt is christened. this is the best race at the weights ever run by three-year-olds in this country, and cannot fail to make aristides a still stronger favorite for his eastern engagements. summary the kentucky derby, three-year-olds; $ play or pay; association to add $ ; second horse to have $ . dash of one and a half miles. closed with nominations. value $ , . h. p. mcgrath's ch c aristides, by imp. leamington, out of sarong; lbs., oliver lewis geo. h. rice's b c volcano, by vandal, out of iodine; lbs., h. williams c. a. lewis' ch c verdigris, by versailles, out of belle brandon; lbs., h. chambers h. p. mcgrath's b c chesapeake, by lexington, out of roxana; lbs., w. henry robinson, morgan & co.'s br c bob woolley, by imp. leamington, out of item; lbs., w. walker j. b. rhodes' b c searcher, by enquirer, dam by imp. bonnie scotland; lbs., r. colston, jr. wm. cottrill's ch f ascension, by imp. australian, out of lilly ward; lbs., w. lakeland stringfield & clay's gr c enlister, by enquirer, out of crownlet; lbs., holloway a. buford's ch c mccreery, by enquirer, out of ontario; lbs., d. jones stringfield & clay's ch c warsaw, by war dance, out of sister of charity; lbs., p. masterson f. b. harper's b c ten broeck, by imp. phaeton, out of fanny holton; lbs., m. kelso s. j. salyer's br c bill bruce, by enquirer, out of aurora raby; lbs., m. jones allen bashford's br c, by baywood, out of lute; lbs., j. carter a. b. lewis & co.'s b c vagabond, by vandal, out of gem; lbs., j. houston j. a. grinstead's ch f gold mine, by imp. australian, out of income; lbs., c. stradford time-- : - / betting--mcgrath $ , ascension $ , searcher $ , bill bruce $ , verdigris $ , volcano $ , the field $ . the kentucky derby the fifteen youngsters assembled at the half mile pole. little or no delay took place under the able directorship of col. w. h. johnson. when they were marshaled into line, he tapped the drum to one of the most capital starts i have ever seen, the fifteen going away like a platoon of cavalry, except the baywood colt, who hung at the post. volcano jumped away first, with mccreery second, and searcher third, the remainder bunched, coming round the turn to the quarter pole - / seconds. they came at a rapid rate down the stretch and past the stand in seconds, mccreery first, volcano second, searcher third, aristides fourth, the others pretty well bunched. before they had reached the quarter, : , aristides had gone to the front and opened a gap of two lengths down the back stretch, volcano second, searcher third, the mile : - / . the pace was so hot that it began to tell and the field was stretched over a good deal of ground. the race from this point home was never in doubt, aristides winning by two lengths with something in hand, volcano second, a length in front of verdigris third, who came rapidly on the home stretch inside the distance. bob woolley who was caromed against on the lower turn a good fourth. ten broeck fifth, the baywood colt sixth, bill bruce seventh, the remainder were scattered at wide intervals, and the dust was so great that i was unable to place the others. time-- : - / . description of the winner aristides is a chestnut colt, with a star, and two white pasterns behind. he stands fifteen hands, one and three-quarter inches high. he has a neat head and neck running into rather a straight shoulder, with great length, good barrel, excellent hips and stifles, sound feet and legs well under him. he has fine turn of speed, and from the way he finished up the derby to-day gives every evidence of being a good stayer. he was bred by mr. h. p. mcgrath, at mcgrathiana stud farm, near lexington, ky., and is by imp. leamington, out of sarong, by lexington, her dam the greek slave, by imp. glencoe--margaret hunter, by imp. margrave--mary hunt, by bertrand--betty coons, by hephestion--by hampton's twig--by imp. bedford--by harlequin--by imp. fearnaught. second derby eleven out of the thirty-four nominations went to the post, and after some delay, caused by the breakaway and anxiety of a few of the colts to get off in front, col. robt. johnson, who officiated in this race, sent them away to a good start, parole in the lead, creedmoor second, vagrant third, bullion fourth, bombay fifth, harry hill sixth, red coat seventh, and the remainder in pretty close order. before going half way around the turn, vagrant had taken the lead, with parole second, creedmoor, third. from the three-quarter pole to the stand some changes took place, vagrant leading, bullion two lengths, second, harry hill third, parole fourth, bombay fifth, creedmoor sixth, the remainder outpaced, strung out in single file. vagrant maintained his lead around the turn and just before reaching the quarter pole, : - / , some one, many thought harry hill, ran into and cut bullion down and dropped back, harry hill taking his position, with creedmoor third. before reaching the half mile the race had resolved itself into a match between vagrant and creedmoor. but it was never in doubt, for vagrant galloped along at his ease and his big stride, and won the race, like he has all the others, in a big gallop by more than a length, harry hill, two lengths from him, third, bombay fourth, red coat fifth, harper's black filly by enquirer sixth, leamingtonian seventh, marie michon eighth, bullion ninth, parole tenth and germantown eleventh. the quarter , half , three-quarters : - / , mile : , mile and a quarter : - / , mile and a half : - / . description and pedigree vagrant is a dark bay gelding, blaze face, four white stockings, and stands a shade over - / hands. he was bred at the preakness stud farm, the property of m. h. sanford, esq., and was purchased as a yearling by t. j. nichols, paris, ky., for $ . he has a neat head and neck, good shoulders, excellent middle piece, great length, immense hips and quarters and tremendous stifles, with sound feet and legs. his action is easy and graceful, a regular daisy cutter, and from his style and carriage must go a distance of ground. vagrant is by virgil (son of vandal and hymenia by imp. yorkshire; st dam lazy, by imp. scythian; d dam lindora, by lexington; d dam picayune, by medoc; th dam sally howe, by sir william of transport; th dam lady robin, by robin grey; th dam by quicksilver (son of imp. medley); th dam by meede's celer. he started in his two-year-old form six times, won five, and beaten once. he won the alexander stakes, half mile, at louisville, ky., in - / , beating harry hill, russ butler and ten others. same meeting with lbs. penalty, ran third to creedmoor for the tennessee stakes, three-quarters of a mile in : - / track deep in mud. at lexington, ky., won sweepstakes for -year-old colts, three-quarters of a mile, beating the nipper, creedmoor, and six others, in : . same meeting won the sweepstakes for two-year-old colts and fillies, one mile, beating clemmie g., the nipper, and five others, in : - / . at louisville fall meeting, won the belle meade stakes, three-quarters of a mile, beating bengal, bombay, and nine others, in : - / . same meeting won the sanford stakes, one mile, beating alborac, miriam filly, and several others, in : . at lexington, ky., spring meeting of , won the phoenix hotel stakes, - / miles, by more than a distance, beating clemmie g., knapsack, very fine and yandall, in : - / . besides winning the kentucky derby, at louisville, in present meeting, he is engaged in the clark stakes, two miles, and same place in fall on the st. leger, two miles and galt house stakes, two mile heats, the grand exposition stakes, - / miles at philadelphia, the breckenridge stakes, two miles, at baltimore, and the suwanee stakes, two mile heats, at nashville fall meetings. the kentucky derby, for three-year olds, $ play or pay, with $ , added, second to have $ . one and a half miles, nominations. value $ , . t. j. nichol's b g vagrant, by virgil, dam lazy, lbs., swim williams & owings' ch c creedmoor, by asteroid, dam imp. target, lbs., williams john funk's br c harry hill, by virgil, dam lark, lbs., miller p. lorillard's br g parole, by imp. leamington, dam maiden, lbs., sparling f. b. harper's ch c germantown, by planet, dam nantura, lbs., graham f. b. harper's blk f, by enquirer, dam by imp. albion, lbs., james j. a. grinstead's b f marie michon, by melbourne, jr., dam nellie gray, lbs., stratford h. f. vissman's b c leamingtonian, by imp. leamington, dam mollie, lbs., colston d. swigert's b c bombay, by planet, dam nora, lbs., walker green clay's ch c red coat, by imp. australian, dam sally, lbs., hughes a. keene richards' ch c bullion, by war dance, dam gold ring, lbs., kelso time-- : - / betting--just before the start, vagrant even against the field. third derby persons who long wished and desired a beautiful day for the kentucky derby were fully gratified tuesday. the sun was out bright and the excessive heat for the past week was tempered by a gentle breeze that made it all the more enjoyable, albeit it militated some against faster time. the course, from the heavy rain of sunday, was not in the best possible condition, and in some places was a little deep and uneven. early in the morning preparations commenced for the day's sport, and the crowded condition of the hotels betokened a large attendance, and long before the call bell was sounded to summon the jockeys and horses, the grand stand, quarter-stretch, field and field stand were crowded to repletion with an anxious crowd of spectators. the sky was flecked here and there with a few masses of clouds, but there was nothing threatening about them. now and then they served the purpose of a veil, which hid the fierce glances of the sun, and cast a shade over the vast crowd that was gathered on the emerald green fields. rarely, indeed, have the magnificent landscapes which can be viewed on either side from the grand stand and its neighborhood, looked more lovely. behind, looking, we see the nashville railroad winding its way like a snake through green fields and woodlands until it is lost in the distance. in front to one side you see the curling smoke arising from the city, with a cloud of dust that indicates the road over which the vast crowd is coming, bent on pleasure. to the left lay green fields and woodlands, rejoicing in the light luxuriant foliage of may; meadows and fields surrounded by whitened fences, here and there a cottage dotted over the plain with their smoke curling lazily upwards. away beyond this could be seen the green hills running in a semi-circle, indicating where the beautiful ohio winds its way and marked the boundary between kentucky and indiana. for the derby, eleven out of the forty-one nominations sported silk. leonard was a hot favorite, and the race resulted in his overthrow by baden-baden, who was third choice in the betting. if leonard could have won, his chances were destroyed by the way in which the race was managed. he made all the running, took the lead and set himself up as a target for the others to shoot at, and right gallantly did lisbon serve his stable companion, baden-baden, for three-quarters of a mile at a clipping pace, and then dropped back. vera cruz, who was backed with considerable spirit by his friends, had his chances destroyed by being left at the post. king william ran a good race, and for a colt that has had the knocking about and hammering that he has, he is one of the best three-year-olds that has appeared this year. his performance should add greatly to the reputation of his young sire, foster, one of the best bred sons of lexington. the race was an excellent one for the condition of the course. after some three or four breakaways, the eleven were despatched to a good start, except vera cruz, who reared and plunged just as the drum tapped, dan k. showing in front, but was soon passed by lisbon, who cut out the work at a sharp pace, the quarter - / seconds. entering the stretch leonard showed in front and had a lead of half a length at the stand, with lisbon and king william second and third, the remainder in pretty close order, the half mile seconds. going around the turn king william joined leonard, and lisbon dropped back, baden-baden taking his place, the three-quarters : . going down the back stretch leonard led king william a length, the latter whipping, with baden-baden at his quarters, the mile : - / . the two took close order on the turn, and just before entering the stretch at the three-quarter pole, the mile and a quarter : - / , baden-baden showed his nose in front, leonard second, lapped by king william, all three driving. it was a beautiful and exciting finish to the stand, baden-baden winning by little over a length, leonard second, a head in front of king william, third. vera cruz, who reared and was left at the post, overhauled his horses and finished fourth, with odd fellow fifth, lapped by mcwhirter sixth, malvern seventh, earlylight eighth, dan k. ninth, lisbon tenth, and headlight eleventh. time-- : . description of winner baden-baden is a dark chestnut colt, with a star, stands hands high, with a plain head, good neck, well placed shoulders, with plenty of length, good back and loins, and sound feet and legs. there is nothing striking about him, and he greatly resembles his own brother, helmbold, and has bred back after his sire. he was bred by a. j. alexander, woodburn stud farm, spring station, ky., and purchased by d. swigert, stockwood farm, as a yearling for $ , , by imp. australian, out of lavender by wagner, her dam alice carneal by imp. sarpedon--rowena by sumpter--lady gray by robin gray--maria by melzar--by imp. highflyer--by imp. fearnaught--by ariel--by jack of diamonds--imp. diamond by cullen arabian--lady thigh by croft's partner--by greyhound--sophonisba's dam by curwen's bay barb--by d'arcy's chestnut arabian--by white-shirt--old montague mare. baden-baden started five times at two years old, won one, lost four. he was unplaced at lexington, ky., for sweepstakes, one mile, won by glentina in : - / . he ran second at louisville, ky., for the belle meade stakes, three-quarters of a mile, won by mcwhirter in : . same meeting ran second to belle of the meade for the sanford stakes, one mile, in : - / . same meeting ran second to belle of the meade, lbs. each, for a sweepstakes, one mile, in : - / , the best on record, and at nashville won the young america stakes, one mile, in : - / , beating king william, barbara, joe burt and alice murphy. he has the following engagements: the belle meade stake no. , miles, the suwanee stakes, mile heats, nashville fall meeting; the clark stakes, miles, louisville spring meeting; the kentucky st. leger, miles, and the galt house stakes, two mile heats, fall meeting, at louisville, ky.; the dixie stakes, miles, at baltimore; the belmont, - / miles, the jerome, miles and all aged stakes - / miles at jerome park; the jersey derby, - / miles, and the robbins, miles, at long branch; the travers, - / miles, and kenner, miles, at saratoga, and the woodburn stakes, - / miles, at jerome park in . summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds; $ p. p., with $ , added; $ to second horse. one and a half miles ( subscribers). value $ , . d. swigert's ch c baden-baden, by imp. australian, dam lavender, lbs., walker h. p. mcgrath's br c leonard, by longfellow, dam colleen bawn, lbs., swim smallwood & co.'s ch c king william, by foster, dam by imp. albion, lbs., bailey j. t. williams' b g vera cruz, by virgil, dam regan, lbs., murphy j. j. merrill's b c odd fellow, by longfellow, dam magnolia, lbs., williams a. buford's ch c mcwhirter, by enquirer, dam ontario, lbs., h. moore geo. h. rice's br c malvern, by melbourne, jr., dam magnetta, lbs., s. jones f. b. harper's gr f early light, by longfellow, dam fannie wells, lbs., w. james johnson & mills' b g dan k., by imp. bonnie scotland, dam jennie june, lbs., mcgrath d. swigert's b c lisbon, by imp. phaeton, dam imp. lady love, lbs., douglass l. b. field's b c headlight, by bayonet, dam olivia, lbs., shelton time-- : betting--leonard, $ ; field, $ . fourth derby no better evidence would be wanted of the popularity and growing interest in racing than was the case to-day, the opening of the spring meeting of the louisville jockey club. the club have struck the keynote of success in throwing open the inner field free to the public, which was graced to-day by some six or eight thousand people, as well behaved and orderly an assemblage as has ever been seen collected together. they came on foot, in every sort and kind of vehicles, and the grand stand and every other available space was full to overflowing to witness the first day, which gave one of the best races ever witnessed in america. but we must not anticipate our report. the sport proved to be of an interesting and most exciting character, and those who were present were more than repaid. this association has been extremely fortunate in the way of weather, and to-day was no exception to the rule. the track was in admirable order, but many thought it was fully two seconds slow. the day was fine and springlike, a slight breeze tempering the otherwise warm rays of the sun. the fields, considering the number of horses on the grounds, were not as large as many anticipated, but as the favorites were overthrown, the crowd shouted themselves hoarse with joy. for the kentucky derby, out of nominations nine splendid colts faced the starter. himyar was such a big favorite, to over the field, that he was left out of the pools, and day star was next in favor, closely pushed by bergundy and leveller. the result is easily told. day star made all his running and won the race like the first-class colt that he is, just as he did the blue ribbon at lexington. himyar was miserably ridden, and ran fully sixty or seventy-five yards farther in the race than was necessary. this defeat does not lessen him in our estimation, and we look upon him as the greatest colt of the year, with day star little inferior. after three or four false starts the lot were sent away to a capital one, except for charlie bush, bergundy, and the favorite, himyar, who seemed to hang fire, which enabled the lot to get some six to ten lengths the start. at the half-mile pole day star was first, mchenry second, respond third, leveller fourth, solicitor fifth, earl of beaconsfield sixth, charlie bush seventh, burgundy eighth, and himyar ninth. day star cut out the work at rapid rate, no change occurring at the three-quarter pole. day star passed the stand two lengths in front of mchenry, respond third, leveller fourth, himyar fifth, charlie bush sixth, solicitor seventh, earl of beaconsfield eighth, and burgundy, who was knocked to his knees on the lower turn, ninth. day star held his lead round the turn and after passing the quarter-pole; himyar, who was ridden miserably, running on the extreme outside on the turn, took second place, with leveller third. the race was now over; day star was never headed and won easily by two lengths, the spur being freely applied with an occasional touch of the whip in the last quarter; himyar second, four lengths in front of leveller, third, followed by solicitor, mchenry, respond, burgundy, earl of beaconsfield, and charlie bush in the order named. quarter ; half ; three-quarters : - / ; mile : ; mile and a quarter : - / ; the race : - / . description of winner day star is a chestnut colt, with star and light stripe down the face, three white stockings, a little white on the left hind pastern, and gray hairs scattered through the flank. he is hands - / inches high, is an extremely handsome colt, neat head, stout strong neck, well inclined shoulders, extraordinary short stout back, well coupled, broad flat ribs, drops down full in the flank, good hips and quarters, immense stifles, broad flat legs which he keeps well under him and has an extra turn of speed. day star was bred by jno. m. clay, esq., ashland, near lexington, ky., and purchased a yearling by t. j. nichols, paris, ky., for $ , by star davis out of squeez'em by lexington, her dam skedaddle by imp. yorkshire, out of magnolia, by imp. glencoe, the dam of daniel boone, kentucky gilroy, &c., &c. day star has a double glencoe cross through his sire star davis, and his great grandam magnolia. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds; $ p. p., with $ , added; second to have $ . dash of - / miles. nominations, three of whom are dead. value $ , . colts lbs., fillies lbs. t. j. nichols' ch c day star, by star davis, dam squeez'em, carter b. g. thomas' b c himyar, by alarm, dam hira, robinson r. h. owen's b c leveller, by lever, dam sly boots, swim l. p. tarlton, jr.'s b c solicitor by enquirer, dam sallie, edward gen. a. buford's ch c mchenry, by enquirer, dam ontario, james rodes & carr's b c respond, by enquirer, dam by imp. bonnie scotland, ramey j. m. wooding's ch c burgundy, by imp. bonnie scotland, dam la bluette, l. jones a. straus & co.'s ch c earl of beaconsfield, by enquirer, dam geneura, mahoney jennings & hunt's b c charlie bush, by john morgan, dam annie bush, miller time-- : - / betting--himyar $ ; field $ . with himyar out, day star, burgundy and leveller sold about even. fifth derby for the kentucky derby, lord murphy was made the favorite at nearly even against the field, and fully justified the high opinion in which he is held by his friends in running the fastest kentucky derby on record. his trainer, george h. rice, brought him to the post in the pink of order. though falsetto and strathmore were defeated they lost no credit and proved themselves excellent colts, and we should not be surprised to see falsetto rank yet with the best of the year. the entire lot went away like a platoon of cavalry in line to a beautiful start, gen. pike in the lead, strathmore second, lord murphy, who got knocked to his knees on the first turn, third, wissahicon fourth, trinidad fifth, one dime sixth, ada glen seventh, buckner eighth, falsetto ninth. half way round the turn the lot were so closely bunched that it was impossible to distinguish the colors in the clouds of dust. at the three-quarter pole ada glen was first, lapped by gen. pike, strathmore and lord murphy. at the stand gen. pike was a head in front of strathmore second, he lapped by trinidad, then came the second division a length off, composed of one dime, wissahicon, lord murphy and ada glen, followed by buckner eighth and falsetto ninth. they had hardly gone under the string until strathmore was a length in front of gen. pike, who was lapped by trinidad. going round the turn the pace was fast, strathmore still leading at the quarter pole. just after passing the quarter lord murphy took second place, one dime third, gen. pike and trinidad dropping back. before reaching the half-mile lord murphy lapped and showed in front of strathmore second, one dime third, falsetto fourth. lord murphy was a length in front on the lower turn and at the three-quarter pole, strathmore second, two lengths in front of one dime third, who was lapped by falsetto. entering the stretch falsetto came with a rush and passed one dime and strathmore and half way down lapped lord murphy. a most exciting race took place between the pair to within forty yards of the stand, where lord murphy drew clear and won the race by a length and a half, falsetto second, three lengths in front of strathmore third, followed by trinidad fourth, ada glen fifth, one dime sixth, gen. pike seventh, buckner eighth, wissahicon ninth. mile : ; race : . description of winner lord murphy (formerly patmos), bay colt, star and snip running down over the nostrils, with two white heels behind extending nearly half way to the hocks. he stands full hands - / inches high, has a neat head and neck, plenty of length, good hips, quarters and stifles, with sound feet and legs. he has a great turn of speed, the first and greatest requisite in a race horse, and is a lexington looking youngster, and must bring his sire, pat malloy, prominently to the front as one of the best sons of lexington at the stud. lord murphy was bred by j. t. carter, gallatin, tenn., and purchased the spring he was two years old by messrs. g. w. darden and g. h. rice of nashville, tenn., by pat malloy, out of wenonah by capt. elgee, her dam by imp. albion, out of a mare by pacific, running back through bet bosley, by imp. bluster to imported mare of harrison of brandon. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds, $ entrance, play or pay, with $ , added; $ to second horse; dash of one mile and a half. value of stake $ , . colts lbs., fillies and geldings lbs. nominations. geo. w. darden & co.'s br c lord murphy, by pat malloy, dam wenonah, shauer j. w. h. reynolds' b c falsetto, by enquirer, dam farfalletta, murphy george cadwillader's b c strathmore, by waverly, dam brenna, hightower d. swigert's br c trinidad, by australian, dam bonnett, allen g. w. bowen & co.'s ch c one dime, by wanderer, dam by scythian, jones a. buford's general pike, by longfellow, dam nannie mcnairy, stovall h. w. farris' ch c buckner, by buckden, dam tick, edwards h. p. mcgrath's br f wissahicon, by leamington, dam sarong, hawkins g. d. wilson's ch f ada glen, by glenelg, dam catina, ramie time-- : betting--lord murphy $ , strathmore and falsetto $ each, trinidad $ , ada glen $ , field $ . sixth derby the derby was booked a moral for kimball. while it was a great disappointment to his backers to see him lower his colors to fonso, he lost no credit in the race, for in our judgment it is by odds the best derby ever run since its inauguration, when everything is taken into consideration. the colts carried _five pounds more_ this year than heretofore, and the track was certainly a second slower than we have seen it any previous year, fonso covering himself with honor, and must bring his sire prominently to the front. fonso cut out his own work, did all the running, held the lead from start to finish, and won like a first-class racehorse. the last mile was run in : - / , and the last half in - / seconds, showing it to be a splendid race. such a performance as that of kimball would have won five out of six derbies. with little or no delay the five went away to a good start, fonso in the lead, lapped by kimball, boulevard third, bancroft fourth, quito fifth. fonso cut out the work at a good pace, and led kimball by a length at the three-quarters, which he held at the stand, boulevard half a length from him, third, quito fourth, bancroft fifth. going round the upper turn fonso increased his lead and passing the quarter was two lengths in front of kimball second, boulevard third, quito fourth, bancroft fifth, about a length each separating the last four named. nearing the half mile kimball drew up to fonso, when the latter received a cut of the whip and darted away again, bancroft taking third place, boulevard fourth, quito fifth. it was a beautiful race round the lower turn. entering the stretch kimball was at fonso's quarters, the race being reduced to a match between the two. fairly in the home stretch both were whipping, fonso answering gamely to the three or four licks he received, came away and won a splendid race a little over a length, kimball second, two lengths in front of bancroft third, he a length in front of boulevard fourth, and quito four lengths from him finished fifth. half mile - / , three-quarters : - / , mile : - / , race : - / . the mile from the stand back to the stand was run in : - / , and the last half mile in - / seconds. description of winner fonso is a dark chestnut colt, with a star and two white feet behind up over the pasterns. he has grown and thickened greatly since last year, and stands full - / hands high. he is a very neat, wiry colt, with a good head and rather short neck, which runs into well inclined shoulders. he has great length of body, deep through the heart, good hips and stifles with sound feet and legs. he has the best of tempers, and is rather inclined to need forcing to make him run. he was bred by a. j. alexander, woodburn farm, spring station, ky., and purchased as a yearling by j. s. shawhan, shawhan, ky., for $ , by king alfonso, out of imp. weatherwitch by weatherbit, her dam by irish birdcatcher, out of colocynth. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds, $ entrance, half forfeit, with $ , added, of which $ to second. - / miles, entries, four of whom are dead. value $ , . j. s. shawhan's ch c fonso, by king alfonso, dam imp weatherwitch, lbs., lewis w. cortrill's ch c kimball, by buckden, dam meta h., lbs., lakeland m. young's ch c bancroft, by bonnie scotland, dam planchette, lbs., murphy w. c. mcgavock & co.'s ch c boulevard, by bonnie scotland, dam mariposa, lbs., allen dwyer bros.' b c quito, by king alfonso, dam crucifix, lbs., mclaughlin time-- : - / betting--kimball $ , quito $ , fonso $ , bancroft $ , boulevard $----. seventh derby on tuesday morning, "derby day," the sun rose clear and not a cloud was to be seen, which with westerly wind was the precursor of a gloriously fine day. the attendance was very large. all the stands and betting enclosures were inconveniently crowded, and in the inner field the rails for near a quarter of a mile were lined with people from six to ten deep, while the field, clad in the greenest of spring verdure, was thickly dotted over with every variety of conveyance, from the cart to the splendid coach and landau. for the kentucky derby, only half a dozen sported silk for this valuable and important event. hindoo was such a big favorite that little money was wagered on him, he being the favorite at to over the field. the race was never in doubt, but hindoo had to have the whip, his jockey giving him two raps as he entered the stretch, and he won easy at the finish by four lengths, lelex beating alfambra half a length for second place. the official time of the race, : , is not correct, but will have to stand. the party throwing the flag threw it as soon as the drum tapped, long before the horses reached the pole. the correct time is : - / . calycanthus was not disposed to join his horses, but was finally brought up, lelex in the lead, calycanthus second, hindoo third, getaway fourth, alfambra fifth, sligo sixth. before reaching the three-quarter pole calycanthus took the lead, with lelex second, hindoo third. passing the stand calycanthus was half a length in front of hindoo, second, who was a like distance ahead of lelex, third, followed by sligo, alfambra and getaway. at the quarter hindoo was a head in front of calycanthus, lelex third, sligo fourth. before reaching the half lelex was a length in front and the cry went up that hindoo, who was second, was beaten, sligo third. on the lower turn hindoo moved up and showed in front, and on entering the stretch began to loaf a little, and his jockey gave him a couple of raps with the whip as a reminder, and he came away and won easy at the finish by four lengths. lelex beat alfambra a half length for second place, after a whipping race home. sligo two lengths from alfambra, fourth, getaway fifth, calycanthus sixth. mile, : - / ; race, : . description of winner and pedigree hindoo is a dark bay colt, with a star in his forehead and a slight number of gray hairs running down his face, and right hind foot white up to the pastern. he has grown and thickened since last year, and will make a -hand horse. his head is plain but intelligent, and he has a stout neck, well inclined shoulders, stout middle piece, great depth through the heart, a trifle long in the back, good hips, quarters, and stifles, with sound feet and legs, and his action when extended is easy and frictionless. hindoo was bred by d. swigert, stockwood farm, spring station, ky., and purchased at two-years-old by his present owners for $ , . he started nine times at two-years-old and won seven. he has started twice this season and won the blue ribbon - / miles at lexington, ky., in : , and the kentucky derby, - / miles, at louisville, in : . he has twenty-four more engagements this year, and, barring accidents, in our opinion, they all lay at his mercy. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds; $ each, half forfeit, or only $ if declared out by may st, , and $ if declared out by may st, , with $ , added; $ to second, - / miles. ( subscribers, of whom declared, and two of whom are void by death of nominator). value $ , . colts lbs., fillies and geldings lbs. dwyer bros,' b c hindoo, by virgil, dam florine by lexington; mclaughlin b. g. thomas' b g lelex, by lelaps, dam war reel; a. allen g. w. bowen & co.'s b c alfambra, by king alfonso, dam luileme; evans h. p. mcgrath's ch c sligo, by tom bowling dam petty; donohue m. young's b c getaway, by enquirer, dam by colossus; fisher h. p. mcgrath's b c calycanthus, by tom bowling, dam oleander; g. smith time-- : betting--hindoo $ , lelex $ , mcgrath $ , alfambra $ , getaway $ . eighth derby the fourteen candidates promptly assembled at the post, and at the fourth attempt the lot were sent away to a miserable, scattering start, harry gilmore in the lead, babcock second, robert bruce third, bengal fourth, runnymede fifth, followed by the pat malloy-canary bird colt, apollo, wallensee, lost cause, wendover, monogram, highflyer, newsboy and mistral, the latter getting away six lengths behind newsboy. passing the three-quarter pole babcock was first, bruce second, harry gilmore third, bengal fourth, runnymede fifth, apollo sixth, the rest tailed off. passing the stand bruce and harry gilmore were head and head, a length in front of babcock third, runnymede fourth, bengal fifth, apollo sixth, the rest out of the race. no change on the turn, but at the quarter harry gilmore was a half length in front of bruce second, a length ahead of runnymede third. before reaching the half bruce, having shot his bolt, retired, babcock taking second place, runnymede third, bengal fourth, apollo fifth. the five took closer order on the turn, and entering the stretch harry gilmore was a half length in front of runnymede second, babcock and apollo lapped, bengal close up. half way down it looked to be runnymede's race, he running easy with his mouth wide open, and the shout went up that he would win, but inside the furlong pole he quit, and apollo coming with a wet sail after a driving race won by a length, runnymede second, two lengths ahead of bengal third, followed by harry gilmore, monogram, babcock, wendover, mistral, wallensee, pat malloy colt, highflyer, newsboy, bruce and lost cause in the order named. first half - / , first mile : - / , mile from stand to stand : - / , race : - / . summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds, $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared may st, ; $ if declared may st, , with $ , added; second to have $ . - / miles. entries. colts lbs, fillies and geldings lbs. morris & patton's ch g apollo by ashstead or lever dam. rebecca t. price; lbs., hurd dwyer bros.' br c runnymede by billet, dam mercedes; lbs., mclaughlin bowen & co.'s br c bengal y o by billet dam by mahomet; lbs., fisher j. b. sellers & co.'s ch c wendover by bullion, dam experiment; lbs., hovey w. cottrill's ch c harry gilmore by imp. buckden, dam by wagner; lbs., gibbs p. c. fox's ch c by pat malloy, dam canary bird; lbs., henderson a. jackson's b c robt. bruce by rouseau, dam barbary; lbs., l. jones w. lakeland's ch g babcock by buckden, dam ethel sprague; lbs., kelso t. j. megibben's b c newsboy by enquirer, dam mollie hambleton; lbs., quantrell rodes & carr's b c wallensee by waverley, dam phasma; lbs., parker l. p. tarlton's b c mistral by virgil, dam glenella; lbs., stoval m. young's ch g lost cause by king alfonso, dam nellie knight; lbs., taylor m. young's b g monogram by buckden, dam monomania; lbs., edwards g. kuhns & co.'s ch c highflyer by hiawatha, dam sue wynne; lbs., brown time-- : - / betting--runnymede $ , mistral $ , wendover $ , lost cause $ , robert bruce $ , bengal $ , field $ . description and pedigree of winner. apollo is a chestnut gelding, bred by d. swigert, preakness stud, lexington, ky. he stands hands half an inch high, and the only white is on the left hind pastern. he has a rather heavy, plain head, wide jowls, good stout neck, which fills up his shoulders well, mounts high on the withers, deep chest, good length, arched loin, long quarters and hips, with excellent, clean and bony legs. apollo is by imp. ashstead or lever (no doubt by the latter), out of rebecca t. price by the colonel, her dam by imp. margrave, out of rosalie summers by sir charles, her dam mischief by virginian, out of a mare by imp. bedford, &c. ninth derby if the prospects of a successful meeting were somewhat dampened by the heavy fall of rain for three days previous to its inauguration, ample amends were made for the postponement by the bright and genial sunshine that ushered in wednesday morning, and the large and brilliant crowd that was in attendance on derby day. this was more to be wondered at for the reason that the weather had been so unseasonable, great coats and a fire feeling remarkably comfortable. indeed in looking at the vast sea of upturned faces, to be seen in the grand stand, the lawn and the field, we were reminded of witnessing our first english derby, when umpire, the first american candidate who had ever appeared for this classic event, failed to obtain a place, and the race was won by thormanby, a son of the renowned alice hawthorne, and what is remarkable, it happened on the same day, just twenty-three years ago. at the first attempt the seven went away to a good start, leonatus in the lead, raglan second, chatter third, followed by kellar, pike's pride, drake carter and ascender. before reaching the three-quarter pole chatter had taken second place to leonatus, raglan third, followed by ascender, kellar, pride's pike and drake carter. there was no change at the stand, and leonatus was a length in front of chatter at the quarter, raglan third, carter fourth, ascender fifth, kellar sixth, pike's pride last. before reaching the half ascender made a spurt and was third, but he soon died away, drake carter taking third place. the truth of the whole affair summed up in a nut-shell is that leonatus took the lead, made all his own running, was never headed, and won it in a big gallop by three lengths, drake carter second, a half length in front of lord raglan third, ascender fourth, kellar fifth, pike's pride sixth, chatter last. first quarter - / , half , mile : , race : . description of the winner leonatus is a rich bay, blaze face, and two white heels behind above the pasterns. he stands full - / hands high, and is certainly one of the smoothest and neatest sons of his distinguished sire. he has a neat, handsome head, stout neck, well inclined shoulders, good middle piece, with great length, excellent back and loins, and full hips and quarters, on sound good legs. he is rapid in motion, and keeps legs well under him. he was bred by mr. j. henry miller, lexington, ky., and sold last winter to his present owners for $ , . he is engaged in fifteen more stakes this year. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds, $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared may st, ; $ if declared may st, , with $ , added; of which $ to second, - / miles. entries, void, declared may, , declared may ; value $ , . chinn & morgan's b c leonatus by longfellow dam semper felix; lbs., donohue morris & patton's b g drake carter by ten broeck, dam platina; lbs., spillman n. armstrong's ch c lord raglan by ten broeck, dam catina; lbs., quantrell r. c. pate's b g ascender by buckden, dam ascension; lbs., stoval george evan's ch f pike's pride by imp king ban, dam lou pike; lbs., evans w. c. mccurdy's b c chatter by whisper, dam clarina; lbs., henderson j. r. watts' ch c standiford kellar by great tom, dam blondin; lbs., blaylock time-- : betting--ascender $ , leonatus $ , raglan $ , carter $ , kellar $ , chatter $ , pike's pride $ . tenth derby every year the interest in the kentucky derby increases, and the desire to win also increases with breeders and owners, until it is looked upon as a mark of merit for the colt who is fortunate enough to bear off the blue ribbon of the turf. more interest clusters in and about this race than any other of the year in america, and we have heard a number of prominent breeders and turfmen say that they would rather win the kentucky derby than any two events upon the american turf. bob miles was slightly the favorite at the start, closely pressed by buchanan and audrain, and although the quality of the nine competitors was a little below the average that have run for the race, it seemed to lend an increased interest to the result. the horses were keenly criticised on their appearance and condition and little knots could be seen gathered together consulting as to who would win. audrain who got bumped about did not run up to his form and his race for the blue ribbon stakes at lexington, in the mud, seemed to have taken away his speed. the admiral behaved badly, trying to bolt in the first quarter, and did run out at the head of the home stretch. buchanan won quite easily, and how much he had in hand we are unable to say. bob miles seemed to labor from the start, and the running proved what we have said all the spring--that the derby colts of this spring, taken as a class, are far inferior to any previous year. nine went to the post and they were started out of the chute. after two or three breaks away the lot went off to a pretty start, bob miles in the lead, powhattan iii. second, audrain third, followed by the admiral, loftin, bob cook, exploit, buchanan and boreas. entering the main track the admiral was in the lead and tried to bolt, bob miles second, lapped by loftin, the remainder of the lot bunched and in close order. passing the stand the admiral was two lengths in front of loftin second, a length ahead of powhattan third, followed in close order by bob miles, exploit, audrain, bob cook, buchanan and boreas. there was no change at the quarter except bob miles had dropped back to seventh place. passing half they began to take closer order, the admiral still leading about a length, loftin second, bob miles, who got the whip on the back stretch, third, bob cook fourth, the rest bunched. before reaching the three-quarters loftin took the lead, the admiral behaving badly and dropping back, buchanan and bob miles lapped second and third, audrain fourth. entering the stretch buchanan took the lead and showed signs of an inclination to run out, but murphy soon straightened him and he came away and won quite easily by a length and a half, loftin second three parts of a length in front of audrain third, bob miles fourth, followed by bob cook, boreas, the admiral, exploit and powhattan iii. in the order named. first half - / , first mile : , race : - / . description of winner buchanan is a good chestnut with a small star, and stands full hands high. he is a very handsome colt, with a level and symmetrical frame on sound legs. the most fastidious critic could but be pleased with his general formation and racing-like look. he was bred jointly by capt. cottrill, mobile, ala., and j. w. guest, danville, ky. the latter sold his half interest to capt. cottrill, who in turn sold a half interest in him and his stable in training to capt. s. s. brown of pittsburgh, pa. this is buchanan's maiden win. he started six times at two years old, was second five times and third once. he has started twice at three years old. he was unplaced in the belle meade stakes at nashville, - / miles. he bolted and finished second but second place was given to exploit on a claim of a foul, and won the derby above. he has twenty-four additional three-year-old engagements. he is by buckden, out of mrs. grigsby by wagner, her dam folly by imp. yorkshire, out of imp. fury by imp. priam, &c. summary third race--the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds, $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared may st, ; $ if declared may st, , with $ , added; of which $ to second. - / miles. subs, of whom declared and dead. value $ , . w. cottrill's ch c buchanan by buckden, dam mrs. grigsby; lbs., murphy r. a. johnson & co.'s b c loftin by monarchist, dam lilly babbitt; lbs., sayres t. j. megibben's ch c audrain by springbok, dam alme; lbs., fishburn j. t. williams' ch c bob miles by pat malloy, dam dolly morgan; lbs., mclaughlin clay & woodford's br c admiral by vedette, dam regatta; lbs., c. taylor r. a. johnson & co.'s b c powhattan iii. by glenelg, dam florence i; lbs., d. williams wooding & puryear's b c exploit by enquirer, dam fanny malone; lbs., conkling r. m. mcclellan's b c boreas by billet, dam maggie morgan; lbs., o'brien time-- : - / betting--bob miles $ , audrain $ , buchanan $ , loftin $ , field $ . eleventh derby a more beautiful morning could not have been made for the opening day of the louisville jockey club. not a cloud was to be seen, and the genial rays of the sun made the day most charming. the kentucky derby grows in interest with each recurring year, and this was its eleventh renewal. there is more ante-post betting on it than on any race in this country, and the winner is generally awarded the highest honor as a three-year old. the track was in splendid order, except the chute, which has not been galloped over and was deep and dusty. the grounds looked neat and clean with its holiday suit of whitewash, which was a pretty contrast with the emerald green of the grass on the inner field. the attendance was immense, the largest ever seen on a race track in kentucky save the ten broeck-mollie mccarthy match. the inner field was full of all kinds of vehicles and conveyances, while the training track was packed full of people from the head of the homestretch down past the grand stand and well around the turn, nearly half a mile of people almost solidly packed. here and there could be seen a number of heads on the turn peeping out under the rails, reminding one of a lot of frogs coming out to sun themselves. it was a glorious sight to see--the grand stand literally packed with people while the inner field and every available place, and the stables, tents and booths outside of the main course were alive with people, the hum and noise coming up from thousands of throats reminded one of a grand chorus from a distant orchestra. the race of the year, the kentucky derby came, and after the ten were weighed in the questioning never ceased as to who would win until it was finally decided. we are perfectly satisfied in our own mind that bersan would have won if favor, his stable companion, had not crossed and interfered with him to such an extent at the vital part of the race--the homestretch. the best colt was second, and barring accidents he will demonstrate it before the year is over. he will make a grand race horse. we would not rob joe cotton of his laurels honestly won, still we believe bersan is a better race horse over a distance of ground. keokuk cut out the running, playfair second, irish pat third, followed by clay pate, thistle, bersan, joe cotton, favor, lord coleridge and ten booker. entering the main track at the three-quarter pole keokuk led, with favor second, joe cotton third, rest well bunched. passing the stand keokuk still led, bersan second, lord coleridge third, the pace slow, irish pat fourth, followed in close order by playfair, favor, joe cotton, thistle, clay pate and ten booker. bersan showed in the lead at the quarter, keokuk third, irish pat fourth, rest bunched. at the half bersan still led, favor second, joe cotton third, and it looked like a battle between the stables of williams and morris & patton. entering the stretch joe cotton showed in front on the outside with favor next, and bersan at the pole third, thistle fourth. just after fairly getting into straight running favor swerved over on bersan, cutting him off and making him lose several lengths. bersan had to pull back, and less than two hundreds yards from home was two lengths behind joe cotton, gaining at every stride. joe cotton managed to beat him on the post by a short neck. ten booker, who came very fast at the finish, was a length off third, followed by favor, thistle, keokuk, clay pate, playfair, irish pat and lord coleridge. the first half , three-quarters : , first mile : , race : - / . summary third race--the kentucky derby, for three-year-olds; $ entrance, h f; $ if declared by may st, ; $ if declared by may st, ; $ , added, of which $ to second. - / miles. entries. void. j. t. williams' ch c joe cotton, by king alfonso, dam inverness; lbs., henderson morris & patton's b c bersan, by ten broeck, dam sallie m.; lbs., west m. young's b c ten booker, by ten broeck, dam nellie booker; lbs., stovall morris & patton's b c favor, by pat malloy, dam favorite; lbs., thompkins e. corrigan's ch c irish pat, by pat malloy, dam ethel; lbs., murphy p. g. speth's ch c thistle, by great tom, dam ivy leaf; lbs., blaylock w. cottrill's ch g lord coleridge, by buckden, dam catina; lbs., hughes r. c. pate's b c clay pate, by enquirer, dam wampee; lbs., withers g. w. darden & co.'s ch g playfair, by plenipo, dam annie c.; lbs., conkling w. p. hunt's br c keokuk, by long taw, dam etta powell; lbs., fishburne time-- : - / . betting--joe cotton $ , bersan and favor $ , ten booker $ , irish pat $ , playfair and thistle $ each, lord coleridge $ , field $ . twelfth derby while the weather was cloudy and hot and looked threatening, the rain held off during the day. the track while not so fast as we have seen it, was in capital condition, safe and good. the attendance was very large, fully ten thousand people were on the grounds. the populace availed themselves of free entrance to the inner field, which had a large number of people, on foot and in all kinds of vehicles. the inside or training track was lined with people from the timing stand to near the three-quarter pole. the grand stand and betting ring was crowded to overflowing, and the ladies were out in large numbers. for the twelfth derby, ten started, ben ali was the favorite, free knight second choice and blue wing third. ben ali won it is true, but we doubt whether he was up to concert pitch, but we confess blue wing is a much better colt than we gave him credit of being, and think he ought to have won the race. he ran wide on the turn; his jockey let him swerve just at the critical point of the race, and was only beaten three parts of a length. free knight ran a good race--indeed it is the best field we have seen since aristide's year. there is hardly a starter in the race but what will pay his way and be a useful horse. this is the third time the race has been won by a son of virgil--vagrant, hindoo and ben ali--and vera cruz would have won save an accident at the start. seven of the starters were bred in kentucky--ben ali, blue wing, free knight, sir joseph, grimaldi, harrodsburg and masterpiece; and lafitte and jim gray are by kentucky owned stallions, and the sire and dam of lijero were bred in kentucky, showing the state still holds the highest place in the production of the horse. take it all through it was the best race, so far as interest and contest are concerned, ever run for the derby or any other race, and we doubt if such a field and such a contest will be witnessed again during the year. every year seems to add interest to this great race. it will be seen by the time made that the pace was a hot one from start to finish, and few such races from the time standard have been run so early in the year with lbs. up and by the way this is the first year the weights have been lbs., and is the fastest run race. the start was a beautiful one, the ten horses going away on even terms, blue wing in the lead, grimaldi second, masterpiece third, followed by sir joseph, ben ali, free knight, jim gray, harrodsburg, lijero, and lafitte in order named. masterpiece took the lead as they entered the main track, grimaldi second, blue wing third, rest well up bunched. passing the stand masterpiece still led, harrodsburg second, jim gray third, free knight fourth, rest in close order. there was no change at the quarter, but the pace was still hot. nearing the half, free knight was a head in front of harrodsburg second, jim gray a head behind him third, with ben ali, blue wing and masterpiece close up and bunched. at the three-quarter pole, entering the homestretch, free knight was a half length in front of ben ali second, blue wing third. now commenced the real struggle for the race. all three were driving, ben ali and blue wing were head and head at the furlong pole, free knight a half length behind. blue wing swerved to the outside and lost some ground, and ben ali gained a length or more when he entered the stretch. fitzpatrick rode wide on the turn, carrying blue wing out, which enabled ben ali to take the rail. after a driving race home, ben ali won by a scant three parts of a length, blue wing second, two lengths in front of free knight third, followed by lijero, jim gray, grimaldi, sir joseph, harrodsburg, lafitte and masterpiece in the order named. time--half , three-quarters : , mile . , mile and a quarter : , race : - / . summary third race--the kentucky derby, for three-year olds; $ entrance, h f; or only $ if declared on or before may , or $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declaration; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. entries void by death of nominator, declared may st, and may st, . value $ , . j. b. haggin's br c ben ali by virgil, dam ulrica; lbs., duffy melbourne stable's b c blue wing by billet, dam mundane; lbs., garrison p. corrigan's b c free knight by ten broeck, dam belle knight; lbs., fitzpatrick s. s. brown's b c masterpiece by blue mantle, dam phoebe mayflower; lbs., west e. j. baldwin's b c lijero by rutherford, dam jennie d.; lbs., i. murphy gray & co.'s b c jim gray by ten broeck, dam alice gray; lbs., withers j. g. greener & co.'s br c lafitte by longfellow, dam sue wynne; lbs., stoval r. a. swigert's ch c sir joseph by glenelg, dam susie linwood; lbs., conkling j. & j. swigert's b c grimaldi by lisbon, dam nora; lbs., i. lewis chinn & morgan's ch c harrodsburg by fellowcraft, dam bonnie may; lbs., j. riley time-- : - / betting--ben ali $ , free knight $ , blue wing $ , jim gray $ ; field $ . thirteenth derby the morning was cloudy and threatening, and it rained all around but fortune seems to favor the louisville jockey club, and only a few drops of rain fell during the day. the attendance was very large, the grand stand, betting grounds and inner space were packed with people, so much so that navigation was almost impossible; the inner field was full of people and vehicles and the crowd lining the inner fence extended from the head of the stretch down past the grand stand and for an eighth of a mile around the first turn. the derby was a fairly good race, as the track was slower than many supposed. in our issue of last week we selected banburg, jacobin and jim gore as the three placed horses, and at the same time stated that the form shown by montrose at lexington was not his true form, but was unable to say what was the matter with the colt. we expressed the opinion that we thought jim gore would win the derby if he did not break down in the race, and unfortunately his leg gave away at the half mile pole, so his jockey, fitzpatrick, stated, and that he could not have lost the race except for the accident. banburg could not extend himself in the race to-day; he neither had speed or bottom, from some cause, and did not begin to show the form he did at lexington in the phoenix stakes. montrose took the lead as the lot entered the main stretch, and was never afterwards headed. taken as a lot the derby colts this season were inferior to last year, save and except jim gore, who is a real grand young horse, who struggled gamely and finished second, after breaking down a half mile away from the finish. the start was a beautiful one, jacobin in the lead, ban yan second, banburg third, followed by jim gore, clarion, montrose and pendennis. entering the stretch montrose led a length, ban yan second, banburg third, rest bunched. passing the stand montrose led a length, ban yan second, banburg third, jacobin, jim gore, clarion and pendennis following in close order. no change at the quarter, but at the half banburg took second place, and they went around the turn pretty closely bunched, montrose still leading a length. entering the stretch montrose still led; jim gore who was seen to falter at the half rallied and took second place as they entered the stretch, but was never able to get on even terms with montrose who held his lead, and won by a length and a half, jim gore second a length in front of jacobin third same in front of banburg fourth, clarion fifth, ban yan sixth, pendennis beaten a hundred yards, seventh. first half mile , first mile : - / , race : - / . description of the winner montrose is a bay colt, blaze face and several white feet, has neat head and neck, rather light body but clean legs, by duke of montrose, out of patti by imp. billet, her dam dora by pat malloy, out of etta, jr. by bill alexander, her dam etta by star davis, &c., &c. summary third race--the kentucky derby, for -year olds, foals of , $ entrance, h f $ if declared on or before may st, ; $ if declared on or before may st, ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added; of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. entries. paid $ , paid $ , void. value $ , . labold bros.' b c montrose by duke of montrose, dam patti; lbs., i. lewis a. g. mccampbell's b c jim gore by hindoo, dam katie; lbs., fitzpatrick r. lisle's br c jacobin by jils johnson, dam agnes; lbs., stoval j. d. morrisey's b g banburg by king ban, dam rosaline; lbs., blaylock fleetwood stable's ch c clarion by whisper, dam claretta; lbs., arnold w. o. scully's ch c ban yan by king ban, dam hira; lbs., godfrey santa anita stable's b c pendennis by virgil, dam persia; lbs., murphy time-- : - / betting-- to against banburg, to jim gore, to pendennis, to jacobin, to ban yan, to each montrose and clarion. fourteenth derby a more raw, cold disagreeable day can hardly be imagined than the opening day of the louisville jockey club. it was cloudy, and a cold, raw wind blew directly across the track from the north; and as they have had no rain for the past fortnight or more, the dust blew in blinding clouds. the track had been watered on the homestretch which helped matters very much. the track was slow, and deep in dust except on the homestretch. the attendance was very large, the people taking advantage of the free entrance to the inner field; the rails were packed, four or five deep, from the three-quarter pole at the head of the stretch to well around the first turn. the grand stand, betting ring and lawn in front of the grand stand was packed, making locomotion extremely difficult. only seven appeared for the fourteenth renewal of the kentucky derby, and the melbourne stables gallifet and alexandria were even against the field. the race is described elsewhere but a few comments are necessary here. gallifet though the day was raw and cold frothed and fogged greatly between the hind legs and on his neck, showing him to be soft, and not keyed up to concert pitch. still, notwithstanding his condition we think him the best colt and should have won. he made the pace hot, for the first half mile, was ridden in the deepest and meanest part of the track. with a good jockey he should have won. the chevalier made an unaccountable bad show and macbeth made a wonderful improvement on his race at lexington. he swerved badly at the head of the stretch and seemed like he wanted to go out, but won quite handily at the finish. on macbeth's running at lexington we could not recommend him for a place and selected gallifet, the chevalier and white for the placed horses. gallifet was second, and white third. the chevalier led off, gallifet second, autocrat third. entering the main track zeb ward led, alexandria second, white third, rest bunched. passing the stand alexandria led gallifet a head, followed a length off by the chevalier, white, autocrat and zeb ward. gallifet took the lead after passing the stand, and led alexandria a length at the quarter, the chevalier third. coming to the half gallifet led macbeth two lengths, who was head and head with the chevalier third, autocrat fourth. they ran in this order round the lower turn, white moving up to fourth place entering the stretch. half way down the homestretch macbeth took the lead and won quite handily by a length, gallifet second, three lengths in front of white third, alexandria fourth, the chevalier fifth, autocrat sixth, zeb ward seventh. time--quarter - / , half , three-quarters : , mile . - / , mile and a quarter : - / , race : - / . summary for three-year olds, foals of , $ entrance, h f $ if declared on or before may st, ; $ if declared on or before may st, ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added; of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. noms. chicago stable's b c macbeth ii, by macduff, dam agnes; lbs., covington melbourne stable's ch c gallifet by falsetto, dam india; lbs., mccarthy w. o. scully's ch c white by king ban, dam heglaz; lbs., withers t. j. clay's br c the chevalier by prince charlie, dam miss haverley; lbs., lewis d. gibson's b c autocrat by prince charlie, dam blomida; lbs., hamilton melbourne stable's ch c alexandria by falsetto, dam patrimony; lbs., jones g. m. rye's b c col. zeb ward by hindoo, dam galatea; lbs., blaylock time-- : - / betting--even money melbourne stable's pair - / to the chevalier, to each white and macbeth, to each zeb ward and autocrat. fifteenth derby a more disagreeable day for racing could hardly been imagined. it was intensely hot, and the dust so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. the track was watered during the night, but with all the water it did not lay the dust, still it was a great improvement. the attendance was the largest ever known on the louisville track except the ten broeck and mollie mccarthy match. the crowd was so great that it was really uncomfortable and almost impossible to move about or get into the betting ring. the free entrance to the field attracted an immense crowd of people and vehicles, the home stretch being twenty or more people deep for its whole length. notwithstanding the discomforts of the day, it was great racing, and it will be a long time before we shall see such another field of high class three-year olds. just imagine over a deep dusty track, not fast, for four three-year-olds with lbs., up to a run a mile and a half as good as : - / , and you can at once appreciate their high class. it is our conviction that with a stout armed jockey up proctor knott would have won the derby. there is no complaint against barnes's riding as he did the best he could under the circumstances. proctor knott is a tremendous big stout colt, heavy headed and no ninety pound boy can hold him or keep his head up. before going a quarter of a mile he overpowered barnes, nearly pulling him over his head, and before the race was half finished barnes was exhausted pulling to keep his head up. with such a jockey as murphy, mclaughlin, hayward or fitzpatrick up we do not believe he could have lost the race. his future racing will tend to prove our opinion. he made all the running as will be seen for a mile and a quarter and then swerved to the outside and lost enough ground to have made him win by two open lengths. we would not detract from the merits of spokane, the winner, as he is a great race horse, but we think proctor knott the greatest youngster we have seen in years. the eight went away on pretty even terms, hindoocraft first, bootmaker second, spokane third, followed by proctor knott, sportsman, once again, cassius and outbound. they had not gone fifty yards before proctor knott rushed to the front and led by three lengths as they entered the main track, which he increased to five as they passed the stand, hindoocraft second, sportsman third, closely followed by spokane and once again. proctor knott held his lead past the quarter, but it was reduced three lengths at the half, sportsman second, hindoocraft third, rest well bunched. coming round the lower turn spokane took second place, and when they neared the three-quarter pole barnes was unable to control proctor knott and hold his head up, bolted to the outside, and looked like he was going up the chute for a moment. this lost him some three or four lengths and before he could be straightened, spokane came next to the rails and took the lead. inside the sixteenth pole proctor knott came again, and after a driving race home in which spokane swerved to the inner rail he managed to beat proctor knott on the post by a short throat latch, once again two lengths off third, he a head in front of hindoocraft fourth, followed by cassius, sportsman, outbound and bootmaker, in the order named. bootmaker broke down, pulling up quite lame. time, first - / , half a mile - / , three-quarters : - / , mile : - / , mile and a quarter : - / , mile and a half : - / . summary the kentucky derby for three-year olds, foals of ; $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared on or before may , , $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. entries. value $ , . n. armstrong's ch c spokane by hyder ali--interpose; lbs., kiley scoggan & bryant's ch g proctor knott by luke blackburn--tallapoosa; lbs., barnes m. young's b c once again by onondaga--black maria; lbs., i. murphy hindoocraft, cassius, sportsman, outbound and bootmaker, each, also ran. time-- : - / betting-- to spokane and hindoocraft, to once again and bootmaker coupled, to proctor knott, to cassius, to outbound and sportsman. sixteenth derby rain fell heavily on tuesday nearly the entire day, which continued throughout the night and nearly half the day wednesday, may , which made the track a sea of mud and water. notwithstanding the unfavorable weather and muddy condition of the track the attendance was extremely large, fully up to any preceding day. the derby was the third race, for which a half dozen put in an appearance. robespierre was the favorite, even against the field, but he was beaten by riley and bill letcher. bill letcher led off, outlook second, palisade third, other three bunched. no change at the three-quarters, but passing the stand robespierre and riley were head and head, outlook third. going round the turn robespierre drew clear and led at the quarter with outlook second, riley third, bill letcher fourth. before reaching the half riley was in front, robespierre second, bill letcher third, the race lay between the two. no change at the head of the stretch, riley leading and running easy, robespierre driving and bill letcher gaining. riley won handily by a length and a half, bill letcher second and a length in front of robespierre third, palisade fourth, prince fonso, fifth, outlook sixth. first mile : , the race : . value to winner, $ , . summary the kentucky derby for three-year olds, foals of ; $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared on or before may , , $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. noms. e. corrigan's b c riley, by longfellow, geneva; lbs., murphy w. r. letcher's b c bill letcher, by longfellow, ida lewis; lbs., allen g. v. hankins's br c robespierre, by jils johnson, agnes; lbs., francis prince fonso , palisade and outlook also ran. time-- : betting--even robespierre, to riley, to bill letcher, to prince fonso, to palisade, to outlook. seventeenth derby a cloudy and hazy morning, but still spring like day, lending the louisville jockey club an aspect brighter than it has ever worn since its inauguration in , combined with the great improvements made during the past winter and spring, there seems every hope of a pleasant, brilliant and successful meeting. we have had a remarkable season, rainy and wet during march, and when winter broke summer came upon us with a burst, there being as usual no intermediate season between winter and summer. the country is dry; and the track deep in dust, still the country wears a hue of green, the trees are in full leaf, and the pastures clothed with a carpet of emerald green. the crowd to witness the seventeenth renewal of the kentucky derby was the largest and most immense ever assembled on the course, except at the ten broeck and mollie mccarthy race, and many thought the crowd larger. during the years of this race men have written lovingly of louisville and its track, and sounded the praises of the great three-year old event. the crowd was so great that locomotion was almost impossible, and being a free day the inner field presented one mass of humanity from the head of the stretch nearly to the first quarter pole. derby only brought four to the post. the race for the first mile was merely a big exercising gallop, the first mile in : . they ran from the half mile pole home in - / seconds, and isaac murphy had to ride kingman hard to win by a length. this is the slowest time a derby has ever been run in. the kentucky derby for three-year olds, foals of ; $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared on or before may , , $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. noms. value to winner $ , . jacobin stable's b c kingman, by glengarry, patricia; lbs., murphy t. j. clay's b c balgowan, by strathmore, trinkitat; lbs., overton eastin & larabie's b c high tariff by longfellow, christine; lbs., williams bashford manor's b c hart wallace by longfellow, stephanie; lbs., kiley time-- : - / betting-- to kingman, to balgowan, to high tariff, to hart wallace. eighteenth derby the eighteenth kentucky derby was run in the cold. the weather did not check the crowd, and fully , people watched the race from the grand stand and free field and cheered azra and huron as they passed under the wire. it takes more than bad weather to dampen the enthusiasm over the kentucky derby, and only a positive assurance of poor racing will lessen the crowd. signs and predictions of the weather prophets failed, and instead of the bright may-day weather promised by the bureau, the air was chilly and damp, and the sky hung with leaden colored clouds during the greater part of the morning and afternoon. in the early morning the sun shone, and though cool the indications were that the afternoon would be an ideal one for racing. instead, however, a cold wind sprang up from the northwest and turf lovers saw their dreams of a beautiful day fade into typical fall weather. there was enough virtue in the wind, however, to dry off the track, which, with the exception of a little stickiness, was in a fair condition. the officials of the day were as follows: judges--col. m. lewis clark, r. a. swigert and washington hessing. timers--norvin harris, van kirkman and lew tarlton. secretaries--joseph swigert and charles price. starter--j. b. ferguson. clerk of the scales--l. p. ezekiel. the third race was the kentucky derby, with three starters, huron, phil dwyer and azra. the betting was on the corrigan pair, while azra's few friends put up their boodle freely. three minutes before the start the same persons who were most enthusiastic at the finish were repeating over and again: "oh! what a farce the race will be. three horses only to gallop around like the hippodrome races of a circus." the following is a description of the race: from the first jump corrigan's intentions may be read, huron is to set a pace that will kill azra, and phil dwyer is to win. swinging the big colt to the rail, britton gives him his head. racing like el rio rey or proctor knott, he draws away from azra, whom clayton holds well in hand, and length by length increases his lead until five lengths of daylight lie between the green and light-blue jackets, phil dwyer, held in reserve by overton, a length and a half in the rear. nearing the first quarter the wrap on azra is slackened a little and, though all go wide at the turn to seek the dryest going, clayton takes ground by passing nearest the rail. down the stretch to the stand they come, and it begins to be apparent that a stubborn contest is in progress. huron's head is swinging, he is running easily, and as he swings along with his splendid action two lengths in the lead, a cheer breaks out. in every way he looks the winner, but at his heels comes one that will follow him with dogged courage till the last gasp. under clayton's good guidance, azra is holding his own, though seemingly between two fires, for if huron does not run away from him, there behind him is phil dwyer running under a pull and ready to take up the fight. as the wire is passed huron again increases his lead, and rounding the turn is three lengths to the good, while phil dwyer moves up almost on even terms with azra. so the quarter-pole is passed and the critical moment of the race arrives. it is time for britton to "feel" azra. the colored rider looks back, and then for the first time urges huron a little. will azra hold his own or will he cry for quarter? has he been able to stand the pace? if so, phil dwyer must come to the front and finish the work. will he quit? how quickly that question is answered. the moment britton makes that move on the back-stretch clayton loosens his wrap and azra responds. will he hold his own? he does not come with a sudden burst of speed, but foot by foot he nears the leader, his steady rating telling at last. phil dwyer's time has come. he makes no response to overton's call, and is then and there a beaten horse. the race is between huron and azra. it is no longer a question as to the latter's lasting. the query is, "will huron quit?" the last quarter is neared, huron leads, but only by a little, that is steadily growing less. azra is at his saddle, at his withers, at his head, gaining at every stride, slowly, but surely forging to the front. they are in the stretch and on even terms. grandsons, both, of the great leamington, the blood of the great race horse that flows in their veins has no taint of the coward, such as that of the colt that labors four lengths behind them. azra is on the inside, and britton has pinned him so close that clayton can not use his whip. the boys knees must touch as the two colts race head and head. the crowd goes wild. men yell the name, first of one and then the other. but for a moment the cries of "azra, azra wins," drown the others. he is drawing away. clayton is climbing up on his neck and working like a demon. at the eighth pole he is almost a neck in front of huron. the race seems over, huron, after setting the pace throughout, surely can not come again. but he does! britton has never ceased work on him, and at one bound lifts him back once more head to head. but that is all. the two are straining every muscle, the last link of speed is out in each, but as the fiery nostrils of the racers see-saw past each other with the swaying of the outstretched necks only for an instant is first azra's and huron's nose ahead. not a whip is raised. hands are too precious. britton is riding vigorously, but clayton is outdoing him. can not he lift his mount just an inch or two to the front? the wire is there above them. ten thousand people are yelling and clayton puts out his supreme effort. it succeeds! azra has won. right on the post he gains six inches, no more, and by that distance stands the winner of the kentucky derby of . it is a grand race, and victor and loser alike are cheered to the echo by the excited crowd. the value of the stake was $ , . the kentucky derby for three-year olds, foals of ; $ entrance, half forfeit; $ if declared on or before may , , $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. - / miles. starters. subscribers. bashford manor's b c azra, by reform, albia; lbs., clayton ed. corrigan's b c huron, by iroquois, brunette; lbs., britton ed. corrigan's b c phil dwyer, by longfellow, imp. encore; lbs., overton fractional time--: - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , : , : - / betting-- to azra, to corrigan's pair. nineteenth derby never since the spokane-proctor knott derby, in , was there such a crowd gathered at churchill downs as that to-day. the weather and the far-famed kentucky derby were the cause of it, greatly augmented by the fact that the field was free. it is a time-honored and commendable custom of the louisville jockey club to give a free field on derby and clark days, and the association lost nothing by it to-day, as every inch of space on the grand stand side of the track was filled, and no more could have been accommodated. the weather was simply delightful, and this with a strong attraction on the programme is what is required to draw a large crowd to a race-track. it is no easy matter to estimate such a gathering with any degree of accuracy, but there must have been at least , people on the grounds. they began to arrive before o'clock, and from that time until o'clock in the afternoon the streets leading out to the track were lined with street-cars, vehicles, equestrians and pedestrians. they came in all sorts of ways, from the dusty and perspiring footman to the elegant and flashy tally-ho, drawn by four prancing horses. it reminded one of the irishman's witty paraphrase of an old couplet, "some ride in chaises, and some walk, be-jases." long before the hour for the first race the grand stand and surrounding grounds were a solid mass of restless but good-natured humanity, all on the qui vive for the sport so near at hand. locomotion was the next thing to impossible, and those not content to remain in one place had a formidable undertaking in trying to get around. over in the center-field a similar condition of affairs existed. for more than a quarter of a mile fronting the grand stand the inner rail was hugged by a heterogeneous mass of humanity, made up of men, women and children, white and blacks all bent upon getting the best position possible under the circumstances irrespective of the rights of others. further back, a line of vehicles, every available inch occupied by a sightseer, extended nearly the entire distance of the back-stretch, so that only occasional glimpses of the horses could be caught by the occupants of the pressstand, upon whom those not present depended for an accurate description of the races. and it might be appropriately asked, what was the attraction that drew all this concourse of people to the same spot? what was it that made them endure for five hours all the discomfitures that surrounded them? it was not for the purpose of speculating on the results, for not one-tenth of those who were there, bet, or attempted to bet, or had any desire to do so. it was that inborn love of sport, that can be found in the hearts of the majority of men. it is the greatest compliment that can be paid to a racing association for that kind of a gathering to attend its meetings. as a whole, it was not there to speculate but prompted by a feeling of admiration for deeds of prowess and with an earnest desire to see the best horse win. this was the kind of an audience that witnessed the nineteenth renewal of the kentucky derby. the event itself might be regarded as somewhat of a disappointment, in the fact that the winner so far out-classed his field that he had too easy a thing of it. with lookout eliminated, the contest between plutus, boundless and buck mccann was a stubborn one, and not until very near the wire was the issue settled, as to who would get second place. there was no trouble about who would get first place; that was settled shortly after the flag fell. there were six starters in the derby, namely: cushing & orth's pair, lookout and boundless; scroggan bros.' buck mccann; bashford manor stable's plutus; j. e. pepper's mirage, and c. e. railey's linger. kunze rode lookout; r. williams was up on boundless; a. clayton on plutus; thorpe on buck mccann; isaac murphy on mirage, and flynn on linger. cushing & orth's pair was odds-on favorites and the bulk of the big speculators' money went on the entry. there had been a great air of mystery about the preparation of plutus for the derby, and the talent appeared to be at a loss as to how to estimate him. his race showed that trainer john morris has been doing some good work with the colt and has a stake-horse in his stable. plutus and buck mccann were about even second choice, both to win and for place. mirage, with isaac murphy up, found some followers, but principally "pikers," for the place on which odds of to could be had. there was a long price about linger's chances with few takers. there was a general impression abroad that railey's colt could not take up the weight and go the distance, and all who reached such a conclusion had it down just about right. but neither linger nor mirage will ever be able to beat lookout at any weight or distance when the great son of troubadour is at himself. they don't belong in his class. the others in the derby are nearer his class, but it is my opinion that he will always hold them safe, under anything like equal circumstances. he won the derby so easily that it places him clear out of the reach of anything but a high-class horse. coming on the track, all the horses paraded in front of the grand stand and were vociferously applauded. the enthusiasm which the two previous races had in no wise affected, broke out in uproarous demonstration. some yelled for one and some for another just as fancy or interest suggested, but the keen eyed judge of a race-horse could see the winner only in the big, graceful chestnut, who apparently oblivious to the excitement of which he was partially the cause, galloped quietly to the post. it was comparatively a small field but starter pettingill had to line them up several times before sending them away in a bunch. in the break lookout and linger went out in the lead, heads apart, followed closely by mirage, buck mccann, boundless and plutus in the order named the latter getting a little the worst of the start. lookout shook off linger in a few strides, and at the quarter was an open length to the good, with plutus and linger second on even terms, buck mccann fourth, mirage fifth and boundless last. going under the wire for the first time, it was lookout, by two lengths and running easy, plutus second, a head in front of linger, boundless and mirage about on even terms, with buck mccann about a half length behind them. at the first quarter, past the wire, the order had changed little, except that lookout had increased his lead and buck mccann had moved up to fourth position. at the conclusion of the mile the order had not changed materially, but the scene shifted in the next quarter. linger dropped out badly beaten and mirage, on whom murphy was working with all his might and main, began to go back to the trailer. in the meantime lookout was romping down the stretch, five lengths ahead of plutus, boundless and buck mccann, who were having a desperate fight of it. in the order as named last above they came under the wire. summary the kentucky derby, for three-year-old colts and fillies, foals of ; $ entrance, half forfeit, $ if declared on or before may , , $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declarations; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third, fourth to save stake. one and a half miles. cushing & orth's ch c lookout, , by troubadour, christina; lbs., kunze bashford manor's ch c plutus, , by blue eyes, sungleam; lbs., a. clayton cushing & orth's br c boundless, , by harry o'fallon, endless; lbs., r. williams scoggan bros.' ch c buck mccann, , by buchanan, mollie mccann; lbs., thorpe james e. pepper's ch c mirage, , by imp. deceiver, uproar; lbs., i. murphy c. e. railey's ch c linger, , by king alfonso, wait-a-while; lbs., flynn won easily by five lengths in : - / , same between second and third. the stake was worth $ , to the winner. betting-- to cushing & orth's entry, to plutus, to place. twentieth derby it was derby day at churchill downs this afternoon, and the enclosure was crowded as it had not been for a long time previous. it was an ideal racing day, the hard rain of the morning thoroughly laying the dust. the rain made the track just a bit slow but this was more than compensated in the absence of dust. the good people of the falls city were hungry to see a race and they turned out in large numbers, irrespective of color, class or circumstances. a free field made it possible for those who were unable to pay the price of admission to see the racing at little or no cost at all. there was an immense crowd in the infield, and the fence from the head of the stretch to the clubhouse turn was lined with a dense mass of humanity, each moity of which was struggling to either gain or maintain his position. the derby of had not about it quite that glamour and fascination that has characterized several former contests for this event perhaps because there was no horse in it of particularly high-class, and of such individual prominence as to attract and absorb public attention for weeks prior to the race, which reaches the public thru the medium of the press. horses are something like men in that some of them possess a kind of magnetism that draws around them a coterie of admirers, who become as much infatuated with him as does the most ardent admirers of a political leader. such a horse was proctor knott, and never before nor since in the west, was as much written about and as much attention paid to a horse as was to him. the press teemed with articles about him from day to day, for weeks prior to the derby of , so that when the great day rolled around thousands of people went to the track impelled by an uncontrollable curiosity to see the horse that had been written so much about. well, every one who went on that day, saw a race, the like of which they never saw before nor since. the idol was dethroned but even in defeat he was greater in the hearts of his admirers than was the winner. but the derby this afternoon presented none of the attractive features of that great event won by spokane. the horses trained here and, of course, around whom most of the local interest would naturally attach had not shown any trials upon which to place much faith in their prowess, with the possible exception of pearl song. the others had been tried and found wanting, and, as a matter of course, the public could not make an idol of common clay. along up the line from memphis to this meeting came a horse that had run races at three other tracks with considerable success, and whose muscles had been hardened for a journey of a mile and a half by actual racing, which is admitted by all trainers to be a better conditioner than private work. this horse is chant, and he won the kentucky derby this afternoon just as he pleased. there may have been horses in it that will be better than he later on, but there was nothing in it that was within ten pounds of him to-day. there was nothing in it that could make the son of falsetto stretch his neck and think seriously that he was running for a stake or merely out for an exercise gallop. the time was exceedingly slow, and this was partially due to the soft condition of the track, but more particularly due to the fact that there was nothing in the race that could make chant run any faster. chant was a strong favorite in the betting, his odds being uniformly to , but after viewing his easy victory one was impressed with the idea that those odds were really quite liberal. it was only a matter of loaning one's money to the bookmakers for a little while, to be taken back shortly with fifty per cent interest. there were five starters in the derby all with the same impost-- pounds. goodale was on chant; r. williams on pearl song; overton on sigurd; ray on al boyer, and irving on tom elmore. as remarked before chant was a strong favorite, and pearl song was second choice. not a few backed the latter to win, and as is always the case in every race, straggling bets went on each of the others to win, acting under the idea, it is supposed, that lightning is likely to strike anywhere. while starter pettingill had considerable trouble with each of his other fields, it was quite an easy matter to send off five well trained horses on a line, hence, with little delay, the flag flashed on the kentucky derby of . sigurd was the first to show in front, and he held that position for a quarter of a mile, but apparently on probation, for when he pleased chant passed him and he pleased to do it coming down the stretch the first time. passing under the wire at the completion of the first half mile, chant was leading by two lengths, and to the practical eye of the turfmen it could be seen then that he had his field beat, as he was running very easily, with his mouth pulled open, while the others were struggling behind him in vain efforts to catch up. to make a long story short, it is only necessary to say that chant led all the way and won simply without an effort. it was about as badly a strung out field as was ever seen. pearl song came in ten lengths behind chant; sigurd was about the same distance behind pearl song; al boyer was twenty lengths or more in the rear of sigurd, and tom elmore was beaten off and his jockey pulled him up half way down the stretch. may , ,--the kentucky derby, for three-year old colts and fillies (foals of ) $ entrance, half forfeit: $ if declared on or before may , ; $ if declared on or before may , ; money to accompany declaration; with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third. one mile and a half. closed with nominations. leigh & rose's b c chant, , by falsetto, addie c.; lbs., to , goodale c. h. smith's ch c pearl song, , by falsetto, pearl thorn; lbs., to , r. williams bashford manor's ch g sigurd, , by pardee, lady salyers; lbs., to , overton anderson & gooding's b c al boyer, , by imp. deceiver, bayadere; lbs., to , ray s. k. hughes & co.'s br g tom elmore, , by julien, ems; lbs., to , irving time-- : . won by six lengths, fifteen lengths between second and third. value to winner $ , . twenty-first derby the kentucky derby this year went to a lexington owned and trained horse. halma, the black son of hanover and julia l., owned and trained by byron mcclelland and ridden by perkins, won the classic event monday, in the easiest kind of style, going the mile and a half journey in : - / . it was the slowest race of the day, and it looked like halma could have gone the distance at least a second and a half faster had he been pushed to it. the association was especially favored with good weather monday, and a lovelier day for racing could hardly have been made to order. the story of the derby is quickly told as there were no sensational features about it. only four horses started, halma, basso, laureate and curator. halma was a to favorite, but even at this short price he was pretty heavily backed. mr. nick finzer's colt laureate, was heavily played for the place at to , especially by the louisville contingent, who were patriotic and backed their home horse for the position at the finish that seemed possible for him to obtain. basso was held for the place at about the same price as laureate, and the chicago owned horse was pretty heavily played for the place. the matter of starting the field of four was soon disposed of and the quartet went off well together. curator took the lead and quickly separated himself from his companions, holding the lead for nearly half a mile, but only on sufference. coming near the wire for the first time, halma took the lead, and to make the story short, held it easily to the end. basso trailed all the way until entering the stretch for the final home run when he came up and challenged laureate who had been in second place since the end of the first half mile. basso took second position half way down the stretch and thus they finished, halma easily by three lengths, basso second by a length and laureate third by five lengths. the kentucky derby, for three-year old colts and fillies (foals of ); $ to accompany the nomination; $ to be paid may , ; $ to be paid may , ; $ additional to start, with $ , added, of which $ to second and $ to third; fourth to save stake. one mile and a half. b. mcclelland's blk c halma, , by hanover, julia l; lbs., to , perkins c. h. smith's b c basso, , by falsetto, ethelda; lbs., to , martin pastime stable's ch g laureate, , by volante, imp. laurel; lbs., to , a. clayton bashford manor stable's b c curator, , by alarm, katie creel; lbs., to , overton time-- : - / twenty-second derby the kentucky derby is over and ben brush wears the crown, but his victory was obtained only by the narrowest of margins, and while his neck was clothed with flowers after the race, his sides were sore and bleeding from the marks of the spur, and his giant muscles ached as they never did before. simms gave him the garlands, ben eder caused the other things. ah! it was a "hoss-race!" such a field of three-year olds had not met since the old standard of spokane-proctor knott derby, in which once again, bootmaker, hindoocraft, cassius, sportsman and outbound followed behind the fighting leaders. and in the finish of the race to-day there was the same desperate, hair-raising finish, which marked that most famous of derbies. ben brush was all out. not only that but he needed all of the skill and strength and vim of a jockey famous on two continents to help his quivering nostrils first under the wire. and withal he is the best horse in the race. not that ben eder with jockeys changed might not and probably would have won, but it was a matter of condition. ben eder was fit to a hair. made fit in the only way to secure perfect condition, i. e. in actual racing, and mcguigan, after three months of constant care and thought, brought him to the post as exquisitely adapted for this particular race as any modiste fitted a worth gown to a parisian belle. there is now no doubt that all of ben eder's "prep" and races down the line were made with an eye single to this one race. and how artistically bill mcguigan managed it. always racing, yet taking on no penalty, and yet thanks to lady inez the only genuine "umbrella" mcguigan still took down the money. then came the time when lady inez would no longer do. the finishing touches must be given; the razor edge put on. this was done, and when ben eder cut a hair at nashville his trainer knew he was ready and that in the kentucky derby ben eder would race the race of his life. and he did. he will never run a better one, perhaps, while ben brush will. this is the difference. ben brush, on the other hand, was in his first race of the season, and while he was by no means much too "high" and out of condition, still he had a host of other engagements up the line, some of them far richer in money than the kentucky derby. ten thousand seemed to await him at oakley, $ , at latonia and $ , at st. louis and mr. dwyer is not a sentimental man. his trainer could not afford to have ben brush too fine, and when the struggle came with ben eder the bramble colt had only his class in his favor, and this was supplemented by simms. it is true there were many spectators who honestly believe that ben eder won, but the obstruction offered by the judges' box makes it impossible for anybody but the judges or those in the timers' stand to tell, and there seems no doubt, from the statements of those in these positions, that simms (as a great jockey will) saved just one more effort in ben brush and using it in the last desperate leap, shot the hair on his nose in front of his shorter whiskered opponent. then too, there must be considered in estimating a popular verdict the natural and noble disposition to cheer the under dog when he gains an advantage and the sportsmanlike instinct to see an overwhelming favorite beaten. first mate ran like the flashy cur that he showed himself to be in all of his races. he will likely do in shorter contests or in which he can overwhelm his opponents by a bust of his speed, but nature obviously designed him for the role of a gentleman's saddle horse, in which he can show high head and flaming tail in harmless curvetting, which will not be taken as a challenge to battle--at which his soul sickens. the surprise was in the awful performance of ulysses. those who had seen the colt work did not like his going, but in the name of wonder what was "brown dick" thinking of to throw away that hundred starting money on a dog which may not win it back in his whole year's campaign. surely a trainer like "dick" could not have been so deceived. i am of the opinion that irresistible secretary price buncoed "dick" into starting a colt who had no more pretentions to being a derby horse than honest "dick" has of being a dude. semper ego somewhat redeemed himself for his poor showing at lexington, and may be dangerous to some of the cracks yet, and the dragon ran his usual good, honest race, doing the best that is in him. parson and the winner had no business in the derby and nobody thought they had, but probably only started as a compliment to a very popular track management. with the aid of the form sheet below the story of the race is soon told. the dill starting machine, which resembles that of curly brown and is the work of a louisville man was used in all the races except the derby, but in the big race col. chinn used the old flag flat-footed and unaided. there were several break-a-ways in all of which ben brush was prominent, and which were principally caused by first mate's fiery desire to run. incidently, it was comical to see what a difference was presented by this degenerate son of shipmate when he reached the same spot again after going once around the yellow circle. then he wanted to lay right down and be put to bed. he never cared if he never saw another horserace as long as he lived and his craven heart called loudly for action by the humane society forbidding the use of spurs. they were finally off with ben eder in the lead, but first mate shot to the front at once and nearly pulling thorpe's arms from their sockets set a merry clip past the stand, down the back stretch and around to the next turn. ben brush had not been lagging, but with simms almost urging the sluggish colt had been laying up in fourth position. at the turn from the back stretch simms leaned far over his mount's neck and urged him to the front. he soon overhauled first mate, who had not thought the race would be so long, and turned in for home with a good lead and the race apparently already won. but the white face of ben eder had followed him through like a ghost and was coming on the outside like a flash of light. running free and strong this true son of fonso showed the heritage of a derby winning sire. the family prestige must be maintained and he bid fair to do it. for one fleeting instant the white face showed before the red. but ben brush, too, came from an unconquered race and the blood of bramble and old bonnie scotland surged through his veins as responding to the touch of steel his extended nose was thrust again an inch in front. then tabor made the mistake of his life. his horse was running true and comparatively fresh. the spurt of ben brush was only a spasmodic effort. he would have come back before the wire was reached. but tabor reached for his whip and ben eder losing his jockey's aid faltered a trifle. it was now a battle of jockeys. both urged their mounts with whip and spur, but tabor was riding all over his horse while simms lifted his mount at every stride. on they came nose and nose until with an expiring effort simms struck the wire first. it was probably the only point in the last fifty yards at which a difference could be detected between the two horses. the crowd was such as only a great race can bring out and then only in kentucky. the railroads and steamboats from all directions poured thousands of people into the city and vehicles of every description from carriages to spring wagons kept up a steady procession out the driveways to the track, while an endless chain of street cars discharged their human freight at the jockey club gates. over ten thousand people are officially reported to have paid admission, while thousands of ladies and complimented visitors doubtless brought the attendance up to the , mark. the stands and tall steps were packed and the crowd stood thick all along the broad space between the track and stand and extended down to the fence beyond the betting shed. a feature was the social prominence given the occasion and reminded one of the old times when col. clark set the fashion in louisville and led the way on his tally-ho to the races. the courier-journal gives the following statements from the judges: "it was a great race--one of the greatest i ever saw. we can not but regret, however, that mr. mcguigan did not have a jockey who could do his colt justice. with an exchange of riders ben brush would certainly have been beaten to-day. he is a race horse of the highest class, however, and i think this race will do him much good. there was no doubt in the world about the finish. simms simply lifted brush a foot or so in front at the last jump." for three-year-olds (foals of ), $ to accompany the nomination; $ to be paid may , ; $ to be paid may , ; $ additional to start. the club to guarantee the value of the stakes to be $ , , of which $ to second and $ to third. colts to carry pounds; geldings (at time of starting) pounds; fillies pounds. those not having won a race for three-year-olds (without respect to sex) of the value of $ , allowed pounds; maidens, pounds. one mile and a quarter. nominations. index starters jockeys st. / / s. f. betting ben brush, simms h n to ben eder, tabor to semper ego, perkins to first mate, thorpe h to the dragon, overton to parson, britton - / to the winner, walker to ulysses, r. williams to time at post minutes; start good; won in a fierce drive. m. f. dwyer's b c ben brush, by bramble--roseville. hot springs stable's b c ben eder, by fonso--workmate. fractional time--: , : - / , : - / , : , : - / twenty-third derby the twenty-third kentucky derby has been won and typhoon ii. wears the laurel wreath. it was a splendid race and the winner earned his victory fairly and honestly, leading from start to finish, winning a race that, for the track was extraordinarily fast, with the pick of three-year olds of the west behind him. ornament was second, dr. catlett was third, dr. shepard fourth, goshen fifth, and ben brown, the pride of newport, last. to typhoon must be fairly conceded the race on its merits. he won squarely, fairly and honestly the prize, but it must also be as fairly conceded that he had to divide the honors. probably two-thirds of the turfmen who saw the race still believe that ornament is the better colt, and with equal luck, would have won, and while typhoon showed great speed and endurance, ornament added to this by as thrilling a display of gameness as was ever witnessed on a race course. with the worst of the going he raced from the whip like the true thoroughbred that he is, and in the last quarter, which is the crucial test, cut down typhoon's two lengths of daylight to a scant neck. great colt as he is, it was a lucky win for typhoon, and probably even his owner would not care to have him measure strides again with his so recently defeated opponent. withal typhoon is by no means the faint-hearted sprinter that his early races indicated; he shows a strong infusion of the good old stout glenelg blood, and if ornament can beat him he cannot give him much and do it. the race was a beautiful one, and the following description, written by mr. e. l. aroni, turf editor of the louisville courier-journal, could scarcely be excelled in accuracy as well as graphic power. "it lacks eight minutes of four o'clock when the six colts line up. ornament begins to dance a little, and the jockeying of the boys on the other starters causes a wait. typhoon does not relish the delay, and prances back of the field. in a few minutes they move up and break, but typhoon whirls around and the flag does not fall. a minute later, when they have been at the post only six minutes, they break once again. this time they are caught in line with less than half a length between first and last. down go the red and yellow squares. there is a roar from the crowded grand stand, and the twenty-third kentucky derby is begun. "what all careful watchers of the turf expected comes to pass. typhoon sweeps to the front, with the others after him. garner with admirable judgment swings the big chestnut toward the dry middle of the track as they round into the stretch. goshen and ben brown are lapped on him, lying toward the rail, but on good going. dr. shepard is still near the inside, while behind come ornament and dr. catlett, the slowest to get in motion. "teen" williams starts to work through the bunch with dr. catlett, choosing the faster part of the track. clayton, on the other hand, carries ornament toward the rail. he saves ground, bearing out on the others as strongly as possible to get good going, but thereby using energy that his mount will need later in the race. "rating towards the stand typhoon's splendid burst of speed is in evidence. he comes like a wild horse opening a gap of three daylight lengths--a yellow streak, like that other one that came flying along the outer rail across the track eight years ago, when proctor knott raced home just one jump behind spokane. like proctor knott in many ways this same typhoon--in color, action and the unconquerable desire to lead his field. "passing the stand ornament is the nearest to him. dr. shepard is at the favorite's side with ben brown on even terms with him. dr. catlett is close up and running strongly, though showing no great speed, while goshen even this early is in trouble. "scarcely a change is to be noted as they round the turn and near the finish of the first half-mile of their journey. dr. shepard is hanging on better than was expected and dr. catlett is striving gamely to lie with the flying leaders. but they are out of it clearly barring falls and sudden deaths. as for ben brown and goshen they are simply striking examples of the difference between stake and plater class regardless of the time test. they are lost in the dim distance before the end of the first half-mile. "the two doctors are good colts, and game colts, but from the time the field straightened into the backstretch, they too may be dismissed from comment. they strive hard, but that chestnut demon in front is breaking their hearts, and their utmost efforts do not save them from falling foot by foot farther back from any chance in the final struggle for the prize. "it is a duel. to the uninitiated typhoon seems to be merely rating in front with ample in reserve. to those who know the colt it is soul-stirring to see that other little chestnut colt buckling to his work, holding that lead down to three lengths and refusing to be outfooted by a splendid sprinter. "around the far turn clayton throws the whip into ornament's side, and he runs out from under it marvelously. a full length is closed, but clayton settles down to hand-riding again and no more of the gap is closed. again he does this as the finish of the first mile is passed. again he changes his tactics. and still typhoon races in front. "garner is proving himself a rider of fine quality. he is coaxing typhoon. he is handling a colt with hand-riding, and it may be stated right here that no prettier bit of that same sort of riding has been seen on the louisville track since the best days of isaac murphy, with the one exception of simms' finish on ben brush. "garner looks neither to right nor left. he has the race if he can hold. he swings typhoon wide into the homestretch, landing him in the best and dryest path. ornament must catch that colt if there is hope for him to win. he must get to typhoon's throat-latch and ask him the question of courage. clayton takes a chance. he hugs the rail and saves at least a length. then, wisely, he bears out toward the hard going. ornament is closing on typhoon. "clayton goes to the whip at the eighth pole and again ornament comes forward from under punishment. he is nearing typhoon. what is that boy garner going to do? every ounce in typhoon is out! if garner has not a wonderfully cool head he will drop the rein and lift the whip. he does not do it. he looks straight ahead. he is climbing forward on the leader's withers coaxing him on, coaxing him always on. typhoon is all out, but ornament, too is staggering a length back and the wire is overhead. "ornament is gaining, gaining at every jump, running from the whip, ready to go on until he drops. but typhoon, with that same steam-engine action with which he gained his lead, is holding it. the wire is reached. garner is still climbing and coaxing, ornament is still fighting a neck back, and typhoon ii., is winner of the kentucky derby of ." for three-year-olds (foals of ); $ to accompany the nomination; $ to be paid may , ; $ to be paid march , ; $ additional to start. the club to guarantee the value of the stakes to be $ , , of which $ to second and $ to third. colts to carry pounds; geldings (at time of starting), pounds; fillies, pounds. those not having won a three-year-old race of the value of $ , , allowed five pounds; maidens ten pounds. one mile and a quarter. closed with nominations. one mile and a quarter. index starters jockeys st. / / s. f. betting ( ) typhoon ii, garner h to ( ) ornament, a. clayton to ( ) dr. catlett, r. williams to dr. shepard, j. hill - / to ( ) goshen, wilhite to ( ) ben brown, ballard to start fair; won with first driving hard. time-- : - / . j. c. cahn's ch c typhoon ii, by imp. top gallant-dolly varden. twenty-fourth derby kentucky is happy. the kentucky derby on wednesday last was won by a kentucky horse, bred, owned and trained, while memphis and the southern talent are clothed in sackcloth and ashes. the gallant plaudit lowered the colors of the hitherto invincible lieber karl. the day of the great event opened gloomy and showery, and the weather, therefore, reduced the crowd which would have otherwise been perhaps the greatest in the history of this famous race. before the races began, however, the rain ceased and a brilliant assembly saw the th kentucky derby, and even in numbers the crowd suffered little in comparison with previous derby days, from ten to fifteen thousand people being present. the track had been deep in dust, and the light showers of the morning made the track a little slow and soggy, but by no means sloppy or muddy. col. m. lewis clark was presiding judge and secretary price his associate. thirteen bookmakers were in line and there was business for twenty. lieber karl's memphis performances had made him the hottest tip that in recent years has started for the derby. although all of the trainers at louisville had been confident that plaudit would win the derby, as shown in the reports of the louisville correspondent of the record, the memphis tip was brought up so hot and strong by the southern delegation, that, with few exceptions, plaudit's sturdiest friends succumbed and sadly concluded that after all the memphis hindoo would beat their pet. the most notable exceptions were dr. j. d. neet, who bred plaudit and who was there to pull for the colt; "brown dick," who trained him as a two-year-old, and willie simms, who was to ride him. albert simons, his trainer, felt the responsibility too keenly to commit himself to an expression of opinion and john e. madden, the owner, had gone to new york two days before with plaudit's half brother glenheim, of which he is said to have a higher opinion of even than plaudit. major thomas, who owned himyar when plaudit was sired, did not come down from his lexington home to see the great son of his great sire perform. the bookies had nearly all come from memphis, and were thoroughly imbued with the belief that no horse on earth could beat lieber karl, and that every dollar they bet against him was thrown away. hence they tentatively put up to lieber karl and to plaudit. this was soon changed to to lieber karl and - / to and to plaudit, and to the field against karl. as the other two starters--isabey and han d'or--were considered to have no earthly show for first money the bulk of the money was forced on plaudit by the prohibitive price on karl, and the bookies were probably losers by the race, although mr. schorr was said to have bet heavily on his colt. karl is an impressive looking fellow, with a high-headed, dashing way of going, and duly impressed the spectators as he worked by the stand. he is a handsome horse, much resembling in appearance and gait typhoon ii and first mate. plaudit, on the other hand, though more blood-like, is the least imposing looking of all cinderella's great sons and is withal a sluggish racer. he has, however, a clean, low frictionless stride far preferable to the high sweeping action of his rival, and his clean-cut thoroughbred lines and splendid chest indicated that he had both gameness and stamina. there was little delay at the post, and when the flag fell lieber karl at once shot to the front, and came by the stand like a wild horse, with burns pulling with might and main and keeping the rank colt well within himself. plaudit was on the outside and running last, but easily, and the others right on the flying karl's heels. simms sent plaudit forward, and when the back stretch was reached his red jacket flashed in front of isabey and han d'or, who were never noticed again in the race. lieber karl was still running like a locomotive, but simms set sail for him and before the middle of the back stretch was reached had his head at the leader's flanks and held his place, though he seemed to be extended, while karl was apparently well in hand. as they struck the next turn plaudit made a move to go up but burns let out a link and karl shot away. simms began to ride, however, and the sluggish plaudit, as if waiting to be called on, held his own at lieber karl's tail. straightened into the run home simms drew his whip and at the first touch of the lash plaudit shot forward and slowly drew up to his rival's head, and at the last eighth pole they were on even terms. karl for the first time this season had been collared. not till then did burns begin to urge his mount, and soon the catgut was raising welts upon karl's heaving sides, while simms was vigorously plying the lash to plaudit. it was a desperate duel for a few strides, and then plaudit gamely responding drew away and the race was over. lieber karl was all out, and while simms rode the sluggish plaudit to the end, he no longer needed the lash and finished with something to spare by a full length. when the winner trotted back to the stand, the heartiest ovation tendered a derby winner in recent years was given him. the crowd surged through the gates and over the fence and it was necessary to call a policeman to keep the enthusiastic crowd from the horse's heels. a wreath of red roses was placed about the victor's neck, and as he was led before the stand the crowd--ladies and all--arose and cheered the hero to the echo. kentucky derby; for three-year-olds; guaranteed value $ , . mile and a quarter. index starters jockeys st. / / s. f. betting plaudit, simms to ( ) lieber karl, burns - / - / to isabey, knapp h - / nk to han d'or, conley to start good; won driving. post minutes. lieber karl was rank and burns had him under a stout pull to the head of the stretch; he tired badly in the last furlong. fractional time-- : - / , o: - / , : , : , : - / , : - / , . j. e. madden's br c plaudit, by himyar, imp. cinderella. twenty-fifth derby the twenty-fifth kentucky derby was run on thursday, may , and was won easily by a. h. and d. h. morris' manuel, ridden by fred taral, who had come on from new york expressly for the mount. the weather was warm and pleasant, though cloudy, and the track deep with dust. the race was a poor one from the standpoint of time and would seem to indicate that with the single exception of manuel there was not a horse of derby class of ordinary years in the field. some excuses could be made for corsine, as he traveled from the pacific coast and was giving from five to twelve pounds to his opponents. but the son of riley showed no speed at any part of the journey, though he seemed to be in fine form, and will have to improve remarkably to win rank among the good horses of america. there is not much to say about the others, except that they finished behind corsine. mazo will probably do much better at shorter distance, but fontainbleau and his lordship seem to be counterfeits. the latter was trained to the hour by his trainer and part owner, mr. john smith, who showed his skill in the development of the crack mcivor in his first year on the turf, but he shut up like a jack knife when collared and dropped out of it. but few words are needed in addition to the form-sheet in describing the race. his lordship took the lead before reaching the grand stand and going down the back stretch seemed to be leading easily with his mouth wide open. taral had manuel under a wrap close up in second place and approaching the turn from the backstretch he nailed the leader. there was a moment's struggle and his lordship fell back sulky and beaten and was no longer a contender in the race. coming into the homestretch corsine made his run and half way home came up under the whip and for an instant had his head at manuel's hips. but taral shook up the son of bob miles and the latter springing away, came on with taral looking over his shoulder, and won without farther urging. although the race was by no means a sensational one, yet it was the kentucky derby, and an immense crowd, estimated at , people, saw the race. of this number, probably one-third were ladies in their spring toilets and presenting a scene of beauty which is equalled at no other race in america save the great kentucky classic. there were eighteen bookmakers in line. the executive officers were as follows: presiding judge--charles f. price. associate judge--lew tarlton. timers--arthur newsom, pat dunne and charles mcmeekin. starter--morgan chinn. manuel is a bay colt, sired by bob miles, son of pat malloy and dolly morgan, by revenue; dam espanita, daughter of alarm and outstep, by blue eyes. he is owned by messrs. a. h. and d. h. morris, and trained by robert walden, son of mr. wyndham walden, one of the greatest of american trainers. manuel was bred by george j. long, bashford manor, louisville, ky., who raced him in his two-year-old form until october, when he was bought by his present owners for $ , . last year he started twenty-one times, winning three races, second three times, and third six times. the kentucky derby; for three-year olds; guaranteed value $ , - / miles. fractional time, : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , : . nominations. starters jockeys st. / / / m. s. f. betting manuel, taral h to corsine, t. burns h to mazo, conley nk to his lordship, turner - / h - / to fontai'ebleu, overton - / to start good. won easily; place same. post minutes. winner, b c by bob miles--espanita. value to winner $ , . twenty-sixth derby louisville, ky., may rd, , weather fine, track fast. one mile and a quarter. time : - / . value $ , , second $ , third $ . lieut. gibson, , d. boland by lengths florizar, , van dusen by lengths thrive, , winkfield by length highland lad, his excellency, kentucky farmer, hindus also ran. betting to on gibson. good start. won easily, place same. gibson made his field look common. lieut. gibson, br c, by g. w. johnson--sophia hardy, owned by charles h. smith, trained by charles hughes. there was little delay at the post. to a perfect start, his excellency was the first to show, closely followed by lieut. gibson and kentucky farmer, with the field well bunched. when all were straightened out and the race had begun lieut. gibson took command from the momentary leader and began nodding off fast quarters with wonderful regularity. the pace rate of speed was terrific the first quarter, being run in : - / , at the end of which the gallant pacemaker let out a link and running the third eighth in : - / was at the seven-eighths pole in : - / . boland now steadied the big colt by letting him rate right along. the fourth eighth in : - / carried him to the three-quarter pole in : , a heart-breaking clip of the first half-mile of a mile and a quarter race. carrying pounds as lightly as a feather, lieut. gibson still going easy, traversed the first three-quarters in : - / . the conservative element among the backers of the favorite became uneasy at this stage of the race, fearing the horse would be unable to withstand the tremendous strain of the fast pace. a second time boland took hold of the flying leader that with measured strides seemed to be annihilating distance and defying time. a second glance at the field and all cause of doubt as to gibson's ability to live at the flying clip was expelled. he was going easy, much easier than any horse behind him, and seemed only a horse out for a good stiff breeze. passed the mile ground in : - / , he was only rating along three lengths in front of the tired his excellency, with scoggan's pair florizar and highland lad, going well, but in no danger of overhauling the galloping leader. into the stretch, a novice could see that gibson was going easy, and coming on the gallant colt passed first under the wire by four lengths in front of florizar that van dusen had most sensibly not driven to his limit when he found it impossible to overtake the great son of g. w. johnson. the time was : - / , one and one-half seconds faster than the kentucky derby had ever been run. twenty-seventh derby louisville, ky.; april , . weather fine; track fast. one and one-quarter miles. time : - / , value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations. his eminence, , winkfield by -l sannazarro, , o'connor by -l driscoll, , boland by -l amur and alard scheck also ran. betting to scheck; his eminence. good start. won easily, place same. his eminence, b c, by falsetto-patroness. owned by f. b. van meter. description of race his eminence, a beautiful bay colt by falsetto-patroness by pat malloy, foaled in the blue grass and trained at churchill downs, won the twenty-seventh renewal of the kentucky. sannazarro, the brown son of imp. pirate of penzance--roseola by duke of montrose, was second, while driscoll, woodford clay's bay colt by dixon--merry maiden by virgil was third. the time was : - / . alard scheck, the odds-on favorite, the property of john w. schoor, of memphis and the pride of all tennessee, finished absolutely last, five lengths behind amur. it was a truly run race and his eminence outclassed his field. twenty thousand people saw the derby run. the grand stand was a monster hillside of beautiful costumes and shining faces. they were at the post only a short time--four minutes. there was a little jockeying for positions, one false break; they were called back and lined up again. then there was a flash of yellow and red, a long hoarse roar from the thousands packed in the stand and here they come, five good colts closely bunched, with the black nose of alard scheck showing slightly in front. before the colts had gone fifty yards winkfield had moved his charge up to first position and as they passed the stand his eminence was half a length in front of scheck, while driscoll had also moved up and was only a neck behind, with a length between him and amur, sannazarro bringing up the rear. they ran the first eighth in : , and passed the quarter in : - / . his eminence was beautifully rated by jockey winkfield, the colored boy. he carried his field to the three-eighths in : and passed to the half in : , consistent pace in a mile and one-quarter race. his eminence, in fact was never headed after he passed the stand and was never in trouble. he made his own pace and winkfield shook him up above the eighth pole and he responded gamely and came on, dashing a couple of lengths ahead without effort. at the half, he was a length to the good, at the five-eighths he was a length and one-half to the good, at the three-quarter pole he was three lengths in front of the bunch. this is where winkfield shook him up, for o'connor on sannazarro; boland on driscoll and dupee on amur, were whipping and digging the rowels into the satiny sides of their mounts. and alard scheck, the favorite? j. woods, the crack schorr jockey, had him under restraint, believing the colt would be able to win easily when he got good and ready. he was under a steady pull for the first three-quarters, and when woods called on him he did the worse thing a horse can do next to quitting--he sulked. when woods attempted to lay him down he positively refused to go ahead and finished five lengths behind amur, the next to the last horse. his eminence continued to increase his lead, and as they round into the stretch the colored boy looked over his shoulder and saw the others hopelessly beaten. he kept his eminence under restraint all the way through the stretch and won easily by two lengths in : - / . o'connor gave a fine exhibition of riding on sannazarro and while the hayes colt was not quite up to such a race as the derby was, he got all out of him that was in him and finished second ahead of driscoll, as easily as his eminence finished ahead of him. the fractional time of the race was : , : - / , : , : , : , : - / , : , : , : - / , : - / . twenty-eighth derby louisville, ky., may , . weather fine, track fast. one and one-quarter miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations. alan-a-dale, , winkfield by a nose inventor, , r. williams by / -l the rival, , n. turner by a nose abe frank, , coburn betting to on frank, to dale and rival coupled. good start, won driving, place driving. alan-a-dale outclassed his field. alan-a-dale, ch c, , by halma--sudie mcnairy. owned by thos. c. mcdowell. description of race the new louisville jockey club opened their gates on saturday, may , which was derby day, and as everybody old and young, who can, goes to the races, the crowd was enormous. among the large assemblage were notable people from all over the united states, including many high state officials. the victory of alan-a-dale was the most popular derby win ever run at churchill downs. t. c. mcdowell the owner of the fortunate horse, which carried off the honors in game and gallant style by winning the blue riband, bred this horse himself at his ashland stud. the derby was a true run race and the best horse won and as the english say, that any horse that makes his own pace at a mile or over from the drop of the flag to the finish must certainly be the best horse. it was alan-a-dale all through the race. the crowd yelled and cheered itself hoarse even those who bet and lost on other horses in the race, joined in the cheering. when it was over it was a sight worth going a thousand miles to see. it seemed as though everybody was looking for the popular owner, t. c. mcdowell to shake him by the hand and congratulate him. the pace was fast for the first mile and then it dropped off badly, but when one really notices how fast alan-a-dale went the first mile in the race, they will not wonder that the last quarter was so slow. a first glance at the time of the race one would think from a time standpoint that it was a bad race, but when compared with other races of its kind, you will see that in all races that are fast run the horses who make the fast time generally rate along instead of running the first part of it real fast. in his race, alan-a-dale, according to our timing ran as follows: / : - / , / : , / : - / , / : - / , / : - / , / : - / , / : - / , mile : - / ; - / miles : - / and - / miles in : - / . of course, the winner tired greatly after setting the terrific pace he did in the early part of the race, but the other horses also tired as much by trying to keep within striking distance of him. abe frank, although conceding the winner, alan-a-dale, inventor, the second horse and the rival, the third horse, five pounds each, was only beaten a scant length by alan-a-dale and a half length and a neck by inventor and the rival. it was a great race to watch from start to finish. at the finish of the race all four jockeys were riding like demons, and the favorite, abe frank, was beaten because he was not the best horse at the weights that day. inventor and the rival, second and third horses in this race were well ridden and ran gamely, but there is no way they could have been closer up at the finish no matter in what way they would have changed their running. all the glory and honor belongs to alan-a-dale and his popular owner and trainer, mr. t. c. mcdowell of lexington, who in spite of winning this great event, has also a great misfortune to bear as alan-a-dale has broken down and it is doubtful if he will ever face the starter again. twenty-ninth derby louisville, ky., may , . weather fine, track fast. - / miles, time : . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations not given. judge himes, , h. booker by / -ls early, , winkfield by -ls bourbon, , crowhurst by -ls bad news, woodlake, treacy also ran. betting to on early, bourbon and woodlake coupled, himes. poor start. won driving, place easily. himes ran an excellent race. judge himes, ch c by esher--lullaby. owned by c. r. ellison, trained by j. p. mayberry. within the shadow of the wire, judge himes snatched from early the twenty-ninth kentucky derby at churchill downs to-day. it may have been the over confidence of winkfield that lost to the favorite the blue ribbon event of the blue grass state. bourbon, six lengths off, was third, while bad news, woodlake and treacy finished in the order named. it was a derby run and won not by the touted, odds-on favorite, but by the much despised outsider, but be it said to the credit of colt and jockey, he was well piloted and when judge himes passed under the wire winner of the classic event, it was to the plaudits of all kentucky. the victory was a surprise even to mr. ellison who had not thought his colt good enough to win. a kentucky derby always marks an epoch in kentucky history; time and incidents are reckoned from one derby to the next, and the event of to-day was characteristic, for there was the same surging, jostling, mass of humanity, crowding stands and paddock and overflowing to the field. eighteen thousand people were in attendance. it was an exciting finish. early, with a length and a half to the good, was ridden down the stretch as though the race had already been won, when within the last sixteenth h. booker brought up judge himes and in a merciless finish early who had lost his stride by the overconfident winkfield, was beaten three-quarters of a length by the practically neglected colt. the day was perfect. from the south drifted an invigorating breeze, bearing the fragrance of sprouting foliage on the nearby hills, of which the green slopes of sugar loaf and iroquois afforded a delightful rest to the eyes bewildered by a maze of gorgeous costumes and myriads of beautiful faces, banked tier upon tier in the grand stand and club house terrace and representing the fairest of kentucky's womanhood. the track was fast. the six colts were not kept long at the post, and after some ten minutes consumed in getting them in line, the flag went down and the derby was on. when starter holtman gave the word the colts were almost at the fretful line and the jockeys found woodlake of the mcdowell entry hugging the inside rail with the others well bunched and judge himes a half length away. they raced in this position past the stand, bad news being third, early fourth and bourbon fifth, while treacy brought up the rear. when they made the lower turn it was evident that helgesen on woodlake wanted to make a runaway race of it, for he had increased his lead to two lengths. bad news had moved up to second position with judge himes a neck away, while early still maintained his position of fourth, bourbon being fifth and treacy a half dozen lengths in the ruck and out of the race. when the colts had been straightened out on the back stretch the canary jacket of jockey winkfield emerged from the rear and with an unusual burst of speed. "early wins!" was the exultant cry of the vast majority of the crowd as the son of troubadour with even, steady stride, moved to the front. when the three-quarters was reached he was in easy command with nearly a length to the good and this lead he increased as they rounded the last turn for the final struggle. meanwhile judge himes and bad news had been having an almost neck and neck race of it for third place, with their noses at the flank of woodlake, which had continued to show the way down the backstretch, until he had surrendered to early's burst of speed. as the colts made the swing for the turn into the stretch, booker saw an opening and when they had straightened out he had judge himes next the rail. there was but one horse between him and victory. maintaining a comfortable position, some two lengths behind the favorite it was not until he had passed the eighth pole that he called on him for speed. in the interim winkfield sat quietly on early, contemplating the victory so near at hand, and not until judge himes thundered down upon him was he apparently conscious of the colt's approach. winkfield half turned, then quickly resorted to the whip and spur. but it was too late, judge himes passing under the wire winner of the event, with the question of supremacy still a mooted one. the fractional time for the race was : - / , : , : - / , : , : . thirtieth derby louisville, ky., may . weather fine, track fast. one and one-quarter miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations. elwood, , prior ed. tierney, , dominick brancas, , lyne prince silverwings, , austin proceeds, , helgeson betting evens proceeds, brancas, tierney, silverwings, elwood. good start, won driving. silverwings, proceeds, tierney and elwood ran st, nd, rd and th for - / . proceeds stumbled at start. elwood, b c, , by free knight--petticoat. owned by mrs. c. e. durnell, trained by c. e. durnell. description of race in the presence of one of the largest crowds ever seen at churchill downs race track the thirtieth renewal of the kentucky derby was decided on monday. the winner turned up in elwood, a son of free knight and petticoat by alarm, and the outsider in the betting. elwood was bred by mrs. j. b. prather, marysville, mo. proceeds, the favorite, took command just after the start, but began to quit before five furlongs had been negotiated. the talbot horse, prince silverwings, who had been in second place, now took the lead and led the way until well in the stretch, where lack of condition told and he gave way to elwood who had trailed the field to this point. ed tierney joined elwood at the paddock gate, and from there on the race was between the two, elwood winning by half length. elwood was a seasoned horse and this probably gave him the race. according to our way of thinking, prince silverwings would have won easily had he been fit. while a small horse he is well made and showed he possessed more speed than anything in the race. take it all in all, one cannot help but say that they were a bad lot of derby horses, and if such a horse as ben brush, ornament, halma or alan-a-dale had been there they would have looked like $ selling platers. it was a nice race to look at, every horse looked to have a chance the entire route, well bunched they struggled hard and did their best. the time, : - / , was good when you consider the time made in previous derbies. judge himes won the derby in : , alan-a-dale in : - / , his eminence in : - / , lieut. gibson in : - / , plaudit in : , typhoon ii., in : - / and ben brush in : - / , all carrying the same weight, pounds. thirty-first derby louisville, ky., may , . weather clear. track muddy. - / miles. value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . time : - / . nominations (----). agile, , j. martin ram's horn, , lyne layson, , d. austin betting to on agile, horn, layson. won by three lengths, ten lengths between second and third. agile, bay colt, , by sir dixon--alpena. owned by capt. s. s. brown. description of race. today is derby day in louisville and the thirty-first running of the kentucky derby was won by capt. s. s. brown's agile, with ram's horn in second place and layson third. the attendance was the largest in the history of the famous track and the twenty thousand people who stood and watched the race looked like a solid mass of humanity. at o'clock the track was a sea of mud, but after an hour's working it had dried out considerably and was in fair condition when the bugle called the derby candidates to the post. the crowd waited patiently for the derby, which was the fourth race on the card and at minutes past o'clock the three colts passed from the paddock out into the broad, heavy path. a cheer that is almost a roar goes up from the crowd. the parade takes but a few minutes and they passed on up to the turn, where starter dwyer gives the boys a few words of instructions and almost before the crowd has had time to realize it, they're off to a beautiful start, and here they come on the trip that means so much to the admirers of both star performers. jockey martin has his orders regarding agile, and obeying these instructions to the letter, he starts out to show ram's horn a merry time, because it is a well-known fact that the son of bute is unable to do himself justice in the mud. they pass the stand with agile a length in front, while jockey lyne, on ram's horn, is trying to rate his colt and keep him within striking distance of the leader. even at this early point in the race layson is hopelessly beaten and even to the most inexperienced, he is merely running for the money that goes to the third horse. the cherry jacket and blue cap which is on agile's back bobs up and down like a cork in a choppy sea. the black silk on ram's horn's back moves through space with very little motion. a long roar like the snarl of a multitude of bulldogs comes from the stand and spreads itself over the crowd in the infield and reverberates from the whitewashed barns on the other side of the beautiful course. this is the cry of the people from the blue grass land, friends of ram's horn, the poor man's horse. the real race has only begun. as they round the first turn, martin lets out a wrap and agile shoots forward like an arrow from a bow. ram's horn is too close for comfort, and the boy has orders to keep the lead. then they turn into the back stretch, and here ram's horn runs his race. with whip and spur and with his knees digging into the satiny sides of ram's horn, jockey lyne asked the question of the son of bute. instantly the game colt responds, and before the half-mile pole is reached ram's horn has cut the lead down to one length and his nose is very close to agile's tail. the positions do not change for a quarter of a mile. then the favorite gradually begins to move away from rams horn in spite of the vigorous efforts of lyne. but its no use--the track is muddy and sticky and slippery, and this son of one of the best stallions any american ever brought to this country from england is unused to the going and does not like it. and so they turn into the home stretch, with agile two lengths in front and galloping with his mouth wide open, while ram's horn is laboring many lengths in front of layson. the shouting and the tumult die and martin, realizing that his victory is now assured, eases his mount to an ordinary gallop, while lyne, on ram's horn, also refuses to drive jim williams' colt, because he knows the case is hopeless. they pass under the wire in a straggling procession, with little excitement or applause. the time, : - / , shows the condition of the track. thirty-second derby louisville, ky., may , . weather fine, track good. - / miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations. sir huon, , troxler lady navarre, , burns james reddick, , dominick hyperion ii., debar, velours also ran. betting to huon, to navarre and reddick coupled to debar; hyperion, velours. good start. won easily by two lengths, between second and third. sir huon, b c, , by falsetto--ignite. owned by george j. long of louisville, ky., trained by pete coyne. description of race. sir huon, carrying the colors of george j. long, one of the most popular breeders of kentucky, won the thirty-second kentucky derby, at churchill downs on may , before one of the most representative gatherings that ever witnessed this classic event. guided by roscoe troxler, he crossed the finishing line two lengths in front of the gallant little filly, lady navarre, which beat her stable companion, james reddick, by three lengths. five lengths behind came hyperion ii, which had set a heartbreaking pace, and a dozen lengths behind the latter was debar, which carried the hopes and money of the lexington contingent, and last of all, practically beaten off, came velours, from sunny tennessee. sir huon did not win easily, for he was a very tired horse at the finish, and it required great skill on the part of his jockey to nurse him through the final furlong; at the same time, it might be said that those behind him were more tired. sir huon was by long odds the best looking horse in the race; in fact, he looked the derby horse all over, and he is the first real derby horse that has crossed the wire in front since alan-a-dale struggled home on three legs. considering that lady navarre was conceding five pounds to the winner, a good deal of credit must be given to her. she ran a great race, but that was today, and in the opinion of many, she will never be able to get that close to sir huon again. it was a great day for louisville, and everyone with a trace of sporting blood in his veins was out to see the derby, and when a home-bred horse won, the crowd demonstrated that the victory of mr. long was a most popular one. they cheered him from the time he left the paddock until he crossed the wire, only to renew it when the usual formalities were gone through with at the judges' stand. there was no delay at the post, and as the barrier was lowered, the horses came walking up and starter dwyer gave the word. "they're off!" yelled the crowd with one accord, and down the stretch came the sextette in pretty close order. nearing the eighth pole, hyperion ii drew clear and by the time the judges' stand was reached he was three lengths in front, with velours and sir huon next in order. then came lady navarre and james reddick, and debar brought up the rear. as the club-house turn was rounded, sir huon dropped in behind hyperion ii, and there he laid all the way up the back stretch. velours was done when the field straightened out in the backstretch, and james reddick, which showed unexpected speed, moved up behind sir huon. out in front hyperion ii was still sifting sand, troxler sitting still and holding sir huon well in hand. lady navarre, who had suffered a little interference on the lower turn, was being whipped to keep up and velours was now the trailer. as they approached the far turn, hyperion still had a clear lead, but now troxler had gone to work on the son of falsetto and it took considerable of an effort on his part to run the flying hyperion down. he caught him and passed him on the stretch turn and then the ellison pair closed, as the rest were beaten. straightened for home, troxler plied his whip and then sat down to ride. dominick was busy on james reddick and burns was putting forth his best efforts on lady navarre, but it was to no avail, for the big colt had enough left to stall off the efforts of the tired pair behind him. sir huon broke a tradition in the race, and that was that a colt which had not previously started the same year that the derby was run always got beat, no matter how good his work might have been. thirty-third derby louisville, ky., may , .--weather bad. track heavy. - / miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . nominations. pink star, , minder zal, , boland ovelando, , nicol redgauntlet, austin; wool sandals; koerner; and orlandwick, j. lee also ran. betting to redgauntlet; each ovelando and sandals; zal, orlandwick. good start. won easily by lengths; between nd and rd. pink star, b c, , by pink coat--mary malloy. owned by j. hal woodford, trained by w. h. fizer. in the presence of an enormous crowd, j. hal woodford's pink star won the kentucky derby at churchill downs on monday, the opening day of the new louisville jockey club's spring meeting. behind pink star were zal, ovelando, redgauntlet, wool sandals and orlandwick. redgauntlet was made favorite. pink star's victory was not a popular one. the public had no confidence in the flashy grandson of the great leonatus, which won the same event in , and neither did his owner hal woodford of paris, ky. but his trainer, w. h. fizer, fairly bubbled with enthusiasm over the chances of his colt. "so these are the derby horses?" said he. "well, if they are derby colts, pink star will walk in." so he did. the race itself was robbed of a great deal of interest by the withdrawal of arcite, which did not start on account of the going. his owner, george j. long, waited until the last moment before scratching him, chiefly on account of the sentiment that has marked his career on the turf. mr. long is a louisville man, he takes great pride in her institutions, one of which is the "darby", and he felt as if he were duty bound to run the colt, but after consulting with his trainer, decided that the going was impossible. after the parade passed the grandstand and clubhouse, the horses cantered to the post, and it was but a moment before starter holtman sprung the barrier and the thirty-third derby was on. as they swept past the stand the first time, zal was leading, with ovelando second and wool sandals third. around the clubhouse turn, it was quite noticeable that pink star, with his pink-coated jockey was bringing up the rear. round the lower turn they went and now zal had a clear lead and was running freely. ovelando was under restraint and was a good second, next to the rail. redgauntlet had dropped to the rear and austin was busy with the whip but there was no response. up the back stretch they went, zal with gigantic strides, still in front and ovelando was going easily close up. redgauntlet moved up a bit and pink star was last. as the three-eighths pole was reached, nicol went up to zal, and it looked as if he could pass the gerst colt any time he wanted to. pink star was moving up on the extreme outside. nicol rounded the stretch turn on even terms with zal and the cry went up, "ovelando walks in." but the jubilation was too early, for zal drew away a bit as the field straightened for home and nicol drew his whip. pink star was still coming. at the eighth pole the positions were still the same, but here ovelando began to hang out signals of distress and he was done. pink star by this time had gotten on almost even terms with zal and, as the sixteenth pole was passed, he was slowly drawing away from the fleet-footed chestnut. a few strides and it was all over, for boland began to ride zal, but he was done to a turn and at the end pink star was under wraps. ridden out, zal finished a little over a length in front of ovelando, and quite a piece back came the favorite. thirty-fourth derby louisville, ky., may , .--weather cloudy, track heavy. - / miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . stone street, , pickens sir cleges, , koerner dunvegan, , warren synchronized, f. burton; banridge, v. powers; milford, minder; bill herron, j. lee, and frank bird, j. williams also ran. good start. won easily by three lengths, heads each next four. mutuels $ . for $ . owned by c. e. hamilton, trained by j. hall. stone street, b c, , by longstreet--stone nellie. description of race stone street, a despised outsider, carrying the blue jacket and white sash of c. e. hamilton, the popular latonia turfman, and ridden by jockey pickens, walked away with the thirty-fourth kentucky derby at churchill downs on tuesday, with the pride of louisville, sir cleges, the public's choice, in the place. the $ mutuels paid $ . . three lengths in front of the favorite, stone street crossed the wire a pretty tired horse, but the others were more so. sir cleges got the place by a neck and dunvegan got third place by an eyelash from synchronized, which was added at the last moment. it was a clear-cut victory and an instance where condition won over class. it was also an instance where a colt that was at home in the going beat a better horse, which besides being a bit short, the condition of the track precluding the chance to give him a final good work, did not fancy the stick track, and labored all the way. stone street by heritage comes of stout stock, his sire being longstreet, son of longfellow, a family noted for endurance rather than speed. after the bugle called the horses to the post there was not much time wasted on instructing jockeys. paddock judge john walsh called out: "lead out, powers," and the eight derby horses were on their way to parade past the judges' stand and clubhouse and then to the post. there was no time lost at the barrier, where judge will shelley presided in the absence of jake holtman. the crowd rose as the horses swept past the stand, and when the field reached the line the first time banridge forged to the front, after crowding sir cleges out. stone street was second. dunvegan third and the favorite fourth, with frank bird last of all. around the lower turn they went in the same order. when straightened out on the back stretch, banridge opened a streak of daylight on stone street, while sir cleges passed dunvegan. the rest of the field was not out of the running and it was also noticeable that while sir cleges gained ground that it was with an effort, as the colt was laboring and climbing. at the far turn, banridge's lead was cut down and stone street and sir cleges, the latter under urging moved up on the leader. round the stretch turn came banridge and at his heels were his relentless pursuers. stone street nailed him when straight for the wire and the shout went up, "sir cleges is beaten." koerner was hard at work on him and he held his place with bulldog courage, but the lack of condition was telling on him and stone street which raced at new orleans and was fit, drew away with ease and came under the wire with his jockey sitting still. there was a bitter struggle for the place and sir cleges secured this through the powerful finish of koerner, who never let up until the last two strides, when he had second position safe. synchronized and dunvegan finished almost on a line a neck behind the favorite and the latter got third place. banridge was fifth many lengths in front of milford, which beat bill herron home for the distinction of having finished sixth by a head and away back came frank bird. thirty-fifth derby louisville, ky., may , .--weather clear, track slow. - / miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . wintergreen, , v. powers miami, , c. shilling dr. barkley, , sir catesby, friend harry, direct, michael angelo, warfield, campeon and match me also ran. betting $ mutuels paid $ . straight. start good, won easily, second and third driving. wintergreen, b c, , by dick welles--winter. owned by j. b. respess, trained by c. mack. description of the race wintergreen, an ohio-bred colt, carrying the colors of rome respess, ridden by v. powers, galloped away from his opponents to-day in the race for the thirty-fifth kentucky derby. four lengths behind him came miami, which carried all the hopes and money of central kentucky, and he was three lengths in front of dr. barkley, a despised outsider, which beat sir catesby a head and gave the latter the place of honorable mention. wintergreen hardly left the outcome of the race in doubt after the barrier rose. his backers had a moment of anxiety when he was bumped by miami right after the start and once in the final furlong, when powers laid the lash on the big bay colt. the rest of the race was play for the son of dick welles and winter. miami ran a good game race, direct and warfield failed to show anything much and campeon and match me were outclassed. sir catesby ran the best race behind the winner and would have been second but for bad racing luck. the going made friend harry stop. for a horse that was born and bred in the buckeye state to win the kentucky derby is a new feature in the history of this classic event. california, eastern horses, and in the majority of cases, kentucky and tennessee have furnished all the derby winners. slowly and with wintergreen in the lead, they filed past the stand and clubhouse and, turning, galloped to the starting point, where jake holtman was ready to send them away. the field got away quickly to a good start. wintergreen and miami came together as the barrier went up, but the son of dick welles was not to be denied and he at once went to the front and there he stayed. coming past the stand, he had a clear lead, with miami next and dr. barkley and friend harry close up. sir catesby was on the inside and was apparently trying to run over horses. going up the back stretch powers took a nice hold on wintergreen and the great colt just skimmed along pricking his ears. friend harry made a determined effort passing the half-mile post, but it was just a flash in the pan, for scarcely had the cry "friend harry is catching him" rung out before the crowd was yelling friend harry is beaten, as the alvey colt's stride shortened. miami, which had clung tenaciously to second place, also under restraint, was now sent after the flying pacemaker with a will. but shilling could not rally his mount and the farther the field went the easier was wintergreen's task. nearing the eighth pole powers got a little uneasy and gave wintergreen one good crack with the whip and he bounded away like the others were standing still. miami was just as easily second and dr. barkley just managed to beat out sir catesby, the latter coming through the worst going. the rest were pretty well scattered. thirty-sixth derby louisville, ky., may , .--weather clear, track fast. - / miles. time : - / . value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . donau, , herbert - / length joe morris, , -h fighting bob, , -n boola boola, , topland, , john furlong, , gallant pirate, , $ mutuels paid $ . . at post one minute. start good, won driving second and third same. donau, b c, , by woolsthorpe--al lone. owned by wm. gerst, nashville, tenn., trained by g. ham. description of race an enormous crowd gathered from all points of the compass saw and cheered the victory of the bay colt donau in the thirty-sixth running of the kentucky derby, now truly the "blue riband" of the american turf, at churchill downs this afternoon. it was the largest crowd that ever graced this historic battle ground of the thoroughbreds and that crowd saw the keenest contest and the most thrilling finish that ever attended the winning of the prize, which has been annually coveted by owners of three-year olds in all the land since price mcgrath first took it with game aristides in . the winner is owned in tennessee, but he was bred in the blue grass of old kentucky, as were also each of the half dozen that went to the post with the son of woolsthorpe and al lone and came back behind him. derby day dawned clear and warm. there was not a fleck in the sky when the sun peeped over the eastern horizon. the track had dried out rapidly after the severe rain of saturday and was fast. when the bugle called the horses to the post, donau, accompanied to the paddock gate by his piebald pony companion was the first to step on the track. he was no. on the program. after the post parade, the horses cantered to the starting point one quarter of a mile up the stretch. starter milton was ready for them, and after they had lined up about twenty yards behind the barrier, gave orders to walk up. they came in good alignment and sprung the barrier at the first attempt. they were off to a good start four minutes after they left the paddock. joe morris was first to show and donau next, then boola boola and gallant pirate, fighting bob fifth, john furlong sixth and topland last. herbert had donau well in his stride and he lost no time sending him to the front and when they passed the stand at the end of the first quarter of a mile in : , he was leading joe morris by half a length and was at the rail with topland third a head back and the others close up. around the clubhouse turn, joe morris swerved outward and carried the others with him, giving donau a lead of about three lengths as they straightened out for the run down the backstretch, having passed the half in : - / . joe morris was here two lengths in front of john furlong and topland, they on nearly even terms, with fighting bob two lengths back of them, a length in front of boola boola and gallant pirate a neck apart. herbert took a restraining hold on donau, passing the three-quarter ground in : and steadied him around the turn out of the backstretch still three lengths in front of joe morris. here stanley page made his move on fighting bob. the son of knight of ellerslie was in third position in a jiffy and less than two lengths back of joe morris. coming around the turn into the homestretch, boola boola made up ground rapidly and the pace seemed to quicken. at the end of the mile in : - / , and heading for home, donau led by half a length, with joe morris a head in front of fighting bob, and he four lengths better than boola boola, the others clearly out of contention. there it looked as any one of the first four might win, for boola boola was carrying the camden colors with the speed of the wind and loomed up big and strong. down the stretch they came, whips whirling and resounding even above the roar from the stand and the field, and those jockeys rode desperately for the prize that hung at the end of the tiring, heart-breaking journey now less than a sixteenth of a mile away. on and on they came near to the black mark of the white board that should proclaim the finish; flying, yet struggling gamely and determinedly under the punishment of the bending striving riders to be first to that goal where hung fame, glory and gold. donau though tiring fast, was still able to hold the lead. unshaken, his nose shot first past the finishing mark, with joe morris at his withers, fighting bob at joe morris' throat-latch, and boola boola beaten only a nose for third money. topland was fifth five lengths back, and two lengths in front of john furlong, eight lengths better than gallant pirate a trailing last. it was a great finish and any human being with a drop of sporting blood in his veins was to be excused for giving over for the moment to the feelings of ecstasy that well up from the soul of man at such a contest. it was beyond question the most thrilling finish ever seen in a race for the kentucky derby. thirty-seventh derby louisville, ky., may , .--weather clear, track fast. - / miles. time : (equals track record). value to winner $ , , second $ , third $ . meridian, , g. archibald - / length governor gray, , troxler - colston, , conley - jack denman, , wilson mud sill, , koerner round the world, , mcgee col. hogan, , mcintyre $ mutuels paid $ . straight. at post minutes. start good, won driving, second and third same. meridian, b c, , by broomstick--sue smith. owned by r. f. carman, trained by a. ewing. description of race meridian, kentucky-bred, but eastern-owned, triumphantly carried the colors of r. f. carman to the front in the thirty-seventh kentucky derby in record time and before a record crowd at churchill downs to-day. the derby was run from "eend to eend" as frank harper of ten broeck and longfellow fame, used to say, for the winner set a heart-breaking pace and had the stamina to last the route and get home a scant length in front of governor gray. the latter was about lengths in front of colston, the dark horse for the derby. the time : , a new mark for the derby. the best time ever recorded for the sixteen blue ribbon events which have been run at this distance was made by lieut. gibson in , when : - / was made. it also equaled the track record made last year by royal report. the race was not a gallop for meridian for he was a tired horse at the finish and was exceedingly well handled at the end by jockey g. archibald. governor gray had some bad luck. he was next to the fence going round the first turn, and troxler was forced to take him back, and he was lengths behind the pacemaker going into the back stretch. the others were not in the same class with the two placed horses and only figured in the race for the first mile. probably colston will do better in the next effort and the same could be said of mud sill and jack denman. it was : when the first of the derby contingent filed through the gate to lead the parade of the field past the sands. the huge crowd applauded vigorously as the horses filed past the clubhouse, where they turned and slowly came back again on the outside. it was easy to tell which was the favorite as governor gray got a great reception. after passing the betting shed the field cantered to the post with mars cassidy galloping up to the same point on a fiery steed and on the steeplechase track, while the crowd in the field kidded him a bit. there was but a moment's delay at the barrier. the field would have gotten away at the first line-up, but for round the world which acted sour and jack denman. they were quickly lined up again and in a jiffy cassidy yelled "come on!" and the horses were on their way. the start was a good one for all but col. hogan, which was last to break, and when he did go went very wide and that settled his chances once for all. meridian went to the front at once and ere the field had reached the judges' stand he was three lengths in front and setting a pace that had the others on their toes. round the world was second a couple of lengths in front of colston, which was some lengths in front of mud sill, with jack denman and governor gray close up. col. hogan trailed the field. at the first turn, governor gray, which was next to the rail was shut off and troxler was forced to take him back, and for a few moments it looked as if he were going to be displaced by col. hogan. the field went up the back stretch in indian file, meridian under gentle restraint but still burning up the track, round the world hanging on gamely and colston still holding third position. as the field swept up the backstretch and neared the half mile pole, governor gray which was eating up ground, loomed up and was soon in a position to overhaul the leaders. troxler had him full on his stride and rounding the turn, passed colston and soon passed round the world, and there was but one horse to catch and victory was his. but that was a hard task as meridian was still moving along in great style turning the mile in phenomenal time for a race of that distance. the whole field was under whip and spur when straightened for home, except the carman colt. as the eighth pole was neared he began to shorten his stride and the cry went up "governor gray's got him." but this was premature and wrong, for archibald holding the colt together, urged him on, handriding and he maintained his advantage of over a length until the sixteenth pole, where he swerved over in front of governor gray, on which troxler was making a final effort, but it was not for the governor. the ground he lost on the first turn and the effort to make it up told on him and right at the finish his nose was opposite meridian's tail. many lengths back came colston, which was a couple of lengths in front of mud sill and jack denman, which finished close together in the order named, then round the world pulled to a walk and col. hogan, which had been eased up some time. thirty-eighth derby worth, the favorite, won the kentucky derby at churchill downs this afternoon, just beating a heavy rainstorm, and by so doing saving the day for the moving-picture operators. the kentucky derby of , the thirty-eighth renewal of the classic stake event, went to the horse which nine out of every ten horsemen and turf patrons conceded to have the race at his mercy. he did not win as easily as many expected, but he won, just lasting long enough to get the money and the honor from a dark horse. duval, which would have paid to had he popped in front, was second, and flamma, the only filly in the contest, was third. the time, : - / , is about four seconds slower than that made by meridian, the winner last year. worth won by a neck, while duval was five lengths in front of the filly, flamma. worth established his claim to the three-year old championship for the season, although he will have to win many more races this year to hold that title. at the present time he is the best of all three-year olds. to-day, just as last season, there were many doubting thomases regarding his ability and class. it took the celebrated match race at latonia last fall to convince these persons that he was the best two-year old out in , and this spring the kentucky derby race is the one which sweeps aside all chances for an argument. the colt was dead tired when the race was finished, and had to be urged hard in the last furlong. he was "prepped" for this race, and lasted long enough to win it, which ends all arguments what might have happened had the race been or yards more. shilling, who rode him, announced before the race that he did not intend to have mud slung in his eyes, and he kept his word. the beaten ones in the contest had no excuse; they were beaten fairly and squarely, luck never entering into the result in the least. there were no unusual incidents connected with the preliminaries to the big race. the crowd during the interval between the ending of the third and the time to go to the post in the big event, wended its way to the paddock and stood several deep around the railing, each and every one anxious to get a good look at the contenders. promptly at : they left the paddock and paraded down past the judges' stand. flamma, the only filly in the race, leading the procession, but she was a little shy and on several occasions refused to come down in front. wheelwright, with byrne up, followed with free lance, sporting the colors of george j. long, the louisville turfman, leading guaranola, which was directly in front of the favorite, worth. sonada and duval brought up in the rear in the order named. the clouds were hanging quite low and it was doubtful if the race would be finished before the rain fell. the horses pranced down the stretch to the quarter pole, where starter cassidy told riders just what was expected of them. several times they could have been let go, but flamma was still in an ugly mood and she broke up many perfect starts. after about two minutes of work at the post the simultaneous cry from , throats proclaimed the fact that the big race was on. shilling pushed worth into the lead, and the big brown son of knight of the thistle went about his work in a determined manner. he needed no urging to keep him in front and ran straight and true under the clever guidance of his rider. free lance cut across at the start and took the second position, laying back of worth about a length, although wheelwright breaking first, did not get to going right away. sonada broke well, with duval only a short distance back. guaranola was a couple of lengths behind soon after they got to going, with flamma bringing up in the rear, the filly having been caught unawares. shilling took no chances with the hallenbeck colt, but held him right to his knitting, coming down the stretch for the first time. passing the wire, worth was easily a length and a half to the good of free lance, which was laying back in a contending position at all times. a length back of free lance, hugging the rail, came sonada, which was only a head in front of duval. wheelwright followed duval, being three lengths back of him. guaranola was two lengths in front of flamma, which gives an idea of the poor start gotten by the filly. around the turn going into the backstretch, worth was still leading by his length and a half advantage. free lance was still holding on, although half a length separated the alvescot colt from guaranola, which had slipped up on the rail. duval was laying back in fourth place on the outside, being half a length in front of flamma, which had passed sonada and wheelwright. sonada had dropped into last place and wheelwright was not much better, both of them running neck and neck for the booby prize. it was plain to all that they were outclassed and the crowd passed them up and centered all their attention on the leaders. away over on the far turn, those without glasses could still distinguish that worth was in the lead, although it was growing dark fast. they also noticed that duval had slipped upon the inside and was now only a length behind the hallenbeck champion. flamma, on the outside, had also passed free lance, and it was quite patent here that the long colt could not go the route, for guaranola had also passed him. sonada and wheelwright were trailing nearly ten lengths back. worth still held his advantage turning into the stretch, but shilling was becoming nervous, for he felt the colt was tiring. it was now a question with him as to whether he could stick out the last furlong. drawing his whip he gave him a couple of blows and the big fellow hung on. duval was only a length back and in this way they raced to the sixteenth pole, with flamma in third place. duval was gradually gaining on worth and fain started to ride hard. shilling again pulled his whip at the sixteenth pole and applied it vigorously. it was well he did, for the colt was dead tired, but still game. fain had no whip, but proceeded to give duval a hand ride. shilling held worth's head straight during the last gruelling sixteenth and the colt dashed before the grand stand a neck ahead of duval. fain rode his mount out, but he could not get up in time. five lengths back of duval came flamma, after running a good, game race. four lengths behind flamma was the dead tired free lance, a length ahead of guaranola. sonada finished away back and wheelwright was pulled up. worth had won and the crowd was satisfied that the best horse was the victor. as was said before, there is no use considering "if the race had been a few yards longer" the result might have been different. the jockeys hurried back to the grand stand, the usual wreath was placed about the neck of worth, shilling was given a bouquet of roses and then came the deluge. summary may , . track muddy. purse $ , . net value to the winner $ , . - / miles. time, : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / . worth, br c, by knight of the thistle--miss hanover, lbs., ridden by c. h. shilling. won by a neck; to . duval, nd, fain. flamma, lbs. loftus, third. also ran free lance, peak; guaranola, molesworth; sonada, koerner; wheelwright, byrne. owner h. c. hallenbeck. trainer f. m. taylor. thirty-ninth derby seldom in the history of churchill downs has there been a prettier start in the derby than that of to-day. at the post less than a minute, the horses wheeled in perfect alignment and were away like a shot. jimmie gill had a momentary advantage, but was headed by ten point in a flash and the big easterner passed the stand for the first time two lengths to the good. foundation was in second place, with yankee notions third, and leochares the gowell close up, and jimmie gill by this time a trailer. ten point was rank and buxton had difficulty restraining him in the next quarter, causing him to go the first half in : - / and adding another length's advantage over the others. foundation was still in second place, and yankee notions, running well within himself, half a length away, with gowell fourth next the inner rail. donerail, on which goose was riding a perfect race, was beginning to steel up in steady fashion. gowell was given bungling handling by the diminutive mccabe and was also suffering from bumping. leochares was thoroughly done for after the first half, and lord marshall and jimmie gill were also out of it to all intents and dropped rearward steadily. there was a general closing up by the first five in the next quarter, but ten point still held to a slight lead until the stretch turn was reached, where buxton found his mount wavering and he began using his whip. at this time yankee notions was passing foundation, and the supporters of the knapp representative gave a shout of joy, for it was expected by them if yankee notions got to ten point before the stretch turn he would make short shift of the favorite in the battle to the finish. unexpectedly, yankee notions weakened just when his chances appeared best and the ten point supporters again took heart, but their hopes went glimmering shortly after when donerail shot out of the bunch and headed the others in the last furlong. in the final drive donerail easily held his own. ten point and foundation were struggling gamely for the place at the last furlong post when the colt seemed to bore over a trifle. in the last sixteenth foundation began weakening and ten point managed to get clear of him, but another menace loomed up for place honors in the shape of gowell, though he succeeded in passing the finishing line in advance of her. foundation was fourth and yankee notions fifth, the rest were distant trailers, with leochares the whipper in. a warm reception awaited the winner when the boy returned to the judges' stand to weigh in. jockey r. goose was probably happier than owner t. p. hayes. it devolved on governor james b. mccreary to present jockey goose with the bouquet of flowers given by the new louisville jockey club to the winning jockey of the day. he said: "young man, i congratulate you. the highest compliment that any person can receive in life is that of success. you have met with great success to-day and are deserving of the honor now bestowed upon you. you were on a gallant horse and you rode a brilliant race." jockey goose, in reply, bashfully said: "governor, i more than appreciate your compliment. i regard it as the greatest afternoon in my whole life for the reason that i was born and reared in louisville and i have won louisville's greatest race. i will never forget this day as long as i live. i will say for my mount that he did all i asked of him throughout the race. he held his position well in the early part and finished staunch and game when i called on him in the stretch. while i rode him to the best of my ability, i was on a good horse to-day." following is a summary of the race kentucky derby; one mile and a quarter; for three-year olds; $ , added; net value to winner $ , . fractional time-- : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , new record. p.p. st. / / / s. f. t. p. hayes' donerail, goose - / - / a. l. aste's ten point, buxton - / - / j. t. weaver's gowell, mccabe h - / h c. w. mckenna's foundation, loftus - / h - / nk h. k. knapp's yankee notions, glass - / h - / - / j. o. & g. h. keene's lord marshall, steele doerhoefer & west's jimmie gill, borel j. w. schorr's leochares, peak h - / h donerail, the winner of the thirty-ninth kentucky derby, was raised on john s. barbee's glen-helen farm, near lexington. mr. barbee keeps all of mr. hayes' mares. ten point, the second horse, was also raised on mr. barbee's farm. donerail gets his name from donerail, a flag station near lexington on the q. & c. railway. donerail was sired by imp. mcgee, a stallion owned by charles w. moore, mere hill stud, near lexington. mcgee was imported from england by e. corrigan and raced in this country by that turfman with much success. algie m., the dam of donerail, is by hanover out of johnetta, by bramble. her sire lines are those of kentucky derby winners, hanover, her sire, having gotten halma, winner of the event in , which in turn, sired alan-a-dale the victor in the race in , whereas bramble, sire of her grandam, got ben brush, the kentucky derby winner of . donerail is a nicely made colt of more than average height, being close to hands high. he has never been credited with speed of the sprinting order, but what he can do is of the rating sort, which tells for a lot in his favor in a long race. he started eighteen times last season, winning four times, finishing second four, and third six times. this season he ran three times previous to the derby to-day, his best race being in the blue grass stakes, at lexington, in which he ran second to foundation, at a mile and an eighth, run in : - / . the kentucky derby of to-day was the richest race in the history of that classic, being worth $ , gross. of this, the second horse, ten point, won $ , and the third horse, gowell, $ . with the $ deducted, the winner's entrance and starting fee, the net value to donerail is $ , . fortieth derby derby followers awoke this morning to find that, with a cloudless sky smiling above, the elements had looked upon the day with favor, it being an ideal day for racing. a warm sun dissipated the moisture of two preceding days and also assisted extensively in putting the course in good shape. it was just a few minutes after o'clock when the derby entrants, after having been cantered past the grandstand and clubhouse veranda, approached the starting point a quarter of a mile above the judges' stand. old ben, which had the inside position at the start, was the first to slip under the barrier and wheel about facing it. then came watermelon, john gund, bronzewing, surprising, old rosebud and hodge in the order named. at the post less than two minutes the seven entrants in the derby were off like a shot. for the fraction of a second they ran in perfect alignment, the start having been an ideal one. then old rosebud began moving into the lead. hodge, a bit slower than his rival, was quickest of the others, however, and closed in immediately behind the leader. bronzewing was last of the seven to get going, and at the end of the first quarter was last by five lengths. as the eyes of those stationed at the starting point followed the racers in their swift circling of the track they saw old rosebud gradually increasing the lead assumed by him during the first quarter of the journey. rounding the turn into the stretch old rosebud was in the lead by two lengths, hodge was second by four lengths and john gund was third by half a length. surprising was a head in advance of old ben, and the latter was a length and a half in advance of bronzewing, which was running like a wild horse. as the band of racers passed into the stretch, mccabe called on old rosebud for an extra effort, and he responded in a manner that opened the oldest turfman's eyes in wonder and amazement, for he sprinted away from his opposition as if they were standing still to win easily by eight lengths in the remarkable time of : - / , a record for the distance here, and making the performance stand out the more in view of the fact that the track was far from being in its best shape. hodge finished second by a length and a half. bronzewing closed up the space separating her from john gund, surprising and old ben, passing the three and dropping into third position four lengths behind hodge. the ride which old rosebud received was second only to his own great courage. jockey mccabe, a midget whose head and hands are busy under all conditions, rode a wonderful race. coming through the stretch he was working in perfect unison with his mount. mccabe was restraining the high-strung gelding, and at the same time looking back into the rut of blasted hopes where hodge, bronzewing and other stars of the turf struggled toward the wire. old rosebud seemed to realize the importance of the occasion. he had given his best efforts and won. except for flecks of foam and sweat upon his arching neck, he seemed as though he had just come out of the barn for a workout. he was the leading money-winner on the turf in , and bids fair to hold his record again in . governor mccreary, who had witnessed the derby running as the guest of the stewards, presented jockey mccabe with the huge bouquet of american beauty roses and also tendered his congratulations to messrs. weir and applegate, the joint owners of the winner. old rosebud, the winner, was bred by j. e. madden at hamburg place. his sire, uncle, was bred by col. e. f. clay and his breeding partner, catesby woodford, in bourbon county, and his dam, ivory bells, was bred by e. s. gardner at avondale stud, in tennessee. she is by himyar, the sire of domino, and out of the wonderful race mare ida pickwick, by mr. pickwick. the latter horse is a son of the english derby winner hermit. the next dam was ida k., by king alfonso, she being the dam of indigo, that produced the suburban handicap winner, go between. old rosebud was purchased, along with four yearling fillies, in the season of , by h. c. applegate & co., for $ , . he won his first race, the yucatan stakes, at juarez, mexico, in the winter of , and also won another race at that track before being brought to kentucky last spring. little nephew, also by uncle, is the only horse that ever beat old rosebud in a race. last year the derby winner won twelve of his fourteen starts. he ran three most remarkable races as a two-year old at douglas park, first winning at five furlongs in : - / , again in : - / and again : - / . in all of these races he beat his old rival, little nephew. he has only started once before this season, that being a mile race at lexington, which he won with ease. that race was intended as a preliminary trial for his derby race to-day, and it must be admitted that it brought him to the post in the derby in the very pink of condition. the great gelding was trained by f. d. weir, who is famous in turf annals of other days as the trainer of roseben, one of the champion sprinters of all time. "this was surely a great day, and the kentucky derby this season eclipses all records," said president charles f. grainger. "old rosebud and hodge are two three-year olds the like of which perhaps never met in a derby race. to beat a performer like hodge as handily as he did to-day makes old rosebud one of the champion three-year olds of all time. hodge beat the previous derby record for a mile and a quarter as well as old rosebud, and the race was run over a track more than a second slow. had the downs course been at its fastest undoubtedly old rosebud would have beaten the world's record for the kentucky derby distance on a circular track had he been pushed." judge charles f. price stated that he had never seen a greater day of racing. "there was not a single happening to mar the great pleasure of the afternoon, and the derby of was the most remarkable race ever run in the long history of this classic event," said the presiding official. "it was not only a track record for the downs, but it was a remarkable race in every particular and wonderful to relate, the two starts of the contest, old rosebud and hodge, are both geldings. it is questionable if in a life-time two such horses as these three-year olds will be seen in any derby race together." summary saturday, may , . track good. derby and / mile. $ , added, value to winner $ , . for -year olds. time : - / , : - / . old rosebud, , mccabe hodge, , taylor bronze wing, , j. hanover john gund, , byrne; old ben, , turner; surprising, , peak; watermelon, , french. winner bay geld, by uncle--ivory bells. owner h. c. applegate. trainer f. d. weir. forty-first derby regret, a chestnut daughter of broomstick--jersey lightning, to-day overcame tradition that has withstood since aristides, the "little red horse," triumphed in the inaugural running of the blue grass state classic in the spring of , and gained for her owner, harry payne whitney, the eastern sportsman, the sum of $ , and what is infinitely more to him the honor of winning the kentucky derby. regret, the scion of illustrious thoroughbreds, achieved an easy victory, and, while she may not be the greatest horse that ever won the derby, the daughter of broomstick and the granddaughter of ben brush furnished a spectacle for more than , persons at churchill downs that will not soon be forgotten. dashing to the front with the rise of the barrier, she made every post a winning post and came on to laurels that were rightfully hers. behind regret trailed the greatest field that has ever worn silks in this premier turf event. pebbles, also carrying the colors of the eastern invasion, straining aching muscles, pursued the flying leader to the wire. in his wake were sharpshooter, another representative of the east; royal ii, the english-bred colt; emerson cochran, leo ray, double eagle and the rest of the struggling field. sixteen pure-blooded animals accepted the issue, the largest number in the history of the race. far back was for fair, a winter king; ed crump, the hope of the tennesseeans; norse king, a star of the maryland racing, and others. each had done nobly, he had done his best, but it was not enough to-day. old horsemen squinted their eyes unavailingly; they could not recall a derby wherein so many good horses had been found wanting. for when was there such a field as that in the forty-first running of this turf fixture? regret and her victory will long be talked of where the turf is discussed. "a filly cannot win the derby" has been a familiar slogan in kentucky. but no filly of regret's type has ever before aspired to this turf honor. of richest lineage, trained by the master hand of james rowe, and ridden by the clever notter, regret's claim demanded consideration. those who scoffed at her chances did not consider. after a short delay at the starting pole, all breasted the line together and up went the barrier. down the stretch came the charging thoroughbreds; past the grandstand they sped with regret leading by a half length, pebbles second and sharpshooter third, overlapped by ed crump. the others were in close attendance. on swept regret, jockey notter sat well forward and the filly moved with the utmost precision, maintaining a moderate rating stride that bespoke much reserve. pebbles still hung at the saddle girth, his long sweeping strides a source of discomfort to the backers of the favorite. plain it was that pebbles was the chief contender, and in the interest of the thousands it was a two-horse race. around the first turn and up the back stretch went the flying leaders. at the five-eighths pole pebbles challenged, and momentarily seemed to make up a few inches on the pacemaker, but notter loosened his reins a notch and regret responded easily. sharpshooter was still leading the pursuit. ed crump, a close attendant, then made his move. near the end of the back stretch the schorr colt crept up. he was ridden by jockey goose, a louisville boy, and his friends sounded above the din, "come on roscoe." but ed crump was not equal to the occasion. he tried, but failed and dropped back further and further as the journey progressed. as they took the turn by the old clubhouse pebbles made a determined bid for the honor and glory that go to the winner of the kentucky derby. again regret met his challenge easily. she moved away from her dogged rival and came into the stretch with a lead of a length and a half. sharpshooter plodded stubbornly after the butler crack, his steel-like cords playing beneath the skin. three-sixteenths of a mile from the wire notter shook up the filly slightly and she came on down the rail two lengths in front of pebbles. sharpshooter, driving madly under the urging of jockey butwell, held royal ii. safe. regret pulled up remarkably fresh after her long journey. when she came back into the charm circle before the judges' stand she was still full of run. when the wreath was placed around her neck and jockey notter boosted up on her bare, sweaty back the cheering which had accompanied her victory was a mere whisper in comparison to the ovation she received when the idea that the unattainable had been attained and that a filly had conquered the princes of the turf and won a kentucky derby, penetrated the head of the vast throng. regret was bred at mr. whitney's brookdale farm, in new jersey. under a smiling sun, forgetful of world's tragedy, society assembled a brilliant gathering around the clubhouse grounds to witness the running of the derby to-day. mr. whitney was one of the first men out on the track after the race was over, and as regret was jogging back to the stand he remarked: "isn't she the prettiest little filly you ever saw? you know," he continued, "this is the greatest race in america at the present time, and i don't care if she never starts again. the glory of winning this event is big enough, and regret can retire to the new jersey farm any time now. i told rowe i didn't care if she never won another race if she could only land this one. i have seen much bigger crowds than this one in the east and abroad, but i never saw a more enthusiastic one. it's great" and the expression on his face as he stood patting the mare's neck was the best evidence in the world that he is a worthy representative of his illustrious father, than whom racing never had a better friend. this was the largest field which ever went to the post in the kentucky derby. in , when the first kentucky derby was run, and aristides, the little chestnut horse was returned the victor, fifteen competed for the prize and honors. in , when apollo was victorious, fourteen went to the post, but never in its long history did sixteen horses fight it out. summary may , . track fast. derby, $ , added, value to winner $ , ; $ , to second; $ , to third. time - / , - / , . - / , . - / , . - / . regret, , j. notter pebbles, , c. borel sharpshooter, , j. butwell royal ii, , a. neylon; emerson cochran, , w. taylor; leo rey, , t. mctaggart; double eagle, , c. burlingame; dortch, , a. mott; for fair, , warrington; ed crump, , r. goose; little string, , e. pool; goldcrest boy, , j. kederis; uncle bryn, , j. mctaggart; tetan, , j. smyth; norse king, , w. j. o'brien; booker bill, , w. andress. winner ch f, by broomstick--jersey lightning. trained by j. rowe. owner, h. p. whitney. forty-second derby as old rome raised her gates for the returning conqueror and turned over to him the city's keys so did louisville surrender to-day to the spirit of the derby. again must the mind go back to palmy days of the city by the tiber to imagine anything like the scene when that crowd of , cheering persons saw gov. stanley present the victor's wreath to loftus, the boy who rode george smith, winner of the classic. it was a surrender complete, unequivocal and universal with all classes, at all places and in every regard. but perhaps it was not a surrender at all, for that spirit of the great kentucky classic gave to the city a gala day that even the carnival of venice or mardi gras at new orleans cannot surpass; it crowded the city with , strangers from far and near and, from the calculations of hotel men and others who come in immediate contact with the racing crowds, brought and left no less than one-half million out-of-town dollars to the gateway of the south. there was but one limit to the festivities of the day--the azure sky. if louisville was joyful to see so many strangers within her walls and delighted in a day of sport that might befit dwellers of the elysian fields, she had yet another cause for gladness. despite the efforts of "the east" to capture the kentucky derby for two seasons, the first and third horses in the classic were "bred in old kentucky." the derby was the fifth race on the card, and it was : o'clock when the horses reached the post. there was but little delay at the barrier, and within a minute they were on their way. dodge, which ran coupled with franklin as the weber & ward entry, was the first to show colors, and his stablemate dashed away right behind him. dominant, which was coupled with thunderer as the harry payne whitney entry, followed the weber & ward pair, and he immediately dashed into a long lead. passing the stand for the first time dominant had a long lead and appeared to be running easily, but after reaching the back side of the track it was evident that he was not good enough to last it out. franklin was running close to him and appeared to be ready to run over him. george smith was in third position, and jockey johnny loftus was carefully nursing him along reserving his speed for the gruelling drive through the stretch, which he knew must come. nearing the three furlong pole dominant gave it up and then loftus called on george smith. the sanford colt bounded to the front at a rapid rate and soon had a lead of a length over his field, with franklin closest to him. then it was that star hawk loomed up as a dangerous contender as he finally found his stride and had clear sailing. in the stretch, though, loftus kept hard at work on george smith, while jockey walter lilley, who rode star hawk, was making vigorous efforts to get him up. between the sixteenth pole and the finish it looked as though star hawk could make it, but loftus' experience served him well and he never drove a horse harder than he drove george smith. the showing of the whitney pair was disappointing to the eastern contingent and to trainer james rowe himself, who was the picture of confidence before the race. thunderer did not show to advantage at any stage of the race, but he finally managed to beat his stablemate, he finishing fifth, and dominant seventh. nine three-year old colts contested for the race, bulse, huffaker and st. isidore being scratched. george smith is entirely of english blood, both his sire, out of reach, and his dam, consuelo ii., being of imported blood. his sire is now owned by the new york turfman, james butler. the derby was worth gross $ , . the winner's net share was $ , , while the second horse, star hawk, took down $ , ; the third horse, franklin, $ , , and the fourth horse, dodge, saved his stake of $ . the time, : , has only once been beaten in the derby, being second to the mark of : - / , scored by old rosebud in , which is still the kentucky derby race record. jockey john loftus, who rode george smith to victory in the kentucky derby, is a native of chicago, ill., where his parents reside. he has long been regarded one of the leading riders of america, and is now under contract to james butler. he only came west this spring to ride george smith at lexington and in the derby, and will return to new york at once to his employer. loftus was long connected with the stable of j. b. respess and was also awhile with the j. livingston stable. he rode one season in france and made good there, the same as he has in this country. john sanford, the owner of george smith, is a son of the noted turfman of the same surname, who raced such great horses as caughnawaga, rockton, chuctanunda, mohawk ii. and molly brant. the sanford place is hurricana stud, near amsterdam, n. y., where is also located the sanford carpet manufacturing plant. it is at hurricana stud that george smith will do stud service when his turf career is over. george smith, the winner of the forty-second renewal of the historic and classic kentucky derby, is a superbly made black colt of average good size and much quality, with a superior way of going. he is very sightly in appearance and has a perfect track disposition. he was bred in mercer county, kentucky, at the fountainbue stud of chinn & forsythe, and was sold at a fall sale of yearlings at the latonia track for $ , , being the second highest priced yearling sold at that time. ed mcbride, at that sale, left considerable money with lou tauber to buy three yearlings, one of these was george smith, another was tom elwood, and the other was eddie henry, both of which have won stake races for mcbride. summary may , . track fast. $ , added. value to winner $ , , second $ , , third $ , . time - / , - / , . - / , . - / , . . george smith, , j. loftus star hawk, , w. lilley franklin, , t. rice dodge, , f. murphy; thunderer, , t. mctaggart; the cock, , m. garner; dominant, , j. notter; kinney, , l. gentry; lena misha, , e. dugan. winner black colt, by out-of reach--consuelo ii. owned by john sanford. trained by h. hughes. forty-third derby mindful still of the war time, but mindful more of the play time--of kentucky's great play day of the may time-- , citizens of everywhere came from the high and low places of earth to-day to make derby day in louisville what derby day always had been. when a maytime sun flushes the bluegrass of churchill downs, dapples the satin coats of thoroughbreds and touches to brilliancy the brave green and gold of paddock, lawn and infield, when a hawthornscented breeze, straight from the wooded hills of jacob park, ripples the gleaming folds of "old glory," when senators and governors, multi-millionaires and internationally famous beauties foregather for the running of the derby, when the motion picture cameras are licking, when the bands are playing, and the bugles sounding "boots and saddles," it is time to heed omar's advice: "come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring your winter garment of repentance fling!" there were, indeed, no "winter garments of repentance" in evidence at the down to-day but instead such far eastern colors, such vivid touches of chinese red and jade green, such oriental embroideries, such swirling military capes and coats that had their inspiration in the army as to convert the downs into a picture that suggested some vast canvas by velasquez. the wise man who once declared that "four things greater than all things are: women and horses and power and war" would have found his dictum translated into living proof to-day, for added to the beauty of the women who graced the downs, added to the fleetness of the satin-coated horses, and the power that is kentucky, there was the suggestion of patriotism that can only translate itself in war. the olive-drab of the first kentucky infantry formed a fitting background for the striking picture presented by clubhouse lawn, verandas and boxes. "old glory" rippled and fluttered and the notes of the bugle stirred the immense throng to one single impulse of patriotism. the feeling that if fate should decree that on the next derby days some of "our boys" should be in france, and nearer longchamps than churchill downs, that kentucky will be sure to "place a wager for them" instead of "turning down an empty glass," was everywhere expressed. meanwhile, it seemed that "the loveliest, and the best" of louisville, of kentucky, and of the nation, were "star-scattered on the grass" of the clubhouse. in fact, the rubaiyat of the kentucky derby was written to-day, and the chestnut-coated, satin-smooth omar khayyam won no less in the clubhouse than on the race course for everywhere the far eastern, the persian, the oriental touch was in evidence. there were arab coats, pongees, and tussahs, silks of oriental weave, and fabrics that were dyed in the self-same tints, and embroidered in the self-same designs and motifs as those that greeted the eyes of omar khayyam centuries ago. automobiles in a long line that narrowed close to the course and bore thousands from all quarters of the city filled all the inclosures and the open spaces near the park. street cars, embracing nearly all the emergency equipment of the railway company, ran in an almost continuous line, southbound, for several hours on fourth street. many lovers of the sport and the occasion took the footpaths for the exercise. at any rate, : o'clock found no less than , persons within churchill downs. it found them likewise at attention as a body of soldiers, led by a soldier band, marched in from the north gate, drawing up before a large flagstaff in the center of the infield. when , persons are of one mind, and are gathered in silence in one place, there is eloquence in the air. the very breeze gives a thrill. when the star spangled banner and a kentucky derby in wartime are turned loose on such a vast gathering of americans the heart thumps mightily. in that gathering were men who have seen the ravages of war and men who expect to feel its blight; men in the khaki and men hoping soon to don it. and so, when the regiment boys burst into the anthem as a large flag was raised along with two smaller ones, the crowd rose, held its silence until the band ceased, and then broke into a mighty cheer. it was nearly o'clock when the bugle sounded calling the horses to the post. the long procession of fifteen, led by the outrider on a gray horse, garbed in a fiery red jacket, made an imposing picture. the gay silks of the jockeys, with the verdant infield for a background, handed just the right touch of color to the scene. down past the grandstand and clubhouse they pranced, and here they were all given cheers. it takes kentucky racing audiences to grow enthusiastic, and they know how to do it. on the way to the post ticket, the favorite, was the most nervous one of the lot, prancing and dancing throughout the stretch. all others were a well behaved lot. it took the starter four minutes to get them in alignment, and then the grand old shout of "they're off!" shot out from the grandstand and was spent on the distant green hills. ticket dashed into the lead, but stargazer soon assumed command, with berlin forcing the pace at his side. they swept past the grandstand at a stirring clip, the field strung out as the riders jockeyed for positions. on went stargazer, his dazzling pace tearing at the hearts of those who attempted to follow it. berlin curled up from the effort and dropped back, beaten, as the band sped up the back stretch. ticket still held on and it was plain that he was the horse the winner would have to beat. as they rounded the turn by the old clubhouse rickety made his move. he seemed to have the speed of his party and rapidly mowed down his opposition. at the quarter pole rickety flashed in front, but it was only for an instant. he appeared to suddenly weaken and ticket headed the procession. meanwhile one of the cleverest riders in america was nestling low over the neck of a big chestnut colt. as the field passed the grandstand the first time he was in tenth place. there he continued around the curve and into the back stretch. out in front he could see the flying leaders, but his mount was running smoothly, and as they passed the half mile pole he noticed he was shortening the distance that he must make up. he was satisfied with his position. but suddenly every hope was threatened. he was borne over against the rail and his mount was knocked off his stride. but borel did not despair. he took back until the way was clear and passed the mile mark in sixth place. the flying leaders swung a trifle wide into the stretch and left an opening on the rail. borel did not hesitate. along the white fence he took omar. in a couple of jumps his mount was at ticket's rump. steadily he moved toward the front, past saddle girth and withers. he soon was stretching fiery nostrils alongside the bay colt's neck, and then omar khayyam's blaze face showed in front, and in the last hundred yards commenced to draw away and swept under the wire winner by two lengths. the kentucky derby; one mile and a quarter; for three-year olds; purse, $ , added; net value to the winner, $ , ; $ , to second, $ , to third, $ to fourth. fractional time-- : - / , : - / , : - / , : , : - / . starters weights jockeys st. / / / s. f. omar khayyam, borel h - / ticket, j. mctaggart h - / - / - / - / midway, c. hunt - / h rickety, robinson - / h - / war star, buxton - / - / h h manister toi, keogh - / - / - / h skeptic, martin h - / guy fortune, connolly - / star master, loftus - / h h h stargazer, crump - / - / h - / cudgel, murphy - / green jones, goose h - / top o' the wave, morys berlin, andress - / h - / acabado, schuttinger h the $ mutuels paid: omar khayyam, straight $ . , place $ . , show $ . ; ticket, place $ . , show $ . ; midway, show $ . . omar khayyam was bred in england by sir john robinson and j. t. farr and was purchased by his present trainer, charles t. patterson for c. k. g. billings and frederick johnson at newmarket, september , , for $ , . omar khayyam's sire marco won the cambridgeshire, etc., and is the sire of neil gow, beppo, marcovil, malua, bembo, mirador, sansovino, and other good horses. omar khayyam, named for the great persian poet and astronomer, is the first foreign-bred colt to win a kentucky derby. his owners are frederick johnson, a broker, in new york and c. k. g. billings, owner of the famous trotters uhlan, lou dillon and major delmar and it is his second season as a thoroughbred owner. mr. johnson saw his colt win but mr. billings was unable to enjoy seeing the victory. trainer c. t. patterson said before the race: "i never trained a horse in which i had more confidence than omar khayyam, and i handled hamburg and ornament." forty-fourth derby in the presence of the greatest crowd that ever thronged churchill downs and over a track fetlock deep in mud, willis sharpe kilmer's chestnut gelding exterminator, saddled by henry mcdaniel, and capably ridden by w. knapp, scored an easy victory over seven other good three-year olds in the forty-fourth running of the kentucky derby this afternoon. kenneth d. alexander's crack broomstick colt, escoba, ridden by joe notter, finished second, a length back of the winner and eight lengths in front of viva america, the only filly that started in the race. a. k. macomber's imported war cloud, a heavy favorite in the speculation and which would have paid a little less than three to two, had he won, was never a serious factor and finished fourth, beaten all of the way. the winner was given but scant consideration by the bettors, being the least regarded of the eight that made up the field after aurum and jim heffering had been withdrawn. exterminator paid his backers the handsome odds of nearly thirty to one and in winning upset all calculations and brought consternation to the ranks of the form players, who went to war cloud with rare confidence. it was after five o'clock when the bugle called the horses to the post for the derby, in which a big surprise was in store for the spectators. every inch of space in clubhouse and grandstand was taken, while a solid mass of humanity lined the lawns a quarter of a mile long, extending from clubhouse to the quarter pole, almost to the head of the homestretch. the procession of eight sleek thoroughbreds, trained to the minute, led by the outrider on a gray horse, garbed in a fiery jacket, made an imposing picture. the gay silks of the jockeys with the verdant field for a background, gave just the right touch of color to the scene. down past the grandstand and clubhouse they pranced, with escoba in the lead, closely followed by the others. at sight of the dark blue and white sleeves of mr. alexander, worn by escoba's rider, faint cheers rippled along the fringe of the crowd that lined the rail, and which was turned into a noisy demonstration as war cloud, the favorite, came in sight. they reached the post at : , and it took starter dade but a brief time to get them in alignment. in exactly two minutes he sprung the barrier, and, shouting, "come on," sent the eight horses away on their history-making journey. viva america was the first to show in front after a few strides, and was closely followed by sewell combs and escoba. as they thundered past the stand for the first time, the worthington filly was still in the lead, with sewell combs and escoba running neck and neck to her rear. exterminator was lying in fourth position, while lucky b., american eagle, war cloud and jas. t. clark were running abreast not far behind. there was very little change in the running positions as the field swung into the backstretch, except that the leader was beginning to show the strain of pacemaking. as they reached the half-mile pole backers of war cloud implored loftus to move up and for a moment it appeared that the rider had heard the cry across the field and was making an effort to comply. the english-bred horse, however, showed clearly that the task was too much for him, for despite his rider's vigorous efforts he could not get within hailing distance of the leaders. rounding the far turn viva america was ready to cry quits and escoba, after shaking off sewell combs, forged ahead. if notter, who was aboard of escoba, exulted over the advantage gained, he was soon doomed to disappointment, for knapp had gone to work on exterminator, and under keen urging the kilmer gelding rushed forward and was on even terms with the alexander colt as they straightened out for the last gruelling drive. after a brief struggle, exterminator shook off his doughty antagonist and drawing clear in the last eighth, won in a mild drive in : - / . escoba had practically no opposition for the place. viva america beat war cloud four lengths for third money. sewell combs ran a good race, but tired chasing the leader in the first seven-eighths. lucky b., which was supposed to be partial to the heavy track, ran far below expectations. american eagle and jas. t. clark also ran below par and might just as well not have been started. war cloud showed a very poor effort, due probably to the fact that he did not like the kind of mud that prevailed to-day. the winner's portion of the stake amounted to $ , . the second horse's share was $ , , and the third horse, $ , . by finishing fourth war cloud saved his owner nominating and starting fees. exterminator and his rider were roundly applauded upon their return to the stand. mr. kilmer, who watched the race with mrs. kilmer from a box, was called into the judges' box and warmly congratulated by gov. a. o. stanley, while the floral wreath was placed around the neck of the winner. the morning dawned bright and clear, but shortly after o'clock the sky became overcast and by : the rain was pouring down. it was steady and heavy until shortly after o'clock when it ceased and there was an occasional feeble attempt of the sun to kiss away the dampness on stand and lawns and rye-grown infield of verdant churchill downs, but it was all to no purpose, for the country's most classical race was decided over the muddiest course for any derby since that won by worth in . as the horses came from the paddock onto the track in parade to the post for the opening race, the band struck up the national anthem, and at the same time the stars and stripes were run up to the top of the tall flag mast in the center field. everyone stood--the soldiers, who had come in goodly numbers from camp zachary taylor, at attention, and the male civilians, with their heads uncovered. two of the jockeys, frank murphy and lee mink, took off their caps when they heard the strains of "the star spangled banner," and saw "old glory," floating to the breeze, a resplendent guarantee to the freedom of the nation and earnest evidence that our fighting forces and their allies will make the world safe for democracy. and just at the moment of the good old flag's ascendancy the sun shone out from behind the vanishing clouds until it was bright enough to cast shadows from the trees and shrubs upon the lawn. in the spring of joseph knight made arrangements to breed three of his mother's mares to mcgee on shares. mr. moore was to have the pick of the mares owned by mr. knight's mother. fair empress was one of the mares selected by mr. moore to breed to mcgee and exterminator was foaled on may , . he was sold as a yearling at saratoga by the powers-hunter company to j. c. milam for $ , . mr. milam broke him and developed him, and last year won $ , with him, and this month, during the lexington meeting, sold him to mr. kilmer for a price reported to have been in the vicinity of $ , . the kentucky derby; one mile and a quarter; for three-year olds; $ , added; net value to the winner $ , ; $ , to second; $ , to third; $ to fourth. fractional time-- : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / , : - / . went to the post at : p. m. off at : . starters weights st. / / / s. f. exterminator, w. knapp - / h escoba, j. notter - / h h viva america, w. warrington - / - / war cloud, j. loftus h lucky b., j. mccabe h - / jas. t. clark, j. morys sewell combs, l. gentry nk - / american eagle, e. sande the $ mutuels paid: exterminator, straight $ . , place $ . , show $ . ; escoba, place $ . , show $ . ; viva america, show $ . . start good. won handily; place driving. winner, ch g, , by mcgee--fair empress. trainer h. mcdaniel. forty-fifth derby a record derby in more ways than one was this year's louisville's big racing attraction. never was there such a crowd, the dimensions of which reminded me of epsom and of flemington. a vast surging mass of racing enthusiasts, which, prior to the running of the big race, were to be found eagerly discussing the merits or demerits of the derby contestants and afterwards the whys and wherefores of the success of one and the failure of others. a record derby also because of the fact that two horses in the same ownership finished first and second, and also for the first time in its history the spoils fell to a sportsman who hails from the land of "god save the king and heaven bless the maple leaf forever." fortunately the morning's promise of still more rain was not fulfilled, nary an umbrella did i see raised during the course of the afternoon. many there were who availed themselves of the privilege of watching the race from the infield, though the grandstand was not filled to that overflowing that has marked the decision of former derbies. this was true because of the fact that the whole grandstand was reserved, an extra charge being demanded for admission. surely this is a mistake, ugh! what next? what would have happened it is hard to say had jupiter pluvious again gone to work. the going itself was more than fair. the churchill downs course never becomes holdings as does lexington; proof of this is the winner's more than good time, made when competing for the derby. now then for the derby. the gelding be frank is first on view, presenting a well trained appearance. vindex, though out on the course for a warming up canter, did not pass the stands. his manners are even yet not by any means perfect, whinnying and nickering when returning to the paddock, a magnificent specimen of a thorough bred, perhaps a trifle long of back, carrying abundant condition, too, but in every way a gentleman to look at. along came the canadian pair billy and barton, by odds the best ordered horses in the race, kelly especially looked fit to run for the proverbial king's ransom, his whippet like contour convincing evidence that trainer bedwell has lost nothing of his skill, and barton, too, though built on somewhat more generous lines, had the look of one trained to the minute. indeed, it is comforting to know that there are yet to be found those who can prepare a horse for a ten furlongs race. eternal and sailor also are shown, the favorite more bulky than ever, sailor put up on more rangy lines. little regalo was the last to come out, evidently on the best of terms with herself, evincing an interest in the spectators and playing with her pony companion on her return. st. bernard, frogtown and under fire i did not see, the paddock was altogether impossible. the absolutely fit condition of the ross pair was the subject of much favorable comment, the magnificence of vindex, the lack of scope of eternal, the well being of regalo, all of us had something to say, but there goes the bugle. starter dade did not keep us waiting long, and from the outset the ross chestnut, sir barton, was at the head of affairs, followed, as they pass the stand, by eternal, vindex and billy kelly. on they sweep round the upper turn, barton galloping easily in front of eternal, billy kelly third, just in front of vindex, then came st. bernard and sennings park, well clear of the rest. only one-half mile has been run when vindex rapidly compounds and quickly falls to the rear. on spins the chestnut well in advance of eternal and kelly; won't he ever come back? oh no, as long as weight and condition serve, both of which are in his favor. eternal momentarily makes a stab at the three-eighths, but is done, absolutely done thereafter. billy kelly now looms up, and as they straighten for home makes his gallant effort, but it is of no avail, even to the application of the rawhide he is unable to respond, and sir barton sails home an easy winner after making every yard of the pace. under fire comes out of the ruck at the end to take third place, the son of swynford again shows lack of pace in the early running, but came along stoutly at the finish, the rest scattering. yes, scattering; there was no rattling horse against horse at any part of the race. it was thus sir barton broke his maiden, assisted of course in this by his pull in weight and also by his superior racing condition. billy kelly's condition, too, saved him the place, and this is a feat which trainer bedwell is deserving of all praise and of which he may well be proud. under fire's gameness and race horse qualities enabled him to obtain third place, and some day, later along, he is certain to develop into a cup horse of the best sort, sound, long winded and hardy as they come. regalo disappointed me. fillies, however, are ever uncertain in this spring season. the form displayed by vindex was altogether too bad to be true. maybe he has his peculiarities as had his grandsire st. maclou. eternal did not have the appearance of a thoroughly trained horse. maybe he was more fit than was thought and does not fancy a distance. as for the rest, they simply are not of derby calibre. the time, : - / , was remarkably good, everything, track and atmospheric conditions, considered and goes a long way to show that the kentucky derby this year, at all events, was a true run, honest race. "exile." summary may , . track heavy. $ , added. value to winner $ , , second $ , , third, $ , , fourth $ . time-- - / , - / , . , . - / , . - / . sir barton, - / , j. loftus billy kelly, , e. sande under fire, , m. garner vulcanite, , c. howard; sennings park, , h. lunsford; be frank, , j. butwell; sailor, , j. mcintyre; st. bernard, , e. pool; regalo, , f. murphy; eternal, , a. schuttinger; frogtown, , j. morys; vindex, , w. knapp. winner chestnut colt, by star shoot--lady sterling. owned by j. k. l. ross. trained by h. g. bedwell. forty-sixth derby a droning buzz as if from , human bees, a sudden silence as felt before a storm, and then an outburst of sound over topped in volume by the rebel yell let out by uncle billy garth, of virginia, thousands of fluttering spasms of dying thrills, and then the finish of the forty-sixth kentucky derby passed into history. running a great and game race, that did credit to his illustrious namesake, paul jones, a son of sea king and may florence, led from start to finish of the mile and a quarter, and won under a drive by a good neck. fighting it out to the last ounce of endeavor, harry payne whitney's upset, that owner's home bred son of whisk broom ii. and pankhurst, finished in second place, with four lengths to spare over george w. loft's on watch, who was early favorite in the winter books for this big event. on watch was four lengths in front of damask another of the whitney entry, while donnacona, the other of the loft pair to start, was fifth, with blazes, stable mate of paul jones, sixth. the race was worth $ , to the winner, and there was $ , for upset, who ran second, and $ , for on watch, as the short end of the rich purse, while damask saved his entry fee when he finished in fourth place, $ . for once, the monster throng, many of whom had witnessed many other derbies, awakened to a perfect day, just as perfect as a day in june, but the track was slow, as was evidenced by the time of : . the record for this race was made by old rosebud, who did the distance in : - / . the start of the race could not have been better, the seventeen thoroughbreds getting away in almost perfect alignment, after having been at the post less than four minutes. paul jones was the first to show in front, following the rise of the barrier, but pounding along at his throat-latch was prince pal, with the others following closely. by the time the leader had reached a point opposite the padlock gate, a few hundred yards from the starting line, the others had begun to string out. on they came with paul jones showing the way. as the field passed the grandstand, the first time, jockey ted rice nestled low in the saddle. he was rating his mount nicely and the son of sea king was eager to run. on they sped around the first turn and into the back stretch. here by golly made his move for the honor and glory that goes to the winner of the derby. he hung close to the heels of paul jones as they swung into the straight-away, and then fell back beaten. wildair took up the chase. he closed to the saddle girth of the parr winner and they swept along at a tearing pace. one or the other must falter, the crowd knew, but paul jones proved his mettle. wildair dropped back. on watch then drew the gaze of the spectators. as the field passed the half-mile post he shot forward and sped past his tiring opposition. on he continued as they rounded the last turn, and an old horseman shouted. "on watch wins." but on watch had spent himself and all the courage and stamina at his command could not overhaul the driving duo out front. at the furlong pole paul jones met his sternest test. he seemed to be weakening from the long, hard struggle. upset appeared to be the stronger. but jockey rice again called on his game little mount and paul jones did as hanover or hindoo would have done. he would not be denied. paul jones met challenge with challenge and at the close displayed a heart of iron as he drove madly under the wire with upset at his throat-latch. throughout the stretch the twain waged a heartrending duel. as they took the final turn upset made his bid. inch by inch he forged past rump and flank and withers. he stretched fiery nostrils alongside the gelding's throat. only the blazed face remained between him and victory. on they came past the furlong pole, and still the blazed face would not be dislodged. it remained there to the end. this triumph of the east was more than a victory for kentucky. the ugly little brown boasts blood that long has been the pride of the blue grass. his dam is by hamburg, which got jersey lightning, the dam of regret, and hamburg's sire was the immortal hanover, by hindoo, winner of the kentucky derby of . hindoo was from the loins of virgil out of florence, by lexington, and he by boston, the great boston. summary may , . track slow. $ , added. value to winner $ , , second, $ , , third $ , , fourth $ . time-- - / , - / , . - / , . , . . paul jones, , t. rice upset, , j. rodriguez on watch, , n. barrett damask, , e. ambrose; donnacona, , w. j. o'brien; blazes, , c. kummer; by golly, , l. lyke; wildair, , l. fator; bersagliere, , t. murray; patches, , j. hanover; herron, , j. butwell; sandy beal, , i. williams; prince pal, , a. schuttinger; david harum, , c. fairbrother; cleopatra, , l. mcatee; peace pennant, , m. garner; sterling, , j. callahan. winner, brown gelding, by sea king-may florence, by hamburg. owned by r. parr. trained by wm. garth. i love the hoss from hoof to head, from head to hoof and tail to mane. i love the hoss, as i have said from head to hoof and back again. i love my god the first of all, then him that perished on the cross and next my wife and then i fall down on my knees and love the hoss. james whitcomb riley. * * * * * transcriber's note: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). the original text does not contain a table of contents. the table of contents included near the beginnning of this file was created by the transcriber as an aid for the reader. the following misprints have been corrected: "calvary" corrected to "cavalry" (page ) "foso" corrected to "fonso" (page ) "ragland" corrected to "raglan" (page ) "biersan" corrected to "bersan" (page ) "that" corrected to "than" (page ) "cencert" corrected to "concert" (page ) missing "and" added (page ) "oustretched" corrected to "outstretched" (page ) "three-yeor-old" corrected to "three-year-old" (page ) "companians" corrected to "companions" (page ) "sheck" corrected to "scheck" (page ) "than" corrected to "then" (page ) "pass" corrected to "past" (page ) "gotton" corrected to "gotten" (page ) "banbridge's" corrected to "banridge's" (page ) "kentucy" corrected to "kentucky" (page ) "viens" corrected to "veins" (page ) "sixteeth" corrected to "sixteenth" (page ) "nack" corrected to "neck" (page ) "buxon" corrected to "buxton" (page ) "far" corrected to "for" (page ) "frunished" corrected to "furnished" (page ) the mismatched parenthesis on page is presented as in the original. otherwise, punctuation errors have been corrected without note. other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained. fast as the wind a novel by nat gould author of "the rider in khaki," etc. [decoration] a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangement with frederick a. stokes company _copyright, , by_ frederick a. stokes company _all rights reserved_ contents chapter page i. the boom of a gun ii. story of an escape iii. the man on the road iv. the woman at the table v. picton's winning mounts vi. in brack's cottage vii. a critical moment viii. on board the "sea-mew" ix. lenise elroy x. haverton xi. tearaway and others xii. "i think he's dead" xiii. a woman's fear xiv. not recognised xv. "the st. leger's in your pocket" xvi. how hector fought the bloodhound xvii. an introduction at hurst park xviii. conscience troubles xix. "what would you do?" xx. rita sees a resemblance xxi. brack turns traveler xxii. doncaster xxiii. the crowd in the ring xxiv. "by jove, she's wonderful" xxv. fast as the wind xxvi. the struggle for the cup xxvii. the reserved compartment xxviii. how hector had his revenge xxix. an astonishing communication xxx. tearaway's progeny fast as the wind chapter i the boom of a gun a small but splendidly built yacht steamed slowly into torbay, passed brixham and paignton, and came to anchor in the outer harbor at torquay. it was a glorious spring morning, early, and the sun shone on the water with a myriad of dancing reflections; it bathed in light the beautiful town, the scores of villas nestling on the heights surrounding it, the palms on the terrace walk, on the mass of greenery clothing foot to summit, on the inner harbor, and on the rocky coast stretching out towards anstey's cove and babbacombe beach. it was a magnificent sight, the arts of man and nature mingled together, for once harmonizing, for torquay has not been spoilt by builders, at least as seen from the bay. behind, brixham way, the red sails of the fishing boats flapped lazily in an idle breeze. four men-of-war lay still in the bay, guardians of the peace, comforting, reassuring, a hint of what lay behind. how peaceful these monsters of the deep looked. slumbering surely were they. what was that? a puff of white smoke, then a solemn sound, which sped across the bay, and echoed over the hills. one of the monsters had spoken, just to show it was wide awake. it had a curious effect on the man leaning over the side of the _sea-mew_, the yacht that had just come to anchor. it startled him from his reverie, from his contemplation of all that was so beautiful around him. for a moment he looked across at the warships, and saw the smoke drifting away, then he turned and looked over the town and its heights, and his thoughts went far and landed on dartmoor. another gun boomed out. this time it seemed more natural. again the echo ran over the hills, and again he turned and looked towards that vast moor which lay behind. "supposing it were true," he muttered. "would to god it were, and that he were safe on board my yacht. all for a woman, and such a woman!" he clenched his fist and struck the rail. picton woodridge, owner of the _sea-mew_, was a man of about thirty, tall, good looking, genial, popular, but lonely, if a popular man can be described as lonely, and there are such men. he was rich, a sportsman. his stable at haverton contained good horses: a derby winner in prospect, one of the best stayers in england, and above all tearaway, a black filly, three years old, described by her trainer, brant blackett, as "a beauty, a real gem, and fast as the wind." he ought to have been a happy man. to all outward appearances he was, but behind a smiling face there is sometimes a heavy heart. it was not exactly so in his case, yet there was something of it. there was one black shadow cast over his gilded path, and the echo of the gun from the man-of-war had deepened it. "why the deuce did i come here?" he muttered. "why did i promise dick i'd ride for him at torquay races?" he sighed; he knew why he had promised dick langford to ride for him; he would do a good deal more than this for dick, for the sake of his sister rita. he had no other companion on the yacht than ben bruce, captain of the _sea-mew_, who stood towards him in the light of his best friend. ben bruce was a character in his way. he had been in the navy, on the same ship with picton's father, and admiral woodridge and the young officer had esteem and affection for each other. lieutenant bruce often came to haverton in the admiral's time and was always a welcome guest. he had known picton from a boy, and shared the admiral's fondness for the somewhat lonely child, whose mother died at his birth, and whose elder brother was generally away from home, training for the army. bruce remembered the elder boy, hector, but had not seen so much of him, or become so attached to him as to picton. hector was of a different disposition, hasty, headstrong, willful, and yet the brothers were much attached, and when at home together, were seldom apart. there were ten years between them; consequently hector regarded himself in the light of a protector to picton. the admiral loved them and endeavored to treat them equally in his affection, but it was not difficult to see the younger had the stronger hold over him. hector saw it and smiled. he was not at all jealous; he felt if it came to choosing, and one of them had to be relied upon, his father would select him. and such would probably have been the case had occasion occurred, but it did not, and everything went on the even tenor of its way until the fatal day when a terrible thing happened and hector became, so picton was positively certain, the victim of a woman's wiles. what this happening was we shall learn. sufficient to say, it caused the admiral to retire. he never got over the shock, and died soon after he left the navy. the bulk of his fortune was left to picton, who was determined, when the time came, to surrender to hector his proper share. captain ben bruce left the service soon after the admiral he had loved and served. he was, so to speak, a poor man, and when he came to haverton, to his old chief's funeral, picton begged him to stay with him for a few months to relieve his loneliness. this he readily consented to do. the months extended, and picton would not let him go; he relied on the stronger man, who had carved his way upward by his own exertions. ben bruce protested, all to no purpose. "i can't do without you," said picton. "you were my father's friend, he had every confidence in you; you are one of the executors, you are the proper man to remain here and run the show." ben bruce laughed. "run the show!" he said. "not much chance of that even if i wished it. you've a good head on your shoulders, and one quite capable of managing your affairs. if i stay, mind i say _if_, it will not be on that account." "it doesn't matter to me on what account you stay so long as you consent to remain," said picton. "there's so much to do here; i am short of a companion--you know i don't take to everyone. there's another thing--although you're a sailor you are fond of horses, and a good rider, and i say, ben, i've a proposition to make." again ben bruce laughed. "you've got a fresh proposition almost every week, and it's nearly always something in my favor." "this will be to your liking, as well as, if you think so, in your favor." "what is it?" "take charge of the haverton horses--be my manager." "what about blackett?" "he'll not mind; in fact he'll like it. i put it to him; he seemed rather enamored of the prospect of being closely connected with captain bruce, the friend of his adored admiral. there wasn't a man living blackett loved more than my father; i think it was the combination of the sea and the stable appealed to him. blackett always had an idea, so he told me, until he became acquainted with the admiral, that sailors were duffers where horses were concerned. 'but i soon found out the difference,' he said; 'the admiral knew pretty near as much about a horse as i did. of course i taught him a thing or two, but he was a good judge, he knew the points of a horse pretty near as well as he did the parts of a battleship.' that's blackett's opinion, and he has an idea captain bruce has leanings in the same direction as the admiral, so you can't raise any objections on that score." it did not take much persuasion to induce captain bruce to consent, and he became manager of haverton stables and, as a natural consequence, remained with picton woodridge. at the same time picton said to him, with a serious face: "there's something else, far more important than anything i have mentioned. you've to help me to clear hector; you believe him innocent, don't you, ben, you can't do otherwise?" ben bruce was silent for a moment--picton watched him anxiously--then said, "yes, i am sure he is innocent. he couldn't have done that, not to secure any woman for himself; but it's a mystery, picton, a grave mystery, and it will take a far cleverer man than myself to unravel it. i'll help you, i'll stick at nothing to help you and hector." "thanks, old friend, thanks a thousand times. with your help there is no telling what may be accomplished. there must be some way out of it; such a terrible injustice cannot be allowed to go on for ever," said picton. and so captain ben, as he was called, became the constant friend and companion of picton woodridge. when the _sea-mew_ was purchased it was captain ben who clinched the deal, and was appointed "skipper." "so i'm your stud manager and captain of your yacht, that's a queer combination," said ben. "and you're as good in one capacity as the other," said picton. "i think i'm safer on deck than on a horse," said ben. it was captain ben bruce who came quietly along the deck of the _sea-mew_ and looked at picton woodridge as he gazed over torquay bay. a kindly look was in his eyes, which were always bright and merry, for he was a cheerful man, not given to look on the dark side of things. his affection for picton was that of a father for a son, in addition to being a companion and a friend. he noticed the sad far-away look on picton's face, and wondered what it was that caused the shadow on this beautiful april morning. "i'll leave him to his meditations," he thought; "he'll be down for breakfast, and i'll ask him then." he was about to turn away when picton looked round and said with a smile: "something told me you were there." "telepathy," said ben. "sympathy," said picton. "do you know what i was thinking about?" "no; i saw you were pensive. i'd have asked you at breakfast, you looked so serious." "i was serious." "what caused the passing cloud on such a glorious morning?" asked ben. picton took him by the arm, his grip tightened; with the other hand he pointed to the battleship. "the boom of a gun," he said; and ben bruce understood. chapter ii story of an escape "row me to the _sea-mew_," said dick langford, and old brackish touched his cap and replied, "yes, sir; she's a beauty, she is. hear the news, sir?" "no; anything startling?" "nothin' out o' the common, at least not in these parts, but it's summat different to most." "you're always long-winded, brackish--yorkshireman, i suppose," said dick impatiently. brackish was a yorkshire boatman, hailing from scarborough; he came to torquay because his mother, nearly ninety, could not stand the cold blasts of the north east coast, and the old salt had a heart. "brack" had a rough red face, eyebrows lapped over a pair of blue eyes; his throat and chest were always bared, tanned the color of leather; black hair covered his chest; his hands were hard, a deeper brown than his chest, the hands of a son of toil, and a boatman. brack had been popular at scarborough; he was well known in torbay as a brave hardy seaman, whom no weather daunted. at first he had joined the brixham fishing fleet, but soon tired of it, and when he saved enough money he bought a couple of boats, and made a decent living in torquay harbor. brack was fond of gossip, and on this particular morning he was eager for a talk; it was his intention to have it out with dick before he put foot in the boat, so he stood looking at the young man, barring his entrance to the craft he was eager to put his foot in. the old boatman was a sturdy figure in his rough seaman's clothes as he eyed dick langford, and, although impatient, dick could not help smiling at him. he liked brack, and the sailor returned the feeling. "let me get in and you can tell me about the news as we row to the yacht," said dick. "all right, sir; no hurry, you're here early. it's mr. woodridge's yacht, ain't it?" "of course it is; you know the _sea-mew_ as well as i do." "nice gentleman, mr. woodridge," said brack. "if you don't let me get into the boat i'll take another," said dick. brack grinned. "you'll not be doin' that, i'm thinking, after all i've done for yer." "what have you done?" asked dick surprised. brack looked indignant. "yer don't recollect? well i'm blessed! fancy forgettin' things like that!" "out with it," said dick. "i give yer the winner of the leger three year runnin', and it's forgotten. lor' bless us, what memories young gents has!" growled brack. dick laughed heartily as he said: "so you did, old man. you're a real good tipster for the yorkshire race." "so i ought'er be. don't i hail from there? i can always scent a leger winner, smell 'em like i can the salt from the sea, comes natural somehow," said brack, as he moved away and allowed dick to step in. he pulled with long steady strokes and was soon out of the inner harbor, making for the yacht. "by jove, this is a lovely morning!" said dick, looking at the glorious hills he knew so well. "nowt like yorkshire," growled brack. dick laughed as he said: "you're a lucky man to be at torquay, all the same; much warmer, fine climate." "hot as----," said brack with a grunt. "you haven't told me your news," said dick. "it'll keep," said brack. "bet you a shilling you let it out before you reach the _sea-mew_," said dick. "i don't bet," said brack. "you mean you dare not in this case, or you would lose." "very like i should, because i see yer burstin' to hear it, and i wouldn't like to disappoint yer," said brack, as he ceased rowing and leaned on his oars. "tired?" said dick. "with that bit of a pull," said brack, disgusted; "i should think not!" "then what are you resting for?" "i baint restin', i'm easin' my oars." "oh, that's it: the oars are tired," said dick. "no more tired than i am, but when i gives 'em a spell for a few minutes they seems to work better," said brack. "what's more, i talks better when i leans on 'em, sort o' gives me composure, and time to think; i'm a beggar to think." dick was amused; he wanted to reach the _sea-mew_, but on this sunny morning it was good to sit in the boat on the blue smooth water and listen to old brack for a few minutes. "you must have done a lot of thinking in your time," said dick, falling into his humor. "i'm thinking now," said brack. "what about?" "that poor devil who escaped from dartmoor five days ago." dick smiled. "is that your news?" "yes." "there have been several escapes lately." "but they've all been caught in no time; this chap ain't, and by gum, lad, if he come'd my way i'd help him out. i don't believe they'll get him; at least i hopes not." "they'll have him right enough," said dick. "a convict at large is a danger to all on the moor." "this one ain't," said brack. "'sides, he may be innocent." "innocent men don't get into princetown," said dick. "that's just where yer wrong," said brack. "i've a brother in there now, and he's innocent, i'll swear it." dick maintained a diplomatic silence. "of course you'll not believe it, but it'll come out some day. he was on a man-o-warsman, and they lagged him for knocking a petty officer overboard; the chap was drowned, but bill swore he never had a hand in it, and i believes him. at the trial it came out bill had a down on the man; and no wonder--he was a brute, and a good riddance." "do you know who knocked him over?" "no, but it's my firm belief bill does, and that he's sufferin' for another, won't give him away." dick smiled. "you don't know bill; i does," said brack emphatically. "but what about this man who escaped? why do you think he'll get away?" "'cause he's a good plucked 'un, a fighter, a brave man," said brack. "in what way?" "they put bloodhounds on his track. one brute got away, they didn't find him for three days, when they did----," brack hesitated; he wished to rouse his listener's attention. he succeeded. "go on," said dick eagerly. "the trackers found the hound dead, and alongside him was a suit of convict clothes--nice well marked suits, ain't they; you can't mistake 'em," said brack. "you don't mean to say the fellow killed the hound, and left his clothes beside it!" exclaimed dick. "that's just what i have said, mister. clever, weren't it? when the other hound found his mate, he found the clothes, and he lost the scent." "how?" "'cause the man must have fled stark naked, and the hound only had the scent of his clothes; must have been that, 'cause he couldn't follow him. he'll get off right enough--you see if he don't. i wish bill could do the same." "how did he kill the hound?" asked dick. "and where did you hear all this?" "strangled it. he's a good 'un he is; i'd like to have seen it. as for how i come to know by it, one of the men from the prison was here. he questioned me," said brack with a grin. "asked me if i'd seen a man like the one he gave a description of." "what did you say?" asked dick. "kept him talking for half an hour or more, gave 'im heaps of information. i filled him up, never you fear." "but you didn't see the man?" said dick. "lor' no! wish i had, and that he was stowed away somewhere. i told the fellow i'd seen just such a man as he described, with his hands bound up in bandages, and a cloth round his neck. said he'd a suit of old sailor's togs on, and that he went out in a boat with a lot of rowdy fellers to a 'tramp' in the bay, and he didn't come back," chuckled brack. "and what was the result of your false information?" asked dick. "i'll tell you what the result will be. it will put 'em off the scent; they'll think he's gone off on the 'tramp' to london, and they'll give him a rest on the moor for a bit," said brack. "you think the man is still on the moor?" "'course; where else should he be?" "then he's sure to be caught." "wait a bit--a man who can tackle a bloodhound and choke the life out of him is pretty determined," said brack. dick acknowledged as much and said the circumstances were out of the common. he was interested in the old sailor's tale. he did not know whether to admire what brack had done or to condemn it; he put himself in his place, wondering how he would have acted under similar circumstances. brack watched him, a peculiar smile on his face. "goin' to give me away?" he asked. dick laughed as he answered: "i was thinking whether you were right or wrong." "guessed as much. i was right to give such a man another chance. he's no coward, not he, and guilty men are all cowards," said brack. "who is the man?" "don't know; he wouldn't tell me, but he said he was a lifer. he didn't seem very keen about his capture." "you mean he seemed glad the man had escaped?" said dick, surprised. "i guessed as much from his face," said brack, "and i reckon there's worse judges than me of human nature--that's what makes me think he's innocent--like bill." "it's all very interesting, but pull to the _sea-mew_," said dick. "about time," said brack, as he started rowing again. they were soon alongside the yacht. picton had just come on deck again from the saloon. he hailed dick cheerfully. "well, early bird, what's brought you here at this time?" he said, smiling. "wished to welcome you, most mighty rider of winners," laughed dick as he got out of the boat and stood on the steps of the gangway. "here you are, brack, and thanks for your story; it was thrilling." brack touched his cap as he said: "and it's true, and there's heaps of things thrilling that ain't true," and he pulled away. "brack been spinning yarns?" said picton, who knew the old man. "a real shocker this time." "what about?" "a fellow escaped from dartmoor the other day. it's worth hearing; i'll tell you all about it later on," said dick. picton woodridge staggered backwards. at first dick thought he was about to fall. he looked at him in astonishment. "what's the matter, pic?" he asked. "curious fit of faintness came over me; i'm all right now," said picton, but dick thought he didn't look it. chapter iii the man on the road dick langford told brack's story to picton woodridge and captain ben. both listened attentively: it was immensely interesting to them. from time to time ben looked at his friend to see how he took it. dick, absorbed in his tale, did not notice the look of strained attention on their faces. they were silent when he finished. "not bad for brack, eh?" said dick. the simple question made them start. "you fellows seem all nerves this morning," said dick. "when i told pic on deck, he staggered; i thought he was going to faint. you're not afraid the fellow will board the yacht, are you?" ben laughed as he said: "no, i don't think we're afraid, not of one man, even if he be an escaped convict." "you'll want all your nerve to-morrow," said dick to picton. "there's three of my horses to ride, and two of 'em are brutes." "thanks," said picton, smiling; "a pleasant prospect. worth coming all these miles for, isn't it, ben?" "depends upon what langford calls a brute," replied ben. "pitcher's not so bad; he's what i call a humorous horse, full of pranks and no vice about him. he's number one. now we come to the first brute, planet, a gelding with a temper; as likely as not he'll try and pitch you into the crowd." "then he ought to have been named pitcher," said picton. "we don't all get our right names, i mean names that fit; we're saddled with 'em by unthinking parents. sis has a maid, evangeline mamie; now that's what i call a big handicap for the girl," said dick. they laughed, and picton asked him to pass on to number two brute. "the rascal," said dick; "he's a terror. he's lamed a couple of my chaps, and pete's right when you're in the saddle, but it's a deuce of a job to get there. he rises on his hind legs, and conducts an imaginary band with his fore legs, but he's got a rare turn of speed, and he ought to win the west of england handicap steeplechase to-morrow, and the torbay and south devon steeplechase the next day." "then you expect to bring off the double with him?" said picton. "yes, and if you do not, sis says she'll never speak to you again." "then i'll do it if i die in the attempt," said picton. "don't be heroic, no one wants you to die. you can kill the rascal if you like, but promise me to come off unscathed," said dick, laughing. "i'll try," said picton. "pitcher ought to win the maiden hurdle race, and planet the st. marychurch hurdle race. now you have a nice little program mapped out for you, and i fancy you'll win the four events. if you do, it will be a day for rejoicing at torwood, and the wearer of the pink jacket will be an honored guest if he cares to desert the _sea-mew_ for my humble abode." "dick, you're incorrigible," said picton, laughing. "you really expect to win four races?" "i do; gordon won the lot at a meeting not far away on one occasion." "that's quite possible--he's a good rider." "so are you." "he is," said ben; "few better." "what are you doing to-day?" asked dick. "nothing in particular; basking in the sunshine in your glorious bay." "then you like torquay?" said dick. "who could help liking it? and what a county lies behind it! i envy you the devonshire lanes, dick." "then come and live among them. i can pick you an ideal spot, and it shall be well within your means, mr. millionaire." picton laughed. "no millions here--a few thousands," he said; "just sufficient to keep my head above water." "and the _sea-mew_ afloat," said dick. "i'll manage that," said ben. "will you come ashore and have a look at pitcher and the two brutes?" said dick. "what do you say, ben? shall we?" asked picton. ben knew he wished to go--rita was at torwood--it was not the horses so much, although they were an attraction. "yes," said ben promptly, and the matter was settled. they went ashore. dick langford's dog-cart was at the queen's and thither they adjourned. in a quarter of an hour they were going at an easy pace to torwood, which lay about midway between torquay and newton abbot. how fresh everything looked! the trees were just budding, tingeing the almost bare branches with tips of green. the air was cool and soft; there were no motors about--only an odd one or two, the tourist season had not commenced--but there would be plenty of people at the races on the following days. "wonder what that fellow's up to!" exclaimed dick, as he saw a man push through the hedge and disappear down the hill and across the meadow. "probably belongs to the place," said picton. "then what the deuce did he get through the hedge for? why didn't he go to the gate?" said dick. "short cut, perhaps," said picton. "wonder if he's that chap from dartmoor?" laughed dick, and he felt picton start. "the man's got on your nerves," he said. "i'll say no more about him." picton was looking at him as he went rapidly across the meadow; something about the figure appeared familiar, so did the long stride; he wondered if ben noticed it, but the captain was otherwise occupied. the incident was forgotten, and when they came in sight of torwood, picton became animated. he saw a figure on the lawn, and knew who it was. she recognized them and waved her handkerchief. this met with a quick response. torwood was a typical devonshire home, not large, but a commodious, comfortable, well-appointed house, standing on the hillside; trees at the back, a terrace, then a level stretch of lawn, then a sweep down to the road; a small lodge and gate at the drive entrance; a steep incline to the house. on the right were the stables, half a dozen loose boxes, and a three-stall building. dick langford was far from being a rich man, but he was happy and contented, with his sister. he was a partner in a firm of auctioneers at newton abbot, and was accounted a ready salesman; there was always laughter in front when he wielded the hammer; quick at repartee, there were many people prompt to draw him out, but he got his prices, and that paid the firm and the customers. rita langford was like her brother, of a bright and cheerful disposition, was popular in the neighborhood, and torwood was a favorite house. "so glad to see you, mr. woodridge, and you too, captain bruce. when did you arrive in the bay?" "in the morning, yesterday; it was beautiful. how grand the country looks, and torwood even prettier than ever!" said picton. "i induced him to leave his floating palace, and visit our humble abode, by asking him to inspect the horses he is to ride," said dick with a wink at ben. "that is so, but there was a far greater inducement," said picton, looking at rita. "must i take that to mean me?" she said, laughing. "please," said picton, thinking how charming she was. they had a quiet luncheon, then went to the stables. dick engaged no regular trainer, but he had a man named arnold brent, who was a first-rate hand with horses, and at the same time an expert gardener; the combination was fortunate for the owner of torwood. the horses were trained in the neighborhood, where dick had the privilege of using some good galloping land, with natural fences--an up and down country, but excellent for the purpose. he had two lads who rode most of the work; sometimes he had a mount, and occasionally brent. altogether they did very well, and the torwood horses generally secured a win or two at the local meetings. dick langford's favorite battle-grounds were torquay and newton abbot. at the show at the latter place he often took prizes for dogs, poultry and garden produce; the money generally went into brent's pocket. brent knew both picton and the captain, and admired the former because he knew he was a first-class gentleman rider, although he had not seen him in the saddle. it was brent who suggested to his master that mr. woodridge should ride at the local meeting for them. "not a big enough thing for him," said dick doubtfully. "he rides at some of the swell meetings." "you try him, sir," said brent, adding, as he caught sight of rita, "i'll bet he accepts." "i hear a terrible account of these horses i am to ride," said picton, smiling. brent smiled. "i expect mr. langford's been pulling your leg, sir," he said. "isn't the rascal a brute, isn't planet another; and pitcher was described as harmless, i think?" said picton. "the rascal's all right if you humor him," said brent. "he's bitten a lad, and crushed another against the wall, but he's not half a bad sort, and he'll win the double easily enough in your hands, sir." "if i can mount him," laughed picton. "i'll see to that; he'll stand steady enough with me at his head. that's him--the chestnut with the white face." picton looked the horse over. "bring him out," he said, and the rascal was led out of his box. as picton went up to him he laid back his ears, and showed the whites of his eyes; it was a false alarm, he let him pat his neck and pass his hand over him. "i like him," said picton; "he looks a good sort." "he is, sir," said brent. "your favorite?" laughed picton. "yes, sir." planet and pitcher were both browns, handy sorts, and picton thought it highly probable the three would win the races selected for them. he expressed this opinion, at which dick and his sister were delighted. "it is very good of you to come and ride for my brother," she said to him. "it is always a pleasure to me to do anything to please you and dick," he replied. they chatted for some time; then she said: "i had an adventure not long before you arrived." "your country has always been full of adventures," he said, smiling. "and adventurers, but the man who came here to-day was not an adventurer, poor fellow," she said. he looked at her quickly and she went on. "i was at the bottom of the garden, near that thick-set hedge, when i heard some one groan. it startled me; some tramp, i thought, and went to the gate. i saw a man sitting by the roadside. he looked up when he saw me, and i shall never forget the suffering in his face, the hunted look in it. i shivered, but i was quite sure he was harmless. i beckoned him; he came, turning his head from time to time in a frightened manner. he said he had tramped many miles, that he was hungry, footsore, weary to death. i took him to the back of the house, gave him something to eat, and offered him money. he refused the money at first, but i insisted and he took it. i gave him one of dick's old top coats; when he put it on he seemed a different man. i hunted out a pair of old boots--he was very grateful for them. i am sure he was a gentleman; he spoke like one, he expressed himself as such when he left, there was a natural pride about him. he walked in the direction of torquay; i wonder if you met him on the road." picton woodridge greatly astonished her by asking her the following questions: "have you told your brother about this?" "no." "did any one see him?" "i don't think so. i am almost sure they did not." "will you do me a favor?" "willingly." "then do not mention this to a soul," said picton earnestly. chapter iv the woman at the table she promised readily, not asking questions, for which he was grateful. she knew there was something she could not penetrate, some mystery; her curiosity was aroused but she restrained it. "thank you," he said. "i have good reasons for asking you to remain silent; some day i will tell you them, whether my conjectures prove right or wrong." "i shall not ask your confidence," she said. "i will give it to you. i would give it to you now if i thought it would be of any use." "i am sure you would." "rita----" "hallo, where are you, picton?" shouted dick. "here!" he called. "on the seat near the hedge." "oh, down there. is rita with you?" "yes." "sorry i shouted; hope i didn't disturb you," sang out dick. "not in the least," said picton; "we were just coming up." "i wonder what he was going to tell me when he said 'rita,'" she thought as they walked up the hilly garden path. picton said he would rather return to the yacht for the night; he loved being on the water, it always had a soothing effect and he was not a good sleeper. "i must be in tip-top condition for to-morrow--so much depends upon it," he said, smiling. rita thought a good deal about her conversation with him when he left, tried to puzzle out the mystery, but failed. "i'll wait until he tells me," she said. "i wish dick hadn't shouted when he said 'rita'; it interrupted a pleasant sentence. i wonder how it would have finished?" and she smiled quietly to herself. dick drove them to torquay, then returned home. brack rowed them out to the _sea-mew_. he was loquacious as usual. "nice night, gents," he said. "beautiful, brack. isn't it rather dark though?" said ben. picton seemed moody. "yes, there's no moon to speak of; it's darker than i've known it at this time o' year." the old fellow chatted until they came alongside. picton paid him and said good-night. brack thanked him and said: "goin' to ride any winners to-morrow, sir?" this roused him and he told brack the names of the horses and the races they were going for. "you back the rascal for the double if you can find any one to lay it to you," said picton. "we've a bookie among us," said brack. "he's a young 'un and as good a sailor as the best of us, but he's artful, very artful, and he's had many a bob out'er me, and the rest. i'd like to take him down, and i will. the rascal for the double, you said?" "yes, and here's half a sovereign to put on him," said picton. brack gave an audible chuckle as he said: "lor' love us, that'll just about bust him if it comes off." they laughed as he rowed away, whistling softly to himself. "i'll turn in early," said picton. "the best thing you can do," said the captain. "you seem a bit out of sorts to-day." "i am; i can't get the sound of the gun out of my ears." ben looked at him sympathetically. "i knew what you meant, felt what you felt, when you spoke about it," he said. "strange some one should have escaped from dartmoor a day or two before," said picton. "escapes are often occurring," said ben. "what did you think about that man on the road, who pushed through the hedge to avoid us?" asked picton. "didn't give it more than a passing thought," said ben. "what was the passing thought?" "i said to myself, 'i wonder if that's the man who escaped?'" "good-night," said picton; "i'll turn in." "good-night," said ben, as he sat on a deck chair. "he's in a curious mood to-night," he thought. "i'm sorry for him. we ought not to have come here, it brings up painful recollections, the vicinity of dartmoor; and yet it has its compensations--there's miss langford, lovely girl, and as nice as she looks. i hope he'll win to-morrow, it will cheer him up." ben's mind went back to the time when picton and hector were lads together, and the admiral was alive. his heart was sore for hector, although he was half inclined to believe him guilty, but tried to convince himself to the contrary by expressing his firm belief in his innocence, in order to be of the same mind as picton. one thing captain ben had long determined upon: if ever he got a chance, he would help hector, no matter at what risk or cost. he was a man who had run into many dangers, not useless dangers, necessary perils, with his eyes open, knowing the consequences of failure, therefore he was a brave man. blindfolded, impetuous, blundering rushes against great odds excite the admiration of the crowd, but it is the captain bens who are to be relied upon in times of emergency. the air became cooler. ben rose from his chair and went to his cabin; looking into picton's as he passed, he was glad to see him asleep. the _sea-mew_ swung round with the tide, quietly, without a sound; it was very still and calm; she looked like a dull white bird on the water. so thought a man who crept stealthily along the wall toward the inner harbor. "i wish i were on her and out at sea," he muttered. he could just discern her outline, the white hull and the lights. he heard footsteps, a measured beat, a policeman, he knew by the tread. he put his hand on the wall to steady himself, shivered, then groaned. there was no getting out of it, he must face the man, and it was late. he staggered forward with a drunken reel, but not too unsteady on his legs. he lurched, just avoiding the constable, who merely said: "now, my man, get off home, and mind you keep quiet." "all right, sir, i'm a'goin'," was the reply. the constable moved on, blissfully ignorant that he had probably missed a chance of promotion. the man walked past the pier, past the torbay hotel, where there were lights in one of the rooms on the ground floor, evidently a late supper party, at least so thought the man outside. do what he would, he could not resist the temptation to cross the road and see what was going on. there was a chink in the blind. at first he saw little, his eyes were curiously dim and heavy from lack of sleep, gradually the mist in them lifted. he saw four people seated at a table, brilliantly lighted, a dainty supper spread. it was long since he had seen such things, but he had been used to them. naturally, being hungry, he looked at the well-laden table; then his eyes went to the people sitting there, two men and two women. he saw the men first, then one woman, then the other woman, and his eyes started, his hands clenched, his face went livid, his teeth met with a snap; for a moment he stood thus, regarding the woman with a fixed stare of horror. she was a beautiful woman, voluptuous, with a luring face, and eyes which knew every language in every tongue of unspoken love. she was smiling into the eyes of the man at her side as she toyed with a dainty morsel on a silver dessert fork. she was dressed with excellent taste, expensively, not lavishly. she was a woman who knew overdressing spells disaster. her white teeth gleamed as she smiled; the man at her side was lost in admiration--it was not difficult to see that. the man looking outside raised his clenched fists and said: "is there no god, no justice anywhere?" as he spoke the woman dropped her fork and started, a shiver passed over her. the man at her side hastily got up, brought her a wrap and placed it on her shoulders. the man outside saw the fork fall, he saw the wrap, and he muttered again: "there is a god, there is justice; her conscience imprisons her as surely as----" "move on there! what are you lurking about here for?" "all right, goin' 'ome, just met yer brother along there." "he's not my brother," said the constable gruffly. "thought yer were all brothers, members of the same cloth, anyhow yer all good sorts. good-night." "be off home," said the constable, as he went on his way; and a second man lost a chance of promotion that night. "i must not run any more risks," thought the man, "but i'm glad i crossed the road and looked in at that window. she suffers, she could not have heard my voice, perhaps an internal justice carried it to her and my words were whispered in her ears--such things have been known. there she sits, feasting, surrounded by every comfort, but she's not happy, she never will be, such women never are. god, to think what i have gone through for her, what i have suffered! i have lived in hell, in purgatory, and i ought to be on my way to heavenly peace. god, give me a chance; i am an innocent man and you know it." "hallo, mate, where goin'? yer a late bird," said brack, as he knocked against the man walking in a curiously wild way in the middle of the road. "goin' 'ome," said the man. "that'll not get over me; yer puttin' it on. i'm fra yorkshire, and a bit too cute for that." "what d'yer mean?" "that i've heard gents speak in my time, and i reckon you're one." the man started; at first he was inclined to bolt; then as the light of a lamp shone on brack's face he saw it was honest, kindly, full of charity, and through it he knew there was a big heart inside the rough body. "you are right," he said. "i was a gentleman, i hope i am one still, although i have lived such a life that the wonder is i am not a beast." brack looked hard at him; from his face his gaze wandered over his body, then he looked at his hands; one was bound up, the other had marks on it, deep marks, like the marks of teeth. brack made up his mind. "don't move," he said, "when i tell you something. i'm a man, not a fiend, and i've an innocent brother over there," and he jerked his hand in the direction of the moor far away. "maybe you've seen him." the man gasped--this old sailor knew! should he--no, the face was honest, he would trust him. "perhaps i have," he said. "are you the man that throttled that bloodhound?" "why do you ask?" "because if you are i'd like to clasp yer hand and say i think yer brave." the man held out his bandaged hand; the old sailor took it in his big, horny palm tenderly, pressing it gently. "the other one," he said. the man held out his other hand. "i'm glad i've held 'em both, the hands that strangled that cursed hound. come along with me. i'll see yer safe, never fear. there's not a man jack of 'em in torquay or princetown, or anywhere, would ever suspect old brack of harboring a--gentleman." without a word the man went with him. as he walked at the honest brack's side he thought: "my prayer has been answered." chapter v picton's winning mounts it was easter monday, and a holiday crowd gathered on the slopes of petitor racecourse at st. mary church. more than usual interest was shown in the meeting owing to the presence of picton woodridge, whose fame as a gentleman rider was well-known. dick langford was popular and the success of the pink jacket eagerly anticipated. petitor is not an ideal course; it is on the slope of a hill, and a queer country to get over, but some interesting sport is seen and the local people take a pride in it; as a golf links it is admirable. picton had not seen the course before, at least only from the road, and as he looked at it he smiled. "i may lose my way," he said to rita; "go the wrong course." "you will find it easy enough, and you are not likely to make mistakes. look," and she pointed out the track to him, and the various obstacles. there were bookmakers there--where are they not when races are on, no matter how small the fields, or the crowd? picton wore the pink jacket, ready to ride pitcher in the maiden hurdle race, the opening event. there were only three runners, and yet the books accepted six to four on dick's horse; there was a strong run on frisco; and fraud was nibbled at. "come along," said dick; "time to mount." "good luck!" said rita with a smile. "you'll find pitcher easy to ride. i've been on him several times." "he'll find me rather a different burden," said picton. the three runners came out, and picton received a hearty welcome, which he acknowledged. "sits his horse well," said one. "a good rider, anybody can see that." "here, i'll take seven to four and it's picking up money!" shouted a bookmaker; and so thought the backers as they hurried up with their money, and pitcher quickly became a two to one on chance. the distance was two miles. picton indulged frisco with the lead until half a mile from home, when he sent pitcher forward, had a slight tussle with frisco, then forged ahead and landed the odds by ten lengths amidst great cheering. "win number one," said dick triumphantly; "when the meeting is over they'll bar you from riding here again." rita was delighted, her face all smiles; she was proud of the good-looking man who had carried her brother's colors to victory. picton, as he walked about with rita, dick, captain ben and a host of friends, was the cynosure of all eyes; but he was accustomed to being stared at. "now comes the tug-of-war," said dick. "there's the rascal. see how he's lashing out, scattering the crowd. i believe he's in a nasty temper, confound him." there were five runners in the steeplechase, and although the rascal had picton up, the favorite was anstey, who had hordern in the saddle. the tor, moorland, and stream, were the other runners, but wagering was confined to the favorite and the rascal. picton walked up to his mount; the rascal switched round, despite brent's efforts, and refused to be mounted. his rider watched him with an amused smile; dick and his sister looked anxious, while a crowd gathered round at a respectful distance. picton bided his time, then, when the rascal had his attention attracted by brent, slipped up to him, took the reins and swung into the saddle, and before the astonished horse recovered from his surprise he had him well under control. the spectators cheered; it was a clever piece of work, deserving of recognition. once mounted, the rascal seemed tractable enough; but picton knew the horse was not in the best temper, and required humoring. "you've not got a very nice mount," said hordern as they rode together. "i'm told he's queer-tempered," said picton; and as he looked at anstey he thought: "your mount will take a bit of beating." they were soon on their journey. at first the rascal made a deliberate attempt to bolt; he discovered he had a rider who refused to put up with his inclinations in this direction. finding bolting stopped, he tried to swerve at the first fence; this object was also frustrated and he received a few stinging cuts from the whip, wielded by a strong arm. these vagaries allowed anstey and the others to forge ahead, and the rascal was in the rear. dick looked glum, but brent said: "there's plenty of time. he's a rare turn of speed--and a grand rider up." at the end of the first mile the rascal was still last. he began to improve his position; quickly passed stream, and moorland, then the tor; but anstey was a dozen lengths ahead, fencing well. two more obstacles then the run home. picton rode the rascal hard to find if he would respond to his call. whatever else he was, the horse was game, he did not flinch, and picton was surprised how easily he went ahead. anstey blundered at the next fence, hordern making a fine recovery; this cost the favorite several lengths. at the last fence the rascal was only three or four lengths behind. anstey cleared it well, the rascal struck it, stumbled, threw picton on his neck, struggled up again; and picton was back in the saddle and riding hard before the crowd realized what had happened. then a great cheer broke out, for a splendid bit of jockeyship. "not one man in a hundred could have done that," said brent enthusiastically. hordern thought he had the race won. the rascal on his knees, with picton on his neck, was good enough for him. he took a pull at anstey; he intended winning the double, and did not wish to press him too hard. it was a blunder; he found it out when he heard the cheering and cries of, "well done, picton!" "rascal's catching him!" the stumble seemed to put new life into the rascal, for once again he showed what a rare turn of speed he possessed. picton rode his best. "rita expects me to win--i will," he thought; and something told the rascal it would be bad for him if he failed to do his best. two hundred yards from the winning post anstey led, but it had taken hordern a few moments to get him going again when he realized the situation. it was dangerous to play these games with picton. the rascal came along, moving splendidly; he gained on anstey, drew level, held him, then got his head in front. hordern rode well, but he had met his match. the rascal drew ahead and won by a length amidst tremendous cheering--picton woodridge was the hero of the day. rita was proud of him and told him so at torwood the same night. the rascal had been backed to win the double with every man who had a book on the races, so next day the excitement rose to fever heat when the torbay steeplechase came on for decision. the rascal was in the best of tempers, he actually allowed picton to stroke his face, pat his neck, and pay him sundry attentions; rita gave him lumps of sugar, and said he was the dearest and best of rascals. "you will win the double," she said to picton. "i am sure of it." "and i'll try to win a far richer prize before long," he said, looking at her in a way that caused the red blood to mount to her cheeks. anstey ran again, but the main opposition was expected to come from sandy, a newton abbot horse. dick's horse had to give him a stone, which was a tall order, but brent said he could do it, unless sandy had improved out of all knowledge. "i'd take the rascal to the front this time," said brent to picton; "he's in a good temper and when that is the case he likes to make the pace, and he jumps freer." "if he'll do it, i'll let him," said picton. "will he stay there? remember he's giving lumps of weight away." "he can do it," was the confident reply. six runners went out, a field above the average at petitor. most people thought some of the runners would have been better out of it, they would only be in the way, a danger to the others at the fences; a blunderer is often a veritable death trap. it astonished leek, who was on sandy, to see picton take the rascal to the front. he smiled as he thought, "he's making a mistake this time." evidently the others thought the same, for they patiently waited for the leader to come back to them. arnold brent smiled. "i gave him good advice. they're doing exactly what i thought they would, waiting. let 'em wait." the distance was two miles and a half. the rascal held a big lead at the end of a mile and a half. leek on sandy thought it was about time he came back to him, but the rascal showed no sign of this; on the contrary, he gained ground. to go after him was the best thing and leek tried. much to his astonishment, he discovered the pace was much faster than he thought; sandy made very little headway. at first picton's policy of making the running was considered a mistaken one; this opinion changed as the race progressed; and when they saw leek hard at work on sandy in second place and making hardly any headway, the rascal's numerous backers were jubilant. the cheering commenced, it became deafening as picton drew near to the winning post. it was an extraordinary race. the rascal, the top weight, made all the running and won by twenty lengths; more than that, he was not in the least distressed. picton was congratulated on all sides. turning to dick and rita he said: "he's one of the best horses i have ever ridden over fences; there's a national in him." dick shook his head. "you're too enthusiastic. wait until you've cooled down," he said. "i shall not alter my opinion," said picton. "where's planet?" "over there," said dick, and they walked across. the next race was the marychurch hurdle plate, and picton rode planet. the race needs little description; there were three runners, and dick's horse won comfortably. at torwood that evening there were great rejoicings; but as picton wished to sleep on the _sea-mew_ he and ben were driven to torquay. * * * * * before he left, picton said to rita: "next time i am here i have a very important question to ask you." "have you?" she said. "i wonder what it is." "cannot you guess?" "i'll try," she answered, smiling happily. "it's too important to put in a hurry," laughed picton, "and i haven't the courage to do it now." "not after four victories," she answered, laughing. he shook his head, as he got up beside her brother in the trap. "if you won't sell the rascal, send him to haverton," said picton as they bade dick good-night. "all right, i will, and you can do what you like with him," said dick cheerily. "brack's not here; that's strange. we shall have to get some one else," said ben. they hired a younger man. he happened to be the boatmen's bookie. "where's brack?" asked ben. "he backed the double with me for half a sov.," said the man. "he's about broke me, sir, but i don't begrudge it him; he's a real good sort. i expect he's celebrating it in town." brack was not celebrating it; he was biding his time, and opportunity. chapter vi in brack's cottage brack's was a humble abode not far from the inner harbor. he lived there with his mother. the old woman idolized him; he was a very good son. she attended to their small wants and kept the house scrupulously clean. "i've brought a mate, mother," said brack as he entered with his companion. "he's welcome, my boy." she always called him her boy, and somehow it did not sound strange. "come in, don't be afraid," said brack. the man stepped into the small room, looking round suspiciously. why had brack brought him here, had he any particular reasons for doing so, reasons that would benefit himself? brack gathered something of what was passing in his mind and whispered, "you'll be quite safe here, sit down." they had a fish supper; to the stranger it was the most wonderful meal he had partaken of for some years. he ate greedily, he could not help it, but brack, watching him, knew he was a well-bred man. the old lady asked no questions, she never questioned what her son did; she bade them good-night and went to her room. it was then brack learned something of the man he had brought to his home; and the tale harrowed his feelings, froze the marrow in his bones, horrified him; he shuddered as he imagined what this highly cultured man must have suffered. they talked until the small hours of the morning, brack considering what he should do, how to get his companion away from torquay? suddenly he said, "do yer mind telling me yer name? i'd like to know it in case i hear of yer in the world sometimes. you'll be far away from here, but i'd like to have something to remember yer by and i reckon yer name's the best thing." the man was startled; again the suspicious look came into his eyes. would it ever be entirely absent, that haunted gaze; it was pitiable. "i don't want it if you don't care to give it to me." "i beg your pardon. you deserve my entire confidence. you are running grave risk for my sake, an unknown man, a stranger, worse--an escaped prisoner from dartmoor." "never mind the risk; we'll not trouble about that," said brack. "do you know what the consequences would be if it were known you had hidden me?" "i don't know and i don't care," said brack. "think of your mother." brack laughed as he said: "she'll glory in what i've done when i tell her; she's bill out there." "i forgot; that makes all the difference. and he's innocent." "like you." "how do you know i am innocent?" "yer face tells me. i'd trust a man like you anywhere and anyhow." "if ever i come into my own again, if ever my innocence is proved, i'll see to you and your mother for life, and i'll promise to do all i can for bill, your brother." brack's face glowed. "damn me but you're a man!" he said and seized his hand. "i forgot, i'm a fool," he added, as the man winced. the pain from brack's honest grip was intense. "i will tell you my name. you may have heard it before--we receive news sometimes--my brother is a famous rider. you are a bit of a sportsman?" "i am," said brack. "i've had a tip for the races here, for the double, and i've got ten bob to put on; the gentleman who's goin' to ride gave it me. he says to me as i left the yacht--i'd rowed him out there--he says, 'here, brack, there's half a sov. for you. back the rascal for the double.' and i mean to." "the rascal?" "that's the name of the horse--funny, isn't it?" "who was the gentleman?" "the owner of the _sea-mew_, the yacht lying at anchor in the bay." "the yacht with such beautiful lines, painted white? i just saw her as i came along by the wall before i met you, my good friend." "that's her. she's not big but she's a gem. she's been here several times." "and who is the owner?" "the same as rides mr. langford's horses at the races." "but you have not told me who he is." "ain't i? no more i have! it's mr. picton woodridge." the man stared at brack; he seemed on the point of falling off his chair. "picton woodridge," he said in a hoarse voice. "yes; have you met him in days gone by?" asked brack. "he is my younger brother," said the man. "i am hector woodridge." it was brack's turn to stare now. this man he had brought to his home picton woodridge's brother? was it possible? this was indeed a strange chance! he peered into his companion's face, trying to trace a resemblance, and found one. "yes," he said, "you're like him, or you were once." hector woodridge sighed. "once," he said; "it all seems such a long while ago." "i remember, i recollect now," said brack. "i wonder it did not strike me afore. yer a yorkshire family. i know, at haverton. i was a boatman at scarborough when it happened. i always said you were innocent; i call to mind the trial well. yer mr. hector woodridge, thank god for that; i see a way out of it all. you must bide here and i'll pick the night when i can get you away." "get me away!" exclaimed hector. "how, where shall i go?" "leave that to me. there's a man on the watch here. his name's carl hackler. he's from dartmoor, and he's prowling around here on the lookout--has been for a week or more." "i don't remember his name," said hector. "likely enough not; there's plenty of 'em there as you'd never see, but he's seen you, and he'd recognize you. i've fooled him once and i think he knows it; i'll have a stiff job to do it again; but i will do it, and you'll get clear away." "what is your plan?" brack hesitated; he wondered if hector woodridge would care to go on board the _sea-mew_, whether he would be afraid to implicate his brother. he decided it would be better for his purpose not to say what his plan was until he had his man safe in his boat on the way to the yacht. "i'll tell you that when the time's ripe. you'd best turn in and have some sleep; you look as though you could do with it." "i can. where shall i go?" "in there," said brack, pointing to a small room. "it is your room." "never mind me. go in and rest." hector was dead beat. he opened the door, he was so exhausted he fell fast asleep before he had time to undress. brack sat ruminating until an early hour. this discovery that his guest was hector woodridge stunned him, he could not comprehend it. he recollected all about the celebrated trial which resulted in hector woodridge being condemned to death for the murder of the husband of the woman he had become entangled with. all yorkshire signed the petition for a reprieve and the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. he remembered how the shock killed admiral woodridge, hector's father. brack went to the old black horse-hair sofa and lay down. he was soon asleep, dreaming in a few minutes, strange dreams in which convicts, dartmoor, the _sea-mew_, the rascal, carl hackler, and divers and other persons and places were mixed up in the most extraordinary manner. a knocking at the door roused brack. sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, yawned, struggled to his feet. he had his sailor clothes on. another knock. "comin'. don't be in such a hurry. leave the milk can, yer fool." another knock. "must be deaf. drat the lad, what's he wakin' an honest man up at this hour for?" he went to the door, unlocked it, pulled back the bolt, opened it, and found carl hackler standing before him. as brack said afterward: "i wish i could 'ave pushed him into the harbor, me a'top of him." "'morning, brack. i want a boat; can you come quick?" said carl. brack's relief was so great that he gave a loud, startling laugh. "what the deuce is the matter with you? have you suddenly gone mad?" "sane as you are, mister hackler," said brack. "maybe a bit saner at times." "i believe you fooled me about that man being rowed out to the tramp. anyhow the tramp's here, put back for something i suppose, and i'm going to board her before she leaves again, and question the skipper. i particularly want you to row me out because i mean to tell him who gave me the information while you are alongside," said hackler. "now i call that nice of you," said brack. "here i gives you the best tip i can and you want to get me into trouble if it's correct. i did my best for yer, mr. hackler, on my honor." "will you row me out?" said hackler impatiently. "what's it worth?" "five shillings." "i'll be with you in a minute," said brack. "i'll just tell mother." "let her know her little boy is going out in good company," said hackler. "i'll tell her who i'm goin' with, then she can judge for herself, whether the company's good or bad," replied brack. hackler laughed as he said: "you're a smart chap, brack." "am i? then perhaps you can find me a job out your way." "better where you are," said hackler, with what sounded very much like a sigh. brack went into his mother's room. she was awake. "what is it, lad?" she asked. "hush, mother! i'm goin' out with hackler in my boat. he's the man from dartmoor, on the lookout for the escaped prisoner. i'm rowin' him out to the tramp; she's put back again." she smiled; she knew all about it. "tell him not to stir out of that room until i comes home. he'll sleep a good while. he must not come out, not even in here--you understand, mother?" "yes, but who is he?" "he's the man hackler's after; the man who strangled the bloodhound. he knows our bill. he's a gentleman; he'll do what he can for him when he's proved his innocence. he is----" "come on, brack; don't be all day," called hackler. "i'll see to him, lad, never fear; he's safe with me," said his mother. "comin'," said brack as he went out and joined him. chapter vii a critical moment "brack, as i remarked before, you are a smart fellow. were you putting me off the scent when you said the man i am looking for went off in the tramp?" said hackler. "i never said he were the man; i said there were a man went off with the boat's crew to the tramp." "i gave a description of him." "it seemed like him to me," said brack. they reached the harbor; brack pulled in his boat; hackler stepped in and was rowed toward the tramp. the dirty looking steamer was farther out than anticipated, and brack took his time; his practiced eyes discerned something invisible to hackler. "steam up," said carl. "most likely she'll be going in an hour or two." "i wonder what she put back for?" said hackler half to himself. "short o' coal," grinned brack. "shut up and don't be a fool," growled carl. brack could see the steamer as he looked sideways over his shoulder. a humorous smile stole over his face. "she's movin'," he thought. there was a stir at the stern of the tramp, the screw revolved, she was steaming away, and carl hackler was too late. when he recognized this he lost his temper; he had taken his journey for nothing. catching sight of brack's face, he fancied he detected laughter there; this did not improve matters. "confound you, i believe you knew she was going!" he said angrily. "not until the screw turned," said brack. hackler stood up in the boat and waved; some one on the tramp answered the signal but she continued on her way. "d----n the fellow, why doesn't he stop!" raged carl. "looks suspicious, but he doesn't know who you are. if he did he'd be sure to slow down," said brack. carl turned round quickly; he had an idea he was being chaffed and didn't like it. he stumbled, barked his leg on the seat, fell forward, and sprawled in the bottom of the boat. he did not know a sudden spurt by brack caused this. he floundered about, smothered his rage as best he could, then ordered brack to row him back. "hope yer not hurt," said brack sympathetically. no answer was vouchsafed to this polite inquiry. "looks as though he might be aboard that tramp," said brack. "they got off pretty sudden; perhaps you were recognized." "who'd have recognized me?" asked carl. "him as yer looking for." carl laughed. "not likely; i don't think he ever saw me." "but you've seen him?" "scores of times." "you'd know him again?" "of course; he's easy to recognize. but they've probably got him by now." "poor chap." "call him that, do you? you'd not do it if you knew what he was there for." "tell me." "he shot a man whose wife he had been carrying on with. it was a brutal, cold-blooded murder. the husband found them together; they were fairly trapped, so the fellow shot him." "funny he should carry a revolver about with him," said brack. "it wasn't his revolver, it was the husband's; that's why he was reprieved. it was argued that the weapon was in the room, that on the spur of the moment he picked it up and shot him." "oh," said brack meditatively. "i suppose it never occurred to you, or the larned judge, or the blessed jury, that some one else might have shot him." carl laughed. "who else could have shot him?" "it's not for me to say; i'm not clever enough. she might 'a' done it." "who?" "the wife." "what nonsense! he confessed he did it." "eh!" exclaimed brack. "i say he confessed he fired the shot." "and he says he's innocent," said brack. carl stared at him. "says he's innocent!" he exclaimed. "how do you know?" brack saw his mistake and quickly covered it. "i lived in yorkshire at the time. i know all about the trial; i read it." "oh," said carl. "if you read it you know more about it than i do." "very likely," said brack as the boat went alongside the steps. carl landed; he gave brack half a crown. "five bob," said brack. "but you didn't go to the tramp." "i couldn't; she was away." "then you can't claim the lot," said carl, who was annoyed at missing the steamer. "i suppose not exactly," drawled brack, "but betwixt gents, i should say it holds good." despite his annoyance, carl could not help laughing. "i suppose you must have it," he said, and handed him another half-crown. "goin' home to-day?" asked brack. "home!" "to dartmoor." "that's not my home." "it's where yer located, at any rate." "i don't know. there's no trace of the man. it's queer where he's got to; i fancy he's dead--fallen down a mine, or been starved out." "that's about it," said brack. "fancy looking for him round here! seems a bit soft to me." "you take a lot of interest in this man," said carl eying him closely. "no more than i do in any man who makes a fight for liberty." "would you let 'em all loose on dartmoor?" sneered carl. "i'd chance it if there were any innocent men among 'em." "there are none." "there's one i know of." "who?" "my brother bill." carl laughed as he said: "your brother bill was lucky not to be hanged," and walked away. brack scowled after him and muttered: "and you'll be lucky not to be drowned if yer not careful." when brack arrived home he told hector woodridge what happened. "by gad, he gave me a shock when he came to the door this morning," said brack. "you must wait for to-night; i'll come and fetch you if the coast is clear. you'll have to trust me, leave it all to me." "i will," said hector. "i can do nothing for myself." "you can do a lot. if there's danger keep cool and don't betray any alarm--face it out." "i place myself entirely in your hands," said hector. there was no chance that night. brack stayed about the harbor until ten o'clock. just as he thought the opportunity favorable carl hackler turned up, and brack made for home, thinking he had not been seen. he was mistaken. "something mysterious about the old fellow lately," thought carl. "he can't know anything; it's absurd, of course; but i'll swear he put me off the scent about that tramp. confound him, he's a shrewd 'un, he is. it's my belief no. is in torquay somewhere. there'll be a shindy if he gets away, because he's got a lot of rich relations i believe; somebody's sure to say it's a put up job. there wasn't any put up business about strangling that dog; i can't help admiring the fellow for that. he bore a good name in the prison too." "no go to-night," said brack as he came in, "but i've got a bit of news." "what is it?" asked hector. "i've won the first part of my bet with the rascal." hector could not help smiling; it seemed a curious piece of news under the circumstances. he said: "i hope you'll win the double." "it'll mean a fiver to me," said brack, "and that's a lot to a poor man." "you shall have a pocket full of fivers when i prove my innocence," said hector. "i'd not take 'em," said brack. "i'd be satisfied to know i'd done you a good turn, that i would," and he meant it. next evening brack was very well pleased with himself when the rascal won the double. he proceeded to draw his money and enlighten the youthful bookie on the follies of gambling; he also exhibited some liberality in the matter of drinks to several mates. he saw nothing of carl hackler, although he walked about the streets and loitered near the water. "i'll try it to-night," he thought. "the races are over and maybe the _sea-mew_ will sail before morning. there's no telling, and it's the best chance there is; it can't be missed; it's too good, even if we run some risk. if i only knew where that dartmoor chap was. i'd give half my winnings to know--i'd give the whole blessed lot to get him safe on that yacht." brack went home full of his plan, and how best to manage it without exciting suspicion. it was after ten o'clock when he slipped out of the house. hector woodridge followed at some distance, keeping him in sight. "he's going to the harbor," thought hector. "what will he do there?" brack looked round in every direction as he went down the steps and hauled in his boat. it was no unusual thing for a boat to go out at night to a man-o'-war, or to some craft lying in the bay, but he was not fond of such work and knew if any of his mates saw him it would attract notice. looking up, he saw hector leaning over, and beckoned him to come down. "once we're out of the inner harbor there'll not be much danger," said brack. "chuck that waterproof over yer shoulders; it'll keep yer warm and it looks seaman-like. now we're ready." "hallo, brack!" he looked up and saw carl hackler on the steps peering at the man in the boat. brack had wonderful control. it was a matter of more than life or death to hector woodridge; if hackler got him he would be sent back to his living tomb, for such it was to him. "oh, it's you!" said brack with as much contempt as he could master. "and pray what are you doing here? want another trip in the bay? if you do, jump in and i'll take you. i've got the mate of the _london belle_ here; he's a bit overseas and i'm taking him out. ain't that right, harry?" "that's the job, brack, that's it," hiccoughed hector, who guessed the danger was great. "i've half a mind to come," said carl, not quite satisfied, but utterly deceived by brack's cool manner. "you'll have ter make up the other half quick," said brack. "i'll leave you to it. mind your mate doesn't fall overboard," said carl. "i'll see to that," said brack. a hoot came across the bay, a peculiar sound. brack knew it; it came from the _sea-mew_. he sat down and pulled his best. would he reach her in time? carl hackler watched the boat until it was out of sight. the hoot came again. "what's that steamer sounding?" he asked a sailor close to him. "the _sea-mew_; she'll be leaving to-night, i reckon." carl started. was it possible? no, of course not. what a fool he was; and yet, brack was rowing as though his life depended on it. "better make sure," he muttered, and turning to the boatman said: "will you row me out to the _london belle_?" "yes, sir, how much?" "half a sovereign," said carl. another hoot came across the bay from the _sea-mew_. chapter viii on board the "sea-mew" "i wonder if the beggar'll follow us," gasped brack, between his spurts; "seemed mor'n half inclined to it--cuss him for his meddling!" "where are you going?" asked hector. "to the _sea-mew_." hector started--his brother's yacht. he must not go there. what would be the consequences if he were taken on her, found concealed? picton would be compromised, in grave danger, probably of imprisonment. "i cannot let you go there," said hector; "it is impossible." "just you sit still. you're a'goin' there whether you like it or not," said brack doggedly. "i will not place my brother in a false position." "what'd you do if he were in your place and came to the yacht as you're doin'?" hector made no answer; he knew he would take the risk. "there y'ar," said brack triumphantly; "i knew it. you'd take him aboard and gie him a hearty welcome." "put back; i won't go," said hector. "put back, eh, and land yer right in his arms. not me, not for brack, oh dear, no; you just sit still, will yer?" brack had a peculiar habit of saying "you" and "yer," and sundry other words, changing them as the mood took him. "now i'd not be at all surprised if he'd hired a boat and was on his way to the _london belle_, just to scent out things; he's a human bloodhound, d----n him, that's what he is." "if he goes to the _london belle_ he'll find out we have not been there and he will guess we have come to the _sea-mew_," said hector. "i cannot risk it, brack." "leave him to me. we'll reach the _sea-mew_ long afore he can get to the _belle_. that's her out there, right beyond the yacht. i'll put you aboard and row round to her like h----, and i'll meet him comin' to her if so be he's set out; i'll see he doesn't board her if i have to run him down." brack was pulling with all his might; the boat seemed to skim through the still water of the bay like a skiff; they were nearing the _sea-mew_. captain ben bruce was on deck, looking over the side. they were about to leave the harbor; picton was anxious to get away. he was in the cabin. ben left him reading; probably he had fallen asleep after the excitement of the day. he heard the sound of oars, and in another minute or two saw the boat shooting toward the yacht. "who's this coming here?" he wondered. he made no sound, merely watched, wondering what would happen. brack did not see him as he came alongside; the gangway steps were up; how was he to get hector aboard? "is that you, brack?" said ben. "it's me, sir. let down the steps quick. i've something to say to you, something that won't keep." "as particular as all that?" "yes, a matter of life or death," said brack. "we're just about to leave the harbor." "for god's sake, let down the steps!" said brack. hector did not move or speak; his nerves were strung to the highest pitch, he quivered all over. captain ben called a hand and they opened the gangway and lowered the steps. "now's yer time--go up quick!" said brack. "who's that?" asked ben, as hector rose up. "he's comin' aboard; he's a friend of mr. woodridge's." "who is he?" "he'll tell you when he's aboard," said brack. "that won't do for me," said ben. "don't yer trust me?" asked brack. "yes." "then, for god's sake, let him aboard or you'll regret it for the rest of your days." "come up," said ben, thinking it passing strange the man did not give his name. hector hesitated; brack urged him on. "go, go! think what i've got to do--row round by the _belle_ in case he's after us." hector hesitated no longer; he could not leave brack in the lurch, and if hackler found out they had not rowed to the _belle_ there would be trouble. he got out of the boat; no sooner was he on the steps than brack pushed off and shot away. ben called after him but he did not stop; he was making for the _london belle_ as fast as he could row. "who are you?" again asked ben as he came on deck. hector trembled with excitement; he was unstrung, he had suffered much; the chase over the moor, the battle with the hound, the naked flight, hunger, exposure, the fear of being taken, the suspense of the past few days brought on a burning fever. he tried to speak but could not; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his lips were parched; he held out his hands in a helpless fashion; he staggered, reeled across the deck. ben gazed at him in wonder. he could not make it out. there was something very mysterious; brack must have known what he was doing. hector groped along the deck like a man walking unsteadily in his sleep; he mumbled to himself, looked from side to side furtively, began to run, stopped, knelt down, put his face close to the deck in a listening attitude. ben watched him, followed him. was this a madman brack had put on board? presently hector came across a coil of rope. he seized it with both hands and wrestled with it in his fierce grasp. "strangling some one," thought ben. "you beast, you're dead, ha, ha, ha, i've done for you!" and the weird laugh sounded doubly strange on the water. hector rose and pulled off his coat, then stripped off his shirt. "i must stop this," said ben. he stepped forward and was about to take him by the arm, when hector whipped round and flung himself on him. "you'll never take me alive, never, i'll die first! kill me if you like--i'll never go back!" hissed hector, as he clenched ben by the throat. it was an easy matter for the captain to hold him off at arm's length, a strong man against a weak, and as he did so he saw into his face by the light of the lamp behind him. something in the face roused memories in ben. he looked long and earnestly. the fever-stricken man returned his gaze; the poor tired brain had a glimmering of reason again. thus they stood, gazing, forging the past, piecing links together in a chain of recollection. "ben, ben, don't you know me?" it was a bitter, heartbroken cry, a wail of anguish, and it struck ben like a knife, it seemed to cut through him. as hector's cry ceased he fell forward into ben's arms. like a flood the incidents of the past few days rushed into ben's mind. the boom of the gun, the escape of the convict, brack's story, the strangling of the bloodhound, the man on the road to torwood. "great heaven, it's hector!" said ben. "poor fellow! my god, what a wreck!" then his thoughts flew to picton. it would never do to let him know to-night; he must be prepared for the shock. where to conceal hector? for the present, at any rate, he would put him in his cabin. the hands on board--could they be trusted? some story would have to be concocted. there was a man near and ben called him. "help me to carry him into my cabin," said ben. the sailor obeyed without a word. he was an elderly man; he had served with captain bruce on the _tiger_. "say nothing of this until i give you permission," said ben. "right, sir," said abe glovey. "abe, you are much attached to woodridge and myself?" "i am, sir." "can you persuade every man on board to keep this man's presence here a secret? it's very important." "it shall be done, sir. they are all good men and true." "mr. woodridge will reward them handsomely if nothing transpires ashore." hector lay on captain ben's bunk, and they stood looking at him. ben took a sudden resolution. "abe, i will confide in you, tell you a secret, which if disclosed means ruin to us all, and a living death to him." "i think i understand, sir." "you guess who he is?" "i know, sir. a terrible change has come over him, and no wonder, but i can recognize him, for i knew him and loved him in the old days. there's not one in a thousand would know him, but i do--it's hector, sir, is it not?" "yes, it's hector woodridge, or what's left of him. he's in a bad way, abe." "he is, sir." "and we can't have a doctor to him." "no, sir, but we'll pull him through. every man of us will help. give me permission to tell them. they'll stand by him and mr. picton; you need have no fear of that, sir." "trust them all; yes, that will be the best," said ben. "i'm sure you're right, sir; quite sure." captain ben gave orders for the _sea-mew_ to leave torbay, and she was soon moving slowly toward the sea. he sat beside hector and listened to his moaning and muttering. he saw the wasted form, the haggard, drawn face, the gray hair, then he noticed the hands and shuddered. what an awful chase that must have been across the moor, bloodhounds on his track, every man's hand against him, no hope, no place to hide in. yet there must have been one man whose compassion had been aroused on the moor, the man who clothed hector, when he found him almost naked. ben vowed when he knew that man's name he should receive his due reward. and there was another man, brack, honest rough old brack, with a heart of gold, and the courage of a bulldog. ben felt it was good to be a sailor and be one of such a class. brack must have discovered hector in torquay, and hidden him until he could get him on the _sea-mew_. where had he found him? that story was to be told. they were only just in time; ben thought what might have happened had they missed the _sea-mew_ and had to return to torquay, and shuddered. he vowed again that hector should not be recaptured; no, not if he had to sail the _sea-mew_ half the world round, and fight for him. it would be weeks, perhaps months, before the fever-stricken man became well, and there was no better hiding-place than the _sea-mew_, and no better doctor than the sea and its attendant breeze. brack, rowing from the _london belle_, saw the _sea-mew_ moving slowly toward the entrance to the bay. "he's safe; they'll never part with him. brack, you're not such a bad sort after all! i wonder where's hackler got to--perhaps he didn't follow us," thought the old boatman. he lay on his oars and watched the _sea-mew's_ lights until they disappeared. "there's a boat comin' now--wonder if it's him?" he said with a chuckle. "i'm ready for him, anyway." chapter ix lenise elroy "you'll have to hurry," said hackler impatiently as the seaman slouched round for his boat. "that's my craft over there; i'll have her alongside in a bit," said the man. "can't we take this boat?" "no, i'll get my own; besides, i'm used to her." it seemed a long time to carl before the man brought the boat alongside and he was seated in her. "row faster!" said carl. "wait until we're out of the harbor; it's rather dark." "go ahead, pull!" the man obeyed. he was not such a skillful pilot as brack; as they reached the wall he pulled hard with his right and the boat crashed into the stonework. carl shot forward, bruising his face; there was a sound of splintering timber; the boatman fell forward. when they recovered, carl cursed him for a blundering fool. the man found the boat leaked badly; there was nothing for it but to row back as fast as possible and take another. this caused a delay and enabled brack to put hector aboard the _sea-mew_ and row round by the _london belle_ in time. "who goes there?" shouted brack. carl was sick of the whole business; he was glad to hear brack's voice. he had been to the _london belle_, his story was correct. what a fool he, carl, had been for his pains! there was no answer to brack's hail. carl said to the man: "keep on rowing; never mind him." this did not suit brack's purpose. he had no desire for carl to go on board the _london belle_; that would upset everything. brack went after the boat, quickly overtaking it. by the dim light he saw who was in it. "you again!" he said with a laugh. "what yer scouring the bay at this time o' night for? looking for pirates?" "no, smugglers!" said carl. "hope ye'll catch 'em. where do they hail from? i thought the days of smuggling in torbay were over. better come with me; i'll row you back quicker than him," said brack. an altercation ensued between the seamen. brack had insulted carl's man; the wordy warfare became furious. "row back to the harbor!" shouted carl in a rage. "and you sheer off or it will be the worse for you." this was all brack wished to hear. if hackler returned, there was no danger. "keep cool," shouted brack. "i reckon i'll be home first." his mother was sitting up anxiously awaiting the news when he came. "he's got safe away, but we had a narrow squeak for it," he said, and told her what happened. "i wish our bill were on the _sea-mew_," she said with a sigh. "maybe he will be some day, mother," said brack. the _sea-mew_ forged ahead toward the north and captain ben watched at hector's bedside. the unfortunate man slept heavily but uneasily; he groaned and raved incoherently, tossed from side to side, sometimes in danger of falling out of the berth. toward six o'clock ben sent for abe glovey, who came and took his place while he went to meet picton. ben had a difficult task before him. he wished to break the news gently; the shock would be great; then they would have to think what was best to be done. picton was out early; he had not slept well; strange dreams caused him uneasiness. "i've had a restless night. you look as though you had," he said to ben. "i have; it has been a strange night. i've something to tell you," and he proceeded to explain about brack coming to the yacht. "what on earth did he want at that hour of the night?" said picton. "he brought some one to see me." picton was surprised. "who was it?" "a man," said ben. he was not a good hand at this sort of thing; he wanted to blurt it all out in his blunt way. picton smiled. "don't beat about the bush, ben; you can't do it." "that's a fact, i can't. you'll stand a shock, picton, a very great shock." "is it tremendous?" "yes," said ben seriously. "the man brack brought here last night is aboard now; he's asleep in my cabin; he is very ill; he has suffered a lot; he will require a great deal of care. we shall have to be very careful." picton looked at him wonderingly. gradually a light broke in upon him; he turned pale and felt giddy. ever since the boom of the gun startled him he had had hector in his mind. "was it hector who escaped?" he asked. ben nodded. "was it hector brack brought to the _sea-mew_?" again ben nodded. "let us go to him," said picton. ben wondered at his taking it so calmly, but he knew the strain must be great. they went to ben's cabin. "glovey's inside; i'll send him out," said ben. when the man was gone picton stepped inside and looked at his brother with tears in his eyes. "what a wreck, ben; it's awful." captain ben turned away his head. there are some things worse than death to look upon, cause more sorrow and pain. hector lay on his back. his face told a tale of misery such as few care to hear, and none to suffer. "leave me, ben; i'd rather bear this alone; i may get used to it in time," said picton in a hollow voice. ben put his hand on the younger man's shoulder for a moment, then went out of the cabin; he never wished to feel again as he felt then, in the whole course of his life. picton watched hector, heard his ravings, shuddered at them, and wondered how it were possible for a man to suffer so much and live. he stayed there over two hours, and what his thoughts were during that time no one knew; there was, however, throughout, one predominant resolve: hector should never go back to dartmoor. he would sooner see him dead; it would be more merciful. what roused picton was the thought of the woman who had done this thing; he held her responsible. she was older than hector, a woman subtle, versed in the wiles of the world, and she had lured him to destruction. if ever a woman should suffer she ought. he wondered how she would feel if she stood where he stood now, looking down at the awful disaster of this man's life. would she smile? she might; he thought she would; he believed at that moment she was the worst woman he had ever heard of. she must pay the penalty sooner or later; no atonement on her part could wash out that. these thoughts stifled him; he opened the door for fresh air. ben's cabin was on deck; as the light streamed in hector awoke. before picton realized what had happened his brother sprang from the berth, rushed past him, and had abe glovey not caught him round the waist would have flung himself overboard. with difficulty they carried him, struggling, back to the cabin, and laid him down exhausted. "he's mad," said picton. "temporarily, but we'll cure all that. i'm a bit of a doctor; leave him to me," said ben, trying to make the best of it. "what are we to do?" asked picton. "you mean about concealing him?" "yes." ben said he had taken abe glovey into his confidence, and they had decided the whole of the crew should know the facts. "will it be safe?" asked picton. "i am sure of it; they are all real good fellows, and it is our only chance." "you must call them together and explain it all," said picton. ben said he would, and went on: "this is the opportunity we have waited for--hector's escape. how fortunate we came here! providence had a hand in this, it's more than mere coincidence, and as providence helps those who help themselves we must lend a hand. when hector recovers, it will be some weeks; he must remain on the _sea-mew_ until he becomes a changed man. in twelve months no one will know him who has seen him now; the change will be wonderful, and it will be quite as wonderful a change from what he was before the trial. hector woodridge must cease to exist; he is dead; his body was never found on the moor because he probably fell down some disused mine or was drowned in a still pond. that way safety lies, but there may be one stumbling block." "what is that?" asked picton. "hector's desire to prove his innocence," said ben. "he must be persuaded that will be easier to do if it is thought he is dead; we must try and do it." "we have tried; there is only one person in the world who can prove his innocence," said ben. "lenise elroy," said picton. "yes, lenise elroy. there were three persons in the room at the time: raoul elroy, lenise elroy, and hector," said ben. "hector said at the trial the weapon went off in a struggle," said picton. "lenise elroy, with apparent reluctance, said hector shot her husband," said ben. "if this were not true, why did she say it?" asked picton. "she may have thought it true. heaven knows what is in the mind of a woman like that! but the truth will come out some day." "still, she ought to have shielded him, corroborated his story that it was an accident," said picton. "the strangest part of the whole thing is that hector has not told even you what actually happened," said ben. "and i don't believe he will," said picton. chapter x haverton when the _sea-mew_ arrived at bridlington bay hector woodridge lay at death's door, but the fever had somewhat abated and the ravings ceased. he was completely exhausted, worn out, and picton doubted if he would have strength to struggle back to life. captain ben had seen a good deal of illness and was confident he could pull hector round in time, but he said it would take many weeks. what was to be done? picton could not remain on the _sea-mew_; his absence would be noted at haverton, where brant blackett was busy with the horses and expecting his arrival daily. "abe glovey is a good seaman, quite capable of looking after the _sea-mew_," said ben. "there is no reason why she should not remain here for a time; there will be nothing unusual about it. i will stay until hector is convalescent, or nearly so, and then join you at haverton. glovey can take the _sea-mew_ short cruises; when they are away from the coast hector can come on deck freely without danger. leave it all to me; i'll explain to him when he is well enough." picton thought this the best thing they could do. he went ashore at bridlington and from there traveled to haverton. he knew he was running a grave risk in having hector on board his yacht. he cared very little about that; all he wanted was for his brother to get well. he was certain no one would recognize him, he was so changed. it was a long, tedious journey to haverton, and picton was glad when it was over, and he was in his own house again. mrs. yeoman, the housekeeper, was surprised not to see captain bruce; he was seldom away from picton. he explained in answer to her question that the captain had remained on the _sea-mew_ to see to some repairs in the engineers' department. this only half satisfied her; she knew mctavish was a capable man and could look after repairs himself. she had a very kindly feeling toward jack mctavish, who sometimes came to haverton and was not at all averse to a mild flirtation with the buxom, comely widow. when she saw blackett she asked him what he thought about it. "why hasn't the captain come with him? it's all moonshine his staying on the _sea-mew_ to see to repairs in the engine room. mac's quite good enough for that job," she said. "it's none of your business, anyway," said brant; "and as for mctavish, you're prejudiced in his favor--i shouldn't wonder if you aren't sarah mctavish some day." "nonsense, brant! i've had one dose of married life; i don't want to try it again," she said. "give the poor man a chance; he's only one thing against him," said the trainer. "and pray what's that?" she asked. "his name." "jack mctavish. i reckon it's the equal of brant blackett, anyway," she said. he laughed as he answered: "you're always a bit touchy where the mctavish is concerned. i wish you luck with him, sarah. we'll see you a highland chieftainess before many months are passed. i'll put myself in training and dance a reel after the ceremony's over." "you're old enough to know better, and you ought to have more sense," she snapped, and walked away. picton had been at haverton a week and still captain ben did not come. he was anxious, but knew he could do no good if he went to the yacht; he was better away. he rode several of the horses at work to keep himself occupied, and was constantly roaming about the estate. he felt lonely; he missed ben sadly; he was such excellent company. haverton was a large mansion situated in one of the most beautiful districts in yorkshire. the mansion had an aspect of gentility, and its various forms of architecture made it doubly interesting. the strong tower on the north east dated from plantagenet times, and was a fine example of those peel towers on the border, of which the most southern are in the north of yorkshire. the west side was in the tudor times, showing the domestic architecture of the period. the two towers were commanding features of the fine old mansion. the gardens were lovely old-world places; clipped yews and flower beds intermingled on the south terrace the entrance was imposing and the gates were always open, as though the visitors were expected; the hospitality of haverton was proverbial, even in such a county as yorkshire. picton was very proud of the old mansion, which had been in the possession of the woodridges for many generations. he loved the glorious park with its magnificent trees, and undulating stretches of land. oaks of great age, with their knotted arms outstretched, studded the landscape in all directions. there was a large lake, a mile long, half a mile wide, and in it were pike of great size and weight. in the river aver, which flowed through the park, were trout, perch, grayling, and many other kinds of fish, and here they were safe from the voracious pike in the lake. picton was a good angler, and he loved to have a tussle with a twenty-four-pound pike, or a thirty-one-pound trout in the river. he was the owner of the land for many miles round, numerous farms, which had been in the same families for ages, and the famous downs of haverton, where so many good horses had been trained. these downs were magnificent galloping grounds, and there was a clear stretch of three miles straight--small wonder that brant blackett turned out some good stayers. picton gloried in a good gallop on the downs, where the wind whistled in freedom, and where there was no occasion to ease a horse until he had done a four- or five-mile burst. he was happy at haverton--at least he always appeared to be--but there was one thing cast a gloom over the place at all times: that was the admiral's death, and the cause of it--hector's sentence to penal servitude, after his reprieve. this was why picton did not care to be alone in the great house, why he always wished captain ben to be with him. he had many friends who came to see him, but his best friend next to ben was dick langford, and he was far away in devonshire. sarah yeoman, at the end of a week, took it upon herself to speak to picton. "you're lonely, sir; you're brooding. it's not good for young folks to brood. wait till you're my age; then you can start if you are so minded. the captain ought to come, sir. he's been gallivanting on the _sea-mew_ long enough; i hope there's not a lady in the case, mr. picton," she said. mrs. yeoman was privileged; she had been at haverton since she came as a girl over thirty years ago and by sheer worth had risen to the position of housekeeper, and ruler, at haverton. her husband had been a groom there. sarah yeoman practically ruled everybody and everything at haverton; even robert rose, the butler, amos kidd, the head gardener, and all the rest of the male and female kind bowed down to her will. they bowed but did not worship; some of the maids--there were four--would have liked to pull her back hair at times and scratch her, but sarah, although aware some feeling of this sort existed, went on her way serene and calm, knowing she was doing her duty. there was one thing about her: she was just, she held an even balance when there was a dispute; and fanny, the head housemaid, who at times almost hated her, said she'd trust sarah yeoman under any circumstances to arrive at a right decision. she was slow to anger but when roused "all hands" fled from her wrath. with all her faults, there could have been no better woman chosen to take the helm at haverton. she was loyal to the backbone; she considered the woodridges the best family in yorkshire, or any other shire. she felt the blow when hector was condemned, and had not forgotten it, never would forget. she loved both boys in her motherly way, and, although picton was her favorite, she held hector in high esteem. she was surprised at hector's falling a victim to a woman, she would not have been surprised had picton done so. "no, i don't think there's a lady in the case," replied picton, smiling. "at least i am not aware of it." "sailors are sly," she said. "i thought captain ben was a favorite of yours," he said. "so he is, but sailors are sailors all the same, and there's no telling what he's up to on board the _sea-mew_," she said. picton thought she would be astonished if she knew what captain ben was up to. "i think i'll go to bridlington to-morrow and see him," he said. "if you do, bring him back with you." "i will if possible." "why should it not be possible? what's to hinder him from coming?" she asked. they would need her help later on, when hector came to haverton; he might as well tell her now: she was thoroughly trustworthy. "a strange thing happened when we were at torquay," said picton. she waited for him to go on. "late one night, just before we sailed, an old boatman rowed across the bay to the _sea-mew_ bringing a man with him." "well?" she said anxiously. "captain ben was on deck, the boatman hailed him and said the man had come to see me. ben asked his name, it was not given, but the boatman--brack we call him--implored him to permit the man to go on board. so earnestly did he plead that ben opened the gangway and let down the steps. the man no sooner set foot on them than brack cleared away as fast as he could. the man came on deck, he seemed dazed, behaved like a madman. he flung himself on ben, who easily held him back, the poor fellow was terribly weak and starved. ben looked into his face, the man looked back; they recognized each other. that man is on the _sea-mew_ now. captain ben is watching over him, nursing him back to life and sanity. a great and grave task lies before us. we have to shield this man, hide him, until such time as he can come ashore without danger of being recognized. there was an escape from dartmoor when we were at torquay, sarah." she gasped; she felt faint; she pulled herself together. "an escape from dartmoor--not----" "hector. he is on the _sea-mew_. that is why captain ben is not here," said picton. chapter xi tearaway and others there was no occasion for picton to travel to bridlington. captain ben arrived next day and was very pleased to see him. "he's much better," said ben; "making a wonderful recovery. he's quite sane, remembers everything, but his health is terribly shattered and a long rest on the _sea-mew_ will do him a world of good. he has no desire to come to haverton, or to leave the yacht; he thinks he is safer where he is, and he is right. there was no need to caution him to be careful, he knows what it means for all of us if there is the slightest suspicion about the _sea-mew_. glovey will attend to him, so will mac, and the crew to a man have sworn to keep everything secret. don't worry yourself about it, picton; it will do no good; and i will return in a week or so to see how he is going on." "mrs. yeoman knows," said picton. "she can be trusted, and it is better she should; it will prepare her for his coming," said ben. it was no use worrying, as ben said, and as brant blackett was anxious to put the horses through the mill, several trials took place on the moor. tearaway proved herself a veritable flyer; she easily disposed of the lot pitted against her, and fully bore out the trainer's opinion of her, that she was as fast as the wind. she was a beautiful mare, black as coal, not a white speck on her, and stood sixteen hands high. no fault could be found with her; she was sound in her wind and limb, possessed terrific speed and was also a stayer. blackett idolized her; he was desperately cut up that she had not been entered in any of the classic events, with the exception of the st. leger. how she came to be entered in the great doncaster race was peculiar. her breeder, a yorkshire squire, always entered his youngsters freely in the classic races. somehow tearaway had been overlooked until the last moment and a telegram was sent to enter the filly by king charles--far away, in the st. leger only. this was tearaway, who was named afterward. picton bought her at the sales at doncaster for five hundred guineas, at which price she was a bargain. she ran only once as a two-year-old because blackett saw she was growing fast and required time; to hurry her thus early in her career might, he said, ruin her. picton was immensely proud of her, and desirous of bringing off a great coup by winning the st. leger. it had been the admiral's ambition to win the doncaster event, and more than once he had been within an ace of doing so. every yorkshire owner of horses, on any pretensions to a large scale, is anxious to win the leger, the greatest race in the north. tearaway was practically an unknown quantity and picton decided she should not run in public before september. with some fillies this would have been a risky policy to pursue, but tearaway was so quiet and docile that there was no fear of her being frightened by a crowd, no matter how large, or by any amount of noise. the trainer agreed with this plan: blackett was quite as anxious to win a leger as his master. he was a yorkshireman, and patriotism was strong within him. brant blackett was intended by his father for an auctioneer and had been sent to a local firm in whitby. he hated office work and was always slipping away and going out to sea on one of the fishing boats. the firm declined to have anything to do with him, and in some way or other he drifted to middleham and took a situation in a racing stable. he was small, weighed under eight stone, and soon learned to ride well. he never rode in public but was considered as good as the best of them in getting the strength of a trial. he was recommended to the admiral, when he wanted a private trainer, and came to haverton, where he had been for many years. he was much attached to the family, and the place, and, like the rest of them, he was cut up over hector woodridge's trial. he had won many races during the time he had been at haverton, but vowed no such flier had been in his hands as tearaway. he was fond of the breed, and fond of the mare, and she repaid his kindness by being as obedient as a child. "she's the sweetest-tempered filly i ever handled," he said. "her temper's just lovely. she never flares up, or misbehaves; a perfect lady, that's what she is." everybody who saw the filly agreed with him, and in the haverton district tearaway was regarded as a good thing for the st. leger. "it's a long way off to september," said picton as he and ben sat on their hacks and looked at her after a morning gallop. she had been two miles at a fast pace and pulled up without the slightest sign of blowing. her glorious black coat shone like satin in the sunlight; she tossed her head proudly, looking round with intelligent eyes that took in all her surroundings. "no need to hurry her," said the trainer; "and there's nothing will happen to her, i'm sure. a sounder mare never stepped." "we have hardly anything good enough to try her," said picton. "that's a fact," said blackett. "it takes something out of the common to extend her." there were a dozen horses at work, some cantering, others having spins over five and six furlongs. as picton rode back with ben and the trainer he said: "what with one thing and another i forgot to tell you mr. langford is sending the rascal here and he says i am at liberty to do what i like with him. he's a real good 'chaser, the same i won the double on at torquay. it would be rather a joke if we won the st. leger with tearaway, and the national with the rascal. i wonder if a trainer ever accomplished that feat?" said picton, smiling. "never heard of it," said blackett; "but i don't see why it should not be done. we've a pretty good schooling ground here." "the rascal is one of the best horses i have ridden over fences. he's a bit queer-tempered, but once he settles down to his work you can depend upon him to do his best," said picton. "then, if he'll do that, he must be a good horse no matter what his temper may be," said the trainer. during the week the rascal arrived at haverton and the white-faced chestnut created a favorable impression. picton found the same difficulty in mounting him, but once in the saddle all went well, and the way the horse took the stiffish fences on the haverton schooling ground convinced the trainer there was a good race in him; but whether the rascal was up to national form was another matter. picton wrote to dick langford, stating the rascal had arrived safely, and saying he wished he, dick, had come with him. when dick received this letter he said to his sister: "this is as good as an invitation. i'll avail myself of it and go down to haverton for a few days. you don't mind, rita?" "indeed, no; i think mr. woodridge is a very good friend," she replied. "he is, and he'll make a very decent sort of brother-in-law," said dick. "don't be silly," said rita, her cheeks glowing. "is it silly? not a bit of it--you know it's not. picton's fond of you, and you're fond of him--that ends the matter. i wonder he hasn't asked you before." "asked what?" "to be his wife." rita laughed as she said: "i think you spoilt an opportunity when you called to us in the garden that night. you remember?" "yes, i remember, and i also recollect i thought what a fool i was at the time," he said. picton was glad when dick langford arrived at haverton; it gave ben a chance to go back to the _sea-mew_ for a few days. dick always enjoyed a visit here, and small wonder, for such a lovely place could not fail to attract. he was fond of horses and brant blackett liked him. "i hate showing a fellow round who pretends he knows a heap and knows nothing," said the trainer. "with mr. langford it's different; he's a very fair judge, and he's willing to learn; he's never cocksure about anything. he makes some shrewd remarks too, and he's clever--yes, i like mr. langford; there's grit in him." mrs. yeoman gave dick the hall-mark of her approval. "he's a cheerful soul, not given to moping, and he's easily pleased; he always cheers mr. picton up, and he wants it at times--more than ever now," she thought. it had come as a shock to her when picton told her hector had escaped and was on board the _sea-mew_. she wondered if he were safe there. picton told her hector would be so changed when he left the yacht that no one would recognize him, and that he would change his name. hector woodridge would be dead to the world. "unless he can prove his innocence," he said. "oh, i wish that could be done!" she said. "some day i think it will come to pass. he's innocent, i'm sure of it. do you know what i think, mr. picton?" "no; what is it?" "i believe mrs. elroy killed her husband." "good heavens!" exclaimed picton. "what makes you think that?" "i read every scrap of evidence at the trial. i am almost certain mr. hector was shielding her; he's just the sort." "if your surmise is correct his innocence will never come to light, because he will never betray her," said picton. "perhaps not, but she can't stand that on her conscience forever, she'll have to confess sooner or later, the burden is more than any woman or man can bear," she said. "she may have done it," said picton. "her punishment must already be great if she did." "if i were mr. hector, i'd seek her out and make her own up to it," she said. "that's all very well, but you may be mistaken. in any case it is in hector's hands, and he will not allow any one to interfere," said picton. chapter xii "i think he's dead" it was lenise elroy who was supping at the torbay hotel when hector woodridge looked through the chink in the blind and saw her with her friends. the man who brought her the wrap to put on her shoulders was fletcher denyer. denyer lived mainly on his wits. he was a dark, handsome man, about ten years younger than mrs. elroy, and made her acquaintance some two years back at a ball at a large london hotel. he was a man likely to attract such a woman. he was unscrupulous; of his morals the less said the better; he possessed unlimited confidence in himself. who he was, or where he came from, no one appeared to know, but he had wormed himself into a certain class of society, had become known on the racecourse, and in financial circles, and acted as a kind of tout to more than one firm of wine merchants, also to a big turf commission agent, who treated him liberally when he introduced business. his address was marine view, hove, brighton, and he was frequently to be seen in the gay city by the sea. marine view was a small house off one of the main streets, comfortably furnished, and denyer was the sole tenant. two half caste servants, a man and his wife, looked after the place. the man's name was antonio tobasco, his wife's lucille, and they knew more about their master than any one. tobasco seemed devoted to denyer; so did his wife; they attended to his wants, and looked after the house during his absence. tobasco's father was an italian emigrant who went to america in the fifties, and gradually drifted to mexico, where he married a native woman. lucille's mother was an italian, her father a dark man in the southern states. there was plenty of black blood in them, and with it mingled a certain amount of treachery. denyer had lived in mexico; it was here he became acquainted with them, through lucille, whom at one time he admired--it was his money that gave tobasco the chance to marry her, but the man did not know of the relations which at one time existed between denyer and lucille. she was quite contented to marry him, and the union had proved satisfactory for several years. it was lucille who persuaded denyer to bring them to england with him. at first he refused, but she knew how to handle him and succeeded in having her way. lenise elroy had seen hector's face at the window, just a glimpse, but sufficient to frighten her. she thought she recognized him, then wondered why she had been such a fool; he was safe in dartmoor, and not likely to come out again. at the same time she could not get rid of the impression, nor could she make an excuse for her sudden alarm. she came to torquay with denyer at his request; he said he wanted a change, and her society. there was no question of love on his side, although lenise was a handsome woman, but he was to a certain extent infatuated with her, and proud of being seen in her company. what her feelings were toward him she hardly knew. she was at a critical age, when a woman sometimes loses her head over a man much younger than herself. she would have been very sorry to lose denyer's friendship, but she had no intention of letting her inclinations run away with her common sense. she kept on the right side, there was nothing wrong between them; they were familiar, but it had been carried no farther, and she was determined to be his wife, if she wished--at present she did not wish it. she tormented him, but at the same time attracted him; moreover, she was useful to him. she had a settled income, he had not; occasionally he found himself short of money, hard up. she helped him, he pocketed the cash and felt grateful for a few days. she did not despise him for taking the money from her; she wished to bind him to her, and this was a sure way. it was during her brief stay at torquay that lenise elroy came across brack. she was fond of the sea, had a liking for rowing in small boats. "can't understand what you see in 'em," said denyer; "beastly cockly things, might go over at any moment." "well, i do like them, and i'm not going to explain why. if you don't care to go out, stay here until i come back; i'm going to have a row round the men-of-war," she said. "please yourself, but it's a waste of time. why not go for a motor drive instead?" "i prefer the row; you take the motor." "i will. brady's doing business, so i'll take his wife for a spin; she's good company." "very," said lenise. "she's not at all a bad sort." she knew very well mrs. brady would not go out alone with him; if he didn't know it, he was not quite so wide awake as she imagined. she went to the harbor, and, seeing brack, took a fancy to him. "want to go for a row?" he asked. "yes, round the warships." "i'm yer man. i get a lot of patronage from ladies; they're safe with me, i'm a steady goin' old 'un." he took his blackened pipe out of his mouth and slipped it into his pocket. "this is my boat, _the dart_," he said. "wait till i put the cushion right for you." she got in. brack thought what a handsome woman she was. he was about to push off when he looked up and saw carl hackler. "so yer here still, messin' about! wonder yer not tired of it," he said. "i am," said carl. "dead tired of it! nothing can be done here. my belief is he's dead." "and mine too; he couldn't have stood it all this time, wandering about the moor," brack said. when they were out in the bay she asked: "who is dead? what were you talking about?" "it's a long story, mum, a sad story; i don't suppose it would interest you." "who was that man on the quay?" she asked. "he's from dartmoor, from the prison," said brack. he did not see the look of interest on her face as he spoke. "a warder?" she asked. "not exactly that; i fancy he's one of the fellows turned on for special duty at times." "and what is he doing at torquay?" "a week or so back a man escaped from dartmoor prison. they've not caught him yet; it's my opinion they never will," he answered with a chuckle. she felt that peculiar feeling come over that she experienced when she fancied she saw hector's face looking through the window of the hotel. "what nonsense!" she thought. "there are hundreds of prisoners there; why should he be the one to escape?" she was restless, all the same, and wished brack would tell her more. "i suppose it is no uncommon thing for a prisoner to escape?" she asked. "no; they do a bolt sometimes. they're generally caught inside twenty-four hours." "but this man is not taken?" "no, and hackler's been mooning about torquay looking for him for a week, just as though the fellow would be likely to come here," said brack. "i wonder who he was?" "don't know, but he was a good plucked 'un," said brack, and proceeded to tell her all about the throttling of the hound. "he must be a very desperate character," she said. "it's enough to make a man desperate," said brack. "what was he in prison for?" she asked. "murder, so i've heard," said brack. she started. "what murder, where?" "somewhere up in yorkshire, i believe," said brack, who was now watching her. he saw her turn pale and clutch the side of the boat with one hand. "takes an uncommon interest in it," he thought. "wonder who she is?" "do you know anything about the murder--the trial i mean? you come from yorkshire, do you not--i can tell by your accent," she said with a faint attempt at a smile. "yes, i'm fra yorkshire," said brack. "used to be at scarborough some years ago." "i come from yorkshire too," she said. "i remember some years ago there was a celebrated trial there, a murder case, the man who was convicted shot the husband of some lady he had been compromised with. it was a very sad case, a very old yorkshire family, i forget the name, it was wood something--oh, i have it, woodridge, that's it. do you recollect it?" brack was on the alert. she knew a good deal more about it than she pretended; he was sure of it. who was she? "i remember it; most folks up our way will remember it to their dying day," he said. "why?" "because no one believed him guilty." "but he was found guilty and sentenced." "many an innocent man suffers for another's crime," said brack. "perhaps it was this man who escaped," she said. "if it were, the poor fellow's dead by now," said brack. "they did say at the time it was the woman, the wife, that got him into his trouble. women's generally at the bottom of these things. i believe she was a mighty fine woman too; but she must have been wicked." lenise was restless. "don't you think we had better put back?" she said. "i thought you wanted to row round the men-o'-war," he said. "it is too far; i want to be back for lunch." "shall i turn round?" "yes, please." "do you think they'll catch the man who escaped?" she asked before they reached the landing steps. "i think he's dead or they'd have got him afore now," said brack. she gave a sigh of relief, as she handed him half a sovereign. "i haven't got any change," said brack. "you can keep that; you interested me in your conversation. what did you say was the name of the man from the prison?" "carl hackler," said brack. "thank you; if i wish to go out again i will take your boat." "very good, my lady, always at your service," said brack; adding to himself, "i'd like to find out who she is, and why she's so mighty interested in it all." chapter xiii a woman's fear lenise elroy was troubled; she felt uneasy, afraid of something, she hardly knew what; she had a presentiment that a calamity hung over her, that much trouble was in store. fletcher denyer was irritated. she was not at all like the gay woman of a few days back; what ailed her? he questioned her, received no satisfactory reply. "i want to go to town," he said. "i don't; i like being here." "but i must return to london, i have a lot of business to see to." she smiled; when he talked about business it amused her. he noticed it and said angrily: "you never think i do anything in the way of business." "i judge by results," she answered. "and i don't show any, is that it?" she nodded. "look here, len, we've been together for a couple of years and been good friends; we don't want to quarrel now." "i'm sure i've no wish to do so." "there's a good deal more in me than you imagine. why didn't you speculate in those mexican shares i told you about? you'd have made a pile." "i should; you were right in that instance. it has always struck me you know a good deal about mexico." "perhaps i do; it's a great country, i'm told." "i suppose you have not been there?" she said. "if i had, i should probably be better off." "if you must go to london, go. i'll follow in a few days," she said. "you seem to have suddenly taken an interest in the place." "i have, i like it. it is my first visit. i think it beautiful," she said. he wondered why she wished to remain, but did not question her further. in the afternoon he went to london. she was glad to be alone; she wanted to be quiet and think. supposing hector woodridge had escaped from dartmoor, and was not dead, what would happen? what would he do to her? she trembled, felt faint; there was no telling to what lengths such a man infuriated at the cruelty and misery he had suffered, might go. she must find out more about it. the man to see was carl hackler, but how to approach him? she meant to converse with him at any cost, and went out with that intention. carl had nothing to do but idle time away; he was quite certain the prisoner had either got clear off, or was lying dead on the moor. he saw mrs. elroy coming toward him, and recognized her as the lady brack had taken out in his boat. she evidently intended speaking to him. "you are mr. hackler, i believe?" she asked. "i am; at your service." "the boatman told me who you were. you come from the prison at dartmoor?" "i do." "a man has escaped, i want to know more about it. the boatman gave me to understand he was tried for murder in yorkshire some years ago. if this is the man who escaped i know him, i know the family," she said. "what name?" asked hackler. "woodridge. hector woodridge," she said. "i believe it's the same man," said hackler, interested. "will he be caught?" "if he's alive he's sure to be taken." "but you think it probable he is dead?" she questioned. "i think it quite possible." "are you here on the lookout for him?" "yes." "surely he would not be likely to come to torquay." "i don't know so much about that. you see he might be able to get away by sea if he had friends, or some one willing to help him," said hackler. "who would help him? the risk would be too great." "there's many men take risks for each other. you seem interested in him." "i am. i know him, a dangerous man, i should not care to meet him again," she said. "he had not that reputation at dartmoor. he was quiet and inoffensive, about the last man we'd have thought would try to escape," he said. "and you have no doubt he is hector woodridge?" "no, i don't think there's much doubt about that; in fact none at all. it is improbable he will meet you again. even if he has got away he'll go out of the country into some safe hiding-place; he's not likely to roam about england," he said. she thanked him, asked him to accept a sovereign, which he did not refuse. carl hackler watched her as she walked away; she looked stately, carried herself well, what he called a "stunner." carl wondered why she was so anxious to find out who the escaped prisoner was. she must have some personal interest in him; she did not seem like a woman who wasted her time over trifles. he determined to see brack and hear what he had to say about the lady. he had a good deal of regard for brack, also a shrewd idea that in some way or another the boatman had the better of him. brack was nothing loath to chat when carl came up. "all the ladies seem fond of you, brack," he said. "yes, i don't say as they're not; i often has ladies in my boat," he said. "rather a smart woman you took out to-day." "a very pretty craft, built on fine lines," said brack. "i've had a talk with her. she's interested in the man i'm on the lookout for." "is she?" "you know she is. didn't she speak about him when you took her out?" "maybe she did, maybe she didn't." carl laughed. "you're a sly old sea dog," he said. "now brack, listen to me. that lady is interested in hector woodridge, no. ; that's his name, certain of it, no mistake. another thing, she's afraid of him; afraid he'll do her some bodily harm if he comes across her. now why should he? there must be some good reason." "afraid of him, is she? by gad, i thought the same thing." "then you talked about him in the boat?" "yes, that's so." "what did she say?" "not much; she knew the family, his family, knew all about the trial." "did she now? what was the woman like?" "which woman?" "the wife of the man woodridge shot." brack was thoughtful. "what yer drivin' at, carl, my boy?" "i've got a kind of notion she must have been mixed up in the case," said carl. "there was only one woman in it--the wife," said brack. "gosh!" he exclaimed, and looked at carl with a startled expression. "well?" said carl. "i thought i'd seen her face somewhere afore, pictures of her, photos, or something." "yes; go on." "i may be mistaken; i'd not like to say as much without being certain." "you can trust me; it shall go no farther." "she's like the wife, the woman whose husband he shot," said brack. "you've hit it," said carl. "that accounts for it; she is the woman, no doubt." "don't hurry; it may be only a likeness." "you'd not have remembered it if she'd not been the woman," said carl. "it's stuck in your memory." "if she's the one, no wonder she's afraid to meet him--he'd do for her." "i don't think so. he must have been precious fond of her, or he'd never have done time for her." "come home with me and have a talk," said brack, and carl went. mrs. elroy found it slow at night, but her thoughts were busy. she was restless, ate very little dinner, hardly spoke to mrs. brady, or her husband, and left them as soon as she could decently do so. "seems out of sorts," said brady. "fletcher denyer has gone to town," was mrs. brady's comment, and she spoke as though that explained everything. "do you think she's fond of him?" he asked. "yes, but she hardly knows it." "is he fond of her?" "he's not in love with her; he's infatuated, that's all. lenise has a way with the men that's hard to resist," she said. mrs. elroy, for want of something better to do, looked over some back copies of the torquay _times_, and came across an account of the races. she saw picton woodridge had ridden four winners, which surprised her not a little; she had not seen him for years, had no desire to meet him. then she read about the escape from dartmoor; there was not much about it, she gleaned very little fresh information. a paragraph that attracted her close attention was about picton woodridge's yacht, the _sea-mew_. a description of it was given and at the end it stated, "she left the bay during the night, her departure was rather unexpected." picton woodridge's yacht in torbay at the time hector escaped from dartmoor. was this a coincidence, or was it part of a well-laid plan? she shivered, felt cold, a chill passed over her. she rang the bell and ordered a brandy; this put new life into her for the moment. her brain worked actively; she was piecing things together. the _sea-mew_ left in the night unexpectedly. why? had hector woodridge contrived to board her? had picton and captain ben bruce helped him? the thought tormented her, she could not sleep, she tossed uneasily on her bed. "he's dead! hackler says so, the boatman says so; he could not live on the moor. it is impossible. how could he reach the _sea-mew_? supposing he seeks me out, what would he do?" a cold perspiration broke out over her body. "he'd kill me if i didn't speak," she said with a shudder. chapter xiv not recognized the _sea-mew_ cruised about from one place to another and hector woodridge recovered his health and strength; but he was a changed man. even picton thought it difficult to recognize him; he would not have done so had he met him in the street. captain ben said: "it is quite safe for you to go ashore. you are supposed to be dead; you must take another name." "william rolfe--how will that do?" said hector. "as good as any other," said picton. "we'll test it. you come to haverton as william rolfe to look at the horses, and if sarah yeoman and blackett don't recognize you it will be proof positive there is no danger." it was early in august when hector woodridge, as william rolfe, came to haverton. mrs. yeoman did not recognize him, nor did the trainer, although the former thought his face familiar. the change in hector was extraordinary. not only was his appearance entirely different, but his voice, manner, everything about him was that of another man. mrs. yeoman and blackett were not enlightened as to his identity. hector was glad they did not recognize him; he was careful to give them no clue to his identity, although occasionally when off his guard he almost betrayed himself by showing his knowledge of the house and its surroundings. amos kidd, the head gardener, as he saw him walking about, thought: "he must have been here before, but i don't recollect seeing him." it was a sore trial to him to come back to the old home as a stranger. everything revived recollections of the misery he had caused, and of the admiral's death, and at last these became so vivid and painful that he told picton he could stand it no longer. "i shall go mad if i stay here," he said. "i must get away." "where will you go?" asked picton. "to london for a time; it is a safe place--such a vast crowd--and probably i am forgotten at dartmoor. there is an advantage in being dead, is there not?" he said, smiling grimly. "perhaps it will be for the best. in london you will see so many sights, your attention will be taken away from the past. i quite understand how you feel about haverton, but you will grow out of it in time," said picton. "never; at least not until my innocence is proved." "you think it will be?" "yes, it must; i mean to prove it." "how?" "leave that to me. i have a plan which may prove successful, but it will be risky; everything will depend on the first bold step." "don't rush into danger," said picton. "where's the use? you may fail; you may be recognized; and then, think what would follow." "you fear i might be sent back to prison," he said, smiling. "there is no fear of that. i promise you i will never go back to dartmoor." "you must have all the money you require, hector," said his brother. "i shall want money; there is plenty for both." "ample; it costs a lot to keep up haverton, but half of what i have is yours." "too generous, pic; you always were. i shall not want half, nothing like it. place a few thousands to my credit in a london bank." "that would not be safe. i will draw ten thousand pounds in notes, and you can use it as you think best," said picton. "very well. that is a large sum, but i shall probably require it. the scheme i have in my mind will cost money, a lot of it, but i'd sacrifice all i have to prove my innocence," said hector. "and i will help you. i want to keep up haverton, but you shall have the rest. i'll tell you what. hector, i'm going to back tearaway to win a fortune in the st. leger. already money is going on at forty to one; i may get a thousand on at that price, perhaps more," said picton. "i'd like to see her have a spin before i leave," said hector. "and you shall. blackett has obtained permission from sir robert raines to use his famous cup horse tristram in a trial gallop. the horse will be here to-morrow, and we can put them together with one or two more the next morning. sir robert is coming over to see it. he takes a great interest in her; he owns her sire king charles." "sir robert coming?" said hector doubtfully. "he'll never recognize you--no one would, not even----" picton pulled himself up short. he had spoken unthinkingly and stopped just in time; but hector was not satisfied. "not even--whom did you mean?" he asked. "never mind; it was a slip; i forgot." "lenise elroy?" asked hector calmly. "yes, i thought of her." "and you think she, even that woman, would not recognize me?" "i am certain she would not. she might have done so when you escaped, but not now. your illness has changed you in a very strange way. i can hardly believe you are hector sometimes," said picton. "then i must be safe," he said, smiling. "speaking of mrs. elroy," he went on, "did i tell you i saw her in torquay?" "no," said picton surprised. "where? are you sure?" "i was passing a hotel when something prompted me to cross the road and look in at the window. i saw her seated at the supper table, laughing gayly with people, a man beside her, probably her lover, he seemed infatuated with her. she is still very beautiful, the same luring smile, and eyes like stars; you can imagine how i felt. the sight was too much for me, as i contrasted her position with mine. i raised my hands and appealed to god for justice. my prayer was answered, for a little farther on, as i staggered down the road, i came across that great-hearted fellow brack. you know the rest." "yes, i know the rest," said picton. they were in the study and could talk freely. no one ventured in except captain ben, and he came at this moment. he saw something serious was going on; shutting the door quietly he sat down. "hector is going away, to london. he can't stand the associations at haverton. it is not to be wondered at," said picton. "i'm surprised he stood it so long; i know what it must have cost him. you're brave, hector, far braver than we are. by god, you're a man if ever there was one!" said ben in his straight manner. "a man can bear far more than he imagines. torture of the mind is greater than torture of the body," said hector. "you're right, no doubt," said ben. "but why london, why go there?" "i have my reasons; they are powerful. on board the _sea-mew_ i laid my plans; i think i shall succeed," said hector. "would you like ben to go with you?" asked picton. "no--he'd be too merciful," said hector calmly. they looked at him; he spoke quietly, but there was that in his voice and face boded ill for somebody. "when are you going?" asked ben. "after tearaway has had her trial with tristram," said hector. "that will be worth seeing," said ben. "and the filly will beat sir robert's horse," said picton. "i doubt it," said ben. "think what he's done, and ascot cup winner, doncaster cup cesarewitch, metropolitan, northumberland plate--he must be the best stayer in england." "so he is," said picton, "but tearaway will beat him for speed at the finish. blackett says he'll put them together over two miles, with only seven pounds between them. i suggested level weights but he doesn't want to take the heart out of her." "if she can beat tristram at seven pounds she's the best filly ever seen," said ben. "and i believe she is," was picton's enthusiastic comment. hector woodridge sat in his room, when everything was still in the house, and thought over his plans. no one recognized him, picton said even lenise elroy would not recognize him; so much the better, for he had dealings with her. how he hated this woman, who had fooled him to the top of his bent and done him so great an injury! she must suffer. did she suffer now? she must, there was some sort of conscience in her. her beauty appealed to him once; never would it do so again. she knew he was innocent, the only person who did, and he intended wringing a confession from her. fortunately he had money. his brother was generous, and offered him more than he had a right to expect; he would make it up to him some day, when he had completed the work he intended. there was a man on dartmoor, and there was brack: they must be rewarded for their kindness, for the help they had given him. and there was that gracious lady who assisted him as he tramped to torquay. he had not forgotten her face, it was engraven on his memory. he was thinking of her now, how she gave him the coat, the boots, food, and spoke kindly to him. when times were changed, and his work done, he would seek her out again and thank her. his heart warmed toward her; he contrasted her purity with that of the other woman, and wondered how he could have been caught in lenise elroy's toils. elroy was a weak-minded, foolish fellow; she married him for his money. he recalled his first meeting with her; they were mutually attracted, and so it went on and on, from bad to worse, until the end, when the fatal shot was fired. and since then? he could not bear to think of it all. he vowed lenise elroy should pay the penalty as he had, that her tortures of mind should equal his; then she would know what he had suffered; no, not a tenth part of it; but even that would overwhelm her. chapter xv "the st. leger's in your pocket" tristram arrived at haverton; sir robert raines came the same day; everything was in readiness for the trial next morning. sir robert was a great racing man, came of a sporting family, had a fine seat about forty miles from haverton, called beaumont hall, where he kept a stud of horses and about thirty or forty racers. he was well known as a plunger, and had landed some big stakes; occasionally he was hard hit, but so far the balance had been on the right side. he and the woodridges had been friends for years; he had known the admiral and admired him. he had also known raoul elroy and his wife, and been present at hector's trial, on the grand jury, and after. sir robert was loath to believe hector guilty, but on the evidence could arrive at no other conclusion. the result of the trial made no difference in his friendship with the admiral and picton; when the former died he helped his son to the best of his ability. he had a great liking for captain ben, which was returned. it was a critical moment when hector was introduced to him as william rolfe, "a friend of mine from devonshire," said picton. sir robert shook hands with him; it was easy to see he had no idea it was hector woodridge, and all breathed more freely. "so you imagine you've got the winner of the st. leger at haverton, eh, pic?" he said as they sat smoking after dinner. "it's more than imagination. i think tearaway is the best filly i ever saw; so does blackett; he says she's as fast as the wind," said picton. "is she? the wind blows at a pretty pace over the wolds sometimes, sixty miles an hour or more; she's not quite up to that," said sir robert. "no, not quite," laughed picton; "but she has a rare turn of speed, and can stay as long as she's wanted." "i haven't seen her for some time," he said. "she's improved a lot, a real beauty; i'm sure you will say so. you ought to back her to win a good stake." "i'm told ripon will win. they fancy him a lot at newmarket; they also think he had bad luck to lose the derby." "suppose tearaway beats tristram in the morning at seven pounds difference?" said picton. "it will be the biggest certainty for the st. leger ever known," said sir robert. hector joined in the conversation. sir robert liked him, but no look or word reminded him of hector woodridge. "i'm safe," thought hector. "sir robert ought to have been one of the first to recognize me." next morning they were all on the moor early. four horses were to take part in the trial: tristram, tearaway, rodney and admiral, and the filly was giving weight to all except sir robert's great horse. "by jove, she has grown into a beauty!" exclaimed the baronet when he saw the beautiful black filly with fred erickson, the popular yorkshire jockey, in the saddle. erickson lived at haverton village, but was not often at home, as he had an enormous amount of riding, going to scale under eight stone easily. "good morning, fred," said sir robert. "you're on a nice filly." "she is, sir robert; one of the best." "can she beat tristram? you've ridden him." "i wouldn't go so far as that, but she'll give him a good race," said the jockey. abel dent came from beaumont hall to ride tristram in the gallop. he was always on the horse's back in his work and knew him thoroughly. "you'll have to keep him going, abe," said sir robert, smiling. "i'll keep 'em all going," was the confident reply. rodney and admiral were more than useful; the latter was to bring them along for the last mile, it was his favorite distance. brant blackett greeted them as he rode up on his cob. he was brimful of confidence as to the result of the spin. he set tearaway to give rodney and admiral a stone each. "i'll send them down to the two-mile post," he said. "this is the best long gallop anywhere, i should say," said sir robert. "i often envy it you, pic, my boy. fancy four miles straight--it's wonderful." it was indeed a glorious sight. the moor stretched away for miles, undulating, until it was lost in the hill in the distance. the training ground had been reclaimed from it, snatched from its all-devouring grasp, and been perfected at great expense. beside the somber brown of the wild moorland it looked a brilliant, dazzling green. haverton moor harbored vast numbers of birds, and the grouse shooting was among the best in yorkshire. picton woodridge owned the moor; it was not profitable, but he loved it, and would sooner have parted with fertile farms than one acre of this brown space. it was not dull this morning; the sun touched everything, and as far as the eye could see there were billows of purple, brown, green, yellow, and tinges of red. a haze hung over it when they arrived, but gradually floated away like gossamer and disappeared into space. the air was bracing; it was good to be out on such a morning, far away from the noise and bustle of the busy world; a feeling of restfulness, which nature alone gives, was over all. to hector, however, it recalled memories which made him shudder. he thought of that great moor he had so recently been a prisoner on, and of his escape, and the privations he suffered. there was not the cruel look about haverton, and there was no prison in its space. blackett sent his head lad to start them. looking through powerful glasses he saw when they moved off and said, "they're on the way; we shall know something." the three were galloping straight toward them at a tremendous pace. rodney held the lead; he would be done with at the end of the first mile, then admiral would jump in and pilot them home. abe dent meant winning on tristram; he had little doubt about it. how could tearaway be expected to beat him at a difference of only seven pounds? it was absurd! rodney fell back, and admiral took command with a six lengths' lead. the lad on him had instructions to come along at top speed, and was nothing loath; he knew his mount was a smasher over a mile. tearaway was in the rear, erickson keeping close behind tristram. when admiral took rodney's place the jockey knew the filly was going splendidly; he felt sure he could pass tristram at any time. dent saw admiral sailing ahead and went after him; the gap lessened, tristram got within three lengths and stopped there. sir robert's horse was a great stayer, but he lacked the sprinting speed for a lightning finish. this was where tearaway had the advantage. "what a pace!" exclaimed sir robert. "by jove, pic, you've got a wonder in that filly, but she'll not beat my fellow." "they have half a mile to go yet," said the trainer. "there'll be a change before long." so great was the pace that admiral ran himself out at the end of six furlongs and came back to tristram. fred saw this, and giving tearaway a hint she raced up alongside the cup horse. when dent saw her head level with him he set to work on his mount. tristram always finished like a bulldog, and had to be ridden out. he gained again. sir robert saw it and said: "he'll come right away now." so thought the others, with the exception of the trainer; he sat on his cob, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "wait till fred turns the tap on," he thought. erickson was not long in doing this. he knew tearaway's speed was something abnormal; in his opinion nothing could stand against it. in answer to his call, tearaway swooped down on tristram again, drew level, headed him, left him, and was a length ahead before dent recovered from the shock. on came tearaway. they looked in amazement. sir robert could hardly believe his eyes. what a tremendous pace at the end of a two-mile gallop. "what did i tell you!" exclaimed the trainer triumphantly. "fast as the wind, you bet she is." the black filly came on, increasing her lead at every stride; she passed them a good couple of lengths ahead of tristram, admiral toiling in the rear. "wonderful!" exclaimed sir robert. he seemed puzzled to account for it. was tristram off color? he must ask dent. the pair pulled up and came slowly to the group. "anything wrong with my horse?" asked sir robert. "no, sir; he galloped as well as ever, but that filly's a wonder, a holy terror, never saw anything like it, she flew past him--her pace is tremendous," and dent looked at tearaway with a sort of awe. "won easily," said fred. "never had to press her. i had the measure of tristram all the way; i could have raced up to him at any part of the spin. look at her now. she doesn't blow enough to put a match out; you can't feel her breathing hardly. she's the best racer i ever put my leg across." "pic, the st. leger's in your pocket," said sir robert, as he shook him heartily by the hand. chapter xvi how hector fought the bloodhound the night before hector was to leave haverton he sat with his brother and captain ben in the study. they had been talking over tearaway's wonderful trial, and picton said he should back her to win the biggest stake he had ever gone for. "and you shall have half if she wins, as i feel sure she will," he said to hector. "you are too good," said hector; "but i won't refuse it. i may want it. i have a difficult and expensive game to play." "don't run into danger," said ben. "i'll avoid it where possible," said hector. "you have not told us how you escaped from prison," said picton. "perhaps it is too painful a subject." "painful it is, but i fully intended telling you. i may as well do it now. i want to recompense the man on the moor, also brack, without whose assistance i should not have boarded the _sea-mew_. i protested but he insisted on taking me there. i thought my presence on board might compromise you. brack asked me what i would do if you and i changed places and i confessed to myself i would help you to escape." "did you doubt what i would do?" asked picton. "no, but i did not wish you to run any risk for my sake." "that was unkind; you know i would do anything for you," said picton. "anyhow, i am glad brack insisted on my going on the _sea-mew_," said hector, smiling. "i had some luck in getting away. i do not think the warders thought i would try to escape--i had been quiet and orderly during the time i had been there. when the gang i was in returned to the prison i managed to creep away and hide in some bushes. i had no irons on, i had a good deal of liberty, most of the men liked me, one or two of them were kind and pitied me. it was much easier to slip away than i anticipated. when i was alone i ran as fast as i could across the moor. they were not long in discovering i was missing, and as i fled i heard the gun fired, giving warning that a prisoner had escaped. the sound echoed across the moor; i knew every man's hand was against me but i meant making a fight for liberty. even the hour's freedom i had enjoyed helped me. i was out of prison, alone on the moor, i determined not to be taken back--i would sooner die. i knew there were many old disused quarries, and limekilns, about. could i not hide in one of these? no; they would be sure to search them. i must get into densely wooded country, among the bushes and undergrowth, and hide there. i was weak in body, for my health had broken down, but i kept on until nightfall, when i sank down exhausted in a mass of bracken and fell asleep. the sun was up when i awoke. i looked cautiously round, starting at every sound; a bird in the trees, or a rabbit scuttling away made me nervous. i saw no one about, so i hurried along, taking advantage of every bit of cover. i passed the back of a huge tor, which reared its granite head high above the country, like a giant hewn in stone. it looked cold, bleak, forbidding, had a stern aspect, made me shudder; i hurried away from it across more open country. how to get rid of my clothes and obtain others puzzled me. i had no money; if it came to the worst i must watch some farm house where there was a chance of making an exchange. i dare not face any one; when i saw a man coming toward me i hid until he passed. i knew the trackers were after me, that a thorough search would be made, and the feeling that i was being hunted down almost overwhelmed me. i had nothing to eat except a few berries and roots; the nights were cold and i lay shivering, ill, and worn out. two days passed and i began to think i had a chance. my prison clothes were the great hindrance. i could not leave the moor in them: it meant certain capture. i did not know in which direction i was traveling; my one object was to go on and on until an opportunity offered to rid myself of the tell-tale garments. "almost done up for want of food, and the long tramp, i sat down to rest on a rock, from which i had a good view of the moor, although i was hidden from sight. i knew telescopes and glasses would be used, and that i should be discovered if i showed myself. "i saw no one about, but about a mile distant was a farm house. it was in a lonely, bleak spot. i wondered if the people in it were as cold as the country; they could hardly be blamed if their surroundings hardened them, made them callous to human suffering. i don't know what it was, but something prompted me to go toward this house. i walked along, keeping under cover where possible, until half the distance had been traversed. "as i walked i fancied i heard a peculiar sound behind me. it chilled my blood in me; it made me tremble. i dare not look back, i stood still, panting with horror. it was not the sound of human footsteps, and yet something was coming after me; i distinctly heard the thud on the ground, and whatever it was it must be drawing nearer. "i cannot convey to you any idea of the peculiar unearthly sound i heard, no description of mine could be adequate, but you can imagine something of what i felt, weak and overtaxed as i was, my mind in a whirl, my legs deadly tired and numbed, every part of my body aching. the sound came nearer. then a noise which increased my horror--i had heard it before, near the prison--it was the bay of a hound--a bloodhound was on my track. i knew what such a brute would do, pull me down, tear me, fasten his teeth in me, worry me to death. in desperation i turned and stood still. i saw the bloodhound coming along at a fast pace, scenting the ground, then baying from time to time. he lifted his huge head and saw me. i fancied i saw fire flash in his eyes, his mouth looked blood red, his huge jaws and cheeks hung massively on each side. he was a great beast, savage, with the lust of blood on him, and he came straight at me. there was a chain attached to his collar, so i judged he must have wrenched away from the man who held him in leash. he was within fifty yards of me and i prepared to grapple with him; i had no intention of allowing my weakness to overcome me. fight him i must. it was his life or mine; but how could i wrestle with so much brute strength in my feeble condition? he came at me with the ferocity of a lion. he leaped upon me, and i caught him by the collar. he bit and scratched my hands, but i did not let go. for a moment i held him, his savage face glared into mine, his huge paws were on my chest, he stood on his hind legs, the incarnation of brute strength. we glared at each other. like a lightning flash it crossed my mind that i must loose my hold on the collar and grasp his throat with both hands, throttle him. this was easier thought than done, for once i loosened my grip on the collar he might wrench himself free and hurl me to the ground; then his teeth would be at my throat instead of my hands at his. i did it in a second. he almost slipped me; he was very cunning--the moment i loosened my hold on the collar he seemed to know my intention. but i had him, held him, put all my strength with it and felt his windpipe gradually being crushed closer and closer. at that moment i think i was as great a savage as the bloodhound, i felt if it had been a man i held by the throat i should have done the same to free myself. how he struggled! we fell to the ground and rolled over, but i never loosened my hold and hardly felt the pain in my hands. he tore me with his feet, scratching, striving to bite me and failing. we rolled over and over but i did not let go. i was almost exhausted when the hound's struggle relaxed--in a few minutes he was dead. no one can imagine the feeling of relief and thankfulness that came over me. i offered up a prayer for my delivery from a terrible death, then sank down in a faint by his side. "when i came to i thought what i should do. there would be another hound on the track, i must put it off the scent. the smell of my clothes was what they were following; i knew this from what i had been told in the prison. i must get rid of the clothes. i stripped them off and laid them on the bloodhound, then i tied my coarse vest round my loins and started toward the farm house. as i went i saw a man come out at the gate with a gun. i determined to face him, risk it, throw myself on his mercy. he saw me and stood still, staring in amazement--and well he might. at first i think he thought i was mad. "i sank down at his feet, utterly overcome, and i saw a look of pity in his somewhat stern face and eyes. "'you are an escaped convict,' he said. "i acknowledged it and pleaded my innocence. "he smiled as he said: 'they are always innocent.' "i asked him to come and see what i had done. "'here, put this coat on,' he said. "he wore a long coat, almost to his heels, and it covered me. we walked to where the hound lay. i explained what had happened, that i had wrestled with the brute and after a long struggle throttled him. he was amazed and said i was a good plucked 'un. there was no one in the house but himself, he said; the others had gone to torquay; would i come with him and tell my story? i went, and made such an impression upon him that he said he believed my tale and would help me. he gave me some old clothes, food and drink, then hurried me on my way. he advised me to go to torquay and try and communicate with some friends. he promised to put the searchers off the scent if they made inquiries. i said he would reap a reward for what he had done, but he did not seem to care about this. he urged me to get off the moor as quickly as possible. "before i left he filled my pockets with cheese, meat, and bread, and gave me an old cap, and worn-out boots. i said i should never forget him; he answered that he hoped he had done right in helping me. "i tramped to torquay, i--" he hesitated. no, he would not tell them of the gracious lady who assisted him and treated him as a man, not a tramp. "i found brack. he took me to his home, concealed me there until he contrived to smuggle me on board the _sea-mew_," said hector, as he finished his story. "what an awful experience!" exclaimed ben. "terrible!" said picton with a shudder. "can you wonder that i hunger for revenge?" said hector; and they understood him. chapter xvii an introduction at hurst park it was pure chance that led to the introduction of hector woodridge, as william rolfe, to fletcher denyer. hector had been in london a week; he visited various places of amusement, showed himself openly, made no attempt at concealment. he went to the races at hurst park and gatwick. it was at the famous course on the banks of the thames that he was made known to denyer, by a man he became friendly with at his hotel. there is much freedom on the racecourse, and men, often unknown to each other, speak on various topics connected with the sport, without introduction. denyer and hector were soon in conversation, discussing the merits of various horses. denyer received a word from the man who introduced them that mr. rolfe had money and might be exploited profitably to both. a hint such as this was not likely to be neglected; he thought if he could put this newly made acquaintance on a winner it would probably result in future business. he had been advised to back frisky in the flying handicap, and told hector it was a real good thing, and likely to start at a long price. hector wondered why he should tell him. as he looked at denyer he fancied he had seen him before, but where he could not for the moment recall. denyer walked away to speak to a jockey, and hector stood trying to remember where he had met him. it flashed across his mind so vividly and suddenly that he was startled--denyer was the man he had seen at the supper table in the hotel with lenise elroy. there was no doubt about it; he remembered his face distinctly. here was a stroke of luck. some guiding hand had led him to this man. he must cultivate his acquaintance; through him he could be brought face to face with the woman who had ruined him. frisky won comfortably, started at ten to one, and hector landed a hundred pounds. he also backed the winner of the next race, the welter handicap, and doubled his hundred. this was encouraging; it was to be a day of success--at least it appeared so. denyer he did not see for some time. shortly before the last race he noticed him walking across the paddock with a lady. it was mrs. elroy, and hector's heart almost stopped beating. for a moment he trembled with nervous excitement, which by a great effort he suppressed. they came up; denyer introduced her. she held out her hand, hector took it, they looked into each other's eyes. there was not a shadow of recognition on her part, but there was something else there--lenise elroy had by some strange intuition thrilled at the sight of this man, felt a wave of emotion flow through her body. she was sure she would like him, like him very much indeed, and she immediately resolved to better the acquaintance. hector divined something of what passed in her mind and smiled. he could have wished for nothing better; it was what he most desired, but had not dared to hope for. denyer left them together for a moment. "you are a friend of mr. denyer's?" she said in a soothing voice. "i was introduced to him here," he said. "i have not known him more than an hour or so. he put me on a winner, frisky, and i also backed the last winner. my luck is in to-day," he added, as he looked meaningly at her. lenise elroy returned his glance; she understood men. she thought she had made a conquest and that he was worth it. "will you ride back to town with us in my motor?" said denyer, as he joined them again. "yes, do, mr. rolfe; we shall be delighted if you will. and perhaps you will dine with us at the savoy," she said. hector said he would be delighted. fortune was indeed favoring him. they rode to town together, and dined at the savoy; later on they went to the empire. it was an eventful day and night for hector. before he left, denyer was half inclined to regret introducing him to lenise; he did not care for her to show preference for another man; where she was concerned he was jealous. he reflected, however, that if she and rolfe became good friends it would facilitate the process of extracting money from him, and this was his intention; every rich man he regarded as his lawful prey. to him rolfe appeared rather a simple-minded, easy-going fellow; probably he had traveled a good deal, he looked tanned with the sun, as though he had been in hot climates; such men were generally free with their money, fond of company, and the society of an attractive woman like lenise, who had very few scruples about the proprieties. when he left, hector promised to lunch with them the following day. fletcher denyer went home with lenise. her maid was accustomed to seeing him in her rooms at all hours; she had never known him remain in the house for the night; she judged, and rightly, there was nothing improper in their relations. the fact of the matter was, they were mutually useful to each other. lenise wanted some one to go about with; and denyer not only liked her society, but found her help to him in many of his schemes. she took off her cloak, handing it to her maid, then sat down on the couch and made herself comfortable, and attractive; she knew the full value of her personal appearance, and fine figure, and posed accordingly. fletcher denyer always admired her; to-night she looked so radiant and alluring he was fascinated, under her spell. he forgot his caution so far as to come to the sofa, bend over her, attempt to kiss her. she pushed him back roughly, and said: "keep your distance, fletcher, or we shall fall out. you have had too much champagne." "it's not the champagne," he said hotly; "it's your beauty; it acts like wine. you are lovelier than ever to-night. that fellow rolfe admired you, any one could see it. you're not going to throw me over for him, are you, len?" "don't be a silly boy. as for throwing you over, there is no engagement between us; we are merely good friends, and if you wish to maintain the relationship you had better not try to kiss me again. i hate being kissed; kisses are only for babes and sucklings," she said. he laughed; it was no good quarreling with her. he was satisfied to think that had any other man attempted to kiss her she would have ordered him out of the house. "not much of the babe about you," he said. "more than you think, but i'm not made to be kissed." "that's just what you are, the most lovable woman i ever met." she laughed. "that champagne was certainly too strong for you," she said. she never seemed tired; all go, no matter how late the hour; her flow of spirits seldom flagged, her eyes always shone brightly, her complexion never failed her; she was really a remarkable woman. no one knew what an effort it cost her to keep up appearances--alone a change came over her, the reaction set in. she did not care to be alone, at times she was afraid. "what do you think of rolfe?" he asked. "in what way?" "all ways, as far as you can judge from what you have seen to-day, and to-night," he said. she was thoughtful. he watched her; the jealous feeling came uppermost again. "i think," she said slowly, "he is a man who has had a great deal of trouble, suffered much, probably on account of a woman. i think he is a strong man, that he is determined, and if he has an object in view he will attain it, no matter what the obstacles in his way. probably he has traveled, seen a good deal of the world, had strange experiences. he has remarkable eyes, they pierce, probe into one, search out things. he is a fine looking man, well built, but has probably had a severe illness not long ago. i think i shall like him; he is worth cultivating, making a friend of." she spoke as though no one were present. fletcher denyer felt for the time being he was forgotten and resented it. "you have analyzed him closely; you must be a character reader. have you ever turned your battery of close observation on me?" he asked snappishly. she smiled. "you angry man, you asked me what i think of him and i have told you. i have turned the battery on you, fletcher. i know your worth exactly. i am useful to you; you are useful to me--that is all." "all!" he exclaimed. "well, what else? we are not in love, are we?" "no, i suppose not. has it ever occurred to you, lenise, that i want you to be my wife?" he asked. "no, it has not occurred to me, nor has it occurred to you before to-night," she said. "yes, it has." "i doubt it. besides, things are much better as they are. i would not be your wife if you asked me," she said. "why not?" he asked. "because--oh, for the very sufficient reason that you could not keep me, and i have sufficient to live upon," she said. he saw it would be better to drop the subject and said: "you have no objection to giving me a helping hand?" "in what way?" "this man rolfe has money. i don't agree with your estimate of him as a strong man; i think he is weak. he may be useful to me." "you mean he may be induced to finance some of your schemes?" she said. "yes; why not? where's the harm? his money is as good as another's, or better." "and you think i will lure him into your financial net?" she said calmly. "not exactly that; you can hint that i sometimes get in the know, behind the scenes, and so on, then leave the rest to me," he said. "take care, fletcher. this man rolfe is more than your equal; i am sure of it. if he is drawn into your schemes it will be for some object of his own. don't drag me into it." "there's no dragging about it. you have merely to give me a good character, say i am clever and shrewd--you know how to work it," he said. "yes, i think i know how to work it," she said quietly. chapter xviii conscience troubles lenise elroy sat in her bedroom long after fletcher denyer left the house. she dismissed her maid before undressing, who, accustomed to her mistress's moods, thought nothing of it. "i hate being alone," she said to herself, "and yet it is only then i can throw off the mask. i am a wicked woman; at least i have been told so, long ago. perhaps i am, or was at that time. i wonder if hector woodridge is dead, or if he escaped? it is hardly likely he got away. i could wish he had, if he were out of the country and i were safe. it was not my fault altogether; he has suffered, so have i, and suffer still. i loved him in those days, whatever he may have thought to the contrary, but i don't think he loved me. had raoul been a man it would never have happened, but he was a weak, feeble-minded mortal and bored me intensely. i ought not to have married him; it was folly--money is not everything. i could have been a happy woman with such a man as hector. how he must have suffered! but so have i. there is such a thing as conscience; i discovered it long ago, and it has tormented me, made my life at times a hell. i have tried to stifle it and cannot. ever since that night at torquay i have been haunted by a horrible dread that he got away on his brother's yacht, the _sea-mew_. captain bruce is devoted to them, he would do anything to help them. perhaps it was part of the plan that the _sea-mew_ should lie in torbay waiting for his escape. money will do a great deal, and bribery may have been at work. it seems hardly possible, but there is no telling. the boatman said he was dead, hackler said the same; they may be wrong--who knows--and at this moment he may be free and plotting against me. i can expect no mercy from him; i have wronged him too deeply; it is not in human nature to forgive what i have done." she shuddered, her face was drawn and haggard, she looked ten years older than she did an hour ago. "do i regret what happened?" she asked herself. she could not honestly say she did; given the same situation over again she felt everything would happen as it did then. it was a blunder, a crime, and the consequences were terrible, but it freed her, she was left to live her life as she wished, and it was an intense relief to be rid of raoul. she knew it was callous, wicked, to think like this, but she could not help it. she had not been a bad woman since her husband's death, not as bad women go. she had had one or two love affairs, but she had been circumspect, there was no more scandal, and she did no harm. she prided herself on this, as she thought of the opportunities and temptations that were thrown in her way and had been resisted. "i'm not naturally a bad woman," she reasoned. "i do not lure men to destruction, fleece them of their money, then cast them aside. i have been merciful to young fellows who have become infatuated with me, chilled their ardor, made them cool toward me, saved them from themselves." she recalled two or three instances where she had done this and it gave her satisfaction. her conscience, however, troubled her, and never more than to-night. she could not account for it. why on this particular night should she be so vilely tormented? it was no use going to bed; she could not sleep; at least not without a drug, and she had taken too many of late. sleep under such circumstances failed to soothe her; she awoke with a heavy head and tired eyes, her body hardly rested. she got up and walked to and fro in the room. she was debating what to do, how to act. never since her love affair with hector woodridge had she met a man who appealed to her as william rolfe did. the moment she was introduced to him at the races she knew he was bound to influence her life for good, or evil. she recognized the strong man in him, the man who could bend her to his will; she knew in his hands she would be as weak as the weakest of her sex, that she would yield to him. more, she wished him to dominate her, to place herself in his power, to say to him, "i am yours; do what you will with me." all this swept over her as she looked into his eyes and caught, she fancied, an answering response. she had felt much of this with hector woodridge, but not all; william rolfe had a surer hold of her, if he wished to exercise his power, she knew it. did she wish him to exercise the power? she thought no, and meant yes. fletcher denyer was useful to her, but in her heart she despised him; he took her money without scruple when she offered it. she was quite certain rolfe would not do so, even if he wanted it ever so badly. she had no fear of denyer, or his jealous moods. she smiled as she thought of him in his fits of anger, spluttering like a big child. rolfe was a man in every respect, so she thought; she was a woman who liked to be subdued by a strong hand. the tragedy in her life had not killed her love of pleasure, although the result of it, as regards hector woodridge, had caused her much pain. still she was a woman who cast aside trouble and steeled herself against it. she had not met a man who could make her forget the past and live only in the present, but now she believed william rolfe could do it. would he try, would he come to her? she thought it possible, probable; and if he did, how would she act? would she confess what had happened in her life? she must, it would be necessary, there would be no deception with such a man. what would be the consequences--would he pity, or blame her? at last she went to bed, and toward morning fell asleep, a restless slumber, accompanied by unpleasant dreams. it was eleven o'clock when she dressed; she remembered she had to meet fletcher and william rolfe at luncheon. she took a taxi to the hotel, and found rolfe waiting for her. he handed her a note; it was from denyer, stating he was detained in the city on urgent business, apologizing for his unavoidable absence, asking rolfe to meet him later on, naming the place. he watched her as she read it, and saw she was pleased; it gave him savage satisfaction. he had not thought his task would be so easy; everything worked toward the end he had in view. "i hope you will keep your appointment, at any rate," he said. "i have done so, i am here," she answered, smiling. "i mean that you will lunch with me." "would it be quite proper?" she asked with a challenging glance. "quite," he said. "i will take every care of you." she wondered how old he was. it was difficult to guess. he might be younger than herself--not more than a year or two at the most. what caused that look on his face? it certainly was not fear; he was fearless, she thought. it was a sort of hunted look, as though he were always expecting something to happen and was on his guard. she would like to know the cause of it. "you cannot imagine how difficult i am to take care of," she said. "i am not afraid of the task," he said. "will you lunch with me?" "with pleasure," she replied, and they went inside. the room was well filled, a fashionable crowd; several people knew mrs. elroy and acknowledged her. to a certain extent she had lived down the past, but the recollection of it made her the more interesting. women were afraid of her attractions, especially those who had somewhat fickle husbands; their alarm was groundless, had they known it. "wonder who that is with her? he's a fine looking man, but there's something peculiar about him," said a lady. "what do you see peculiar in him? seems an ordinary individual to me," drawled her husband. "he is not ordinary by any means; his complexion is peculiar, a curious yellowy brown," she said. "perhaps he's a west indian, or something of that sort." they sat at a small table alone; she thoroughly enjoyed the lunch. she drank a couple of glasses of champagne and the sparkling wine revived her. "shall we go for a motor ride after?" he asked. "yes, if you wish, and will not be tired of my company," she said. "you do yourself an injustice," he said. "i do not think you could tire any one." she laughed as she said: "you don't know much of me, i am dull at times, rather depressed." she sighed, and for a moment the haggard look came into her face. hector wondered if remorse were accountable for it; if she ever repented the injury she had done; no, it was not possible or she would have stretched out her hand to save him. he steeled his heart against her; he hated her; he would have his revenge, cost her what it might. they entered a taxi and were driven in the direction of staines and windsor. she felt a strange thrill of pleasure as she sat close beside him. chapter xix "what would you do?" they went along the staines road, then by the banks of the thames past runnymede, came to old windsor, and from there to the white hart hotel. she thoroughly enjoyed it; the drive nerved her; she forgot the painful reflections of the previous night. he talked freely. she noticed with satisfaction he seemed attracted by her, looked at her searchingly as though interested. they went on the river and were rowed past the racecourse. it was warm and fine, the flow of the water past the boat soothed her. they had tea at the hotel, then returned to town. "where to?" he asked when they were nearing kensington. she gave the name of her flat and they alighted there. "i have been here some time," she said. "i find it comfortable and quiet. will you come in?" he followed her. he noticed her room was furnished expensively and in excellent taste; there was nothing grand or gaudy about it. "i am alone here, with my maid," she said. "they have an excellent system: all meals are prepared downstairs and sent up; there is a very good chef." "the least possible trouble," he said. "how long have you been here?" "three years. it suits me; i do not care to be away from london. in my married days i lived in the country, but it bored me to death. do you like the country?" "yes, i love it; but then much of my life has been spent in solitude." "you have traveled?" "yes." "i thought so." "why?" "your complexion denotes it. i like it, there is a healthy brown about it." "i have done much hard work in my time," he said. "mining?" she asked. "yes, i suppose you would call it that." "where?" "on dartmoor," he said. she was so astonished she could not speak. she looked at him with fear in her eyes. "dartmoor?" she whispered. "i did not know there were mines on dartmoor." "oh, yes, there are--copper mines. i was fool enough to believe there was money in them, but i was mistaken; there is copper there, no doubt, but i did not find it," he said. she felt as though a snake fascinated her, that she must ask questions about it. "i have been to torquay, but i did not go to dartmoor," she said. "you ought to have done so; it is a wonderful place. i was there a long time. when were you in torquay?" she told him. "strange," he said; "i was there at that time." she felt a curious dread, not of him, but of something unknown. "i went to the races--a friend of mine was riding there. he won four events. lucky, was it not?" "yes," she said faintly. "who was he?" "picton woodridge. his yacht the _sea-mew_ was in the bay. i was on it." "you!" she exclaimed, and he saw the fear in her eyes. "yes, why not? is there anything strange about it?" he asked, smiling. "he lives at haverton. he is rich, but he is not quite happy." "why not, if he has everything he wants?" "he has not everything he wants; no one has, as a matter of fact. it would not be good for us. you have not all you want." "no, i have not; but i get along very well." "what is missing out of your life?" he asked. "i can hardly tell you." "my friend's life is overcast by a great calamity that befell his family some years ago." "what was it?" she asked, and a slight shiver passed through her. "his brother was accused of murder, of shooting the husband of the woman he had fallen in love with. he was condemned and reprieved; he is at dartmoor now. that is enough to make his brother's life unhappy; it killed the admiral, their father." "how shocking!" she said. "i never thought of it before, but, strange to say, the man's name was elroy. it is your name," he said. she laughed uneasily; she could not tell him now. "i hope you do not connect me with the lady in question?" "no, of course not. how absurd! but still it is strange--the name is uncommon," he said. "i suppose you never saw his brother at the prison?" "i did--i wish i had not." "did he look very ill, broken down?" "he was a terrible wreck. he suffered awful agony, of mind more than body. i never saw such a change in a man in my life. when i knew hector woodridge he was a fine, well set up, handsome man, in the army, a soldier's career before him. the breakdown was complete; it made me suffer to look at him. i never went again and i do not think he wanted it. if ever a man was living in hell upon earth he was; the wonder is it did not kill him." "how terrible!" she said. "i wonder if the woman suffers? he did it on her account. i do not believe he is guilty--i am certain he is not. his brother believes in his innocence, so does captain bruce, and all his friends. i believe it is the knowledge that he is innocent sustains him in his awful life; he told me he hoped one day to prove his innocence, but that his lips were sealed, he could not speak. i told him that was foolish, that it was due to himself to speak, but he shook his head and said, 'impossible!'" "is it a very terrible place at dartmoor?" "i suppose it is like all such prisons; but think what it must be for an innocent man to be caged there with a lot of desperate criminals, the scum of the earth. what must it be for such a man as hector woodridge, cultured, refined, an army man, well-bred--and on the top of it all the knowledge that the disgrace killed his father. it would drive me mad." "and me too," she said. "you say he is there still?" "yes; there is no chance of his escaping. i wish he could." "a prisoner escaped when i was at torquay. i saw it in the local paper," she said. "so did i; the fellow had a terrible fight with a bloodhound and strangled it. a desperate man has desperate strength," he said. "i met an old boatman named brack there; he told me the man must be dead." "no doubt; fell down a disused mine, or drowned himself, poor devil. i don't wonder at it," he said. "i wonder how the woman feels about it?" she said in a low voice. "she must suffer, her conscience must trouble her, in a way her life must be as hard to bear as his." "that depends on the woman," he said. "i believe she can prove his innocence; something tells me she can; his brother believes it too. if this be so, she ought to speak and save him, no matter at what cost to herself." "do you think she will?" "no; or she would have spoken before. she must be callous, hard-hearted, dead to all sense of human feeling. such a woman would make me shudder to come in contact with her," he said. she smiled as she thought: "he little knows i am that woman. i must wait. if he loves me later on i can tell him." "perhaps the woman cannot prove his innocence. she may believe him guilty." "impossible. there were only three persons present: the husband, the wife, and hector woodridge." "it seems very strange that if he is innocent she has not declared the truth." "steeped in wickedness and sin as she is, i do not wonder at it; she is probably living in the world, leading a fast life, ruining men as she ruined him." "or she may be suffering agonies and be too much of a coward to speak; she may be an object of pity; perhaps if you saw her you would be sorry for her, as sorry as you are for him," she said. "he is in prison, she is free; she has the world to distract her, he has nothing." "you spoke of torture of the mind. perhaps she is a sensitive woman; if so, her sufferings are as terrible as his." "if you were the woman, what would you do?" he asked. the question was put with an abruptness that startled her; again a feeling of fear was uppermost. it was strange he should know hector woodridge; still more curious that he was on the _sea-mew_ in torbay. he must know if hector woodridge boarded the yacht; was he concealing something? "i do not know what i should do. it would depend upon circumstances." "what circumstances?" he asked. "if i knew he was innocent, i should speak, i think--that is, if i could prove it." "she must be able to prove it," he said. "i believe he is suffering, keeping silent, to save her." "if he is, his conduct is heroic," she said. "foolish--a sin and a shame that he should waste his life for such a woman." "you think her a very bad woman?" "i do, one of the worst," he said. she sighed. "i am glad i have never been placed in such an unfortunate position," she said. "so am i, but i am sure if you had been, hector woodridge would be a free man," he said. "i wonder if he loved her?" she asked quickly. "loved her? he must have done so. think how he is suffering for her; he must love her still," he said. "perhaps she does not know this." "she ought to know; all his actions speak of love for her. no man ever made a greater sacrifice for a woman," he said. then, looking at his watch, he added, "it is time for me to go, to meet mr. denyer. he is a great friend of yours, is he not?" "i should not call him a friend exactly, although i have known him a long time; he is useful to me in business matters," she said. "can i be of any use in that way?" he asked. "you might; i will ask you if i require anything." "and then i shall be an acquaintance," he said, smiling. "would you rather be my friend?" "yes." she held out her hand. "i do not think that will be difficult," she said, her eyes flashing into his. chapter xx rita sees a resemblance some acquaintanceships ripen fast into friendship; it was so with lenise elroy and hector, at least on her side. she knew him as william rolfe and as such he appealed to her. at times he reminded her in a vague way of hector woodridge; she liked him none the worse for this, although it brought back painful memories. she was fast drifting into the ocean of love where she would be tossed about, buffeted by the waves, and probably damaged. the impression he made on her was not easily effaced; she began to neglect fletcher denyer, much to his mortification. before she met rolfe their connection had been smooth, going on the even tenor of its way, with nothing to mar the harmony, but this new acquaintance proved a disturbing element and she was no longer the same to him. he resented it but could do nothing; he was powerless. he spoke to her, remonstrated, and she laughed at him; it was of no use tackling rolfe, who would probably tell him to mind his business. he had, however, no intention of relinquishing what little hold he had over her, and tried to make himself more indispensable. rolfe was friendly, took a hint as to some speculative shares and made money. it was september and the st. leger day drew near. hector had not forgotten tearaway. he did not write to his brother; he thought it better not, safer. he watched the papers and saw the filly occasionally quoted at a hundred to four taken. the secret of the trial had been well kept, nothing leaked out about it. ripon was a firm favorite at three to one, and all the wise men at newmarket were sanguine of his success. bronze was much fancied in certain quarters, and harriet, the monk, and field gun, frequently figured in the list; there was every prospect of a larger field than usual. fletcher denyer often talked about racing with hector, who was quite willing to discuss the chances of horses with him. "i am told on the best authority bronze will win," said fletcher. "what do you fancy, rolfe?" "i haven't thought much about it," replied hector. "if bronze is as good as they make out, he must have a chance." "if you want to back him i can get your money on at a good price," said fletcher. "i'll think it over," said hector. mrs. elroy was also interested in the st. leger. she knew the owner of ripon, who told her he did not think his horse had anything to fear. this news was imparted to hector. "are you going to doncaster?" she asked. he said he was, that he always liked to see the st. leger run. "i think i shall go," she said. "i have been asked to join a house party near doncaster." hector wondered how it came about that a woman who had behaved so badly could be so soon forgiven, and her past forgotten. "then i shall have the pleasure of seeing you there," he said. "i hope so. your friend mr. woodridge has something in the race--tearaway, is it not? i suppose she hasn't got much of a chance, it is such a good price about her," she said. "no, i don't expect she has or she would not be at such long odds," he answered. "there have been some big surprises in the st. leger," she said. "it doesn't look like one this year," he replied. a few days before the doncaster meeting, hector went to haverton, where he had a warm welcome. sir robert raines was there, captain ben, and one or two more, including dick langford, and rita. lady raines came to act as hostess for picton and brought two of her daughters; it was the knowledge that she would be there induced rita to come with her brother. at first picton hesitated to ask her; she had never been to haverton; but finally he decided. lady raines and her daughters would be there, it would be all right and proper. he was delighted when he heard she had arranged to come with dick. hector came the following day after their arrival. he first saw rita in the garden with picton. he recognized her at once: it was the lady who had been so kind to him on his way from dartmoor to torquay. he saw how close they walked together, how confidential was their talk, and guessed the rest. he recognized this with a pang; he had built castles in the air about her, which, like most such edifices, are easily shattered. would she know him again as the tramp she helped on the road? it was not likely. in the first place, he was greatly changed, and secondly she would never expect to find him here. he smiled grimly as he thought of the condition he was in the last time they met. he went out to face her and walked toward them. picton introduced them. she started slightly as she looked at him. "i thought i had seen you somewhere before," she said with a bright smile. "you quite startled me, but i dare not tell you about it, it is quite too ridiculous." "you have roused my curiosity. please enlighten me," he said. "you are quite sure you will not be offended?" she looked at them both. "i shall not, and i am the principal person to consider," said hector. "then, if you promise not to be angry with me, i will; after all, i am sure he was a gentleman although in reduced circumstances," she said. "who was a gentleman?" asked picton. "the man i for the moment fancied resembled mr. rolfe," she said. "it was the day you came to torwood." rita told them about the tramp she had befriended, and added: "he was a well-bred man who must have met with some great misfortune. i pitied him, my heart bled for him; he was no common man, it was easy to recognize that. he thanked me courteously and went on his way down the road. i have often thought of him since and wondered what became of him. when you first came up, mr. rolfe, you reminded me of him, in looks and build, that is all. have i offended you?" "not at all," said hector. "you are quite sure i am not your gentleman tramp? look again." "don't be absurd! of course you are not the man; it was a mere passing resemblance," she said. "you did a very kindly action, and i am sure the man, whoever he is, will never forget it, or you. perhaps at some future time he may repay your kindness. who knows? there are some strange chances in the world, so many ups and downs, i should not at all wonder if you met him again in a very different sphere," said hector. lady raines and her daughters came on to the terrace and rita joined them. "whew!" said hector, "that was a narrow squeak, pic. i went hot and cold all over when i recognized who it was with you, but i thought i had better come out and face the music." "that's about the closest shave you've had, but even had she been certain she would only have known you as william rolfe." "i forgot that," said hector. "still, it is better as it is. i say, pic, is she the one?" "i hope so," his brother replied, laughing. "i mean to have a good try." "lucky fellow!" said hector with a sigh. "there's no such chance of happiness for me." "there may be some day," said picton. "you have not told me what you have been doing in london." "plotting," said hector. "i am on the way to secure my revenge--i shall succeed." "can't you give me some idea how you mean to be revenged?" asked picton. "not at present. you may get an inkling at doncaster, if you keep your eyes open; but i expect all your attention will be riveted on tearaway," said hector. "that's highly probable. one doesn't own a leger winner every year," said picton. "then you think she is sure to win?" "certain, and sir robert won't hear of her defeat. he has backed her to win a large stake, and he's jubilant about it." "it seems strange she does not shorten in the betting," said hector. "i don't take much notice of that; she's not a public performer, and it is a field above the average. if it had leaked out about the trial it would have been different, but we have a good lot of lads at haverton; they know how to hold their tongues," said picton. "i'll tell you what, pic, i'd like to let old brack know. wouldn't the dear old boy rejoice at getting on a twenty-five to one chance; he'd think more of it than anything. brackish, boatman, torquay, would find him," said hector. "he shall know," said picton. "i'll tell you what, it would be a joke to get him to doncaster for the st. leger. i'll send rose down to hunt him up and bring him." "i'm afraid rose would look askance at brack, he's such a highly superior person," said hector. "i fancy brack would break his reserve down before they reached doncaster," said picton. "i shall send him, anyway." chapter xxi brack turns traveler "rose, i am about to send you on an important mission to torquay," said picton. "yes, sir." "you are to find an old boatman named brackish, generally called brack. he is a well-known character; there will be no difficulty about it. you will hand him this letter, and if he requires persuading you will use all your eloquence in that direction. you will give him ten pounds and pay all his expenses, and you must land him in the paddock at doncaster at the latest on the st. leger day. you understand?" "yes, sir. may i ask what kind of an individual he is?" "rough and ready. he was formerly a boatman at scarborough. he is a yorkshireman. he will don his best clothes; perhaps he will require a new pilot coat--if he does, buy him one." "and what am i to do when i land him in the paddock, sir?" "wait until i see him." "very good, sir. is that all?" "yes, i think so. look after him well; he once did me a good turn. you'll find him interesting, also amusing." "when shall i go, sir?" "to-morrow; that will give you ample time--a day or two in torquay will be a pleasant change." "thank you, sir; it will," said rose. "come to me in my study to-night and i will give you the money," said picton. robert rose thought, as he watched him walk away: "i hope he doesn't expect me to make a friend of the man. no doubt he'll smell of the sea, and fish, tar, oil-skins, and other beastly things; it won't be a pleasant journey--we shall have to put the windows down. i wonder if he washes, or whether he's caked with dirt, like some of 'em i've seen. it's coming to a pretty pass when i am dispatched on such an errand." he complained to mrs. yeoman but got no sympathy. "if brack's good enough for your master he's good enough for you," she snapped, and he thought it advisable not to pursue the subject farther. rose arrived in torquay in due course, late at night, after a tiring journey. next morning he went forth in quest of brack. a policeman pointed the boatman out to him. brack was leaning against the iron rail protecting the inner harbor. rose looked at him in disgust. brack had met a friend the night before and they had indulged somewhat freely in ale. he was all right but looked rather seedy and unkempt. rose walked up to him, putting on his best air. brack saw him and summed him up at once. "somebody's flunkey," he thought. "are you mr. brackish?" asked rose in a patronizing manner. "i'm brack, name brackish, don't know about the mister, seldom hear it used when i'm addressed. now who may you be, my good man?" said brack, mischief lurking in his eyes. to be addressed by this clod of a boatman as "my good man" quite upset rose's dignity. he put on a severe look, which did not abash brack in the least, and said: "i am from haverton in yorkshire. i represent mr. picton woodridge. he desired me to see you and deliver this letter," and he handed it to him. brack took it, opened the envelope, and handed it back. "i've lost my glasses," he said; "must have left them in 'the sailor's rest' last night. me an' a mate had a few pints more than we oughter. why the deuce didn't he post the letter and save _you_ the trouble of comin' to see _me_?" "it suited mr. woodridge's purpose better that i should personally deliver it. i will read it to you if you wish." "that's what i gave it to you for," said brack. rose read the letter. it was written in a kind and friendly way; robert thought it too familiar. brack listened attentively; at first he hardly grasped the full meaning. "would you mind reading it again?" he asked. rose did so with ill-concealed impatience; then said: "now do you understand its import, or shall i explain more fully?" "don't trouble yourself. i wouldn't trouble such an almighty high personage as yourself for the world," said brack. "no trouble at all, i assure you," said rose. "as far as i understand," said brack, "i'm to put myself in your charge and you are to convey me safely to doncaster to see the leger run for." "that's it; we will leave to-morrow," said rose. "will we? who said i was goin'?" asked brack. "of course you'll go; mr. picton wishes it." "he ain't my master, just you remember. brack's got no master. i'm my own boss, and a pretty stiff job i have with myself at times. last night, for instance. as boss i ordered myself home at ten; as brack i went on strike and declined to move--see?" "but he will be very much disappointed if you don't go to doncaster with me. all your expenses will be paid. you'll have ten pounds to invest on the course, and you'll back tearaway, say at twenty to one to a fiver," said rose. "shall i indeed? and pray who says tearaway will win the leger?" "i do," said rose confidently. "and i suppose that settles it. if you say so, she must win." "mr. picton says she will; so does sir robert raines." "do they now? and i'm to take all this for gospel?" "it's quite correct. they have all backed tearaway to win large sums, thousands of pounds," said rose. "well, it's worth considering," said brack. he wondered if hector woodridge were at haverton. it was not mentioned in the letter. perhaps this man did not know him; he would keep quiet about it. "you'll have to make up your mind quick because we must leave early in the morning. i was instructed to buy you a new coat, or any other thing you wanted." "that's handsome; i'll accept the coat, a blue pilot, and a pair of boots, a tie, and a cap. i've got a fancy waistcoat my father used to wear. it's all over flowers and it's got pearl buttons. it's a knock-out; you'll admire it--perhaps you'd like to borrow it," said brack. rose declined, said he would not deprive brack of it for worlds. "you'll come with me?" he asked. "oh, yes; i'll come to oblige mr. woodridge; he's a gent and no mistake. will you come and see my old mother?" rose thought it would be diplomatic to do so. evidently brack was a man who wanted humoring; it was humiliating, but he must go through with it. old mrs. brackish welcomed the visitor, dusted a chair for him, treated him with apparent deference which soothed rose's feelings. he declined to remain for dinner, making as an excuse that he never ate anything until evening, it did not agree with him, the mid-day meal. when he left it was with a sense of relief. "the mother is better than the son," he thought; "she knew what was due to my position." "he's a pompous old fool," she said to brack when he was out of the house. brack laughed as he said: "you've hit it, mother; you generally do." "an' so you're agoin' to yorkshire," she said with a sigh. "sometimes i wish i were back there, but it wouldn't suit me, and he's been very good to us here, brack." "we've nowt to grumble at," said brack. "we're better off than lots o' people. i may make a bit o' money at doncaster on leger day--you know how lucky i am over the race." "you oughtn't to bet," she said. "i don't. my bit isn't bettin'; i just put a shillin' on now and again for the fun of the thing. where's the harm in that?" he asked. "i suppose you know best, brack, and you've always been a good son to me," she said. "and i always shall, have no fear of that, mother." and she had not; her faith in him was unbounded. brack looked quite rakish, so he told himself, when he gazed in a mirror in the hat shop next day, on the way to the station. he had been to the barber's, had his whiskers and mustache trimmed, his hair cut, and a shampoo. "i'm fresh as paint," he said to rose, who was glad to see him so respectable. the smell of the sea hung about him, but it was tempered by some very patent hair oil which emitted an overpowering scent. several porters spoke to brack, asking where he was going. "doncaster to see the leger run." they laughed and one said: "bet you a bob you don't get farther than exeter." "don't want to rob you, tommy," was the reply. "i'll give you chaps a tip--have a shilling or two on tearaway." "never heard of him." "it's a her, not a he." "whose is she?" "mr. woodridge's, picton woodridge's." "the gentleman who rode four winners here last easter, and won the double on the rascal?" "the same, and he's given me the tip." "nonsense!" "gospel," said brack. "you must have come into a fortune; it'll cost you a pot of money going to doncaster." "mr. woodridge is paying my expenses. he kind o' took a likin' to me when he was here; i rowed him to his yacht several times. he's one of the right sort, he is," said brack. "you're in luck's way," said the porter he had addressed as tommy. "it's men like me deserve to have luck--i'm a hard worker." "we're all hard workers," said tom. "go on! call trundling barrers, and handlin' bags hard work? rowin's hard work. you try it, and you'll find the difference," said brack. tom laughed as he said: "you're a good sort, brack, and i wish you success. this is your train." rose came up. "i've got the tickets. is this the london train, porter?" "yes, right through to paddington," said tom, staring as he saw rose and brack get in together. "who is he, brack, your swell friend?" he asked. "him? oh, he's a cousin from yorkshire," grinned brack; and rose sank down on the seat overwhelmed. chapter xxii doncaster brack and rose arrived at doncaster on the eve of the st. leger, staying at a quiet hotel on the outskirts of the town. the railway journey from torquay had been a source of anxiety to rose. brack made audible observations about the occupants of the carriage, which were resented, and rose exercised diplomacy to keep the peace. he was horrified to see brack pull a black bottle out of his bag. "beer," said brack; "will you have some?" rose declined in disgust; brack pulled at it long and lustily, emptied it before reaching exeter, got out there, went into the refreshment room, had it refilled, and nearly missed his train; rose pulled, a porter pushed behind, and he stumbled in just in time; the bottle dropped on the floor, rolled under the seat, and brack created a diversion among the passengers by diving for it. he generously passed it round, but no one partook of his hospitality. it was a relief to rose when he went to sleep, but he snored so loud he thought it advisable to wake him. brack resented this, and said he was entitled to snore if he wished. it was with evident relief that rose saw him go to bed. when brack disappeared he related his misfortunes to his host, who sympathized with him to his face and laughed behind his back: he considered brack the better man of the two. at breakfast rose explained what doncaster was like in leger week, until brack, with his mouth crammed with ham, and half a poached egg, spurted out, "you're wastin' yer breath. i've been to see t'leger many a time." "have you? i thought this was your first visit." "and me a yorkshireman--go on!" said brack. they drove to the course in the landlord's trap, arriving in good time. "i suppose you have not been in the paddock before?" said rose patronizingly. "no; i've been over yonder most times," and he waved toward the crowd on the moor. "follow me and i will conduct you." brack laughed. "you're a rum cove, you are. what do you do when you're at home?" "i am mr. woodridge's general manager," said rose loftily. "you don't say so! now i should have thought you'd been the head footman, or something of that kind," said brack. "you are no judge of men," said rose. "i'd never mistake you for one," growled brack. when they were in the paddock rose was anxious to get rid of him, but he had his orders, and must wait until mr. woodridge saw them. brack attracted attention; he was a strange bird in the midst of this gayly plumaged crowd, but he was quite at home, unaware he was a subject of observation. at last picton woodridge saw him and came up. "well, brack, i am glad you came," he said as he shook hands. "i hope rose looked after you." "he did very well. he's not a jovial mate, a trifle stuck up and so on, gives himself airs; expect he's considered a decent sort in his own circle--in the servants' hall," said brack. picton caught sight of rose's face and burst out laughing. "speaks his mind, eh, rose?" he said. "you may leave us." "he's a rum 'un," said brack. "what is he?" "my butler; i thought i had better send him for you in case you were undecided whether to come. i am glad you are here; and, brack, i have a caution to give you. no one knows my brother, he is so changed. if you recognize him, say nothing--it would be dangerous." "i'll be dumb, never fear," said brack. "i thank you for giving me this treat; it's a long time since i saw t'leger run. your man tells me tearaway will win." "i feel certain of it. you had better put a little on her at twenty to one," said picton. "i will, and thank you. it was kind to give me ten pounds." "you deserve it, and you shall have more, brack. if my filly wins to-day you shall have a hundred pounds and a new boat." "good lord!" exclaimed brack. "a hundred pounds! it's as much as i've saved all the time i've been in torquay--and a new boat, it's too much, far too much." "no, it isn't. remember what you risked for us." "that's him, isn't it?" said brack, pointing to hector, who had his back to them. "i recognize his build." "i'm glad no one else has," said picton. "yes, that's he." hector, turning round, saw brack, came up, and spoke to him. picton said: "this is mr. rolfe, william rolfe, you understand?" brack nodded as he said: "he's changed. i'd hardly have known his face." it was before the second race that hector met lenise elroy in the paddock with her friends. she was not present on the first day and, strange to say, he missed her society. it startled him to recognize this. surely he was not falling into her toils, coming under her spell, for the second time, and after all he had suffered through her! of course not; it was because of the revenge burning in him that he was disappointed. how beautiful she was, and how gracefully she walked across the paddock; she was perfectly dressed, expensively, but in good taste. she was recognized by many people, some of whom knew her past, and looked askance at her. hector went toward her. she saw him and a bright smile of welcome lit up her face. "i am so glad to see you," she said. they walked away together, after she had introduced him to one or two of her friends. brack saw them and muttered to himself: "that's the lady was making inquiries about him at torquay, and she doesn't know who he is; she can't. wonder what her game is, and his? she knows hackler too. there may be danger. i'd best give him a hint if i get a chance." "what will win the st. leger, mr. rolfe?" she asked. "ripon, i suppose; that is your tip," he said. "yes, they are very confident. his owner is one of our party; we are all on it. have you backed anything?" "i have a modest investment on tearaway; i am staying at haverton with mr. woodridge," he said. "you appear to have faith in the filly." "oh, it's only a fancy; she may not be as good as they think," he said. picton saw them together. he was surprised, startled; he thought of hector's remark about keeping his eyes open. he recognized mrs. elroy, although he had not seen her for several years. what a terrible risk hector ran! was it possible she did not recognize him, that she really thought he was william rolfe? it seemed incredible after all that had happened. was she deceiving hector as he was her? picton remembered his brother had spoken about a plan, and revenge. what was his intention? if mrs. elroy did not know he was hector woodridge, then indeed his brother had a weapon in his hands which might help him to awful vengeance; the mere possibility of what might happen made picton shudder. hector had suffered terribly, but was it sufficient to condone a revenge, the consequences of which no one could foresee? they appeared quite happy together. had his brother fallen under her spell for the second time? no, that was not possible; it was not in human nature to forgive such injuries as she had inflicted upon him. mrs. elroy saw picton, recognized him, and said to hector: "that is your friend mr. woodridge, is it not?" "yes; do you know him?" "no." "would you care to be introduced?" "as you please," she replied; she was thankful when picton went away with sir robert, and the introduction was avoided. "there will be an opportunity later on," said hector. "when are you returning to town?" "after the races, on saturday." "from doncaster?" "yes." "what train do you travel by?" she named a train in the afternoon. "may i have the pleasure of your company?" he asked. "i shall be delighted if you wish it." "i do," he said. "nothing will give me greater pleasure." "then i shall expect you," she said, with a glance he knew well, as she rejoined her friends. undoubtedly lenise elroy was one of the most attractive women at the races; there was just that touch of uncertainty about her mode of living which caused men to turn and look at her, and women to avoid her when possible. sir robert raines, when he saw her, said to picton: "i wonder she dare show her face here in yorkshire; some women have no shame in them." "she is a wicked woman, bob; she ought to be in prison instead of poor hector. i believed at the trial she shot elroy, and i always shall," said his wife. "who is that beautiful woman who was talking to mr. rolfe?" asked rita. "she is mrs. elroy," said picton. rita knew nothing about hector's troubles; she was young at the time of the trial. something in his manner of speaking caused her to ask: "you do not like her?" "no; she is a woman with a past, a very bad past, but she faces it out, and is recognized by some people. i should not like you to know her," he said. "men are very unmerciful to a woman who errs," she said. "if you knew as much about her as i, you would agree with me that she ought to be treated as an outcast; she is not fit to be in the company of respectable people," he said bitterly. this was so unlike picton that she felt he must have strong grounds for what he said. her curiosity was aroused; mr. rolfe might enlighten her. "let us go and see tearaway," she said, and at the mention of his favorite's name picton's face cleared, the shadows flitted away, he was himself again. brant blackett came up hastily, a troubled look on his face. "what's the matter?" asked picton anxiously. "erickson's been taken suddenly ill," he said. "i'm afraid he'll not be able to ride." chapter xxiii the crowd in the ring this was a serious matter indeed. erickson knew the mare well, having ridden her in several gallops; in addition he was a clever, capable rider. it would be a great misfortune if he could not ride. picton went with his trainer at once, leaving rita with her brother and hector. fred erickson looked pale and ill; he was not a strong man. "i'm afraid i can't do the filly justice," he said, "but i'll ride if you wish, mr. woodridge. i feel a trifle better now, but i'm weak." "i'd like you to ride, fred, if you can manage it. i can't get a suitable jockey at the last minute." "then i'll do it. will you get me some brandy?" the trainer went for it, a small group gathered round, erickson looked very pale, there were whispers that he would not be able to ride. these quickly spread, and when some of the people from haverton village heard the rumor they were very much upset; all had pinned their faith to, and put their money on, tearaway. several came to picton, asking him if there was any truth in it; he said unfortunately there was, but that erickson would be able to ride, he thought. with this they had to be contented and wait. it was an hour before the st. leger was to be decided. fred erickson pulled himself together, but he was afraid he would not be able to do the mare justice; he would try his best, she was so good that if he managed to stick on and guide her she would run her own race and probably win. sir robert raines spoke to him; he was very anxious, he had a large sum at stake. "feel any better, fred? i hope so; we are all depending on you to pull through." "i'll manage it somehow, sir robert," said the jockey, "but i'm not myself at all. i wish i were. there'd be no doubt about the result then." "but you are strong enough to ride, you'll not give in?" fred smiled. "i'm not one to give in. i'll ride the filly and win on her if i can," he said. "that's right," said sir robert. "can i get you anything? would a glass or two of champagne brace you up?" "i've had a liqueur brandy," said fred. "that will mix with the champagne. come with me." fred drank two glasses and felt better; the color came back into his cheeks, his hands were firmer, the shivering left him; if only it would last until tearaway had won. all was bustle and excitement; the horses were being saddled for the great race, fifteen of them, a larger field than usual. ripon was a hot favorite, and it was probable he would start at two to one. he had been second to snowball in the derby, and ninety-nine out of a hundred people who saw the race vowed he was unlucky to lose, that his jockey rode a bad race on him, and came too late. snowball broke down and was scratched for the st. leger, so they could not fight their epsom battle over again; even had this been the case ripon would in all probability have been the better favorite. bronze, harriet, the monk, field gun, hot pot, the major, and dark donald, were all supported; a lot of money was going on bronze. tearaway had been backed at a hundred to five; when it was known fred erickson was not well her market position was shaken and she went out to thirty-three to one. fletcher denyer was in the ring. of late there had been some coolness between him and lenise. he had no desire to lose her; as he saw her slipping away from him he became anxious to possess her altogether. he recognized at last that he was in love, that she was necessary to him, part of his life, that it would be very dull without her. chance might put something in his way; he was a believer in luck. if only he could discover something about this man rolfe, who had come between them. no one appeared to know anything about him. he had made inquiries in various quarters; william rolfe had never been heard of. it seemed strange, a man with money too, and moving in racing circles, where people generally found out all about each other. lenise elroy had avoided him in the paddock, he saw it plainly; it angered him, but he had the sense to know he must not interfere but bide his time. it was in an ill-humor that he went into the ring. he had been given a "great tip" about bronze, and, as he was in funds for the time being, he determined to speculate above his average. bronze was in a stable famous for great surprises. he was a horse that had shown good form but in the summer seemed to go all to pieces and was badly beaten at ascot and newmarket. there was, however, no doubt that he had been backed to win a huge fortune for the st. leger. the famous doncaster race, in this particular year, was the medium of some wild plunging which was reminiscent of twenty or thirty years before. at least six horses were backed to win fortunes. the plunging on ripon was desperate, and on bronze the money was poured like water. the monk was backed to win many thousands, so were harriet, field gun, and hot pot; tearaway would take sixty thousand pounds or more out of the ring, at long odds, if she won. small wonder the scene in tattersalls was more animated than usual. the big bookmakers, aware of every move in the market, kept laying the favorite and others. their wagers were framed on business lines: only one horse could win and they were taking hundreds on half a dozen or more; if an outsider came to the rescue they would land thousands--with one exception--this was tearaway. there was hardly a well-known man in the ring who had not laid picton woodridge's filly almost to the extent of his book, and more money was coming on for her. fred erickson mastered his feeling of faintness in wonderful fashion. his will helped him, he was determined, and as the time drew near for the race the excitement of the event kept him strung up to concert pitch. gradually the filly came back to her former position in the market, but twenty to one was freely offered against her: she was an unknown quantity and this did not augur well for her chance. hector went into the ring and put several hundreds on tearaway; he was anxious to have a good win, and picton was so sanguine of success. fletcher denyer saw him and, following behind, heard him book several big wagers about tearaway. "he can't know much about it," he thought, "to back an outsider like that." at the same time he was uneasy, for he had a lot of money on bronze, and had put a saver on the favorite. william rolfe had shown he was not a man to be taken in: denyer found that out in one or two transactions he had with him. he spoke to hector, asking him what he knew about tearaway. "not much," he replied. "i fancy her, that's all; she's a very good looking filly." "but you must have some line to go upon. perhaps she has won a good trial?" "i am not likely to know that," said hector. "be fair with me, rolfe. is she worth a tenner or two?" "please yourself. i don't see how she can beat the favorite, or bronze; but she might--there's no telling," and he walked on. "hang him, i believe he knows something about her and he won't enlighten me. he can keep it to himself. if she wins i'll pay him out in some way or other," muttered fletcher. brack had never been in tattersalls before. the noise, the crush, the yelling of odds, the struggle to get money on, amazed him. he wondered if all the people had suddenly gone mad. he had five pounds in his hands, he knew enough about betting to know what to do. "what are you layin' tearaway?" he asked a man on the rails. the bookmaker looked at him and smiled. "twenty to one," he said. "i'll have five pounds on," said brack. "a hundred to five tearaway," said the bookmaker, and his clerk booked it. "what name?" he asked. "brack, but you'd better give me a ticket." "as you please," and he handed him one. there was a lull in the row for a moment and the bookmaker said to him: "you don't often go to the races, eh?" "no, not often," said brack. "a seaman?" "yes." "where do you hail from? i've a son at sea." "i'm a boat owner at torquay; i used to be at scarborough." "yorkshireman?" "yes." "you seem a good sort. who told you to back tearaway?" "never mind that. i fancy it," said brack. "somebody must have told you," persisted the man. "well, if you want to know and it'll do you any good, the owner told me," said brack. the bookmaker laughed. "you're a cute 'un," he said. "the owner, eh? mr. woodridge. i suppose you're a friend of his?" "i am." "good, you'll do. i hope i have to pay you the hundred; it will suit my book," laughed the bookmaker. "don't believe me, eh?" muttered brack as he walked away. "you'll maybe have a better opinion of me after tearaway's won." chapter xxiv "by jove, she's wonderful" the horses were saddled, the jockeys mounting, everything in readiness to go out for the parade. picton was talking anxiously to his trainer and erickson, last instructions were given, fred was told to make the most of tearaway in every part of the race, use her staying powers, and in the last furlong her wonderful sprinting qualities to the utmost. "you feel better now?" asked picton. "yes, much better," said fred; but he was anything but strong. a great cheer broke out from the stands and course. "that's the favorite," said picton, smiling. "tearaway will make a hack of him before the winning post is reached," said fred. "you are the last out. good luck to you, fred," said picton as he rode off. "well, brant, what do you think of it?" "what i have always thought, that she will win." "but about fred?" "he'll be all right; he would not have ridden had he not been confident of himself," said the trainer. it was a beautiful sight, the fifteen horses, parading in the soft september light, the colors of the riders flashing, the thoroughbreds eager for the fray, well knowing what was about to be required of them. there was a dense crowd on the moor, a real yorkshire crowd, all horse lovers, enthusiasts, judges; on no racecourse in the world is there a more sport-loving crowd than doncaster on st. leger day. the stands were packed, so were the rings; bustle and excitement on all sides; the only clear space was the course, a bright green grass track, winding in and out amidst a black surging mass of people. brack surveyed the scene with wondering eyes. it was all new to him, although he had been on the moor, and seen the great race before, he had never witnessed it from the stand side; the contrast was remarkable. it was also many years since he had been on a racecourse. he was not excited, he viewed the scene calmly; it was not in his nature to bubble over with enthusiasm. as the horses galloped past, and went to the post, he was thinking about lenise elroy, what she had said to him at torquay, and how she had spoken to carl hackler. he wondered if danger threatened hector woodridge; he must try and have a word or two with him before he left the course. mrs. elroy watched the purple and white sleeves worn by banks, the rider of ripon, the favorite. she wanted him to win. she had, at rupert hansom's suggestion, put a hundred pounds on him. rupert hansom was the owner of ripon, a rich man, not particularly popular, living apart from his wife, who had obtained a separation from him on account of his conduct with a well-known opera singer. he admired mrs. elroy, would have liked to be intimate with her, but she did not care for him in that way, he was merely a casual acquaintance. her eyes rested on the saffron jacket and red cap of picton woodridge. "what pretty colors!" she exclaimed. "mine?" hansom asked. "no; they are very nice. i was looking at that peculiar yellow jacket and red cap." "they're woodridge's colors--saffron, red cap. i don't think tearaway has much chance, although i hear they have backed her for a large sum," he said. so that was tearaway! what a splendid black mare, and how well the colors of the racing jacket contrasted with her dark shining coat. there was not much time for reflection; in a few minutes they were sent on their journey, getting off in an almost unbroken line, a splendid start. round the bend they swept, a moving mass of brilliant colors. the major held the lead, stretched out to his full extent, half a dozen lengths in front; he was followed by dark donald, bronze, harriet, ripon, the monk, field gun, and tearaway, the remainder well up. the major traveled at a great pace; it was to be a fast run race. he was a very fair horse, although not quite equal to staying the st. leger course; as a matter of fact, he was out on a pace-making mission for bronze. at the back of the course the major still led, the others were creeping up. harriet was now in second place, ripon, and bronze, racing together, tearaway close behind them, level with the monk. the race became more interesting. all the well backed horses shaped well, and their numerous backers watched every move with interest. picton worked his way through the crowd and entered his box just before the start. rita was all excitement; she said torquay races were very tame after this. "i don't suppose i shall ever have a chance of riding four winners in two days here, or of winning a double," said picton. hector caught sight of mrs. elroy's glance and smiled; she was not far away. sir robert was fidgety. he had done what he considered a rather risky thing, backed tearaway for several hundreds, standing to win a large sum. he considered it risky because he still doubted if the trial on haverton moor was quite correct; it seemed too good to be true that tearaway had beaten tristram at only seven pounds difference. he had on the spur of the moment said that picton had the st. leger in his pocket, but that was merely a figure of speech, the result of over-enthusiasm. he was now watching the race with keen interest, and thought tearaway too far back. "erickson's not making sufficient use of her," he said. "he'll get through presently," said picton. "i think the major made the pace rather hot for the first six furlongs." "perhaps that's it," said sir robert. "i hope he'll ride it out, i wish that queer sort of faintness had not come over him." they were entering the straight, when rounding the bend a good deal of bumping took place. the cause of it was the sudden collapse of the major, who almost stopped dead, and narrowly escaped knocking bronze down. bronze in turn collided with harriet, and the pair interfered with ripon, and the monk, who had come with a fast run, tearaway was in the center of the course and steered clear of the lot. fred erickson pulled her wide on the outside to avoid any possibility of a collision because he did not feel equal to it. when he saw the interference at the bend he was glad; it was the best thing he could have done. the consequences of the colliding were not serious; no one was to blame. fairly in the straight, harriet took command, followed by bronze, ripon, the monk, and dark donald, with tearaway in the middle of the course. the race grew more and more exciting. up to this point the winner could not be picked, half a dozen horses had excellent chances. "my fellow will win," said rupert hansom to mrs. elroy. "i hope so," she answered; but her glance was on the saffron jacket, and the black mare. they looked dangerous. "he's going well," said sir robert. "which is going well?" asked his wife. "the favorite, confound him," he snapped. brack had a very good view of the horses as they came up the straight. he saw the bright jacket of tearaway's jockey in the center of the course and to him it appeared the race was little short of a certainty for her. he was not much of a judge, but he loved racing, and when he saw the black mare, out alone, catching the leaders, he shouted for joy. some one told him to make less noise; it had no effect on him, he still continued to talk to himself, and give vent to an occasional cheer. fred erickson rode a great race. tearaway was going splendidly; he felt a glow of pride in her, was glad he had such a mount, for he had not yet won a st. leger, it had long been his ambition to do so. halfway down the straight something seemed to stab him in the chest; his head swam, for a moment he reeled in the saddle, the reins loosened in his hands, tearaway slackened speed. half dazed, by sheer force of will he controlled himself. his eyes were dim, he saw the horses in a mist, they hardly appeared real. he took hold of tearaway and urged her forward, the gallant mare responded, her astonishing speed began to tell. blackett saw fred almost swoon--he had exceptionally powerful glasses--and wondered he did not fall off. "it's all up," he muttered; then, as he looked again, he saw tearaway coming along as fast as the wind. the black filly stood out by herself, the saffron jacket alone in the center of the course. on the rails ripon and harriet were racing hard, with bronze drawing up; the trio appeared to have the race among them. already there were shouts for the favorite, and rupert hansom said to mrs. elroy: "i told you he would win." she had seen many races, and did not think ripon would win. she feared the black filly, who was going so fast, catching the leaders. she wondered hansom did not see it too. in picton's box it was all excitement. fred erickson was seen to swerve in the saddle, then recover, and send tearaway along at a terrific pace. "well done, bravely done, fred!" exclaimed sir robert. "splendid!" said rita. "she'll win!" said picton as he watched her, the perspiration standing in beads on his forehead. "i think she's a chance," said hector; "but ripon is forging ahead, and bronze is not done with." "look at her now!" said picton. "by jove, she's wonderful!" said sir robert. chapter xxv fast as the wind a st. leger long to be remembered. three horses abreast fighting a terrific battle a furlong from the winning post; in the center of the course a coal black mare, coming with a beautiful even stride, at a pace men marveled at. old hands who had seen hannah, marie stuart, and apology win, later dutch oven, and la fleché, throstle, and the peerless scepter, were astounded at tearaway's speed. on came picton woodridge's black filly, the saffron jacket showing boldly, fred erickson sitting motionless in the saddle. how still he sat! no one knew he dared not move; had he done so he felt he must fall off. with desperate efforts he retained his seat; he alone knew what a great performance tearaway was putting in, that she was carrying more than a dead weight, that if anything he hampered instead of assisting her. ripon got his head in front of harriet and bronze, and the shouting was deafening. "ripon wins!" yelled rupert hansom. mrs. elroy was looking at tearaway. the black mare was gaining fast, she would get up and win, she had no doubt about it. she was mortified because william rolfe had not told her the real strength of the mare and her trial. he ought to have done so; they were friends. what was his reason? was he jealous of her being with rupert hansom? perhaps he was, and thought she would tell him about the mare. if this were so, she did not mind losing her hundred. he had promised to meet her at the station and journey to town with her; much might happen between doncaster and london--possibly he might propose. she intended to urge him on in every possible way, and she possessed remarkable powers of fascinating men and was aware of it. these thoughts were mixed up in her mind as she watched the saffron jacket. the great mass of people on the rails, and standing on forms behind, at last saw that tearaway was dangerous. ripon held the lead, bronze next, harriet and tearaway level. the noise was terrific, the thousands of people surged to and fro, hundreds of them could just see the red cap bobbing up in the center of the course. tearaway settled harriet's pretensions, and caught bronze. fletcher denyer turned pale with rage; he recognized that rolfe had not given him the strength of tearaway. it was a shame, after the excellent mining tips he had given him. bronze was beaten. he had lost a large sum, more than he cared to pay; when he had settled on monday there would be very little ready money left, and he must settle or his reputation, such as it was, would be gone. rolfe evidently knew all about tearaway; there was no doubt he backed the mare to win many thousands of pounds. the commission agent he worked for said tearaway was one of the worst in his book, and the bulk of the money had gone to william rolfe. denyer introduced rolfe to the man, who would not thank him for this client whose first wagers were on a winner at thirty-three to one. tearaway passed bronze and drew level with ripon. rupert hansom was quiet now, watching the struggle on which so much depended. his hopes of winning were of short duration. tearaway wrested the lead from him, passed him, forged ahead, erickson sitting perfectly still, and won by a couple of lengths, with the greatest ease. the way the flying filly left the favorite was wonderful. ripon might have been standing still. banks, his rider, when he realized the situation was amazed. ripon was a good horse; what, then, must this filly be? no matter what wins the st. leger, there are rousing cheers for the victor. it was so in this case. they were given with more heartiness because she was a yorkshire-bred mare, owned by a popular yorkshire squire; there was a real county flavor about it, and the men of the wolds rejoiced exceedingly. some of them lost money on ripon, but that was a small matter compared with the defeat of the newmarket champion by a home-bred 'un; patriotism first is always the case with a doncaster crowd. "picton, my boy, i congratulate you," said sir robert, wringing his hand. "by gad, i wish the admiral could have seen this!" hector heard the words and turned round quickly; they cut deep into a not-yet-healed wound. picton looked hastily at his brother and guessed what that sudden movement meant. "thank you, sir robert," he said. "it is a great victory. i also wish my father could have seen it," he added in a low voice. rita's congratulations came next. "i am so glad," she said, "so very glad; you own the best mare in england." "go down and lead her in, don't waste time here," said sir robert; and picton went. hector followed him, glad to get out of the box. "i wish the admiral could have seen it." sir robert's words rang in his ears. he caught sight of mrs. elroy in a box and vowed he would make her pay to the uttermost for the misery she had caused. there was no mercy in him at that moment; the recalling of his father's death steeled his heart, deadened his conscience, made him cruel, hard, almost murderous. she smiled at him and her glance fanned the flame within him. "to-morrow we journey to london, to-morrow," he thought. picton woodridge was recognized as he came with his trainer to lead tearaway in. cheer after cheer was given as he walked beside her through the living lane. "how are you, fred?" he asked. the jockey did not speak, he gazed straight before him with dull eyes, like a man in a dream. "brant, he's very ill," said picton. the trainer looked at the jockey and was alarmed at the expression on, and color of, his face. there was no spark of life in it and his complexion was a leaden color. "keep up, fred, keep up! you've done splendidly!" said brant. many people in the crowd noticed the jockey's condition and wondered at it. "he's ill, poor chap." "the race has been too much for him." "i heard he was bad before they went out." "he's a good plucked 'un anyhow." many such remarks were passed as tearaway went in. "get down," said brant sharply, trying to rouse him. fred looked at him but did not seem to understand. "get down, unsaddle, and weigh in," said brant. "yes, of course, i forgot," said fred in a hollow voice. two of the stewards were looking on; they had just congratulated picton on his win. "your jockey looks ill," one of them said. "he is; he was very bad, faint, before the race, but he said he'd pull through, and i could not find a good jockey at the last moment," said picton. "you might have ridden her," said the other steward. "you are about the weight, and would not have made any difference to the result." picton was flattered; this was high praise indeed; the steward was one of the best judges of racing in the land. fred managed to take the saddle off and walked with unsteady steps to the weighing room. he sat in the chair with a bump. the clerk at the scales looked at him. "you're ill, fred," he said. the jockey nodded; he would not have been surprised had they told him he was dying. he got up from the scales, and banks, the rider of ripon, dropped his saddle and caught him as he fell forward in a faint. "all right," was called. brant came forward; he and picton carried him outside. a doctor came, ordered him to be taken to the hospital at once, and thither he was conveyed, picton accompanying him. when fred came to, he said to picton, with a faint smile: "don't stay here; i'm all right. i did feel bad; i don't know how i stuck on. she's a wonder; she won the race on her own, and carried a log of wood on her back. i was quite as useless; i could not help her at all." "you are sure you do not wish me to stay?" "quite," said fred. "i shall probably be on the course to-morrow." "what's the matter with him, doctor?" asked picton, when they were in the consulting room. "he's consumptive, there are all the symptoms, and it is weakness caused through that. he may be able to go out to-morrow as he says; it is wonderful how they rally--a flash in the pan. he can't live long, i'm afraid; in any case he ought to give up riding," said the doctor. "i don't think he'll mind that so much now he's won the st. leger," said picton, smiling. he liked the doctor, fancied he resembled some one he knew. "will you come to haverton and have a shot on the moor?" he asked. "you are very kind, mr. woodridge, but perhaps when you hear my name you may be prejudiced against me." "a name can make no difference," said picton. "what is it?" "bernard elroy." picton started; he was much surprised. "i am the brother-in-law of mrs. elroy. now do you understand?" "yes," said picton. "it makes no difference; all that is past." "but not forgotten," said the doctor. "no, it is not. you cannot expect it." "mr. woodridge, if i could prove your brother's innocence, i would. i'd give a great deal to prove it, do anything that would assist in proving it." "you believe he is innocent?" asked picton. "i do not believe he shot elroy," said bernard. "then who did shoot him?" asked picton. "there is only one person can tell us that." "and it is?" "mrs. elroy," said bernard. chapter xxvi the struggle for the cup tearaway was in the doncaster cup on the concluding day of the meeting, but fred erickson was not well enough to ride, although on the course. picton said nothing to his brother about dr. elroy. hector had rather a serious wordy encounter with fletcher denyer, who called him nasty names, and plainly said he had willfully deceived him about tearaway. hector spoke his mind freely, saying he had no wish to see him again. "if you think you've seen the last of me, you're mistaken," said fletcher. "i owe you a bad turn and i'll repay it, i always do." hector laughed as he walked away. he told lenise elroy of the encounter. "you must choose between us," he said. "i have no desire to meet him at your flat." "you can easily guess which i shall choose," she said. he questioned her and she replied, "you." "the climax is drawing near," he thought. "you'll run tearaway in the cup i expect?" asked sir robert. his favorite tristram was in, and he had no desire to see the celebrated cup horse beaten by the flying filly, as he feared would be the case. "i think so," said picton. "you will start tristram?" "yes. i must not own up i am afraid of your mare; but, by jove, i am, my boy," said sir robert. "it will be a great race between them," said picton. "a real sporting event," said sir robert. "it will cause more excitement than the st. leger." when it became known on thursday night that tristram and tearaway would oppose each other in the doncaster cup, and that ripon, bronze, fair dame, and sir charles, would run, excitement worked up to fever heat. nothing else was talked about in the town at night, and in all the papers on friday morning mention was made of the great struggle that might be expected. the _special commissioner_ wrote that it was an open fact that tristram and tearaway had been tried on haverton moor before the st. leger and the filly had won at a very slight difference in the weights, and he concluded as follows: "this being the case, the leger winner should be victorious, as sir robert raines' great horse will have to give a lump of weight away, so i shall go for tearaway to win." this appeared to be the general opinion; only many shrewd men thought tristram would prove more than a match for tearaway over the cup distance. another argument was that the severe race in the st. leger must have taken it out of the filly, while tristram was fresh, and very fit; in fact, sir robert's horse was stated to be better than he had ever been. bronze, too, was given a chance, as he was a proved stayer; while ripon was not considered out of it. much to rupert hansom's disgust, banks declined to ride ripon and accepted the mount on tearaway. at first this seemed somewhat unfair, but hansom had severely taken the jockey to task over his riding in the st. leger, and banks resented it, knowing he had done his best. "tearaway is the best filly we've seen for years," he said, "and ripon had no chance with her; you'll see how it is if she runs in the cup." "perhaps you'd like to ride her?" sneered rupert. "i should. i will if i get the chance." his chance came sooner than he expected. seeing picton woodridge on thursday, before the last race, the jockey said, "will fred be well enough to ride your mare in the cup, sir?" "no, he's not at all well, dick. he's consumptive, i'm sorry to say." "have you a jockey?" "not at present." "will you give me the mount?" "are you not engaged to ride ripon?" asked picton, surprised. "no, there is no engagement, and i have fallen out with mr. hansom about the riding of his horse in the st. leger," said banks. "you are free to ride my mare?" asked picton. "yes." "then you shall have the mount. i would sooner see you on her than any one, except fred," said picton. "thank you, sir," said banks, jubilant, and went off to tell rupert hansom, who said it was an infernal shame, and raved about it to his friends, calling banks all sorts of names. "i don't see what you have to complain of," said mrs. elroy. "you said he rode a bad race in the st. leger, jeeringly asked him if he'd like the mount on tearaway in the cup, when he replied he would. it appears he took you at your word and accepted the mount when it was offered him; i think he's on the winner." "do you indeed?" he said crossly. "i hope if you back her you'll lose your money." "how very disagreeable you are," she said. "men with diminutive minds always appear to lose control over their tempers, and forget their manners." rupert hansom found another jockey in crosby, a very fair rider. there were seven runners for the cup, fields had been stronger than usual at the meeting. rita looked supremely happy. she knew what was coming; picton had more than hinted at it. before she left haverton he would ask her to be his wife; she knew what her answer would be. she loved him, had done so from the first time they met, and she was quite sure he loved her. dick langford also guessed what was about to happen; it pleased him to contemplate picton as a brother-in-law. "i'll give him the rascal as a wedding present," he said to himself, laughing. before they went to the races on friday he said to rita: "picton's having a great week--the leger, the cup to-day, a wife before the week's out." she laughed as she replied: "that's a treble--better than his double on the rascal." "you're worth the winning, rita," he said kindly. "wonder what i shall do without you." "find a wife," she said. "expect it will be compulsory; it is not good for a man to live alone," he answered. a tremendous crowd witnessed the doncaster cup. it was as memorable a race as the st. leger; many thought it more so. sir robert secured the services of may, a reliable jockey, at times brilliant. "i hope i shall beat you," he said to picton. "i hope tearaway will win," was the laughing reply. "it will be a great race," said dick; "but my bit goes on the mare." "and mine," said rita. "and mine," said hector. "all against me," laughed sir robert. "my hundred or two goes on tristram." "robert, i don't think you ought to bet. remember the trial," said his wife. "you against me!" he exclaimed. "i am in a terrible plight indeed." the horses were out, seven in number, a real good lot. sir robert's face glowed with pride as he heard the roar of cheers which greeted the red jacket and black cap, and his good horse tristram. another roar was given for tearaway; the others were all cheered lustily. they were soon on their journey, sir charles making the running, followed by fair dame, bronze, and harriet, with ripon, and tearaway next, and tristram last. sir robert's horse never went to the front in the earlier stages of a race. rupert hansom gave crosby instructions to keep in touch with tristram and tearaway. "you've nothing else to fear," he said; "and remember there's a hundred for you if you win." sir charles soon dropped out of it and harriet took his place. at the back of the close the lot closed up, half a dozen lengths separated first and last. in the straight they swept; then a change took place. ripon made the first move forward, followed by tearaway and tristram. up the straight they came at a terrific pace, for tearaway had gone to the front, and banks was making every use of her great speed and staying powers. cheer after cheer pealed over the course when the saffron jacket was seen in the lead; the filly was favorite, a six to four chance. banks kept pushing her along; he did not know how to handle her as well as fred erickson, but did his best. may was riding tristram strictly to orders. "bring him with a rush in the last quarter of a mile," said sir robert. ripon was going well, but could not keep the pace with tearaway. at last may brought tristram out and the great horse came along with giant strides, his natural style of going. on he came swooping down, passing first one then another, drawing level with ripon, leaving him, and going in pursuit of tearaway. the excitement was intense; all eyes were fixed on the splendid pair, the mare and the horse, owned by two good sportsmen, hailing from yorkshire, both well known in the county. captain ben bruce was with brack, who had been persuaded to stop until the meeting was over; he was very fond of the old boatman, and knew he deserved well of them all. brack was to have a look round haverton before he returned home. he had backed tearaway again, and was shouting her name frantically, much to the captain's amusement. she looked like a winner, she was going so well, but there was no mistaking the way in which tristram galloped. "he's catching her!" said sir robert excitedly. picton smiled confidently; he did not think he would do it. a great shout went up when tristram got to tearaway's girth; may rode a brilliant finish. banks handled the filly well, but had not the same powers as fred erickson at his best; they were wanted now just to help her home. neck and neck they raced, head and head, not an inch between them, outstretched nostrils; it was a tremendous race, one of the best ever seen for the cup. sir robert and picton looked on, thrilling with excitement. it was a desperate finish. both were game, the filly and the horse, and fought to the bitter end. as they passed the judge's box no one could tell which had won. "dead heat," said the judge. sir robert and picton shook hands heartily. "by jove, what a race!" the baronet said. "i'm glad it was a dead heat," said picton. "we've both won." chapter xxvii the reserved compartment lenise elroy arrived at the station and looked around for mr. rolfe. he was not there; at least she did not see him. as the time drew near for the departure of the train she became anxious; she hoped much from this railway journey in a reserved compartment: they would be able to talk without interruption. hector had seen brack, who explained how mrs. elroy had questioned him at torquay, and also carl hackler. "you'd best be careful," said brack; "i saw you talking with her on the course." "she has no idea who i am. i thank you all the same," he answered. "mr. woodridge has given me a hundred pounds and a new boat," said brack. "and you richly deserve it! here's a twenty-pound note to add to it," said hector. "i'll be a rich man before i get back to torquay," said brack. "here you are; i thought you were not coming," said mrs. elroy, as hector came up. "there's plenty of time," he said; "ten minutes." "you can't think how anxious i felt." "why? you could have gone on alone." "that would not have suited me; i want your company," she said. they were shown to a reserved compartment, the guard locking the door until the train started; it was crowded, and some of the race-goers are not particular where they get in. "it's a non-stop train; we are alone until we arrive at king's cross," said hector. lenise was at her best. she confessed she was really in love this time; she meant to find out how matters stood with him. despite all she had done, he felt her charm still. she was not a good woman, far from it, but there was something so subtle and attractive about her he found it hard to resist the spell. the thought of sir robert's words, "i wish the admiral could have seen this," gave him courage. it had to be done--why not do it now? there was no escape for her; it was not a corridor train; they were boxed up for three hours or more. she looked at him with softly gleaming eyes; her whole being thrilled toward him; she had never been so fascinating. "you are quiet. what are you thinking about?" she said. "reckoning up your winnings on tearaway, i suppose." "my thoughts were far away from there," he said. "where were they wandering?" "i was thinking about you," he said. "how nice of you," she said quietly. "you prefer me to fletcher denyer?" "how can you ask such an absurd question?" "i was wondering whether i loved you; i was thinking whether you would be my wife, if i had the courage to ask you." "try," she said, her eyes on him. "do you really love me?" he asked. "you know i do; you must have known it from the first time we met." "there should be no secrets between us," he said. "i have something to tell you." she turned pale, a faint shiver passed through her; he noticed it. would she confess what she had done? "i too have a confession to make, if you love me, and wish me to be your wife." "otherwise?" "i shall keep my counsel; it would not interest you." "let me tell you something first," he said. "as you please, confidence for confidence," she said with a faint smile. "i have not always lived a decent life," he said. "i once committed a crime, i paid the penalty, i was sent to prison, to dartmoor." she started again, a look of fear was in her eyes. "when i told you i was mining on dartmoor it was not true; i worked on dartmoor, but it was as a prisoner. i was in the same gang as mr. woodridge's brother." "you were," she said in a hollow voice, wondering why he told her this. "yes, poor fellow. i never saw a man so broken down in my life; his face haunted me. i said something about it before, you may remember." "yes, i recollect," she said. "we had very little chance of speaking but i heard his story in fragments, how he hated the woman who had brought him down so low. he swore to me he did not kill the woman's husband, but he would not tell me who did, although i asked him many times. from what i heard i came to the conclusion she fired the shot." his eyes were on her; she could not face their searching glance. she made no remark, and he went on: "it was mainly through me he escaped," he said. "when i was released i searched out his brother and made a suggestion. mr. woodridge has no idea i was in prison; he thought i had been abroad for several years. needless to say, i did not enlighten him; i will trust you not to do so." "i shall never speak of it." "does this alter your opinion of me? shall i go on?" he asked. "i love you," she said. "i shall always love you, no matter what happens." "as you know, hector woodridge escaped." "but he is dead." "that is uncertain. he may be, or he may have got away and be in hiding. he must be greatly changed, no one would recognize him," he said. "it is hardly possible," she said. "perhaps not, but still he may be alive, and if he is, the woman who ruined him had better beware. i believe he would kill her if he met her. what have you to confess to me? you see i have placed my character in your hands; you can ruin me socially if you wish." "i do not wish, and i thank you for the trust you have placed in me," she said. "i am afraid to confess all to you, afraid you will never speak to me again when you know who i am." "who you are?" he exclaimed. "i told you, when you remarked on the curious coincidence that my name was mrs. elroy, that i was not the mrs. elroy connected with hector woodridge's case." "well," he said. "i told you a lie. i am the same mrs. elroy. it was my husband hector woodridge shot. it was me he was in love with." he looked at her without speaking for several minutes. the silence was painful; he was thinking how to launch his thunderbolt, how best to trap and overwhelm her. there was no escape, she was entirely at his mercy. "you ruined hector woodridge, sent him to penal servitude for life," he said. "i was not entirely to blame. we loved, or at least we thought so." "how did it happen?" he asked. "the shooting?" "yes." "it was quite unpremeditated; had the revolver not been there it would never have happened. i believe my husband intended to shoot him, and me--it was his revolver." hector wondered if this were true. "the revolver was on a small table. i saw it but did not remove it; had i done so the tragedy would not have happened." "why did you leave it there?" he asked. "i do not know; probably because i did not wish my husband to know i was afraid. i was aware he had found us out, that an exposure must come sooner or later. he was madly in love with me; i almost hated him, he was so weak, almost childish, and i wanted a strong man to rule me. shall i go on, do you despise me, look upon me as a very wicked woman?" she asked in a strained voice. "go on," he said; "tell me the whole story, how he was shot, everything." "i will, i will make a full confession; but be merciful in your judgment, remember i am doing this because i love you, that i do not want it to stand between us, i plead to you not to throw all the blame on me. hector woodridge was a strong man and i loved him, i believe he loved me, he overcame all my scruples. i yielded to him, gave myself to him--surely that was a great sacrifice, my name, honor, everything for his sake. we were together in my husband's study. we thought he was in london, but he did not go; he set a trap and caught us. i shall never forget the look on his face when he came into the room. i saw his eyes rest on the revolver, and i felt it was our lives or his, but we stood between him and the weapon. "hector woodridge guessed what was in his mind; he must have done so, for he laid his hand on the revolver. my husband saw the movement and said, 'put that down, you scoundrel,' and advanced toward us. hector raised the revolver and told him to stand back. he did so; he was afraid. "there was an angry altercation. i remember saying i was tired of him, that i would live with him no longer, that i loved hector woodridge. this drove him to distraction; he became furious, dangerous; he would have killed us without hesitation had he possessed the revolver, there was such a murderous look in his eyes. does my sordid story interest you?" she asked. "it does; everything you do or say interests me," he said. "and you do not utterly despise me, think me too bad to be in decent society, to be sitting here alone with you?" "go on," he said in a tone that was half a command, and which caused her to feel afraid of something unknown. "at last elroy's rage got the better of his prudence; he made a dash forward to seize the revolver, raised in hector's hand. it was the work of a second, his finger was on the trigger; he pulled it, there was a report, elroy staggered forward, fell on his face, dead," she said with a blanched face, and trembling voice. "_you_ pulled the trigger," he said, calmly looking straight at her. chapter xxviii how hector had his revenge this direct charge so astonished her that for a few moments she did not recognize its full significance. she sat wildly staring at him, completely overwhelmed. he watched; her terror fascinated him, he could not take his eyes off her. she tried to speak and failed, seemed on the point of fainting. he let down the window; the cool air revived her, but she was in a deplorably nervous condition. at last the words came. "i pulled the trigger?" she said. "what do you mean, how can you possibly know what happened?" "i said you pulled the trigger. it is true, is it not?" "no; hector woodridge shot my husband," she said in a low voice. she was afraid of him; his knowledge seemed uncanny--or was it merely guesswork? "that is a lie," he said. "how dare you say that!" she said, her courage momentarily flashing out. he smiled. "i thought this was to be a full confession," he said. "i will say no more; you do not believe me," she said. "then i will continue it," he said, and she seemed petrified with fright. he gave her no chance. he related the history of the trial; so minute were his particulars that she wondered if he were a man, or a being possessed of unearthly knowledge. "hector woodridge was condemned to be hanged, and you spoke no word to save him. your evidence damned him, almost hanged him, sent him to a living tomb." "i could not lie; i had sworn to speak the truth," she faltered. "you did not speak the truth," he almost shouted; and she shrank back, cowering on her seat. she wondered if he had suddenly gone mad. impossible. his knowledge was uncanny. "had you spoken the truth you would have saved him; but you dared not. had you told all he would have been set free, you would have been sentenced. you were too much of a coward to speak, fearing the consequences; but he, what did he do? he remained silent, when he might have saved himself and proved you guilty." "it is not true," she murmured faintly. "it is true," he said fiercely. "think what he has suffered, think and tremble when you imagine his revenue. i will tell you something more. you were in torquay when he escaped. you were at supper one night; there was a chink in the blind; footsore, hunted, his hands torn by the hound, his body all bruised and battered, hungry, thirsty, every man's hand against him. hector woodridge looked through it, he saw you feasting with your friends." "stop!" she cried in an agonized voice. "stop! i can bear no more. i saw his face, i have never had a peaceful moment since." "i shall not stop," he said harshly. "outside he cursed you, prayed for justice, and another chance in life." "how do you know all this?" she asked in a voice trembling with dread. "never mind how i know; sufficient that i know," he said. "hector woodridge, thanks to an old boatman, escaped and boarded the _sea-mew_, his brother's yacht, lying in torbay." her agitation was painful, her face became drawn and haggard, she looked an old woman. rising from her seat, she placed her hands on his shoulders, looking long and searchingly into his face. "sit down," he said sternly, and she obeyed. "he was taken away on the _sea-mew_. he went mad, was insane for some time, then he fell dangerously ill; when he recovered he was so changed that even the servants at haverton, who had known him all his life, failed to recognize him." "he went to haverton?" she said. "yes; he is alive and well. no one recognizes him as hector woodridge; he has assumed another name and once more taken a place in the world. to all who knew him he is dead, with two or three exceptions. the prison authorities think he is dead; they have given up the search for him. he is safe, able to carry out his scheme of revenge against the woman who so cruelly wronged him. you are that woman, lenise elroy." "and what does he purpose doing with me?" she asked faintly. "you cannot know that." "i do; i am his most intimate friend." she started; a weird, unearthly look came into her face. "his one object in life is to prove his innocence. he cannot do that unless you confess," he said. "confess!" she laughed mockingly. "there is nothing to confess." "you know better, and you will be forced to confess or else--" "what?" "if you do not prove his innocence he will--" "kill me?" "that may happen, under certain circumstances, but he wishes to give you a chance." "he has asked you to speak to me?" "yes; he was at doncaster." "at the races?" "he saw you there. something of the old fascination you exercise over him came back, and for a moment he wavered in his desire for revenge." he saw a faint smile steal over her face. "he told you this?" "yes, and more; but i have said enough." "you have indeed. you have brought a terrible indictment against me, mr. rolfe; if it were true i ought to die of shame and remorse, but it is not true, not all of it," she said. "lenise, look at me. do you love me after all i have said?" "i do. nothing you can say or do will ever alter that." "and you will marry me?" he asked. "it is a strange wooing." "i will be your wife. you will save me from him; you will try and persuade him i am not deserving of a terrible revenge," she said. "are you afraid of him--of--hector woodridge?" she shuddered. "yes," she said, "i am." "supposing he were here, in this carriage in my place?" "i should fling myself out," she said. "i should be afraid of him; it would be terrible, awful. i could not bear it." "because you know you have wronged him. do the right thing, lenise. confess, prove his innocence, think how he has suffered for your sake, how he has kept silent all these years," he said. "why do you torture me? if he has suffered, so have i. do you think the knowledge of his awful position has not made me shudder every time i thought of it? i have pictured him there and wished i could obtain his release." "you can prove his innocence," he said. "supposing i could, what then? what would happen? i should have to take his place." "and you dare not." "i am a woman." "then you will not help to prove his innocence?" "i cannot." hector got up quickly, took her by the wrists and dragged her up. "look at me, lenise. look well. do you not know me?" he felt her trembling; she marked every feature of his face. gradually it all came back to her, overwhelmed her. she traced feature by feature--the eyes were _his_ eyes, yes, the face was _his_ face. he saw the dawn of recognition come over her and break into full light. she knew him; her eyes dilated with terror, her cheeks went ashen pale, her lips were colorless, her limbs trembled, she could hardly stand. "yes," he said. "it is i, lenise, hector woodridge, and you are alone with me in this carriage." "mercy, hector, mercy, i am only a woman." "and you love me, you said so, you love william rolfe?" she sank on her knees, she clasped his limbs, looking piteously into his face. he saw how she suffered. "get up," he said; "do not kneel there." she hid her face between her arms, he heard her sobs, saw they shook her frame. the train rattled on, whirling at a great pace, drawing nearer and nearer to london. she moaned, it cut him to the heart to hear her. a fierce struggle went on within him, a battle with his strong will. he placed in the front rank the memory of all he had suffered, then brought up his father's death, the cruel disgrace, as a reserve to support it. he had his enemy beaten at his feet, he was victor, it was a humiliating defeat for her. "the quality of mercy is not strained." strange how the line should come into his mind at this moment. he had always been a student of shakespeare, he knew much of it by heart, in prison he repeated whole parts, and it solaced him. "lenise, get up." his tone had changed, she raised her tear-stained face. what she saw in his look made her cry out: "hector, is it possible? speak to me, hector! i know you now. oh, what a fool i have been! i have always loved you, but i was a coward. it was you, not william rolfe, i loved again when we met. you were hector woodridge and my soul went out to you. do with me as you will. i am strong now, for i believe you love me. i will confess, make it public, tell everything. you know i did it. the revolver was in your hand, your finger on the trigger, i pulled your hand and it went off. i will make it known if only you will forgive me. god, what a fiend i have been to let you suffer so! and you have kept silence all these years for my sake!" she spoke rapidly; he knew she was in earnest and his heart softened. he had loved her deeply, he loved her now, he had always loved her, even in his bitterest moments in prison, when he had framed a terrible revenge. it had been his intention to marry her in his assumed name, and on their wedding night tell her he was hector woodridge and then--well he shuddered at the mere thought of how near a brute he had been. hector was never more of a man than at this moment. he had won a great victory over himself, far greater than over the woman at his feet. he had conquered revenge, utterly crushed it, cast it out forever. he stooped down and raised her gently. the train hissed on, carrying its living freight, drawing nearer to london. she hung her head; he raised it, looked straight into her eyes, then kissed her. from that moment lenise elroy was another woman. she felt the change instantaneously; she was transformed, she knew whatever happened she would be true to him, that she would love him with a devotion that could not be surpassed. he kissed her again as he held her in his arms. "this is my revenge, lenise," he said. chapter xxix an astonishing communication at haverton everything shaped well. picton asked rita to be his wife and she consented. they were very happy, dick rejoiced exceedingly, captain ben was pleased, brack congratulated them in his quaint way before he returned to torquay. "i'll give you the rascal for a wedding present," said dick. "i hope he'll win the national for you." "he will have a good chance," said picton. "it is a very welcome gift." "i think you and rita will be happy," dick said. "we shall, and when she is mistress here there will be a delightful change for the better," said picton. "i hope there will be no collision between rita and mrs. yeoman," laughed dick. "no fear of that. she is very fond of rita; she told me so, said she was very pleased i was going to marry her." "then that's all right," said dick. he and his sister remained a week longer, then returned to torwood; rita and picton were to be married from there early in the new year. dr. elroy came from doncaster for a few days' shooting. picton liked him, so did captain ben. the doctor was an excellent shot, and accounted for many brace of grouse; he also showed some knowledge of horses, which at once ensured brant's good opinion. it was during the doctor's stay picton received a letter from his brother, containing an enclosure. both astonished him immensely, and small wonder. he read them carefully twice, and decided that hector's wishes should be obeyed. these were to the effect that picton should read them to captain ben, sir robert raines, and any other persons he thought desirable should know the truth. picton decided dr. elroy should join them when he read the letter. sir robert received a hasty summons to haverton. "wonder what's in the wind now," he said. "a trial i expect," said his wife. "you and mr. woodridge think of nothing but horses." "i have had a communication i wish you to hear," said picton. "i have heard from my brother." "hector!" exclaimed sir robert. "yes. he is alive and well. he knows you are to be trusted; he wished you to hear all he has written. you will be surprised to learn william rolfe is hector." "good heavens!" exclaimed sir robert. "do you know, picton, my boy, i thought he resembled him, but of course i had no idea he was hector. it's wonderful; how did he get away?" picton gave him an account of hector's escape and how he boarded the _sea-mew_, and all that followed. "the strangest part of the story is better told in his own words," said picton. "i wish you, captain ben, and dr. elroy to hear it." sir robert was lost in wonder at such strange happenings. when they were all seated in picton's study he asked them to promise to keep everything secret, which they readily did, when he explained whom the communication was from. picton began hector's letter, which, after a few preliminaries, read as follows: "you know how i escaped, and thanks to the good farmer on the moor, and with the aid of brack, boarded the _sea-mew_ and got safely away. then, taking the name of william rolfe, i came to haverton and no one knew me. i wish it to be thought that hector woodridge is dead, that i am william rolfe, and shall always remain so, for reasons which i will explain, and which will cause you great astonishment. something wonderful has happened since i left haverton, something that surprises me even now, and which i can hardly understand, yet it is an accomplished fact, and i shall never regret it. "i met lenise elroy at doncaster station by appointment; we traveled alone in a reserved compartment. you have some idea of the vengeance i intended taking upon her, but you have no conception how terrible it was to be. i purposed carrying it out in the train, declaring to her who i was--she thought i was william rolfe. i gradually led the conversation up to a point when i could relate to her how hector woodridge escaped and boarded the _sea-mew_, and that he was alive and well, living under an assumed name. i posed as his best friend. she was amazed, and frightened, at the minute details i gave her, thought it uncanny. there was a dramatic moment when she explained what happened when elroy was shot, in order to clear herself, offer an excuse for her conduct. she said hector woodridge pointed the revolver at elroy and as he advanced, fired. then i said, 'you pulled the trigger.' this, as you may imagine, was a knock-down blow for her; she almost fainted. she denied it, of course; it was a critical moment. then i bade her look in my face, asked her if she recognized me. gradually she did so; she fell on her knees, clasped my legs, sobbed as though her heart would break. she confessed all. she said i held the revolver pointed at elroy, but she pulled my hand back, and it went off, killing him. i enclose a confession she has signed to this effect. it proves my innocence. i did not actually fire the shot, although i leveled the revolver at him, to frighten and keep him back. i had no intention of shooting him; as god is my judge, i did not wish to take his life. she acted on a sudden impulse; perhaps she wished to pull my hand down, thinking i intended shooting him, and, as my finger was on the trigger, it went off. it was all a terrible blunder, which she and i have suffered terribly for. you little know how she has suffered; she has told me and i believe her. what i suffered no one can imagine, but i believe i can learn to forget it under the new conditions of life i have mapped out. "as she knelt at my feet sobbing, a strange revulsion of feeling swept over me. before all this happened she acknowledged she loved me as william rolfe, that she had done so from the first time we met. "i looked down at her and spoke gently. she noticed the changed tone in my voice and raised her head. 'hector!' she cried in strange surprise. "stooping down i raised her gently. i felt no desire for revenge; all my savage feelings were swept away. i loved her, loved lenise elroy, who had so deeply wronged me, with an undying love. i knew i had always loved her, even when in prison, and my feelings were bitterest against her. she saw something of this in my face. i kissed her and held her close to me. from that moment, picton, i forgave all, she was very dear to me. no matter how she had sinned i knew she had always been mine. i remembered how she surrendered herself to me; i recognized that i had tempted her, as she had tempted me; that we were both guilty, that had i behaved as a man, and kept away from her, the tragedy which blighted so many lives would not have happened. "we sat side by side and did not speak. the wonder of it all swept over us and held us silent. we looked into each other's eyes and read our thoughts. she was transfigured, a different woman, a new soul had entered her body, she was not the lenise elroy of old days. i felt all this; i was certain i could rely upon her. she spoke at last, and said she would write a confession which i could place in your hands to do as you wished with; she would abide the consequences. i have sent this to you, picton, knowing you will never make it public, but hide it in some place until our deaths take place. you can read it to our old friend sir robert, and captain ben, and any one else you think ought to know, and that you can depend upon to keep silent. it is short, but true, and she has signed it. "perhaps the strangest news of all for you is that we are married, and are now mr. and mrs. rolfe. i wished it to take place at once, and she was willing to do anything i asked. "as mr. and mrs. william rolfe, we sail for melbourne in a fortnight, where i shall go up country and buy a small station somewhere. we intend to keep out of the world, to live for ourselves. lenise wishes it, she says a lifelong devotion to me will only help to blot out the past. of her love i am certain; she is not demonstrative, but i catch her sometimes unawares, and her face expresses her thoughts. forgive her as i have, picton, write her a kindly letter, tell her she has done right, wish her happiness in her new life. we shall not come to haverton; it is better not. "i won a large sum over tearaway; i had a thousand pounds on her at a hundred to three. i do not want any more money. keep the dear old place up; some day we may see it, but not for years--it may be never. i should like to see you, sir robert, and captain ben, if you will meet me in town, just to say farewell. i hope you will be happy with rita; i am sure you will. at some future time you may tell her the tramp she treated so kindly on his way to torquay was your brother hector. i have dick's coat she gave me; i shall always keep it as a treasured remembrance of a good woman's kindness and sympathy. remember always that hector woodridge is dead, that william rolfe lives, and is a settler in australia. in that great country we shall be surrounded by new scenes, faces, and places; no one will know us; we shall live our lives peacefully until the end. "the storm is over, picton, and calm come at last. this is how i took my revenge. how strange are the workings of providence, how sure is his eternal justice, how wonderful and mysterious his ordering of all things!" picton then read lenise's confession, which exonerated hector from blame. it was brief and to the point; she did not spare herself. "i'll tell you what, picton, hector's a great man, an extraordinary man, he deserves the highest praise we can give him," said sir robert, and with this they all agreed. "remember, hector is dead, william rolfe lives," said picton, and again they agreed to abide by this decision. chapter xxx tearaway's progeny it was a quiet wedding and dick gave his sister away. a few friends met at torwood to bid them speed on their honeymoon, which was spent at florence. on their return they went direct to haverton, and mrs. woodridge settled down to her duties as mistress of the house, with mrs. yeoman as her trusty guide. rita was supremely happy; picton told her hector's story when they were in florence. "so i was right when i thought i recognized mr. rolfe as the man who asked me for help, or rather whom i assisted on his tramp to torquay," she said. "yes, you were right," said picton. "you made a greater hit than you were aware of." picton schooled the rascal over stiff fences on haverton moor. a four-mile course had been specially mapped out by brant during his absence in italy, and the fences were as high as those on the national course. "you'll find 'em formidable," said the trainer, "but if he's to jump the national course so much the better." picton soon found, as he had thought when he won on him at torquay, that the rascal was a great fencer. the ease with which he went over the biggest jump without a mistake proved this, and brant grew enthusiastic about his chance. rita was nervous when she saw picton riding over these great jumps, but the rascal seemed to fly them so easily she gained confidence and eventually became as keen about his winning the national as picton himself. everything went well with his preparation; the horse was as sound as a bell, and under brant's tuition became quiet and docile. the rascal liked picton, he and his rider were on excellent terms, they knew exactly how they felt toward each other. a week before the aintree meeting dick langford came to haverton. he was surprised when he saw the improvement in the rascal, grew enthusiastic as he watched picton ride him over the big fences. "i'd no idea he could jump like that!" exclaimed dick. "i had when i won on him at torquay," said picton. "do you think he's a chance in the national?" dick said to the trainer. "he has, mr. langford, a ripping chance. i can't pick out anything to beat him, and he's got such a nice weight, only ten stone; he'll gallop them all to a standstill. and as for fencing, he'll fly beecher's brook like a bird." neither rita nor picton, nor their many friends who saw the race, will ever forget that memorable grand national. what an awful day it was! the march wind howled and whistled over the course, biting and stinging, cutting the face almost like a lash. then sleet fell, followed by a whirling snowstorm, which had not abated when the horses went out. the course was heavy, dangerously slippery, but for all that not bad going. it was all against the top weights. the rascal lashed out as he felt the stinging half-frozen particles whipping his skin. he put back his ears, lowered his head, and took a lot of persuading before he faced the blast. most of the horses protested in the same way. then the sun gleamed out, the snow ceased, and for a few minutes it was bright and clear. they were off, twenty of them, and a glorious sight it was. rita stood with captain ben, sir robert, and dick. they had an excellent view of the course; had it been clearer they would have seen the whole race. when the horses had gone a little over a mile, snow fell again, the sun disappeared in the gloom, the light became bad. picton could hardly see the jumps, so blinding was the storm; but the rascal saw them and despite slipping, and an occasional stumble, cleared them. once he rapped hard; this roused him and for the remainder of the journey he did not make a mistake. it was an extraordinary race. horse after horse came down, until at the last two jumps only three were left in. another fell, then mortimer came down at the last obstacle, and the rascal came in alone, being the only one to finish the course. it was a day of triumph for picton and his friends. a big stake was landed, a big double, the st. leger and the grand national won for the famous saffron colors. the rascal and tearaway were the pets of the haverton stable. the former won at manchester and sandown, picton riding him. the filly won the great metropolitan and the ascot gold cup, following this up with a veritable triumph in the cesarewitch, carrying nine stone. she then retired to the stud, and was mated with her old opponent tristram, to the huge delight of sir robert, who prophesied the result would be a remarkable equine prodigy. the rascal ran in the national again and fell, the only time he came down in a long and wonderful career; picton had a nasty spill and was brought back in the ambulance. this was a shock to rita; she longed for the time when he would give up steeplechase riding, but she never hinted at it, she knew how passionately fond of it he was. the rascal won the great 'chase again the following year, thus setting the seal on his fame by carrying top weight to victory. by this time picton and rita had two sons; this was followed in due course by two girls; so they were supremely happy and all went swimmingly at haverton. they had troops of friends. picton became master of the haverton hounds, and his popularity was unbounded. rita was regarded as a ministering angel when she went abroad, scattering good things around in the depth of winter, and all the poor blessed her name. brack retired from active service, but had half a dozen boats and was a popular favorite at torquay. picton never forgot him at christmas, or the farmer on the moor, who had helped hector to escape. carl hackler often chaffed brack about the escaped prisoner and said he was not quite sure yet whether he had not smuggled him on board the _sea-mew_. brack, however, was as close as an oyster, and carl got no satisfaction in this direction. * * * * * far away across the ocean, in australia, about fifty miles from ballarat in victoria, hector and his wife settled down, as mr. and mrs. rolfe, on a small station with a picturesque homestead and excellent paddocks surrounding. they were happy, but there was one shadow hanging over their lives which had not yet lifted. they could not forget; it was impossible. they never alluded to it, but they knew it was there. still, they were contented and made friends in the new land. they were prosperous. hector took kindly to the life. he worked; his hands all liked him. he had a fine herd of cattle, a hundred good horses, sheep on a large run he had just taken over, in addition to willaura, his homestead. lenise had her share in the stock: she owned a few horses, a couple of alderney cows, and a large number of poultry of various breeds with which she took prizes, and of which she was very proud. after ten years came the crowning of her life. she had a son, and in bearing him she almost lost her life. never till he felt her slipping away from him had hector known how much he loved her. when she recovered, after a long illness, she said to him: "i feel we are forgiven. our child has lifted the shadow from our lives. we must think of the past no more; we must live for him and the future." picton received frequent letters from his brother, and answered them. in one he wrote to hector that it was evident he never intended returning to england, and that the only chance of seeing him again was to go out to australia. "rita says she would like the trip, and it would do us both good. captain ben is a trustworthy friend to leave in charge of haverton, so don't be surprised if some day we arrive at willaura." "do you think she would like me?" lenise asked her husband. "yes; no one could help liking you," he replied. "do you ever regret marrying me?" she asked. "that is a foolish question. you know i do not. never ask me again," he said. hector sometimes went to melbourne. on one of his visits he saw a broken-down man in bourke street and recognized him as fletcher denyer. he gave him a wide berth and did not mention it to his wife. he heard once or twice from brack, who in one letter said: "brother bill is a free man again--i reckon you know what that means; the man who did it confessed on his death-bed. he looks after my boats. he's a good sort, is bill. mr. picton never forgets me. he's a good sort too. so are you; so's everybody to me." "tearaway's stock are doing wonders," wrote picton. "her best are by tristram, and runaway is a champion. i think he will turn out the best she has had, and he is by sir robert's old favorite, and will probably be the last he will get, as he is very weak and ailing but hobbles about in his paddock. i am sending you out as a present a six-year-old horse by tristram-tearaway. he should make a splendid stallion. you can expect him landed in melbourne in about eight weeks from now. we tried runaway this morning and brant says he is like his mother--as 'fast as the wind.'" the end popular copyright novels _at moderate prices_ ask your dealer for a complete list of a. l. burt company's popular copyright fiction abner daniel. by will n. harben. adventures of gerard. by a. conan doyle. adventures of a modest man. by robert w. chambers. adventures of sherlock holmes. by a. conan doyle. adventures of jimmie dale, the. by frank l. packard. after house, the. by mary roberts rinehart. alisa paige. by robert w. chambers. alton of somasco. by harold bindloss. a man's man. by ian hay. amateur gentleman, the. by jeffery farnol. andrew the glad. by maria thompson daviess. ann boyd. by will n. harben. anna the adventuress. by e. phillips oppenheim. another man's shoes. by victor bridges. ariadne of allan water. by sidney mccall. armchair at the inn, the. by f. hopkinson smith. around old chester. by margaret deland. athalie. by robert w. chambers. at the mercy of tiberius. by augusta evans wilson. auction block, the. by rex beach. aunt jane. by jeanette lee. aunt jane of kentucky. by eliza c. hall. awakening of helena richie. by margaret deland. bambi. by marjorie benton cooke. bandbox, the. by louis joseph vance. barbara of the snows. by harry irving green. bar . by clarence e. mulford. bar days. by clarence e. mulford. barrier, the. by rex beach. beasts of tarzan, the. by edgar rice burroughs. beechy. by bettina von hutten. bella donna. by robert hichens. beloved vagabond, the. by wm. j. locke. beltane the smith. by jeffery farnol. ben blair. by will lillibridge. betrayal, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. better man, the. by cyrus townsend brady. beulah. (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. beyond the frontier. by randall parrish. black is white. by george barr mccutcheon. blind man's eyes, the. by wm. macharg & edwin balmer. bob hampton of placer. by randall parrish. bob, son of battle. by alfred ollivant. britton of the seventh. by cyrus townsend brady. broad highway, the. by jeffery farnol. bronze bell, the. by louis joseph vance. bronze eagle, the. by baroness orczy. buck peters, ranchman. by clarence e. mulford. business of life, the. by robert w. chambers. by right of purchase. by harold bindloss. cabbages and kings. by o. henry. calling of dan matthews, the. by harold bell wright. cape cod stories. by joseph c. lincoln. cap'n dan's daughter. by joseph c. lincoln. cap'n eri. by joseph c. lincoln. cap'n warren's wards. by joseph c. lincoln. cardigan. by robert w. chambers. carpet from bagdad, the. by harold macgrath. cease firing. by mary johnson. chain of evidence, a. by carolyn wells. chief legatee, the. by anna katharine green. cleek of scotland yard. by t. w. hanshew. clipped wings. by rupert hughes. coast of adventure, the. by harold bindloss. colonial free lance, a. by chauncey c. hotchkiss. coming of cassidy, the. by clarence e. mulford. coming of the law, the. by chas. a. seltzer. conquest of canaan, the. by booth tarkington. conspirators, the. by robt. w. chambers. counsel for the defense. by leroy scott. court of inquiry, a. by grace s. richmond. crime doctor, the. by e. w. hornung. crimson gardenia, the, and other tales of adventure. by rex beach. cross currents. by eleanor h. porter. cry in the wilderness, a. by mary e. waller. cynthia of the minute. by louis jos. vance. dark hollow, the. by anna katharine green. dave's daughter. by patience bevier cole. day of days, the. by louis joseph vance. day of the dog, the. by george barr mccutcheon. depot master, the. by joseph c. lincoln. desired woman, the. by will n. harben. destroying angel, the. by louis joseph vance. dixie hart. by will n. harben. double traitor, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. drusilla with a million. by elizabeth cooper. eagle of the empire, the. by cyrus townsend brady. el dorado. by baroness orczy. elusive isabel. by jacques futrelle. empty pockets. by rupert hughes. enchanted hat, the. by harold macgrath. eye of dread, the. by payne erskine. eyes of the world, the. by harold bell wright. felix o'day. by f. hopkinson smith. - or fight. by emerson hough. fighting chance, the. by robert w. chambers. financier, the. by theodore dreiser. flamsted quarries. by mary e. waller. flying mercury, the. by eleanor m. ingram. for a maiden brave. by chauncey c. hotchkiss. four million, the. by o. henry. four pool's mystery, the. by jean webster. fruitful vine, the. by robert hichens. get-rich-quick wallingford. by george randolph chester. gilbert neal. by will n. harben. girl from his town, the. by marie van vorst. girl of the blue ridge, a. by payne erskine. girl who lived in the woods, the. by marjorie benton cook. girl who won, the. by beth ellis. glory of clementina, the. by wm. j. locke. glory of the conquered, the. by susan glaspell. god's country and the woman. by james oliver curwood. god's good man. by marie corelli. going some. by rex beach. gold bag, the. by carolyn wells. golden slipper, the. by anna katharine green. golden web, the. by anthony partridge. gordon craig. by randall parrish. greater love hath no man. by frank l. packard. greyfriars bobby. by eleanor atkinson. guests of hercules, the. by c. n. & a. m. williamson. halcyone. by elinor glyn. happy island (sequel to uncle william). by jeannette lee. havoc. by e. phillips oppenheim. heart of philura, the. by florence kingsley. heart of the desert, the. by honoré willsie. heart of the hills, the. by john fox, jr. heart of the sunset. by rex beach. heart of thunder mountain, the. by elfrid a. bingham. heather-moon, the. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. her weight in gold. by geo. b. mccutcheon. hidden children, the. by robert w. chambers. hoosier volunteer, the. by kate and virgil d. boyles. hopalong cassidy. by clarence e. mulford. how leslie loved. by anne warner. hugh wynne, free quaker. by s. weir mitchell, m.d. husbands of edith, the. by george barr mccutcheon. i conquered. by harold titus. illustrious prince, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. idols. by william j. locke. indifference of juliet, the. by grace s. richmond. inez. (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. infelice. by augusta evans wilson. in her own right. by john reed scott. initials only. by anna katharine green. in another girl's shoes. by berta ruck. inner law, the. by will n. harben. innocent. by marie corelli. insidious dr. fu-manchu, the. by sax rohmer. in the brooding wild. by ridgwell cullum. intrigues, the. by harold bindloss. iron trail, the. by rex beach. iron woman, the. by margaret deland. ishmael. (ill.) by mrs. southworth. island of regeneration, the. by cyrus townsend brady. island of surprise, the. by cyrus townsend brady. japonette. by robert w. chambers. jean of the lazy a. by b. m. bower. jeanne of the marshes. by e. phillips oppenheim. jennie gerhardt. by theodore dreiser. joyful heatherby. by payne erskine. jude the obscure. by thomas hardy. judgment house, the. by gilbert parker. keeper of the door, the. by ethel m. dell. keith of the border. by randall parrish. kent knowles: quahaug. by joseph c. lincoln. king spruce. by holman day. kingdom of earth, the. by anthony partridge. knave of diamonds, the. by ethel m. dell. lady and the pirate, the. by emerson hough. lady merton, colonist. by mrs. humphrey ward. landloper, the. by holman day. land of long ago, the. by eliza calvert hall. last try, the. by john reed scott. last shot, the. by frederick n. palmer. last trail, the. by zane grey. laughing cavalier, the. by baroness orczy. law breakers, the. by ridgwell cullum. lighted way, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. lightning conductor discovers america, the. by c. n. & a. m. williamson. lin mclean. by owen wister. little brown jug at kildare, the. by meredith nicholson. lone wolf, the. by louis joseph vance. long roll, the. by mary johnson. lonesome land. by b. m. bower. lord loveland discovers america. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. lost ambassador. by e. phillips oppenheim. lost prince, the. by frances hodgson burnett. lost road, the. by richard harding davis. love under fire. by randall parrish. macaria. (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. maids of paradise, the. by robert w. chambers. maid of the forest, the. by randall parrish. maid of the whispering hills, the. by vingie e. roe. making of bobby burnit, the. by randolph chester. making money. by owen johnson. mam' linda. by will n. harben. man outside, the. by wyndham martyn. man trail, the. by henry oyen. marriage. by h. g. wells. marriage of theodora, the. by mollie elliott seawell. mary moreland. by marie van vorst. master mummer, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. max. by katherine cecil thurston. maxwell mystery, the. by caroline wells. mediator, the. by roy norton. memoirs of sherlock holmes. by a. conan doyle. mischief maker, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. miss gibbie gault. by kate langley bosher. miss philura's wedding gown. by florence morse kingsley. molly mcdonald. by randall parrish. money master, the. by gilbert parker. money moon, the. by jeffery farnol. motor maid, the. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. moth, the. by william dana orcutt. mountain girl, the. by payne erskine. mr. bingle. by george barr mccutcheon. mr. grex of monte carlo. by e. phillips oppenheim. mr. pratt. by joseph c. lincoln. mr. pratt's patients. by joseph c. lincoln. mrs. balfame. by gertrude atherton. mrs. red pepper. by grace s. richmond. my demon motor boat. by george fitch. my friend the chauffeur. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. my lady caprice. by jeffery farnol. my lady of doubt. by randall parrish. my lady of the north. by randall parrish. my lady of the south. by randall parrish. ne'er-do-well, the. by rex beach. net, the. by rex beach. new clarion. by will n. harben. night riders, the. by ridgwell cullum. night watches. by w. w. jacobs. nobody. by louis joseph vance. once upon a time. by richard harding davis. one braver thing. by richard dehan. one way trail, the. by ridgwell cullum. otherwise phyllis. by meredith nicholson. pardners. by rex beach. parrott & co. by harold macgrath. partners of the tide. by joseph c. lincoln. passionate friends, the. by h. g. wells. patrol of the sun dance trail, the. by ralph connor. paul anthony, christian. by hiram w. hayes. perch of the devil. by gertrude atherton. peter ruff. by e. phillips oppenheim. people's man, a. by e. phillips oppenheim. phillip steele. by james oliver curwood. pidgin island. by harold macgrath. place of honeymoon, the. by harold macgrath. plunderer, the. by roy norton. pole baker. by will n. harben. pool of flame, the. by louis joseph vance. port of adventure, the. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. postmaster, the. by joseph c. lincoln. power and the glory, the. by grace mcgowan cooke. prairie wife, the. by arthur stringer. price of love, the. by arnold bennett. price of the prairie, the. by margaret hill mccarter. prince of sinners. by a. e. phillips oppenheim. princess passes, the. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. princess virginia, the. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. promise, the. by j. b. hendryx. purple parasol, the. by geo. b. mccutcheon. ranch at the wolverine, the. by b. m. bower. ranching for sylvia. by harold bindloss. real man, the. by francis lynde. reason why, the. by elinor glyn. red cross girl, the. by richard harding davis. red mist, the. by randall parrish. redemption of kenneth galt, the. by will n. harben. red lane, the. by holman day. red mouse, the. by wm. hamilton osborne. red pepper burns. by grace s. richmond. rejuvenation of aunt mary, the. by anne warner. return of tarzan, the. by edgar rice burroughs. riddle of night, the. by thomas w. hanshew. rim of the desert, the. by ada woodruff anderson. rise of roscoe paine, the. by j. c. lincoln. road to providence, the. by maria thompson daviess. robinetta. by kate douglas wiggin. rocks of valpré, the. by ethel m. dell. rogue by compulsion, a. by victor bridges. rose in the ring, the. by george barr mccutcheon. rose of the world. by agnes and egerton castle. rose of old harpeth, the. by maria thompson daviess. round the corner in gay street. by grace s. richmond. routledge rides alone. by will l. comfort. st. elmo. (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. salamander, the. by owen johnson. scientific sprague. by francis lynde. second violin, the. by grace s. richmond. secret of the reef, the. by harold bindloss. secret history. by c. n. & a. m. williamson. self-raised. (ill.) by mrs. southworth. septimus. by william j. locke. set in silver. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. seven darlings, the. by gouverneur morris. shea of the irish brigade. by randall parrish. shepherd of the hills, the. by harold bell wright. sheriff of dyke hole, the. by ridgwell cullum. sign at six, the. by stewart edw. white. silver horde, the. by rex beach. simon the jester. by william j. locke. siren of the snows, a. by stanley shaw. sir richard calmady. by lucas malet. sixty-first second, the. by owen johnson. slim princess, the. by george ade. soldier of the legion, a. by c. n. and a. m. williamson. somewhere in france. by richard harding davis. speckled bird, a. by augusta evans wilson. spirit in prison, a. by robert hichens. spirit of the border, the. by zane grey. splendid chance, the. by mary hastings bradley. spoilers, the. by rex beach. spragge's canyon. by horace annesley vachell. still jim. by honoré willsie. story of foss river ranch, the. by ridgwell cullum. story of marco, the. by eleanor h. porter. strange disappearance, a. by anna katherine green. strawberry acres. by grace s. richmond. streets of ascalon, the. by robert w. chambers. sunshine jane. by anne warner. susan clegg and her friend mrs. lathrop. by anne warner. sword of the old frontier, a. by randall parrish. tales of sherlock holmes. by a. conan doyle. taming of zenas henry, the. by sara ware bassett. tarzan of the apes. by edgar r. burroughs. taste of apples, the. by jennette lee. tempting of tavernake, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. tess of the d'urbervilles. by thomas hardy. thankful inheritance. by joseph c. lincoln. that affair next door. by anna katharine green. that printer of udell's. by harold bell wright. their yesterdays. by harold bell wright. the side of the angels. by basil king. throwback, the. by alfred henry lewis. thurston of orchard valley. by harold bindloss. to m. l. g.; or, he who passed. by anon. trail of the axe, the. by ridgwell cullum. trail of yesterday, the. by chas. a. seltzer. treasure of heaven, the. by marie corelli. truth dexter. by sidney mccall. t. tembarom. by frances hodgson burnett. turbulent duchess, the. by percy j. brebner. twenty-fourth of june, the. by grace s. richmond. twins of suffering creek, the. by ridgwell cullum. two-gun man, the. by charles a. seltzer. uncle william. by jeannette lee. under the country sky. by grace s. richmond. unknown mr. kent, the. by roy norton. "unto caesar." by baronett orczy. up from slavery. by booker t. washington. valiants of virginia, the. by hallie erminie rives. valley of fear, the. by sir a. conan doyle. vane of the timberlands. by harold bindloss. vanished messenger, the. by f. phillips oppenheim. vashti. by augusta evans wilson. village of vagabonds, a. by f. berkley smith. visioning, the. by susan glaspell. wall of men, a. by margaret h. mccarter. wallingford in his prime. by george randolph chester. wanted--a chaperon. by paul leicester ford. wanted--a matchmaker. by paul leicester ford. watchers of the plains, the. by ridgwell cullum. way home, the. by basil king. way of an eagle, the. by e. m. dell. way of a man, the. by emerson hough. way of the strong, the. by ridgwell cullum. way of these women, the. by e. phillips oppenheim. weavers, the. by gilbert parker. west wind, the. by cyrus t. brady. when wilderness was king. by randolph parrish. where the trail divides. by will lillibridge. where there's a will. by mary r. rinehart. white sister, the. by marion crawford. white waterfall, the. by james francis dwyer. who goes there? by robert w. chambers. window at the white cat, the. by mary roberts rinehart. winning of barbara worth, the. by harold bell wright. winning the wilderness. by margaret hill mccarter. with juliet in england. by grace s. richmond. witness for the defense, the. by a. e. w. mason. woman in question, the. by john reed scott. woman haters, the. by joseph c. lincoln. woman thou gavest me, the. by hall caine. woodcarver of 'lympus, the. by mary e. waller. woodfire in no. , the. by f. hopkinson smith. wooing of rosamond fayre, the. by berta ruck. you never know your luck. by gilbert parker. younger set, the. by robert w. chambers. transcribers notes passages in italics are indicated by _underscores_. passages in small caps were replaced with all caps. inconsistent spellings retained. minor punctuation errors were corrected without notice. following typographical errors have been corrected: p. "plant" amended to "planet". p. it appears that the word "that" has been omitted in the phrase "it was his money gave tobasco the chance to marry her". text was amended. p. "wth" amended to "with" in "i had wrestled wth the brute". transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). small capital letters were replaced with all capital letters. there were places where a word was unreadable. in those places, the most likely word was used, enclosed in brackets. the runaways all rights reserved the runaways a new and original story by nat gould [illustration] g. heath robinson and j. birch, limited london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited. duke street, stamford street, s.e. and great windmill street, w. nat gould: an appreciation. [illustration] nat gould's novels of the turf are read and enjoyed by multitudes of men and women all over the world. that in itself is a guarantee of literary merit. had he been a stylist, the sale of his hundred odd books would never have run into a score of millions. he wrote to please and not to puzzle, to give pleasure and not to educate, and his reward came in the gratitude of a host of admirers of clean, healthy fiction. his main theme was the king of sports and the sport of kings. nat gould dearly loved a horse, and so does the great british public, including those who have no liking for racing. it is a characteristic as national as our admiration of ships, sailors and the sea. the theme fascinated him, and, combined with a gift for writing, was one of the secrets of his success. another reason for his almost boundless popularity is to be found in the "atmosphere" of his stories, which is created without elaborate literary setting. the machinery of it is hidden by reason of its very artlessness. the romance is told in a plain, straightforward way that carries intense conviction, and though the plots are neither subtle nor involved, they are unfolded in so vigorous and lifelike a manner that few people who pick up one of nat gould's novels are able to put it down before having finished the last chapter. few modern writers can boast that they are read and understood at a single sitting. his novels ring true. they are clean, manly and sincere. there is nothing vicious about them. as _the times_ truly said of nat gould in its obituary notice of him, "he must have written some millions of words, but few of them were wasted, if a rattling good story makes a reader happier and more contented for having read it." such praise is praise indeed, for literature that is involved and appeals to a select few obviously cannot have the influence of literature that embraces so large a section of the population. to have added to the enjoyment of so vast a number of young and old, rich and poor, were a monument worthy of any man. nathaniel gould was born in manchester in , and died in . his wide experience as a journalist in england and australia doubtless explained his methods of rapid workmanship, while his travels in the antipodes and elsewhere afforded him that "local colour" which is not the least pleasing characteristic of his novels. he not only wrote of outdoor life, but enjoyed it, for racing, driving and gardening were his hobbies. e. laton blacklands. contents chapter page i.--as the snow falls ii.--the runaways iii.--random iv.--irene's painting v.--honeysuckle's foal vi.--a wily young man vii.--selling his heritage viii.--warren's return ix.--how ulick bought the saint x.--"the curiosity" xi.--for a woman's sake xii.--two schemers xiii.--the squire and the saint xiv.--a discovery imminent xv.--the result of the discovery xvi.--a race to be remembered xvii.--the squire overhears xviii.--"tally-ho!" xix.--a fatal leap xx.--perfect harmony the runaways chapter i. as the snow falls. redmond maynard stood at the dining-room window gazing at the deep-dyed reflection upon the snow of the blood-red setting sun. the leafless trees, with their gnarled trunks and gaunt, twisted branches, spreading fiercely in imprecation at the hardness of their lot, resembled giant monsters from an unknown world. these diseased protruding growths put on all manner of fantastic shapes, as his eyes dwelt first upon one, then upon another. it was the shortening winter's day drawing near a close, and a spirit of melancholy brooded over the landscape. on such an evening as this, the thoughts of thinking men are apt to draw comparisons which bring vividly before them the uncertainty of life, and the prospects of that something after death which has never been understood, never will be, until each one solves the problem by going out into the eternal night. it seemed to redmond maynard that he was peering into a mystery he had no hope of solving. he was not a godless man, neither was he a man whose life had been altogether well spent. his mistakes had been many; he acknowledged this, and thereby robbed his detractors of selfish victories. slowly the sun sank, and as it dipped lower and lower into obscurity the red shadows on the snow grew fainter, the harshness melted, and a gentle warmth seemed to mingle with the biting cold. the glow remained some time after the sun had disappeared, and redmond maynard stood in the same position watching it. then, almost without warning-- "out of the bosom of the air, out of the cloud folds of her garment shaken-- over the woodlands brown and bare, over the harvest fields forsaken, silent and soft and slow, descended the snow." it came fluttering down from the "bosom of the air," to nestle in the bosom of the earth, to mingle with the white mantle lying there, to lie pure and undefiled until an angry thaw turned all its beauty into dulness and decay. how gently the flakes fell, and redmond maynard watched them with the warm glow from the fire shedding flickering light behind and around him. "shall i draw the curtain, sir?" "no." the man silently left the room, sighing as he did so, thinking to himself, "it's two years come to-night since mr. ulick left home. i wonder will he come back. the squire's thinking of it now. god help 'em both." "there will be no darkness to-night," muttered redmond maynard, as he saw a silvery ray cross the lawn in front of the house. no darkness, perhaps not, but in his heart there was a desolate feeling deeper than the blackness of night. two years ago ulick maynard walked out of that very room, and had not since returned. bitter words were spoken between father and son. both were proud. the accusation fell upon ulick like a thunderbolt; for the moment he was stunned. then, with his frozen blood bursting into a fiery torrent, he hurled back the insult his father had put upon him. he stayed not to think what causes led redmond maynard to make the charge. in his mind no evidence, however conclusively circumstantial, ought to have been considered sufficient to make his father speak such words. the elder man recoiled under the shock. given an opportunity, he would have recalled his words. but the chance was not allowed. "believing, as you must, or you would not have accused me, that i am guilty of this infamy, i will no longer inflict my presence upon you, sir. good-night." no more, no less; those were the very words, and ulick maynard left the room. that was two years ago, and nothing had been heard of him since. "ulick!" called his father, as the door closed behind him. "come back at once. ulick!" no answer was returned, and the still angry man thought, "he'll get over it by morning. gad, what a devil of a temper he has. he's the culprit, safe enough, although eli will not hear of it." ulick maynard did not "get over it by morning." he disappeared, and his father had never been the same man since. without drawing the curtains, redmond maynard left the window, and, walking to the fireplace, stood with his back to the blaze. stretched on the hearthrug was a strong, powerful, shaggy wolf-hound. bersak raised his long, lean head, and looked at his master, but observing no sign that his services were required, stretched himself out again at full length with a sigh of satisfaction. there was ample room between the dog and the hearth for his master to stand, and redmond maynard looked down upon him from a height of nearly six feet. "his dog," he muttered. "bersak, where's ulick?" the hound sprang to his feet and stood alert, every nerve strained, head erect, listening for footsteps he had not heard for two years, but which he would have recognised even amidst the deadening snow. man and dog looked at each other. that question had been asked before. "bersak, where's ulick?" rather shaky the tones this time, and something in them affected the hound, for he lifted up his head and whined; the sound would have developed into a howl, but redmond maynard placed his hand on his head and said-- "don't howl, bersak, i could not stand it. lie down. good dog, lie down." obedient to the word of command, bersak lowered himself--no other word adequately expresses the dog's movement,--to the hearthrug, and with his fore-paws stretched out watched the squire's face. how much would redmond maynard have given to see the door open and his son ulick walk in. all he possessed--aye, more, many years of his life. he knew how bersak would have leapt [to] his feet with a mighty bark of welcome, and a spring forward until his strong paws reached ulick's shoulders. he fixed his eyes on the door, and as he did so it opened. but it was not ulick entering, although the newcomer brought a faint smile on his face. "irene!" he exclaimed, as the vision in furs came across the fire-lit room; "this is good of you. however did you get here; is it still snowing?" "no, squire, it is not snowing, although there is plenty of snow; and as to how i came here, well--look at my boots," and she held up her dress and disclosed a pair of strong "lace-ups," fitting perfectly her well-shaped feet. "so you walked all the way from the manor, and with the express object of cheering a lonely old man on a depressing winter's evening. i call that good of you, positively charitable, but irene courtly's name is ever associated with good works," said the squire. "i am afraid the good work on this occasion is closely allied with selfishness," she replied, smiling. "being alone, i appreciate the feelings of others similarly situated, and that is how i came to think of you." "alone!" he exclaimed. "where is warren?" "gone to london. important business. no hunting, you see, squire," she said, with a laugh he thought had not a very true ring about it. redmond maynard gave an impatient gesture, and bersak pushed his head against her hand in doggish sympathy. irene courtly noticed the movement, and said-- "he really had to go; he assured me it was absolutely necessary," she said. warren courtly had also added. "i'll be back in a few days, irene. run over and see the squire, you will be company for each other." "you cannot humbug me, irene," said redmond maynard. "he's tired of the country because there is no sport, and i call it downright selfish of him to go up to town and leave you behind at anselm manor." "but, really, i did not wish to go, squire." "you mean it?" "yes, most decidedly." "then pull off those furs; let me send bob over for your things and your maid, and stay here until warren returns," said the squire. this time the laugh was hearty enough, and she said-- "impetuous as ever, squire. i only wish i could." "and what is to prevent your doing so?" "my duty towards my neighbours," said irene, laughing. "love your neighbour as yourself, and i am your nearest neighbour," he answered. then, going to the window, he opened it, and, putting out his arm for a few moments, drew it in again and showed her the snowflakes on his coat-sleeve. "you cannot possibly return to the manor in such weather," he said, and touched the bell. "can you drive, or ride, to anselm manor, bob?" he asked. the man shook his head doubtfully. "i'll try, sir." "take the old mare and 'the tub,' and bring mrs. courtly's maid back. she will know what her mistress requires." "yes, sir, i'll manage it," replied bob heather, with alacrity. mary marley, mrs. courtly's maid, was bob heather's favourite, and he had an idea she preferred him to any of her admirers. "the maid did it," said the squire, with a smile. "i doubt if he would have undertaken the journey for the luggage alone." irene laughed, and then, in a serious mood, said, as she stroked bersak's head, "do you think it right for me to remain here. you are my oldest friend, and my guardian until i married warren. ought i to stay?" "of course, of course," he replied impatiently. "it is snowing fast again. warren would not expect you to go home on such a night." she settled down to spend a quiet evening with him. she knew what this night meant to him, what it might have meant to her had all gone well with ulick. watching him as he sat with the firelight on his face, she noticed how he had aged during the past year. no, not aged exactly, for he was still a firm, strong, active man; but there was something in his noble, if severe, face that told of a great struggle racking him within. she knew the largeness of his heart, and his notions of honour, which many modern hypocrites laughed at, because their little minds could not grasp his greatness. she remembered how he guarded her [as] his own child when her father, colonel carstone, died and left her as a legacy to his old friend. he brought her as a girl of sixteen to hazelwell, and said-- "irene, this is your home. your father gave you to me, and it is a sacred gift. you will get on with ulick, he is a good lad, and you have known each other for some years. hazelwell will be the brighter for your presence." she revered redmond maynard above all men, and whatever he did she considered right, until--until ulick left his home. "he is thinking of him now," she thought. "oh, why does he not come home? the old scandal is dead; i have forgiven him, surely he has--he must." bersak sat with his head in her lap looking into her face, his sharp, keen eyes blinking, and occasionally he turned to look at the silent figure in the chair. irene did not disturb him, but to know his thoughts she would have given much. she saw his hands clench the chair tightly--sure sign of a strong man's emotion. quietly she rose from her seat, took a footstool, placed it beside him, and sat at his feet. she laid her head on his knee; bersak followed her and lay at her feet. they formed a pretty group in the firelight's glow. the room was warm and cosy, although large; outside, the snow was still falling, adding steadily to the frozen mass upon which it descended. redmond maynard placed his hand on her head and gently stroked her hair. she remained silent and quite still. "it is like old times to have you here again," he said at length. "and i am very glad to be with you. will you play chess, shall i read to you, or will you talk?" she said. "being a woman, irene, i will talk to you." "am i such a chatterbox?" she answered, laughing. "not that, anything but that. you speak when you have something to say; you are not an aimless chatterer." "warren says my tongue is never still." "warren is an ass," he snapped. "oh, dear no, not at all. he is by no means stupid." "i retract; i ought not to have made use of the expression." "i will keep it to myself in strict confidence," she replied, with a smile. the door opened, and a maid said-- "shall i light the lamps, sir?" "please." the room was soon aglow with a soft, delicate light, and as the maid went out she said to herself-- "well, i never. the ways of these gentry are past me. fancy her sitting like that, and going to stop here all night. it's not respectable." she was a new maid, with a narrow mind and a relaxable conscience, which could be stretched to any required length to suit her own purposes. the maid, the luggage, and bob heather duly arrived. bob had taken good care mary marley should not be cold during the drive. "are you tired, irene?" "no. i will sit up until you are ready to go." "an hour longer, and then i shall pack you off," he said. "and you?" "i shall be up all night." "all night?" she exclaimed, in surprise, "why?" "because it is the night, two years ago, that ulick left home. i sat up all night on this date last year. i know it will be on a night such as this he will come back." "to-night, not to-night? will he come home to-night?" she asked, eagerly. "how can i tell, child? if he does not i must wait another year," he said, sadly. "you have forgiven him?" "yes; but not his sin," he said. "are you sure, quite sure, it is his sin?" she asked. "unfortunately, there is no doubt about it." "but eli todd----" she commenced. "is wrong," he answered. "he is blinded by his faith in ulick. eli would sacrifice even more than he has done for him, and god knows how he has suffered." "i wish we had eli's faith," she replied. chapter ii. the runaways. there was a stud of thoroughbreds at hazelwell, not large, but select, some of the mares boasting of blue blood such as can seldom be obtained after much search. eli todd was the manager of the stud, and lived in a small but picturesque and comfortable cottage on the estate. he served in the --th hussars with colonel carstone, and during the time they were in india he acquired a considerable knowledge of horses of every description. he handled the colonel's "walers," and broke them in cleverly; he also trained the colonel's horses for the races, and on one occasion had the audacity to declare he meant to win the viceroy's cup for his master, a feat he all but accomplished, as the scout ran a good second for that coveted trophy. when colonel carstone died, and irene was committed to the care of redmond maynard, eli todd entered his service at the same time. it was owing to irene that he did so. she persuaded her guardian that eli was a veritable wonder in the management of horses, and that she was perfectly certain that if his services were secured hazelwell stud would benefit thereby. ulick maynard backed up her recommendation, declaring he had cast curious eyes upon eli ever since he returned from india with the colonel. "lose no time in securing him," said ulick; "such a man will be snapped up at once. don't lose him whatever you do." redmond maynard engaged eli to manage his stud, and also to superintend the hunters and all the horses on the estate--a step he had never regretted. eli was a widower with one child, a daughter, janet todd. she was about the same age as irene, and a bright, merry, mischievous, exceedingly pretty girl. vanity was her besetting sin, but apart from this she was of an amiable disposition, and innocent of any desire beyond harmless flirtations. naturally her father idolised her, and it was mainly on her account he accepted the position mr. maynard offered him. the night that redmond maynard sat up, hoping against hope that his son would return, eli todd was in a troubled state of mind. like his master, he dated the great misfortune of his life two years back from that night. he recalled vividly how his daughter janet had kissed him good-night and then gone to bed. her manner gave no indication of what was to befall during the next few hours. he remembered how he sat waiting for her to come down to breakfast, wondering what kept her so long. her room was above that in which he sat, and he heard no movement on the floor above. the strain became too great, and at last he could bear it no longer. he did not ring for the housekeeper, but crept upstairs and tapped gently at her door. there was no answer, and as he sat now, two years after, he felt again the throbbing of his heart in anticipation of some unknown evil he experienced on that occasion. he knocked again, and then slowly, noiselessly opened the door. the room was empty, the bed had not been slept upon. dazed and bewildered, he failed at first to understand what it meant. the stillness stunned him, and he groped his way forward like a blind man. mechanically he ran his hands over the spotless counterpane, seeking, feeling for that he knew he should not find. he looked under the bed, in a closet, and even in her wardrobe; she was hiding, playing him a trick, but where had she hidden herself? he sat down in the chair at her bedside and looked helplessly about the room. he fingered the candlestick which stood on a small table near the bed, examining it with unusual interest. there was an old pair of snuffers there, and he took them up and pressed the wick, which stuck fast, and the candle with the snuffers attached fell on the table. he put the empty candlestick on the bed and got up. walking to the window, he drew up the blinds and looked round the room again. he was near the dressing-table, and picked up one article after another. he did not look for a letter, a brief note; he would not have found one had he done so. she had gone, left him desolate without one parting word. still in a dazed condition, and not fully realising his loss, he went out of the room, closing the door after him, and stumbled downstairs. mrs. marley, his housekeeper, heard him, and came into the room, "is janet ill?" she asked, in a tone of concern. "yes," he replied, in a hollow voice. "i will take her breakfast upstairs." "i can take it myself," she replied. "no; please let me do it." "very well, but you spoil her, mr. todd; it is not good for her," said mrs. marley. he laughed strangely, and she looked at him in surprise. he took the tray upstairs, placed it on the table at the bedside, and locked the door as he came out, putting the key in his pocket. why he did this he failed to understand, except that he wanted time to think. he was going over again everything that happened that terrible night. he had considered it many times, and he would not lay the guilt at ulick's door; no, not even after two years of grave suspicion, which had not yet been removed. he once more saw the door open and ulick maynard come in out of the snowy night. he heard the startled cry janet gave as she sprang from her chair, and her exclamation, "mr. ulick, what are you doing here?" rang in his ears. "eli, i want to sit down and think," ulick had said, and, wonderingly, he bade him make the house his home, as he had always done. janet, pale and bewildered, left the room. "is anything the matter, mr. ulick?" asked eli. "you'll learn soon enough," was the vague reply; and then he saw ulick take out his pocket-book and count some notes. "have some supper?" said eli. "no, i dined at home an hour ago." then he looked hard at eli. surely he knew what people were saying, knew of the gossip about janet. it amazed him when he had to acknowledge that eli todd was the only person in the village who was in ignorance of what concerned him most. "where's janet? i must speak to her," said ulick. eli called her, and she came slowly into the room, her face as pale as death. "mr. ulick wishes to speak to you. i'll leave you together, i want to look at blossom again." what passed between them he never knew; what he did know was that next morning janet was gone. as he sat crushed and stunned under the blow, there came a furious knocking at the door, and mrs. marley called out in an agitated voice-- "it's the squire, and isn't he in a rage!" as eli sat in his chair by the fire he again conjured up the picture of redmond maynard striding furiously into the room, knocking the snow from his boots with his hunting crop. "is my son here, or has he been here?" he asked, angrily. "he was here last night," said eli, in a hollow voice. "and is he here still?" "no." "where is he?" "i don't know; he went away after--after----" "after what?" thundered the squire. "after he had seen janet about something he wished to say to her," said eli, slowly. "and where is the hussey; d----n it, man, where is she?" eli strode up to him, and looking him full in the face, said-- "not that word from you, squire, take it back, take it back; she is my child." redmond maynard controlled his feelings. "it is a hard word, eli, i ought not to have used it. you have sufficient to bear without that," he said. "he knows," thought eli. "how does he know?" and he looked at the squire, who could not fail to notice his surprise. "may i speak with your daughter?" said the squire; and from this eli knew there was some mystery he did not yet grasp. "she is gone," he replied, in a low voice, for the first time acknowledging the dreadful truth. "left your house!" exclaimed redmond maynard. "yes. i found her room empty this morning, but i have, so far, concealed her flight from my housekeeper." redmond maynard strode up and down the room, muttering threats and imprecations. "he has stolen her from you, eli; but he shall pay for it dearly. he is even a greater scoundrel than i accused him of being," said the squire. "do you know who has tempted my daughter to leave me?" asked eli, placing his hand on the squire's arm in his earnestness. "man, you must know," replied the squire, amazed at his stupidity. "have you noticed nothing wrong with her during the past few weeks?" "no, my janet has always been the same to me until last night." the squire's rage against ulick passed all bounds. he had accused him of trifling with janet's affections, and now, to crown his offence, the graceless fellow had induced her to run away with him. "my son came here last night," he said. "you left him alone with your daughter, and it was no doubt during that time they planned to go away together. he has taken her from you, eli, and i hope he will make her an honest woman. to think a son of mine should be such a scoundrel. ulick, whom i have loved beyond all others, it is too terrible." at last eli todd understood. his daughter, the pride of his life, the prettiest of all the village lasses, was a light o' love, and ulick, his favourite, to whom he would have entrusted her life, was accused of betraying her. the shock of this discovery overwhelmed him, but he had more faith in ulick than his father had. "if a man has tempted my daughter to leave my home and follow him, it is not mr. ulick, squire," said eli, solemnly. "he'd never do it; he'd cut off his right hand first. you wrong him, and you'll regret the day you taxed him with such a charge." redmond maynard wondered at the man's faith in his son. to his mind the proof was clear as day, especially now janet todd had disappeared at the same time as ulick. "your feelings do you credit," he replied; "but the evidence is too clear. you know as well as i that when people hear ulick and janet have disappeared, they will say they went together. can it be otherwise? they have been great friends, constantly meeting, and have often been seen alone together. my son has done you a great and grievous wrong, and i must do all in my power to lessen the blow." "i'll hear no words against mr. ulick, squire. true, he came here last night, but he left long before janet could have gone. i will never believe it of him. it was not his nature to do evil. he'll prove it some day. as for my poor lass, god help her. she'll come back to me some day, when her heart is sore and aching for her father's love. whatever she is, whatever she may have done, i will never refuse her the shelter of my home and name. we don't know all, squire; there may be something we cannot understand, but which will be explained in the future. but mr. ulick! why, squire, i'd as soon accuse myself of crime as him." two years ago this scene took place between master and man, and eli still held firm in his belief in the stainless honour of ulick maynard. no word had come from janet during all that time. where she was he knew not, but he thought of her day and night, and as he went about his work he offered up many a plea for her return. "the squire 'll be thinking of ulick to-night," he muttered, as he rose from his chair, went to the door, and looked out into the night. snow was still falling softly, and the moon bathed the landscape in silvery splendour. as he looked, he heard the faint, dull sound of a horse's hoofs on the snow, and the rumble of clogged wheels. "where can they be going from the house to-night?" he thought, and then recognised bob heather, seated in "the tub," and almost smothered in wraps. "hallo, eli, that you? a nice job i've got, fetching mrs. courtly's maid, and a heap of luggage, from anselm a night like this." "going to anselm!" exclaimed eli. "what's up there?" "seems to me everything's up. mr. courtly's gone up to london on most important business, and left mrs. courtly alone. he's always got business in london. i'd know what it was if i was her. she came over to see the squire, and he's made her stop with him. i say, eli, don't you think she'd have been a lot better off if she'd married mr. ulick?" "mind your own business," growled eli. "it don't concern you; and as to what i think, i'll keep it to myself." "it's two years since he left us, and the squire's been thinking about it all night. he's got a notion mr. ulick will come back at this time of year." "so he will, and i hope my lass will come too," said eli. "you still think they did not go away together?" asked bob. "i don't say that, but i'll swear mr. ulick never harmed a hair of her head," said eli. "he's a rum 'un," thought bob. "why, everybody knows they ran off together; that's what made the squire so bitter." "have a glass of ale?" said eli. "thanks, you keep a better tap than they have at hazelwell." "i drink it myself," said eli, smiling, "and order it myself. i expect it's not the squire's fault if you don't get the best." "no, it's not. old josh knows how many beans make five, and i'll bet he charges top price for the stuff he gets in for us," said bob. eli went indoors and came out with a foaming tankard of ale, which bob heather made short work of. "that will keep me warm," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "you have plenty of rugs, are you afraid the luggage will catch cold?" said eli, slyly. "luggage be blowed," said bob. "these things are for mary; she'd never forgive me if she caught a cold," and he shook the reins and proceeded on his journey. chapter iii. random. squire maynard remained in the dining-room throughout the night. towards morning he fell asleep in his arm-chair, bersak watching on the rug at his feet. it would have gone ill with the man who attempted to touch the squire with bersak on guard. more than one poacher had felt the hound's teeth in his calf, and howled for mercy, and been forgiven on account of the punishment received. bersak once saved ulick's life, or if not his life, at any rate rescued him from being maimed. a three-year-old bull attacked him, and there was no chance of escape. the furious beast had ulick at his feet, and was bellowing over him, as a preliminary to goring him, when bersak came to the rescue. the wolf-hound tore across the field in a direct line for the bull, who, seeing him, raised his head and bellowed forth defiance. on came bersak, and flew straight at the bull's throat. he tore him terribly, but the animal could not rid himself of his fierce enemy. never had bull such a mauling, and when ulick came to himself he saw the dog still dragging his enemy down. it was a long struggle, but bersak won, and the bull was shot to end his misery. bersak's fame spread far and wide, and he had the honour of having several attempts made upon his life by the bad characters in the district. so, while his master slept, bersak kept watch; and when the door was opened by bob heather in the morning a faint growl warned the intruder that his master still slept. he closed the door and went quietly away, thinking it was a blessing the squire had not kept awake all night. a faint light stole into the room as redmond maynard awoke, and at first he looked round, hardly realising where he was. then, as he thought over the events of the previous day, he said to himself, "not this year. i must be patient; perhaps it will be in the next." then he drew aside the curtains and looked again upon the wintry scene. a good deal of snow had fallen during the night, and the wind drifted it against the hedges and the trunks of the huge oak trees. there was no sign of life until a hare ran across the lawn into the garden, where there was a plentiful supply of winter vegetables. presently stealing along with his tail out, head down, and glancing from side to side with a cunning look, came a fox. he, too, crossed the lawn in the track of the hare, and the squire smiled as he watched him. "you are having a rest, my friend," he said; "but i think you would prefer the hounds at your heels, and an open country before you, in preference to all the snow. no hunting for weeks, that is what it looks like. deuce take warren, i wonder why he always goes to town when there is an excuse handy. was i right in advising irene to marry him. i think so, i hope so; but yet i doubt. he is good-looking, has money, a fine estate adjoining mine, bears a good character, as young men go, and yet there is something wanting about him. he must love irene, no one could help it, but he has no business to leave her alone to her own devices. she is young, has no children yet, nothing to occupy her mind; no, it is not fair to her. in a hunting country like this the free-and-easy intercourse at the meets sometimes leads to danger. nothing is meant at first, but gradually acquaintance ripens into intimacy, and one cannot well decline to put up a fellow sportsman, even if one's husband be absent. irene is to be trusted, i know, but she is remarkably handsome, and her good nature is apt to carry her too far in her efforts to please. if only ulick had--but there, he didn't, so what is the use of thinking about it. stupid fellow, not to see his way clear, and then to disgrace our name beyond all redemption. i wonder where he is, and where she is?" he stopped soliloquising, and went to the bath-room, from whence, in about half-an-hour, he emerged refreshed and in a more amiable frame of mind. in the breakfast-room he found irene. she came forward smiling, and kissed him. "there, was not that nice? you do not deserve it though, for you sat up all night." "who has been telling tales?" he asked. "bersak." he laughed as be said, "and, pray, how is bersak to be held responsible?" "he took me into the dining-room, and i followed him to your chair. he stood looking at it so comically that i had to laugh. he said as plainly as though he had spoken, 'that's where he sat all night, and i watched him. no fear of anyone touching him with me on guard.'" "wonderful," laughed the squire. "irene, with bersak as your instructor and guide, you would quickly find out all my secrets." "i did not know you had any." "they are not very terrible, but i possess a few; i must be in the fashion," he said. "i have no secrets from warren. i tell him everything." "i wonder if he tells you everything," thought redmond maynard, and said aloud, "that's right, my dear, never have any secrets from your husband." she poured out his coffee for him, and handed it herself. she tempted him with a dainty portion of pigeon pie, and then insisted upon some anchovy paste. "i'll tell you what it is, irene; i have not made such a good breakfast for many a day. your presence is appetising." she was pleased to hear him talk in this strain, more like his old self. somehow, she did not miss warren; she hardly gave him a thought. as for anselm manor, she much preferred hazelwell, as it was more like home. at the manor she often felt nervous and depressed when alone, peopling the old place with the figures of clean-shaven monks in long brown gowns, pacing up and down the corridors, bible in hand or telling their beads, and thinking of things earthly while engaged spiritually. anselm manor, in the centuries gone by, had been a monastery, and it was an ancestor of warren courtly who founded it. harry the eighth upset many monkish arrangements, but, strange to say, he allowed anselm to exist. the much-married monarch never even visited the place on a monk hunt, although it contained much valuable plate, and the eighth henry had a penchant for other people's property. in anselm manor irene had come across an old deed, or she fancied it a deed. it looked dirty and musty, and smelt abominably enough to be such a document, which, after much labour in deciphering, she found was a gift in perpetuity from henry the eighth, by the grace of god, to one anselm courtly, of the monastery and all the lands belonging to it. she thought it highly probable that the king had secured the said anselm's good offices, at a price, when some of his numerous matrimonial troubles arose. irene thought the manor a fine old place, but she preferred to see its rooms filled with scarlet coats to imaginary monkish habits. it was to get rid of morbid fancies she walked over to hazelwell when her husband took his departure for london. they got on well together, seldom quarrelled, although there was very little genuine love on her side. about six months after ulick maynard left hazelwell, warren courtly proposed to irene. she declined the offer, but subsequently, acting mainly on her guardian's advice, she accepted him, and they were married the same year. redmond maynard watched her moving about the room, and noticed how daintily she rearranged the various ornaments and chairs. "there," she said, "that looks much better." "i agree with you," he replied. "you have the artistic temperament strongly developed. by the way, have you done much painting during the past few months?" "yes, i have painted several pictures, but three out of every four i destroyed." "they did not come up to your expectations?" "no, and i do not care to keep inferior work. i think i have painted one that will please you." "what is it--the subject?" "a new departure for me. i have painted random; i mean to give it you if you will accept it." "that is good of you. i shall be delighted. random shall have a prominent place in my study." random was a bright bay horse redmond maynard had given irene on her marriage. he was a splendid hunter, either for lady or gentleman, and before ulick left the horse had been his favourite. irene had been given the pick of the hazelwell stable, and she selected random because he had been ulick's horse, and she thought, perhaps, his father would sell him now he was gone. random was duly sent over to anselm manor, and irene vowed she would not part with him until ulick came home, when she would hand him back to his rightful owner. she had ridden the horse in many a fast burst across country, and he carried her well. he was a safe, fearless jumper, and irene was a splendid rider. when she appeared at a meet on random, sam lane, the huntsman, thought, "we're in for it to-day; it will take the best of us all our time to keep up with mrs. courtly on random." his surmise generally turned out correct, and on more than one occasion he and irene were the only two in at the death. many attempts had been made by sporting millionaires, american and otherwise, to secure random, and a big figure would have been given for him, but irene laughed at their offers, and said a shipload of gold would not buy him. random was sometimes the cause of dispute between irene and her husband. warren courtly was ridiculously jealous of the horse. he would have scouted the idea that this feeling was engendered because random had been ulick maynard's favourite horse, and yet irene knew such to be the case. on more than one occasion he had suggested random should be sold, or the squire persuaded to make an exchange for him. his excuse was that the horse was not safe for a lady to ride, too much of a puller, and so on. irene remained firm, and declined to entertain any ideas suggesting a parting with her favourite. "you seem to care more for the horse than you do for me," he said, angrily. she laughed, and said he must have a very poor opinion of himself if he thought she preferred random. "mr. maynard was kind enough to give him to me, and i mean to keep him. don't let us quarrel about such a trifle. you would not like it if i asked you to give up your favourite hunter for a mere whim of mine." "has warren become reconciled to random?" asked the squire. "i cannot understand his antipathy to the horse. of course, he is anxious you should not run into danger, but random is a very safe horse to ride--a more perfect fencer i have seldom seen." "warren has his likes and dislikes, and when he makes up his mind he seldom gives in. random seems to have been his pet aversion ever since you gave him to me, and i do not think even now he would be at all sorry if he met with an accident, provided i came off scot free," laughed irene. "it is ridiculous. i begin to think i urged you to marry a monument of selfishness; i hope you will forgive me." "you require no forgiveness. you provided me with a suitable husband and a good home. warren is kind to me, and i have everything my own way. he is not a demonstrative man, but i feel sure he loves me, and he is not responsible for his restless disposition--that is inherited." "and do you love him, irene?" he asked. she momentarily hesitated, and then said-- "yes, i love him. we seem to understand each other now, although at first there was some restraint between us. i think we are quite as happy as the majority of married couples." he was only half satisfied with her answer, but did not pursue the subject further. "is the painting of random finished?" he asked. "yes, but not framed." "may i send bob over for it?" "i will ride over myself if you will give me a mount," she said. "the roads are very bad, will it be safe?" "the horse can be 'roughed,' and i shall enjoy a ride in the keen morning air, it will brace me up." "very well, irene. i will order rupert to be saddled, he is the safest conveyance you can have in this weather." chapter iv. irene's painting. irene mounted rupert, and the squire stood on the steps in front of the hall-door admiring the picture. the horse was a dark brown, nearly black, and stood out prominently against the snowy background. it was a sharp, crisp morning, the atmosphere clear, with a touch of frost in the air, and the sun shone brightly, the snow quivering in the light, glittering like myriads of crystals. rupert pawed the gravel in his eagerness to be going, and the squire remarked, as he shook hands with irene-- "you must come back as soon as you can. if you find the picture too cumbersome to carry leave it and we will send bob for it." "i can strap it on my back, i have a case made for the purpose. i often ride out with my sketching materials strapped on. you would take me for a tramp if you saw me walking about in my artist's costume," said irene, laughing. "a remarkably pretty tramp," said the squire. "thanks, i will turn that compliment over in my mind as i ride to the manor; it will be pleasant company for me." rupert set off at a brisk trot. he was at all times a sure-footed horse, and being roughed he had no difficulty in keeping his feet. irene's colour rose as the sharp breeze fanned her cheeks, and she was thoroughly enjoying her ride. she went past the stud farm, and came across eli todd, who had been going his rounds. next to his runaway daughter, janet, eli todd was devoted to irene. he had known her from a child, had taught her to ride, and was proud of her accomplishment. he stood admiring her as she rode up. "good-morning, eli; how are all your pets? i expect this weather does not suit some of them, but, of course, you have no foals yet?" said irene. "everything is going on well," he replied; "but i am a bit anxious about old honeysuckle." "she must be getting on for twenty?" said irene. "not far off that, mrs. courtly; in fact, i feel sure she is twenty, only it would not do to tell the squire so, because he vows she is only eighteen, he won't hear of her being more," replied eli, smiling. "there is not much difference between eighteen and twenty; but why are you anxious about honeysuckle, is there anything seriously amiss with her? i am going through helton, and can ask bard to call." james bard was the well-known county vet., and he lived at the little village of helton, giving as his reason, "i prefer helton; if i had my residence in the county town, people would be always demanding my services for all kinds of frivolous cases; it is a far way to helton, and when they take the trouble to come for me i know the case is worth going to." "no, thank you," replied eli. "it is not necessary for jim bard to be called in, and i hope it will not be." "then what is it?" asked irene. "the old mare is very heavy in foal, and i'm mightily afraid the youngster will come into the world before the first of january, and there's no need to tell you that would be a misfortune," replied eli. "if he was born on december st it would mean he would be a year old on january st," said irene, smiling. "that's just it, and look what a disadvantage he would be at all his life. i may be wrong, but i assure you i am having a very anxious time." "have you told mr. maynard?" "no, and please say nothing about it to him. he would only worry, and be constantly backwards and forwards between the house and the stables. you know how fond he is of the old mare." "honeysuckle is one of his great favourites, and no wonder; it is a good many years since she won the oaks and the st. leger for him. that is a fine painting he has of her in his study. i am afraid my poor effort will look very paltry beside it." "have you taken to painting horses?" asked eli. he believed irene capable of doing almost anything she put her hand to. "i have tried to paint random, and i am riding over to the manor for the painting, as the squire is anxious to see it." "he'll make a grand picture; he's a fine subject to work on. there are not many hunters like him in the county. he was mr. ulick's favourite, and i was precious glad when you got him, for i was very much afraid the squire would have sold him." "you were very fond of ulick, were you not, eli?" she asked, in a soft tone of voice. "to my mind there's not a man round these parts to compare with him." "and you do not believe he ran away with janet?" "he never did that, i'll swear. you know he was not a man of that sort." "suspicion was, and still is, strong against him," she said. "you cannot judge a man on suspicion, and in your heart you do not believe him guilty," he said. "how can i believe otherwise? who else could have done it?" "i wish i could find out," he answered, vehemently. "i will some day, and then----" "what then?" "something will happen. when i stand face to face with the man who stole my girl, he'll have to look to himself," said eli, sternly. "do you think janet will ever come back?" she asked. "yes, as sure as i believe mr. ulick will." "i hope you will prove a true prophet," she replied. "if ulick came back to hazelwell and cleared himself, it would make a young man of the squire. i should like to look round the stables, but i have no time now." "come when you like, i shall be only too pleased to show you the mares. don't say anything to the squire about honeysuckle, please, mrs. courtly." "i will not; i am discretion itself in such matters," laughed irene, as she rode away. it was four miles to the manor, and when she arrived there she thought how cold and forbidding the old place looked when compared with hazelwell. the housekeeper was surprised to see her, and bustled about briskly. "i am not going to remain long," said irene. "i have merely come for a picture. i suppose mr. courtly has not returned?" "no, but there is a letter for you, and it is his handwriting on the envelope." irene went into the morning-room and found some letters in the basket on the table. she opened the one from her husband first. it was brief and to the point. "dear irene,--i shall not be home for a week. if you feel lonely, go over to hazelwell; i am sure the squire will give you a warm welcome. business must be attended to, you know, and the anselm estate takes a good deal of looking after. with love, i am, &c., warren." "et cetera," said irene to herself, smiling. "that's so like warren. he is made up of et ceteras--it may mean much or little--it is so delightfully vague." a faint odour of perfume was perceptible, and she wondered where it came from. the letter was still in her hand, and as she wafted it carelessly about she discovered the paper was highly scented. "that's not club paper," she thought. "clubs are too prosaic to have scented paper about, besides, there is no heading; he must have written it at some friend's house. but why should it be a plain sheet with no address? and what a peculiar scent. my dear warren, this requires some explanation; i will carefully preserve your eloquent epistle. scented paper and legal affairs do not go well together, not in the management of estates, although i have no doubt breach of promise cases agree with it." she folded the letter, and put it in the drawer of her writing-desk. two letters were addressed to warren, and these she placed on one side; the fourth bore the london postmark, and she did not know the writing. the contents puzzled her. the letter was a request for money to enable the writer to tide over temporary difficulties. it was signed felix hoffman. she had never heard the name before. why did the man write to her? how came he to know her address? it was a strange begging-letter, for no hint was given as to the writer's position, how he came to be in distress, why he wrote to her, or any information that was likely to induce her to accede to his request. the strangeness of the letter appealed to her. she firmly believed the man wanted money, also that he would repay her. there was no whining about it, none of the professional begging-letter writer's ways. half-a-dozen lines, and no sum mentioned. the address sounded genuine-- , main street, feltham, middlesex. where was feltham? she took up bradshaw's guide, and found it was on the london and south-western line, between waterloo and windsor. she had never heard of the place before, although she must have passed it on her way to sunningdale for the ascot week. irene was given to making up her mind on the spur of the moment, and she did so in this case. she sat down at her desk, took her private cheque-book out, and sent the unknown and mysterious felix hoffman a cheque for five pounds. "easily imposed upon, i suppose that is what the majority of people would say; at any rate, if it is an imposition it is an uncommon one. i have a good mind to go up to london and on to feltham just to spy out the land. i will ask the squire about it. he will not call me a fool, he is far too polite, but he'll probably think i am one." she sealed the letter and placed it in the postbag, locking it, and thus hiding her missive from prying eyes. irene trusted her servants, but she understood human nature, and knew curiosity was well developed in the domestic maiden. passing into the room she used as a studio, she took the painting of random from the easel and placed it in a more favourable light. she criticised it, and was more than satisfied she had done the horse justice. the colouring was right, not hard, or harsh; the coat was not too glossy, yet it showed signs of health. the head was as perfect as it well could be. the left eye--the horse had his head turned three-parts round--was perhaps a shade too dull. she took up her palette, and with a couple of light touches altered it to her satisfaction. "i think he will like it, and not merely because i have done it, but because it has merit." she placed it in her portfolio, and adjusted the straps to suit her shoulders, so that it would not interfere with her riding. she rang the bell, and mrs. dixon, the housekeeper, appeared. "has anyone called, dixon?" "no; we need not look out for visitors in this weather." dixon was a privileged person; she had been in command at anselm manor long before warren courtly's mother died, and irene declined to have her removed, although her husband would have been pleased to see the back of her. martha dixon had a strong affection for irene, although she would not abate a jot of her sternness or abrupt manner under any consideration. she also knew that warren courtly had been anything but a saint before he married, but that was none of her business. "i suppose this is a gentle hint that i ought not to be riding about this weather?" said irene, smiling. martha dixon smiled back at her mistress and said, in a soft tone-- "if you take care of yourself it will do you no harm, and i know it's precious lonely at the manor. how did you find the squire?" "he looks wonderfully well, but it was a bad night for him last night." "then he remembers; he has forgotten nothing?" "and never will. he thinks ulick will come back on the anniversary of the night he left home, and he has steeled himself to wait another year," said irene. "that minx janet is at the bottom of it all. a regular little flirt; i have no patience with 'em," said martha. "poor janet, she has suffered for her wrongdoing, perhaps she is not to blame." "mr. ulick ought to have packed her off somewhere and remained at home," she said. "he was too much of a man to do that," said irene. "do you know, dixon, i met eli as i came here, and his faith in ulick is as strong as ever?" "it does him credit, but he knows different in his heart." "you are mistaken; he believes ulick is not guilty of wronging his daughter, i am sure of it." "i wish it would come true," said martha. "i must go now," said irene. "please order my horse." this being done, martha dixon fixed the picture firmly on irene's back, and fastened the straps. "the squire will be pleased with that; it was mr. ulick's favourite horse." "i believe that is why he was glad when i chose random," said irene, as she walked to the door and quickly mounted rupert. "if any letters come, shall i send them to hazelwell?" asked martha. "no," replied irene; then added quickly, as she thought of the mysterious felix hoffman, "on second thoughts, perhaps you had better do so, but i may ride over again in a day or two. mr. courtly writes that he will not be back for a week." she rode quickly away, and martha dixon watched her until she was out of sight. "i have nothing to say against mr. warren," muttered martha, as she shut the door, "but i wish mr. ulick had not got into a mess. she'd have been happier with him, although i say it, as shouldn't." chapter v. honeysuckle's foal. it was new year's eve, and eli todd was passing through a series of varying emotions. a stranger watching him might, with considerable excuse, have put him down as a lunatic. no sooner was he comfortably seated in his armchair by the cosy fire than he jumped up again suddenly, seized his hat, and dashed out into the wintry night. after a quarter of an hour's absence he returned, settled down again, commenced to doze and, waking with a start, rushed out of the house in the same erratic manner as before. the cause of these proceedings on the part of eli was the mare, honeysuckle. never was a man placed in such a predicament, all on account of a mare, as eli todd on this occasion. it wanted four hours to midnight, and every moment the studmaster expected honeysuckle's foal would come forth into the cold and heartless world an hour or two before the new year. it was enough to drive him to despair. this would in all probability be honeysuckle's last foal, but the squire had already made up his mind that "what's last is best." blissfully ignorant was the squire of the throes of anxiety his trusty servant was enduring. it was his firm belief that honeysuckle would not foal until the middle of january at the earliest, and eli had not undeceived him. "i do wish you would keep still and not worry yourself," said mrs. marley. "it can do no good, the mare will get on quite as well without you; leave it to nature." "much you know about it," grumbled eli. "leaving it to nature is all very well, but you ought to know that nature requires a little assistance at times." "you never take advice," she replied. "i do when it is good," was the effectual reply. again eli todd opened the door, and a cold blast struck him in the face. a light was burning in honeysuckle's box across the yard, and he plodded through the snow to it. his head man was inside sitting in a chair, looking drowsy, and nodding. eli thought he had better go to bed, and said he would take his place. "i'll call you if i want you," he said, and the man thanked him as he went out. eli sat in the chair watching the old mare and frequently looking at his watch. he had never wished time to fly so rapidly before. honeysuckle was restless, and from time to time looked at him with her big, soft eyes in a most pathetic way. "i can't do anything for you, old girl," he said. "but you can oblige me very much by staving off the great event until the clock has struck twelve. after that the sooner you are over your trouble the better." another half hour passed, and still found eli wakeful and on guard. a slight noise outside aroused him, and he listened attentively. "it sounded like a man walking, perhaps joe has come back. i know he is as anxious as i am about her," muttered eli. a knock on the door made him start, and he said-- "who's there?" no answer. it was mysterious at this hour of the night. he asked the question again, and the reply was another rap. picking up his stick, he cautiously opened the door and peered out. he saw a man, muffled up; standing a yard or two away. something about the figure seemed familiar to him, and a peculiar sensation passed through his body, making his pulses tingle with anticipation. "who are you, and what are you doing here?" he asked. "have you forgotten me, eli?" the studmaster started back, exclaiming-- "my god, it's mr. ulick!" "yes, it's me, none other; may i come in?" for answer eli dropped his stick, took him by both hands, and dragged him into the box. ulick maynard unbuttoned his coat and unwound the scarf around his neck. he was a tall, handsome man, with a clear, open countenance. it was the face of a man to be trusted, if ever there was one. "i am glad to see you, but it's a strange time to come," said eli. "are you going up to the house?" "no," was the emphatic reply. "i shall never go back to hazelwell until my father asks my pardon for the insult he put upon me." "you don't know how he has suffered since you left," said eli. "he sat up all night on tuesday. you know what date it was?" "yes; i left home on that night two years ago." "and mrs. courtly came over from the manor and stayed with him," said eli. "irene," he said softly. "yes, and she told me the squire would be a young man again if you came back." "do they still believe i wronged your daughter?" eli made no reply, he thought it better to keep silent, for he would not tell a lie or deceive him. "i see," said ulick, bitterly. "i am still the black sheep, a disgrace to the name. and you, what do you think?" "no need to ask me, mr. ulick. you know what i think. i never believed you guilty, and i never will, no, not even if janet accused you, because she would be forced to it by the man who led her astray," said eli. ulick took his hand and shook it heartily. "thank you, eli," he said. "i give you my solemn word i did not wrong janet. we may have flirted a trifle, as a man will do with a pretty girl, but i never injured her by word or deed. is she at home still?" eli looked at him curiously. he evidently had no idea janet left her home the same night he went away from hazelwell. "my girl has been away from me for two years." it was ulick's turn to look surprised. "you thought it better to send her away, no doubt?" "i did not send her away." "she left her home, ran away from you?" "that's what happened." "when did she go?" "the same night you did." "good heavens! no wonder my father still believes me guilty. no doubt he thinks i went with her," said ulick. "he came to my house in a towering passion the morning after she left, and when he found out she had gone he was very bitter against you both. he said words he ought not to have said, but i am sure he repented them afterwards." "have you heard anything of her?" "no," replied eli. "not a line from her." "i wonder who took her away? i'd give a good deal to find out," said ulick. "and so would i. she must be in london, i think; it is a good place to hide in," said eli. "so i find. a man can bury himself in london without much fear of recognition." "have you been in london since you left hazelwell?" asked eli. "most of the time. i very seldom came across anyone i know. you see, i have money of my own, independent of my father, so it enables me to live comfortably." "and what has brought you down here?" asked eli. "curiosity, a desire to see the old place, call it what you will. i wanted to have a chat with you, and hear how my father was going on," said ulick. "you had better go and see him. i am sure he has suffered enough by your absence." "and do you not think i have suffered? and it makes it none the easier to bear because it is unjust. have you ever suspected any one?" "you mean about janet?" "yes." "i would rather not say. i have no proof, and if i am right it would cause even more trouble than the suspicion about you did." "then you have some idea who the man is?" "i have, but we will not talk of that. if everything comes to light, well and good, but i am not going to be the one to cause more unhappiness." "you ought to tell me. i have a right to know." "granted, but you must forgive me if i decline to say anything. this much i may tell you, that if what i suspect is true it will bring shame and disgrace upon someone who is very dear to you," said eli. ulick was astonished, and wondered if eli really had any grounds for suspicion. he would think the matter over on his return to london; it might possibly afford him some clue. if he found out the real culprit he would be able to judge what was best to be done. it was no use questioning eli further. "old honeysuckle looks in rather a bad way," he said, changing the subject, for which eli was very thankful. eli explained the situation to him, and ulick, looking at his watch, said-- "it only wants half an hour to midnight; we have been talking a long time. i'll stay with you and see it through. there is no danger of the squire suddenly coming down?" "not at this hour, i am glad to say. he thinks there is no cause for anxiety. but will you not come into the house? mrs. marley has gone to bed, and we shall not be disturbed," said eli. "let us remain here until it is all over," replied ulick, and he sat down on the straw. "take this chair," said eli. "i prefer to be here, it is more comfortable." it was a quiet night, and the light wind was blowing from the village of helton. honeysuckle was in considerable pain, and they both watched her with anxious eyes, knowing what a vast difference a few minutes would make. "there's the church clock at helton striking," said eli, as he opened the door of the box. he gave a sigh of relief when the last stroke of twelve came. the bells pealed forth a welcome to the new year, and the old year, with all its joys and sorrows, was gone for ever. what would the new year bring forth? "this was a curious way of seeing the old year out and the new year in," said ulick, smiling. a quarter of an hour after midnight honeysuckle's troubles were over, and a fine colt foal had come into the world almost at the sound of the church bells. "we must make a note of this," said eli, putting down the date and hour of foaling. "i shall not forget it," said ulick. "if there happened to be any dispute my father would be rather surprised if i was called as a witness." "go across to my cottage," said eli. "i'll ring joe up, there is no occasion for you to see him." "i will wait outside the gate for you," said ulick, as he went across the yard. leaving joe in charge, with strict injunctions to call him at once if wanted, eli hurried after ulick, and, opening the door, led him into the room where he had an interview with janet the night they both left home. ulick sank into a chair tired out, and soon fell asleep. eli stood looking on him with a sorrowful expression on his face. "i wish he'd go and see the squire," he said to himself. "there would be a reconciliation between them, i am sure; but mr. ulick is as proud and stubborn as his father when he knows he is in the right. he looks a trifle older, but not much. it's a blessing he does not lack for money. i wonder what he has been doing with his time, racing probably--it runs in the blood. he never was a great gambler; i hope he has not taken to it to kill time and drown his feelings." eli was accustomed to night watches, and did not go to sleep. he locked the door so that no one could intrude, and about four o'clock he roused ulick and asked him to have something to eat. "the cold and long walk made me drowsy," he said, with a yawn. "i acknowledge to feeling hungry, likewise thirsty. if you have any cold meat; that will do, and some of your noted beer." "i suppose you wish to keep this visit a secret?" asked eli. "yes; it has done me good to run down to the old place. i shall try and find out janet when i get back to town. you have no objection, i suppose?" "on the contrary, i hope you will find her. if you do, try and induce her to come home." "i'll bring her myself if i can," said ulick. "they think we went away together, so we may as well return together; but she will have to give me the name of the man who has caused all the trouble." he ate ravenously, and eli was pleased to see him make such a hearty meal. "i must be going now," said ulick. "you will not tell anyone i have been here." "no. which way are you going?" "i shall walk to haydon station and catch the early train to london. i got out there; there is a new station-master, he does not know me." "that's more than ten miles," said eli. "it will do me good. i have not done much country walking lately." "will you leave me your address in town, i will take care no one sees it?" asked eli. ulick wrote on a sheet in his pocket-book, and handed it to eli, saying, "that address will always find me, no matter whether i am in london or otherwise. i always have my letters sent on, even if i am only away for a few days at a race meeting." "then you go in for racing?" said eli, smiling. "yes, i have attended many meetings since i left hazelwell." "do you bet?" ulick laughed, as he replied, "sometimes, but i know too much about it to risk large sums. between you and me, eli, i own a couple of horses, one i daresay you have heard of, his name is the saint." "you own the saint!" exclaimed eli; "why, he was about the best of the two-year-olds last season." "he was, and he will not be far off being the best of the three-year-olds this season. i bought him for a reasonable figure. of course, you know his breeding: by father confessor out of hilda. i hope to win some good races with him. he runs in the assumed name of mr. lanark. i hope when brighter days have dawned he will come to hazelwell. it would rather surprise the squire if he knew he belonged to me." ulick went into the hall and put on his coat. "we might ride part of the way," said eli. "it's better for me to walk," replied ulick, and added, "i will let you know if i hear anything of janet, and will try and persuade her to come home." "thank you, mr. ulick, and if you do come across her, tell her home is the best place for her, and that i shall never remind her of what has happened." "and you still have faith in me?" asked ulick, smiling, as he shook hands. "yes, and always shall have, as i told you before," said eli, who watched him until he disappeared in the darkness, and wondered at the strange chance that brought him to hazelwell the night honeysuckle's foal was born. chapter vi. a wily young man. in a small, but comfortably-furnished house at feltham, lived mrs. hoffman and her son, felix. she was not a widow, but her husband had left her some years before. at that time her son was seventeen, now he was five-and-twenty, and a sore trial and trouble to her. felix hoffman was one of many men who prefer idleness to work, and he took good care not to find any suitable employment. it troubled his mother that he was seldom short of money. how did he obtain it? not by work of any kind, of that she was certain. once or twice she questioned him as to how he made sufficient to supply his wants, which were by no means few or inexpensive, but he always flew into a passion on such occasions, and his attitude became so threatening that she forebore to make further inquiries. felix hoffman was not bad looking. he had a jewish cast of features, black curly hair, and a fierce moustache of the same colour. his eyes were dark brown, shifty and uncertain, and when he conversed he seldom looked his companion in the face. he did not resemble his mother in the least; she was english, and married milas hoffman when quite a girl. had she been more experienced in the ways of the world he would have had but little chance of winning her. a few months after their marriage she found out her mistake. milas hoffman called himself a travelling jeweller. he certainly went about the country with a case packed with glittering ornaments, which he disposed of on most advantageous terms to servant girls, young grooms, and others of the same class in different countries. his profits were large, and he made a very fair income out of the gullibility of his customers. he became more daring in his transactions, and at last came within the grasp of the law. not wishing to face the charges of swindling brought against him, he left england, and his wife had never heard of him since. she did not mourn over his desertion. she had sufficient money by her to carry on for a time, and she fixed her hopes upon her son felix. they were doomed to be rudely shattered when he coolly told her there were plenty of ways of making money without working for it. what those ways were he failed to tell her, but it saddened her to see that he was right, and he drew supplies from sources she felt sure she could not approve of. felix hoffman met many men in london in very different positions in life to himself. he was a frequenter of racecourses, one of the undesirables whose presence gives the sport a bad name, and its enemies a handle wherewith to pump obloquy upon all connected with it, the just and the unjust. at first he was a bookmaker's tout, and rushed about the ring watching the fluctuation of the odds, scenting out stable commissions and repeating the same to his employer with lightning speed. it was seldom the bookmaker was let in for a big bet "over the odds" when felix hoffman was hovering about with hawk-like keenness. the said bookmaker, whose sham diamonds were the envy of the uninitiated, became so impressed with the fertile resources of felix hoffman that he actually ventured to take him into partnership "in the book." this was a grave mistake, for in a very short time the versatile felix had transformed the firm, and his name alone figured on the bag and tickets. the members of tattersall's smiled; many of them had seen these mysterious changes before and knew what it meant. felix hoffman, in his turn, made a mistake. he handed over the "bag" to two men he fancied he could trust, and proceeded to back horses on his own account. he saw no reason why, with his skill in scenting out commissions and spotting genuinely-backed horses, he should not be able to lay the losers and back the winners. better men than felix had endeavoured to accomplish this feat before, and come lamentably to grief, and he followed them into the same quandary. it puzzled felix not a little to find out the cause of his failure. he had not yet learned that to be successful on the turf a man must be either a backer or a layer, but not both, and in the one capacity a good share of luck must be his to succeed. warren courtly was fond of racing, especially "chasing," and during the off-season he was frequently seen at meetings round london. even the attractions of the hunting field could not, on many occasions, lure him from the racecourse. irene knew he frequented such places, but she had no idea of the extent of his gambling transactions, or they would have appalled her. she thought his statement that the anselm manor estates required a good deal of looking after was an excuse for his visits to london, but, as a matter of fact, he was correct in his assertion. everything he could mortgage he did, and even the manor itself had sundry charges upon it, which he found it difficult to meet. the racecourse is a rare levelling ground, and men of very different types fraternise together with a freedom never seen elsewhere. warren courtly had noticed felix hoffman's energy in ferreting out information, and on more than one occasion had taken the trouble to find out whether he was right or wrong. in this way he gathered that his advice was generally good. he approached him one day at hurst park, and asked his advice about milander in a hurdle race. felix hoffman was not at all surprised at a stranger speaking to him about such matters. he eyed warren courtly over, and came to the conclusion it would pay him to tell him all he knew. as luck would have it, he did know milander was a very fair thing for the hurdle race. "i'll make it worth your while if it wins," said warren. "what will you put me on?" "i will lay you the odds to a fiver." "milander has a very good chance. dyer rides him, and he told me, bar accident, he would win. i think you can back him for a good stake." "meet me here after the race," said warren, and walked out of the paddock into the ring. "he's a real swell," thought felix. "he may come in useful." milander won comfortably, and started at the remunerative odds of five to one. warren courtly won a good stake, and handed felix "a pony," the winnings on the five pounds he put on for him. "i'd give dyer something, sir, if i were you," said felix. "he's not a bad sort, and generally tells me when he has a chance." "give him this," said warren, handing felix a ten-pound note. "shall i see you again, sir?" "i am often at these meetings. if you know anything, come and tell me, and i will see you are a gainer thereby." it was in this way warren courtly became acquainted with felix hoffman, who later on helped him in another way, which did not redound to his credit, and which eventually gave that wily young man a hold over the master of anselm court. mrs. hoffman was surprised one day when her son brought warren courtly down to feltham. she wondered how felix became acquainted with him, and still more why his friend condescended to associate with him. she knew her son was not at all a desirable companion for a man of warren courtly's stamp. felix introduced him as mr. warren. "a gentleman i have frequently met on the racecourse, mother; he wishes to consult you on a private matter, and i hope you will agree to his request." mrs. hoffman was surprised, but expressed her readiness to hear what he had to tell her. "it is rather a delicate matter," commenced warren, when felix left the room; "the fact of the matter is, i am anxious to find a comfortable home for my wife until my father can be informed of our marriage. he is very much set against it because the lady is hardly in the same set as ourselves. i have married for love, but that is no reason why i should forfeit the many advantages i now have, and which i should certainly lose if my father found out i was married. my wife is young and pretty, and would, i am sure, cause very little trouble in a house. i asked your son if he knew of any place where i could leave her, in or near london, and he said he had no doubt his mother would be pleased to have her, and he was quite certain would make her comfortable. if you have no objection, mrs. hoffman, i should like my wife to have rooms here, and i am sure i could rely upon you to treat her kindly, and be a companion to her." mrs. hoffman was not at all displeased at this proposal, but she foresaw one danger, and that was felix. she knew him to be utterly unscrupulous, and feared his influence over a young married woman living apart from her husband, for that was what it meant. however, she would take very good care he had no opportunities of making himself objectionable to her. warren courtly noticed the hesitation, and said, "i do not think there will be any trouble over the terms. i know very little about these matters, but if you will make a suggestion i will consider it." mrs. hoffman had no intention of asking too little. her experience of life had taught her much, and she had her doubts as to the truth of the story she had heard. still, that was none of her business, and she meant to do her duty by the girl when she came to her house. "would three guineas a week be too much, sir? there may be a few extras, which i suppose you would not mind paying for?" "that is reasonable," said warren, who had expected a higher figure, "and i hope you will do all in your power to make mrs. warren comfortable." "i can safely promise you that, and that i shall be very pleased to have someone in the house, for my son is generally away from home. when may we expect you, sir?" warren named the date, and she replied-- "that is quite close to christmas. shall you stay here during that week, if so i will prepare for you?" "i am sorry to say i shall be away; my father will expect me to be at home with the rest of the family," said warren. in due course, warren arrived at mrs. hoffman's house at feltham with janet todd, and she had been there two years living under the name of mrs. warren. seven or eight months after he had found janet a home with mrs. hoffman, warren married irene carstone, and considered he had done his duty by janet, and that this discreditable action in his life was closed. it troubled him when he heard ulick maynard was looked upon as the wrongdoer, but he had not the manliness or the courage to confess, and thus place the blame upon his own shoulders. it was a strange coincidence, he thought, that the squire should have made this accusation against ulick on the same night he had planned to take janet away. he had not much difficulty in persuading her to go, and he knew she was fully convinced he would marry her. this did not trouble him much, his anxiety was to get her away from hazelwell, because he had at that time made up his mind to marry irene, if she would have him. fate played into his hands, and worked everything smoothly for him. when he heard from janet that ulick had been at her father's, and told her the squire had accused him of being the cause of her misfortune, warren was astounded. he saw at once how janet's flight would confirm the squire's charge, and that everyone would believe she had left her home with ulick. "what did he say to you?" asked warren. janet hung her head, and her cheeks became crimson. "tell me what he said," warren asked, sharply. "he was very angry, and said i deserved to be thrashed for bringing disgrace upon my father; as for myself, it was no more than i deserved. he asked me who had got me into trouble." "you did not tell him?" said warren, anxiously. "how can you ask such a question? of course i did not tell him." "that's a good girl, janet; you must always keep our secret." "that depends upon how you treat me," she replied, and at this answer warren courtly commenced to see it might not be all plain sailing with her. "did mr. maynard tell you he was suspected of being the cause of your trouble?" "yes, and i offered to write to his father and tell him it was untrue, but he was very angry and forbade me doing so, saying his father ought to have known him better, and that he must find out the truth for himself," said janet. warren was relieved at this. he knew ulick maynard had a proud, stubborn disposition, and that his father's suspicions would sting him to the quick. it was not at all likely he would ask janet to prove his innocence, and when she was at feltham he would have but little chance of finding her, even if he changed his mind. they arrived in london, and went from waterloo to feltham. "remember, you are mrs. warren," he said, "and do not let anyone find out where you come from. mrs. hoffman you will like, but her son is a scamp, and you will do well to avoid him." mrs. hoffman soon grew very fond of janet, and the girl reciprocated the motherly feelings thus shown. she was not unhappy, but she would have been more contented had warren allowed her to write to her father and tell him all was well with her. this, however, he strictly forbade; he did not wish her to have any communication with hazelwell. the first serious quarrel took place when warren told her he was to marry irene carstone. janet wept, and then flew into a rage, vowing she would write to her father, the squire, and irene, and confess all. he dare not leave her for a week, and during that time he used all his persuasive powers to calm her, and at times resorted to threats, which she only laughed at. eventually he took mrs. hoffman into his confidence, and discovered that she had suspected the truth all along. "i wish you would use your influence with her," he said; "i am quite willing to make her a good allowance, and also settle a sum of money upon her, provided she holds her tongue." mrs. hoffman promised she would do all that lay in her power to bring janet to a proper frame of mind. she really liked her, and thought she was far happier as she was than if she had married warren. she succeeded in her endeavour, but janet was mercenary when it came to terms with mr. courtly. she was determined to have adequate remuneration for all she had lost, and the deception he had practised on her. he grumbled at her demands, but she was firm, and as there was no other way out of the difficulty, except exposure, he gave in. janet knew her power over him, and his marriage with irene materially increased it. "i wonder what she would do if she knew all?" thought janet. chapter vii. selling his heritage. it was hardly to be expected that janet should remain under the roof of mrs. hoffman without attracting the attention of her unscrupulous son, and at last felix hoffman annoyed her so persistently that his mother gave him to understand if he did not desist he would be forbidden the house. janet hated the sight of him, and seldom answered his questions. this annoyed him, and offended his pride, of which he possessed a ridiculous quantity. one day, when janet was out, he came across a letter she had carelessly left on her table, and without scruple picked it up and read it. the contents did not afford him much gratification, but the heading to the paper gave food for reflection. anselm manor, rushshire, sounded well, and the letter was signed warren. "warren what? he must have another name," thought felix. "i should like to know what it is." he set to work to find out, and was not long before he succeeded. warren courtly was well known amongst sporting men, and felix soon discovered who and what he was. he chuckled to himself as he thought what a commotion it would cause if mrs. courtly knew about janet todd's connection with her husband. he foresaw a profitable harvest from this source, but had no intention of putting warren courtly on his guard at present. he had written many begging letters in the course of his life, and several of them had proved effective. it occurred to him it would be a neat stroke of business to write to mrs. courtly for assistance, and after several attempts he decided to dispatch the one already alluded to. it reached irene safely, with the result that felix was enriched by five pounds. he was quite proud of this achievement, for he had doubts as to the success of his missive. he wrote back thanking her, and repeating that he would refund the money at some future date. this was how irene came to have a knowledge of felix hoffman. his reply was sent on to hazelwell, and she decided to show both letters to the squire. "i hope you will not think me very foolish," she said, as she handed him the letters; "you will gather from them what has taken place." redmond maynard read them, and said-- "this man, whoever he is, must be a clever rogue, it is a form of begging-letter writing i have never seen before. i do not blame you for sending the money, although had you consulted me i should have felt more inclined to hand over the matter to the police. you must not send him any more money," said the squire. "do you think he will write for more?" "most decidedly, especially as his first letter was such a success." "i had thought of going to feltham the next time i am in london, and finding out where he lives and the kind of man he is," she said. "you must not do anything of the kind. there is no telling where he is; at any rate, you must not venture there alone," he replied. "it is merely from a desire to gratify my curiosity that i wish to go. i am sure no harm will come of it." the squire shook his head, as he replied-- "the letter has cost you five pounds, let the matter drop and think no more about it." "feltham is not far from kempton park," said irene. "i wonder if warren knows anything about the place?" "probably. ask him when he returns home," said the squire. "by the way, irene, i had almost forgotten it is new year's day. we are not a very jolly household for the occasion, but we must not commence another year with gloomy thoughts and melancholy countenances." "i hope this year will bring ulick home again," she said. "so do i, with all my heart," said the squire. "there's eli coming up the walk, i wonder what he wants." "shall i tell bob to send him in when he arrives?" she asked. "yes, do, irene." eli todd came into the room, and wished them a cheery happy new year. "we have made a good start at the stud, although i had a terribly anxious time of it," he said. "made a good start, what do you mean?" said the squire. "there are no foals yet?" "only one," replied eli, smiling, "and he was precious near being born before midnight. as luck would have it, he came into the world a quarter of an hour after, so that is all right." "but there was no mare due to foal so early," remarked the squire. "only old honeysuckle," said eli, with a smile. "you mean to tell me the old mare has a foal? i was certain it would be the middle of the month before that event came off," said the squire. "i knew you were wrong, but i did not contradict you," replied eli. "then if you knew i was wrong, it was your business to tell me, and you ought to have done so," said the squire. eli was a privileged servant, and although always respectful to the squire, occasionally answered him bluntly. "it is not an easy matter to contradict you, squire; you generally like to have your own way," said eli. irene laughed, and said she must certainly side with him in his remark. "that is rather hard upon me," replied the squire. "i had no idea i was so obstinate." "oh, but you are," laughed irene, "and once you have made up your mind you stick to it through thick and thin." "that is about a correct summing up of the situation," said eli. "what sort of a youngster is it?" asked the squire. "very promising, so far as i can judge at this stage; he ought to make a good one." "do let us go and see him," said irene. the squire walked to the window and looked out. the snow still lay deep upon the ground, but it was hard and crisp, and afforded good walking. "i think we may venture," he said. "will you come, irene?" "with pleasure, i will not be more than a few minutes putting on my things." she left the room, and returned enveloped in a seal-skin jacket, trimmed with heavy sable, and a toque to match. she looked very attractive, and the squire glanced at her admiringly. eli todd thought he had never seen a prettier woman, and wondered how ulick could have been so foolish as to leave the way clear for warren courtly to win her. they thoroughly enjoyed the walk in the brisk, frosty air, and when they arrived at the stud farm eli took them to honeysuckle's box. he quietly opened the door, and, stepping inside, they saw a pretty sight. the mare was standing sideways to them, and as they entered the foal looked at them with big, inquiring eyes. he sidled up close to his mother, and playfully pushed her with his nose. he was a well-made colt, long on the leg, and with a beautiful head and well-shaped body. the squire eyed him critically for several minutes, and then said-- "he ought to make a good one, there is plenty of room for him to fill out and develop. i am glad honeysuckle has thrown such a good one, it will probably be her last." "i thought you would like him," said eli. irene went up to him and patted him gently. the colt was not at all alarmed, and sniffed at her jacket and fur with evident relish. "he's a dear little fellow," she said, "and i hope he will win a good race or two for you. i should like to see him win." "you may have that pleasure next year," said the squire, "that is if he goes on all right; so many promising foals turn out badly, one never knows what may happen." bersak put his head in the door, and the colt started back in alarm. it was his first introduction to another animal, and he evidently regarded bersak as some wild savage beast of prey. honeysuckle turned round, and looked straight at the intruder, but she and bersak were friends and had met many times before. eli thought of the scene the previous night, and wished he could tell the squire he had seen ulick. he had given his word not to mention the visit, and therefore his lips were sealed. "we will walk through the plantation on the way home," said the squire, "it is a short cut, and i feel i shall be ready for luncheon when we get in." they set off at a brisk pace, bersak following at their heels. it was a pleasant walk, and hares and rabbits frequently ran across their path, while the pheasants strutted about proudly, their brilliant plumage affording a sharp contrast to the snow. after luncheon the squire had his usual nap, and irene looked over the various papers and magazines. a paragraph caught her eye, and she read it with feelings of wonder and amazement. it was to the effect that mr. warren courtly, of anselm manor, had disposed of holme farm for the sum of ten thousand pounds, and this was instanced as another proof of the decreased value of land. "sold the holme farm, there must be some mistake!" thought irene, and read the paragraph again. "he never mentioned anything about it to me, and i know of no reason why he should sell it. i wonder where these rumours originate; they have no business to insert them in the paper until they ascertain whether they are correct." she was troubled over it, although she did not believe it to be true. the holme farm was one of the best on the anselm estate, and even if warren had been compelled to sell it, she thought he might have given the squire the first refusal. she failed to understand the meaning of it, and was still puzzling over the matter when the squire awoke and looked at her through his half-closed eyes. he saw something had disturbed her, and, sitting up in his chair, inquired the cause. "there is an announcement in the paper i cannot understand," she said. "this is it." he read the paragraph and said, "what an abominable statement to make. it must be some other farm of that name, and warren's name has been inadvertently inserted as that of the owner." he looked at it again, and saw it was an announcement made by the auctioneers who sold the property. this made the matter more serious, the sellers would not be likely to make such a mistake. "warren would never have sold it without telling me he was about to do so," said irene. "he has done a very foolish thing if he has sold it," said the squire. "he cannot possibly be short of money with the income he has. ten thousand pounds is a ridiculous sum for the holme farm, it ought to be worth five thousand more at least. he will explain what it all means when he returns home." notwithstanding he spoke confidently, the squire had his misgivings. he had heard vague rumours from his brother magistrates, when he met them as chairman of the county bench and of the quarter sessions, that all was not well with warren courtly. he paid very little attention to the statements, treating them as so much idle gossip, but they came home to him forcibly now. he had heard that warren courtly had been going the pace on the racecourse and gambling heavily, but he thought warren quite capable of looking after himself. they passed a somewhat quiet afternoon and evening, for the announcement disturbed them both, and irene was anxious for the next morning to come, in the hope it might bring her some explanation from her husband. it was quite true that warren courtly had sold the holme farm for ten thousand pounds, and the bulk of the money received from it went to pay his debts. he was in no very enviable frame of mind when he stepped into the windsor train at waterloo on his way to feltham to see janet. he was heartily sick and tired of her, and of the deception he had to practise in connection with her. moreover, janet was becoming troublesome, and, what was still worse, homesick. she was constantly imploring him to allow her to return to her father, promising to keep his secret and never to breathe a word about their intimacy. warren courtly would not hear of it. he knew of eli todd's great affection and devotedness to ulick, and felt certain he would extract the truth from janet if she lived with him again. he had wronged irene, and deceived her, but he meant to shield her from the consequences of his folly at any cost. she must never know that he had been cowardly enough to allow ulick to lie under the ban of a false accusation. he left the train at feltham, and walked to mrs. hoffman's. janet shook hands with him as an ordinary acquaintance; there was no love between them now, whatever there had been a couple of years ago. the more she saw of him and learned his nature, the more she despised him. "you are looking well," he said, "the world is treating you better than me." "is it?" she answered, carelessly. "i am very unhappy, i want to go home again. i cannot rest until mr. ulick's name is cleared. it is a shame he should suffer for your fault." "my fault and yours," he said, angrily. "you always lay all the blame at my door." "and that is where it ought to be. i was a fool ever to trust you." "i have done all i can for you, more than i can afford." she laughed as she replied-- "that is nice talk for the owner of anselm manor." "it is true nevertheless. i have sold the holme farm to pay my debts." "i don't believe it." "read that," he said, and handed her the paper with an account of the sale. "ten thousand pounds!" she exclaimed. "that is a lot of money. i am rather short of cash, you must give me some." "you had twenty pounds last month." "and i want twenty more now." "you cannot have it." "then you must take the consequences," she said. "what shall you do?" "pack up my things, go down to helton, see my father, and tell the truth," she replied. "you dare not, no one would believe your story." "one person would, i am certain," she answered. "your father?" "probably, but i meant your wife," said janet. "you dare not speak to her of such things," he said, angrily. "and why not? she has every right to know the truth." "if i give you the money will you hold your tongue?" he asked. "yes, until i require more," was her reply. he gave her twenty pounds, thankful to be able to stave off the evil day, hoping in the meantime to find some way out of his difficulties. chapter viii. warren's return. warren courtly returned home during the week, and irene was at the manor to receive him. she did not welcome him with her usual heartiness, and he expected there was something wrong. "you have been away a long time," she said. "i expected you home last week. your business must have been very important." "it was," he replied, "and i have not finished it. i shall have to go to london again soon." "i will accompany you," she said; "i have not been to london for some time." "as you wish. i shall be glad of your society. have you been staying with the squire?" "yes, and we have managed to pass the time pleasantly. i took him the picture of random, and he was delighted with it; he has it in his study. we were very much surprised to see an announcement in the paper that you had sold the holme farm, but i suppose it is incorrect?" "i am sorry to say it is correct. i had to sell it, irene, i was in difficulties." "you, in difficulties!" she exclaimed. "how is that possible, you have a large income?" "i have been gambling, and owed more than i could pay. so i thought the best way would be to sell holme farm and clear them all off. i shall be more cautious next time, you may be sure." "you might have told me how matters stood," she said, reproachfully. "and if you were compelled to sell the farm, why did you not offer it to the squire, he would have given you a better price than that for it?" "i had no idea he would buy it; he is always grumbling about land, and saying it is no good investing in it." "he said holme farm was worth five thousand more than you accepted for it, and i believe he would have given it." he was angry with himself when he heard this, but he knew the real reason he had not offered it to the squire was that he was ashamed to do so. as he looked at irene, he recognised her beauty more clearly than he had ever done before. he felt he was dealing her blow after blow, and the worst was yet to come. it made him desperate when he thought of janet, and the trouble she could cause. why had he been such a fool to fall into the toils of such a minx? he hated her name, and it was sacrilege to think of her in the presence of irene. as for irene she was depressed and uneasy at her husband's statement. if he was compelled to sell the holme farm, others might follow, and the estate gradually dwindle down to small proportions. it was not a bright prospect after only eighteen months of married life. she saw he was worried and troubled, and did not look himself. "are you feeling unwell?" she asked. "no, why?" "because you do not look in your usual health; if you have any trouble, warren, i wish you would confide in me, and i might possibly help you. it will be far better for me to hear it from you than from any outsiders, and you know what gossips people are." he felt a strong impulse to tell her everything even to confess his fault with janet, and how he had allowed suspicion to rest upon ulick, but he dare not do it. he knew she would never forgive him, although she might condone his failings. if an outsider made her acquainted with the fact it would be far worse, but he must risk that. "i have nothing to tell you," he said. "it troubled me to have to part with the farm, but i saw no other way out of the difficulty." "i can quite understand that," she replied. "as it was necessary for you to do it, we will say no more about it; but i expect the squire will pull you over the coals," she added, with a smile. next morning a thaw set in, and the pure white landscape quickly changed to a dull, leadened colour. the melting snow dripped from the roof in a monotonous splash, the trees were wet and dismal, and the ground was a mass of sticky slush and mud. the sky was dark and lowering, and the effect depressing. they both felt the effects of the change at breakfast time. irene was naturally of a bright disposition, and tried to cheer her husband's drooping spirits, but with ill-success. "honeysuckle had a colt foal half an hour after midnight on new year's day," she said. "that was a slice of luck, and eli had a very anxious time until he was born." "what an extraordinary thing," he said. "the squire would be pleased. what kind of a colt is he?" "a good one i should say; we saw him the same day, and he pleased both the squire and eli." "i must have a look at him," he replied; then, glancing out of the window, went on: "there is nothing more miserable than a thaw; i shall be glad when all the snow is gone, and there is a chance of hunting again." "it will be a treat to be in the saddle after such a long spell," she replied. then, changing the subject, she said, "i had a peculiar letter when you were away. i showed it to the squire, and he thought it was written by a clever rogue. my impression was that the man was genuinely in want of a small loan, but how he came to write to me i do not know. here is the letter and his reply to my note." warren courtly took it carelessly, but no sooner did he see the handwriting than he hastily turned to look at the signature, and when he saw "felix hoffman" the letter fell upon the table and he sank back into his chair, his face white and drawn. irene was surprised and alarmed at the effect it produced, and said-- "what is the matter, warren? is it the letter causes you anxiety? do you know the man?" he made no answer, but took the letter and read it, wondering how it came about that felix hoffman should have discovered who he was and have the audacity to write to his wife. janet must have confided in him, that was the only solution he arrived at, and he vowed she should suffer for her betrayal. these brief minutes, when his wife's eyes were upon him, noting every change and movement, were the worst he had ever spent in his life. "do you know the man?" she asked, again. "yes, i know him." "who is he?" "a racecourse sharper, a scoundrel, an unprincipled blackguard," said warren, savagely. "then how is it you know him?" she asked. "we meet many undesirable people on racecourses; he is one of the most undesirable." "but you have no necessity to associate with such men." "they are useful sometimes; even the man hoffman has given me good information." "if he is such a man as you describe, i should be ashamed to be seen with him. how dare he write to me?" she said, angrily. "it was a gross piece of impertinence," replied warren, "for which he shall pay dearly. leave me to deal with him, irene." "he ought to be thrashed," she said. "he shall be, and he will not forget it as long as he lives. you were very foolish to send the money." "the squire said the letter ought to have been handed over to the police." "it was a blessing it was not," thought warren. it was a rapid thaw, and at the end of the week not a vestige of snow was to be seen, except in some shaded corner where the sunlight never crept in, and where the overhanging cavern kept off the dripping water. warren courtly rode over to hazelwell, and did not receive a very hearty greeting from redmond maynard. they looked at honeysuckle's foal, and warren pronounced it one of the best she had had. eli todd, he fancied, treated him in a somewhat off-hand manner. surely he did not suspect anything, he could not unless janet had written to him. everything jarred upon him, his nerves were disordered, and he felt irritable and out of sorts. he dreaded an exposure, and felt it was gradually coming. he knew what the squire's wrath would be when he found out ulick had been unjustly suspected, as he must do sooner or later. "tell him all and get rid of the burden," whispered conscience. he dare not, and yet it would have been the best way out of the sea of trouble into which he was floundering. in the squire's study hung the painting of random, and he pointed it out to warren with pride, and said-- "irene has done it splendidly; it is lifelike. i never saw a picture of a horse more natural. you ought to be proud of your wife, she does many things, and does them all well." "i am proud of her," said warren, in a half-hearted tone that irritated the squire, who of late had been constantly blaming himself for being the cause of irene throwing herself away upon warren courtly. "she is the best woman i know, and her heart is in the right place. confound it, warren, you have no right to leave her alone as you do, it is not fair to her. why don't you take her up to london, if you really have to go to town so often?" "i will next time," said warren, lamely. he seemed at a loss for words, and the squire thought he had a shame-faced look. "he's been up to some devilment, i'm sure of it," he thought. "by jupiter, if he's done anything to trouble irene's peace of mind he'll find he has me to reckon with." "your journey to london does not seem to have benefited you much," said the squire. "i hate town," grumbled warren. "then why go there?" "because it is so deuced dull at the manor when there is no hunting on." "the selfish beggar," thought the squire, as he said aloud, "and do you not think it is dull for irene when you are away?" "she is generally at hazelwell, and you are excellent company, squire." "am i? much you know about it. let me tell you if it had not been for irene i should have had a fit of the blues that would have got the best of me a few nights back. perhaps you can imagine what night it was?" said the squire. "no, i cannot; but, anyway, i am glad she was here to cheer you up. i told her to ride over and see you." "have you forgotten what happened over two years ago?" he could not pretend to misunderstand, although they were getting on rather dangerous ground. "you mean the night ulick left home?" "yes, and i sat up all that night, and i shall sit up every night when it comes round, year by year, until he returns home again." "then you have changed your mind?" said warren. "i have forgiven him, but he must prove his innocence, and i am beginning to believe he will. something tells me he will," he said, as he looked at warren in a way that made him feel very uncomfortable, and yet he knew nothing had been found out--at present. "ulick was hardly the sort of man one would have expected to get into such a mess," said warren. "you are right; that is what i cannot understand," replied the squire, thinking at the same time warren courtly was a much more likely man to do so. "irene told me you thought i was foolish to accept ten thousand for the holme farm," said warren. "and i still think so. why did you sell it?" "i had to, i owed a lot of money." "betting?" "mostly, but i am out of the mire now, and intend to keep so," he replied. "a good resolution. why did you not offer me the farm? i would have given you a better price for it." "because, to tell you the truth, i was ashamed to." "you ought to have come to me, warren," said the squire, kindly, as he placed one hand on his shoulder. "i gave you irene, and you ought to trust me. she was confided to my care by my old friend, carstone, and i do not want to think i have made a mistake in placing her happiness in your hands. you do not look easy in your mind, or happy. if you are in any difficulty tell me, and i will do all in my power to help you for her sake and your own." these words struck the right chord in warren courtly, but he had not the courage to confess what he had done. "i am upset over selling holme farm," he replied, "but there is nothing else, except the barefaced audacity of such a man as felix hoffman writing to irene." "you know the man?" "yes, and i told her he was a scoundrel. he shall feel my stick across his shoulders the next time we meet." "better to have no scenes," said the squire. "avoid him in the future, but give him to understand there must be no more letters written, or he will be handed over to the police." "that will probably be the best way. i met him casually at hurst park, and he gave me some very good information." "and on the strength of that," said the squire, "i suppose he has stuck to you like a leech. i know these men, they ought to be ducked in a horsepond, they are pestilential nuisances, but unfortunately there is no way of killing them off." warren courtly rode home, where another unpleasant surprise awaited him. irene had received a second letter from felix hoffman, returning the five pounds and thanking her for the loan. "there," said irene. "i am right, and the squire is wrong. i felt sure from the tone of his letter he would return the money, so he cannot be quite so black as you painted him." "i am very much surprised, i assure you," said warren, "but the return of the money does not do away with the fact that it was a gross piece of impertinence on his part to write to you, and i shall call him to account for it." this letter, returning the money, caused warren courtly much uneasiness. he knew it meant that felix hoffman was playing some clever game, and that trouble was brewing at no distant date. it was seldom hoffman allowed a five-pound note to leave his possession, no matter how he obtained it. when he did so, it was generally with the certainty of getting many times its value in return. chapter ix. how ulick bought the saint. when ulick maynard returned to london after his brief visit to eli todd at hazelwell, he went to his rooms in west kensington. here he had a comfortable flat, and lived as happily as possible under the circumstances. he missed his father's company; they were always together, and there had never been angry words between them until the night he left home. he sometimes wondered had he done right to leave hazelwell in a sudden burst of anger, but he could not have remained under such a cloud of suspicion as his father enveloped him in. if his father believed him guilty, what would the neighbours think? they would naturally one and all condemn him, so it was no doubt for the best he had gone away for a time. london is the safest place in the world for a man to come to if he wishes to keep away from his friends and relations. it is a difficult matter to find anyone in the midst of the huge whirl of traffic and millions of people constantly pouring along its myriad thoroughfares. ulick avoided no one, nor did he shun any places he wished to visit, lest he might be recognised. he went about the same as any casual visitor to the city, and although he had been to london many times he had never become so well acquainted with it before. at first time hung heavily on his hands. he missed all his country pursuits; the noise of the city jarred upon him, and he longed for the murmur of the stream, the sough of the wind amongst the trees, the rustle of the grass, the songs of birds, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep and lambs, and, more than all, the merry neighing of the horses, and the joyous bark of bersak. he felt cramped, cooped up, unable to breathe freely, and his whole being revolted at the scenes around him. for hours he roamed the vast city, watching the human wrecks, the flotsam and jetsam of mankind, being tossed about in the whirlpool of london life, and wondered what became of them all, where they housed at night, where they ended their days, how they died, and if any living soul mourned their departure. christmas came soon after his arrival in london. it was the most dismal one he ever spent, and he knew at hazelwell there would be a corresponding gloom. his heart was hardened against his father then, and it was with some amount of equanimity that he thought the squire also suffered alone and in silence. christmas eve he spent in the city, and watched the children returning home ladened with toys and a variety of parcels, their little arms clasped round their treasures, holding them tight, fearful lest some mishap should befall them. he saw the worn faces of hard-working parents glowing with pride and joy at the thought that out of their toil they had been able to save something for their little ones' pleasure. late that night he saw sights that made him shudder, and as he passed woman after woman he was half afraid to look at them, so utterly abandoned were their faces. as he crossed trafalgar square he heard a faint moan, and looking in the direction from whence it came he saw a tiny boy and girl huddled close together on a seat. it was a bitterly cold night, and london was clothed in a dirty, drizzling sleet. he crossed over to the children, and the boy, pulling the girl closer to him, looked at him with big, starving, staring eyes. he questioned them and found they had no home, no place wherein to lay their heads, and they meant to remain there for the night, unless the policeman moved them on, or took them away. he asked if they could find lodgings if he gave them the money, and the boy said he could, but looked incredulous at the prospect of such good fortune. ulick gave him ten shillings in silver, and when the lad saw it in his hand he cried for joy and roused his sister to look at the harvest. she inquired what the coins were, and he said shillings, and that they would last them for many days, until long after christmas. they showered thanks upon ulick in their childish way, and then trudged across the square with their arms round each other. they looked back as they reached the strand, and he waved his hand to them. that night he slept badly, he wondered why there was so much misery in the world. time passed on, and early in the spring he commenced to think a little racing would be a pleasant recreation. he had no occasion to hide from his fellows, for he had done no wrong, and could hold his head high with the rest of them. he went to epsom and saw the city and suburban, and while there he met his father's old trainer, fred may, who was delighted to see him again. the squire had not raced much during the past few years, generally selling his yearlings at newmarket. fred may had won him many good races, and trained honeysuckle when she won her big event. ulick did not tell the trainer that he had left hazelwell, he saw no necessity for it. they chatted about old times, and may made many inquiries about the squire. "do you think he will ever race again?" asked may. "i don't fancy he will, but i shall, and i should not mind speculating in something useful and handing it over to your care," replied ulick. "you really mean it?" said fred may. "of course i do," laughed ulick. "then i know where you can buy a youngster that will come out at the top of the tree, and if he is well-trained will make a grand three-year-old." "a two-year-old now?" asked ulick. "yes; he is by father confessor out of hilda, and is known as the saint. he has not run yet, but you can accept my word for it he is a flyer. he's at epsom, at lowland lodge, and we can have a look at him after the races." "is the figure high? i do not wish to give a big price, and i would have rather bought a three or four-year-old," said ulick. "buy the saint if you can, you will never regret it," said the trainer. after the races they walked down to lowland lodge and inspected the saint. "why, he's a grey!" exclaimed ulick, in a disappointed tone, as the door of the box was opened. "and there's been many a good grey racehorse," replied fred may. "never mind the colour. look him over, and fancy he is a bright bay, or brown, or a chestnut, or anything you like, only forget he's a grey, and then i'm sure you will not find a fault in him." ulick was no mean judge of blood horses, and, acting on the trainer's advice and ignoring the colour, he looked the saint carefully over. he was rather anxious to find an excuse for declining to buy him, but he failed; he was unable to "fault" the colt in any way. he was well shaped all over. his legs were sound and clean, also his feet, well let down behind, tapering off like a greyhound; he had also a strong back and loins, and muscular thighs. there was plenty of him in front of the saddle, and his shoulders sloped well, his neck set on perfectly, and his head denoted courage and endurance. he seemed to be shaped for speed, and evidently possessed staying powers. his colour was not prepossessing, for he was not a good grey, and this was the only fault ulick could find with him. "well!" exclaimed the trainer, with a smile, when he saw he had finished his inspection, "what do you think of him?" "he is perfect in everything except his colour. i must say he is about as bad a colour as a racehorse well could be," replied ulick. "granted that is so, his colour will not prevent him winning. do you recollect buchanan winning the lincolnshire handicap? no, of course not, what am i thinking of? you were a little chap then, i expect. well, he was a funny looking grey, something after the style of the saint, but he spread-eagled his field that day, and no mistake. the race was run in a snowstorm, and he faced it like a lion; it blew straight down the course, and it was no light thing for a horse to meet it in his teeth. he was a good grey, and i have known others; it is all prejudice, the colour is all right if the horse is good enough." ulick hesitated. he felt tempted to buy, for he knew fred may's judgment was sound, and that he seldom made mistakes. he had not yet asked the price, perhaps it would be prohibitory--he almost hoped so. the owner of the saint was anxious to sell him for the same reason that ulick hesitated about buying; he did not like his colour. on this account he asked a price that he thought would tempt a wavering purchaser. two hundred guineas was the price placed upon the saint, and ulick was forced to acknowledge it was reasonable. he had seen yearlings sold for five times the amount that had turned out utter failures, and here was a two-year-old that in all probability would make a clinker. fred may made no remark when he heard the price asked for the saint, but he was determined if ulick did not buy him he would. "the figure is reasonable," said ulick, "but i abominate the colour. that is the only reason i do not feel inclined to buy him." "then you will not have him?" asked the owner. "no, thanks, and i am very much obliged to you for showing him me and placing him on offer," said ulick. the owner laughed, and said, "i am not surprised; i want to sell him because he is such a confoundedly bad colour." "have you quite made up your mind?" asked fred may. "yes," replied ulick. "then i'll take him at that figure," said fred, much to their surprise. "i don't care twopence about his colour, there's the make and shape of a great horse there, and, grey or no grey, he'll win races." "when will you take delivery?" asked the seller. "he can return home with the horses i have at epsom. they are at tom lucas's boxes. i'll send a lad round for him this evening," said may. the bargain was completed; and fred may invited ulick to accompany him to the house where he was staying for the races. nothing more was said about the saint until after dinner, when fred may remarked that they might as well go and see if the ugly-coloured customer looked any better in his new box. "i am afraid the change of boxes will not improve him," said ulick, "but we can go and see." the saint was quite at home in his quarters, and the lad who brought him from lowland lodge said he was as quiet as an old sheep. "that is another point in his favour," said may. "there will be no trouble with the starting machine in his case." ulick half wished he had bought him, more especially as the trainer seemed so satisfied with his bargain. "do you really think he will make a good horse?" asked ulick, when they were in the house again. "i am as certain of it as anyone can be over such ticklish things as racehorses. i never saw a much better shaped colt, and he's cheap enough at the price." "i almost wish i had bought him," said ulick. "you can have him at the price i paid if you wish," said may. "that would hardly be fair to you," replied ulick. "i must give you something for your trouble. if you had not had the courage to buy him, despite his colour, i should not have the chance perhaps now." "if you really want him, pay me the two hundred guineas for him, and let me train him," said may. "that goes without saying," replied ulick. "of course, you will train him; i should not think of sending horses elsewhere." "then let us conclude the bargain." "very well. i will give you the two hundred guineas and leave him in your charge," replied ulick, and in this way he became the owner of the saint. during the season the saint fully endorsed the good opinion formed of him by fred may. he won four races, in one of which he beat the best of his year, much to the delight of ulick and the trainer. the saint went into winter quarters with an unbeaten record, and racing men thought it a pity he was not in any of the classical events, but they were determined to keep an eye upon him in handicaps. eli todd was surprised when he learned that mr. lanark, the owner of the saint, was none other than ulick maynard. the squire would have been still more astounded had he been enlightened upon the subject. it was ulick's firm determination to find janet todd and induce her to return home. he was thoroughly tired of being away from hazelwell, and he meant to force janet, if necessary, to tell her father the truth, and then eli could impart it to the squire. he puzzled his brains to think what eli meant by saying it would cause even more trouble than had already occurred if what he partly suspected turned out true. ulick, however, did not believe that eli would withhold a confession from janet from his father. "he wants more than mere suspicion to act upon," said ulick to himself, "and he shall have it if i can find janet. i can deal with the man who allowed the blame to fall upon me when i discover his name, and i shall not spare him." he often thought about irene, and wondered how she and warren courtly got on together. he had never liked warren, although he had nothing against him, except his constant attentions to irene, and as a result his marriage with her. this, however, he knew was partially his own fault, although he doubted if he would ever have succeeded in winning her. he left the course clear for warren, and therefore rendered it a comparatively easy task for him. it never occurred to ulick that warren courtly had anything to do with the disappearance of janet todd. had it been suggested to him he would have laughed at the idea as absurd. chapter x. "the curiosity." the saint's first appearance as a three-year-old was at kempton park in the pastures handicap, a mile race on the jubilee course. having wintered well, as the trainer anticipated, he developed into a fine three-year-old, and in the early spring had a real good trial with some first-class handicap horses. fred may was exceedingly anxious to place the colt well, and decided upon the pastures handicap because the distance was suitable, and the class of horses he was likely to meet in a five hundred pound race would not trouble him much. ulick agreed with him, and accordingly the saint was entered. contrary to their expectations, there were some good horses in the race, including the winner of the lincolnshire handicap, and a four-year-old named pinkerton, who had won the jubilee stakes the year before. "we are in better company than i fancied we should be," said fred may, when he glanced down the entries, "and i expect we shall get a biggish weight. we can strike him out if he is badly in." the handicap, however, proved to be a good one, and although the saint had eight stone, a big weight early in the year for a three-year-old, both ulick and the trainer considered he had a chance. pinkerton had eight stone twelve, and this horse they considered the most dangerous. there are few more enjoyable places than kempton park for racing in the spring, or, in fact, at any time of the year. although the pastures handicap was not the principal race of the day, it attracted the most attention, mainly on account of the saint being a runner. his two-year-old performances placed him almost on a par with the derby horses, and the favourite for that race would have been regarded as a certainty in the handicap with eight stone. it was generally acknowledged by the "clever division" that a four-year-old like pinkerton ought to be able to give the saint twelve pounds. mulgar, kit cat, and ringbell were also fair performers, and kit cat had been booked as a "rod in pickle" for some time past. as she had only seven stone, it was regarded as her "day out"--in other words, that the weight was right and she was going for the money. the ring was kept busy when betting was opened on the pastures handicap. four to one bar one, was first shouted, pinkerton being the favourite, but these odds soon expanded until it was four to one on the field. in the paddock the saint was the great attraction. everyone knew his two-year-old performances, and his remarkable colour always caused a mild sensation. he was "washy" enough as a two-year-old, but this spring he was almost white with a few "flea-bitten" spots on him. "looks as if he'd been powdered with black pepper and salt," was one characteristic remark, which certainly hit the mark. despite his colour, there was no mistaking the quality and fitness of the horse. he had been perfectly trained, hard and clean in his coat, no dandified polish on it, but a real glow of health. "he'd make the derby horses go if they ran against him now," said a well-known pressman. "you are right, harry. i fancy he'd start pretty near favourite. i think i shall back him," was the answer of a brother scribe. the ladies crowded round "the curiosity," as the saint was nicknamed, and a horse with a nickname is as popular as a rosy-cheeked schoolboy dubbed "apples." a nickname is a sure sign of something out of the common in man, boy, or horse. "the curiosity" took the mobbing in good part, it troubled him not at all, although he condescendingly glanced round the ring from time to time, and, as fred may saddled him, made playful snaps at his coat, and once succeeded in securing his hat. ben sprig was to ride the saint; a good jockey with a reputation for honesty. he was a miniature man, about thirty-five, capable of riding seven stone if necessary. his face was a study. ben sprig seldom smiled outwardly; he seemed to conceal all expressions of joy inside his small frame, and the only signs of pleasure experienced were sundry chuckles that sounded like the cracking of nuts. he spoke jerkily, shooting out his words like darts, and taking time to consider between each one. his complexion was bronze, and his eyes were small and brown. he had beautifully-shaped small hands and feet, of which he was very proud. he was dapper in his dress, and always clean and spruce. his humour was proverbial, and as he always had a solemn countenance it proved the more effective. a man who laughs at his own jokes is like an advertiser who stares at his own advertisements. there was none of the advertising agent about ben sprig. "where's ben?" asked may, as the bell rang. "i'll hunt him up," said ulick, as he hurried off towards the jockey's room. ben sprig was a thorn in the side of all clerks of the course. they invariably had to hurry him up, and in nine cases out of ten he was always the last to leave the paddock. he had a habit of sneaking his mount up the course when the majority of the spectators thought all the horses were at the post. "come along, ben," said ulick. "i never saw such a fellow, you are always last." "leaving the paddock," said ben, solemnly. ulick laughed as he replied, "not always in that position at the finish, i grant you." ben was walking slowly along, the olive green jacket adopted by ulick being almost hidden beneath a coat which came down to the heels of his boots. ulick was striding along in front; the clerk of the course gesticulating furiously at ben, who took no notice whatever of him. "hurry up," he said, as he rode up to the jockey. "you're always last, i wonder you are not fined every time for being late at the post." ben pointed solemnly to the clock, and said-- "they are always behind time when you are clerk of the course." ben was quickly in the saddle, and rode the saint quietly out on to the course, which was cleared of the crowd. he sidled up to the rails, and slipped along past the stands. he was almost rounding the bend before the people recognised the colours. "i thought the saint had gone down long ago?" said one. "that's a trick of ben sprig's, he generally goes up last," was the reply. the noise at tattersall's was deafening, and although pinkerton was a slight favourite, the money had poured in for kit cat to such an extent that she was about the worst runner in many of the books. the saint stood at six to one, and ulick had succeeded in obtaining a point longer for his money. there was no delay at the post, mr. coventry sending them off in his usual style. kit cat was quickly on her legs, and came along at a great pace, the golden stars on the black jacket of her rider glittering in the sunlight. mulgar's white jacket also showed prominently, and after a gap came pinkerton, and the olive green on the saint. from the start the pace was fast, and kit cat was making the most of her light weight. she had an easy style of going, and looked strong enough to carry a couple of stone more. her owner had not waited in vain to get in with seven stone, and the money proved the mare could go when required. he was regarded, not without reason, as a very smart man. his name, conrad rush, had often figured against large winning accounts in monday's settlement, and the ring had a wholesale dread of him. he never did anything underhand, but he possessed an amount of patience that fairly wore the handicappers out. the golden stars leading in a mile race meant mischief, and already backers of kit cat were on good terms with themselves. the mare rounded the bend going in grand style, revelling in her light weight, and pulling hard. so far, it was a one-horse race, but creeping up on the rails not far behind were pinkerton's blue jacket, the saint, and mulgar. to these four horses it soon became evident the race belonged; which would win? already the murmur of many voices could be heard in the rings. the sound gradually increased until it swelled into a roar, and louder and louder it became as the horses drew nearer. kit cat still held a commanding lead, and it seemed almost impossible she could be caught. "they don't win there," said fred may to ulick, "and the saint has a rare turn of speed." "it's a lot of ground to make up," he replied, "but i hope he'll do it. pinkerton is running well, but kit cat has such a light weight she ought to last it out." "i fancy conrad rush has overshot his mark this time. i have never seen the mare cover a mile. she may do it, but i doubt it. look at her now--by jove, she's done, i felt pretty sure of it." ulick saw the rider on kit cat "niggling" at her, and a second or two later he raised his whip as he heard the horses behind drawing nearer. the bookmakers were jubilant and howled with delight. kit cat responded to the call, but it was a mere flash in the pan. pinkerton was the first to tackle her on the outside, and as he drew level she swerved towards him and bored him out. this left an opening on the rails, which looked dangerous to squeeze through. ben sprig never flinched when he got a chance, however small he took it. he did so on this occasion. he was watching the two horses in front of him with keen eyes, and no sooner did kit cat swerve than he slid the saint forward with one great effort and secured the lead. it was a clever bit of jockeyship on the part of the rider, a marvellous run on the part of the horse, and the combined effort drew forth a hearty cheer. the rider of pinkerton had not expected this; he fancied the saint was shut in on the rails, and would have to go round him on the outside. when he saw the olive green jacket on the other side of kit cat, it is needless to say he was surprised. pinkerton was not beaten, and as the pair cleared kit cat a tremendous race home ensued. it was a thrilling moment. pinkerton had won over this course, and that was in his favour. the saint had not run on it before. the four-year-old and the three-year-old struggled gamely on, with a difference of twelve pounds between them. ulick was excited; he had not seen the saint in such a tight place before, and he hoped he would get out of it. the horses were close to the winning post, a few more strides would decide it. they fought out every yard of the ground. ben sprig was a great finisher. he graduated in a good school, and he clung to the old tradition that a bit left for a finish is worth a hundred yards at any other part of the race. his face was set, and his little eyes gleamed. his small hands gripped the reins firmly, his knees pressed the saint's sides, and he helped the horse all he knew how. the olive jacket and the blue were level, the next few strides would do it; which would win? a moment of suspense, a second or two of breathless silence, then a mighty shout. "the saint! the saint!" ulick echoed the cry. "the saint wins!" he shouted. ben sprig's immovable face showed no signs of the triumph within. he knew he had ridden one of his best races, he felt much of the success was due to his horsemanship, and he was pleased with himself. he slid past the judge's box about three parts of a length in front of pinkerton, with kit cat a bad third. the saint's performance was acknowledged on all sides to be a great one, and "the curiosity" was mobbed as ben rode him in amidst cheers. mr. lanark was not well known, but the saint had made the olive green jacket popular. "you rode a splendid race, ben," said ulick. "i think the best you ever rode on him." ben sprig had ridden the saint throughout his two-year-old career. "i agree with you," jerked ben. "i did ride a good race, the saints be praised." "i expect you felt a bit uneasy when you squeezed through on the rails?" laughed ulick. "not at all; i'm used to squeezing. i've been squeezing all my life to make both ends meet," said ben. "then from all accounts you have squeezed to some purpose," said ulick, for ben sprig was reported to be rich. "i could lend some of 'em a trifle, i have no doubt," he replied, "but look at the time i have been at it." they joined fred may in the paddock, and looked at the saint walking round. "he's the rummiest coloured beggar i ever rode or saw," said ben. "bar his colour, what do you think of him?" asked may. "he's an out-and-out good one, and as game as they make 'em. if it came to a match between him and the derby winner i would back him, provided i rode him." "that's a pretty tall order," said ulick. "it would come off, you can take my word for it," he replied. a friend came up to ulick, and they walked away together. after some conversation as to the merits of the saint's victory, he said-- "how are you going back to town--by train?" "yes," replied ulick. "i have to go on to windsor. drive with me to feltham and go to waterloo from there, unless you will come with me?" ulick thanked him, said he would drive to feltham, but declined to go to windsor. after the races they took a carriage to feltham, driving through hanworth park, and down the high street. they were chatting over racing matters, when his friend exclaimed-- "by jove! there's a pretty girl--well dressed, too." ulick looked up and gave a start of surprise. it was janet todd. she had not seen him, of that he felt sure. she was going down the street, and he resolved to leave his friend at the station, walk back, and meet her. it was a lucky chance that caused him to come this way back from the races. "do you know her?" asked his friend, smiling, as he saw him start. "i fancy i do; i am almost sure of it. i think i'll walk back and meet her after i leave you," he replied. "i don't blame you, my friend," he said, laughing. "does she come from your part of the world?" "i am almost sure of it," replied ulick; "at any rate, i mean to find out." "good luck to you," laughed his friend, as he shook hands and went into the station. chapter xi. for a woman's sake. ulick walked out of the station yard and along the high street. he saw janet coming down on the opposite side of the road, and wondered whether it would be best to stop her or to watch where she went. he would, no doubt, surprise her if he spoke to her in the street, and perhaps the suddenness of his appearance might cause a scene. he decided it would be the better plan to allow her to pass, and then follow her. he went into a shop, made a trifling purchase, and saw her pass by. when he went out she was turning round by the church, and he followed some distance away. he saw her enter a house, where she probably lived, but he waited some time in case she came out again. when she did not he went up to the door and rang the bell. as he heard it ring he wondered who to ask for. she would not be living there under her own name, at all events it was unlikely. fortune favoured him, for mrs. hoffman was out and janet was alone in the house. she opened the door and stood face to face with ulick. the shock was great; she felt faint and giddy, and caught hold of the door, but, recovering herself, gasped out-- "mr. maynard, what are you doing here? how did you find me out?" "i saw you as i drove from kempton park to feltham, and came back from the station to meet you. i thought, however, it would be better to see you in your house, as i might have startled you in the street." "i am very glad you did," she replied. "will you come in?" "thank you, i should like to have a little conversation with you," he replied. "i wonder if he knows?" thought janet, and quickly decided he could hardly do so. then arose the question should she tell him? no, it would be better to keep her secret for the present. "you will not be offended if i put some plain questions to you, i hope," said ulick. "i have suffered a good deal on your account; that must be my excuse." "ask me anything you like, and i will try and answer it," she replied. "are you living alone here?" he said. "yes," replied janet. "mrs. hoffman and her son are the only other occupants of the house." "i am glad of it," he replied; "it will make my task less difficult." "what do you wish to do?" she asked, timidly. "i saw your father early in the new year, on new year's day, and i promised him i would find you, and persuade you to return home," he replied. "i cannot do that," said janet, firmly. "it is impossible. you would be the first to say so, if you knew all." "tell me all, and let me judge what is best to be done," he replied. "that, also, is impossible, i know you mean well, and i thank you for your kindness." "your father will be very glad to have you back; he will forget the past; he has long since forgiven you, but not the man who tempted you to leave home. i wish i had known what you were about to do the night i left home. i would have stopped you and saved you at any cost." janet todd shuddered. she was glad he had not met her and warren courtly, or there was no telling what might have happened. "i cannot undo all i have done," she said. "some day it may be possible for me to go back to my father without any danger or trouble to others, but at present i cannot. believe me, i would do so if it were possible." "consider well what you are saying," he said. "if i give your father your address he will come and take you away, you cannot refuse to go with him." "you must not do it--indeed you must not," pleaded janet, earnestly. "oh, if you only knew, you would leave the house at once. it is better for you to go and forget you have seen me." he was surprised at her agitation, which he saw was genuine. there was something in the background he could not understand, and her father had thrown out hints in the same way. what was the mystery, and why was it necessary to keep him in the dark? "janet, will you tell me who the man is you ran away with? i will not mention it to anyone if you desire me not to do so. if i know, i may be better able to help you," said ulick. "i cannot tell you; it is impossible," she replied. "please do not ask me?" "it must have been someone in the neighbourhood, but i cannot think who would do such a cowardly action," he said. this was dangerous ground, and janet said quickly-- "you can tell my father you have seen me, that i am well, and will come to him as soon as i possibly can." "that is not sufficient. it is my duty to let him know where you are." "if you do i must leave here, and i am very comfortable. mrs. hoffman is kind to me, and has always been so. please allow matters to remain as they are." ulick looked at her, and thought his friend was right in describing janet as a pretty woman. she evidently lived a regular life, and he was glad to see a healthy glow on her cheeks. whatever her faults in the past, she was living a decent, quiet life now, of that he felt certain. it would be a great consolation to eli to know this. "if you feel compelled to remain hidden here for a time," he said at last, "i will keep your secret, but you must allow me to write to your father and tell him you are well and living a respectable life. that will ease his mind, and he will wait for your return more patiently. it is right he should know, for he has suffered much on your account." she thanked him, and gave the permission he required, again entreating him not to mention her address. the gate opened, and mrs. hoffman came into the house. she was surprised to see ulick, and looked at him sharply, thinking to herself, "i wonder what he is doing here? perhaps he is a friend of mr. warren's?" mrs. hoffman always addressed janet as mrs. warren; it sounded more respectable. janet was at a loss what to say; she did not wish to give ulick's name, in case warren courtly might hear he had called. "a friend of yours, mrs. warren?" said mrs. hoffman, with a smile. "yes," said janet, "a very old friend. i knew him when i was a little girl." "mrs. warren," thought ulick, thinking the name sounded familiar, but never dreaming of connecting it with warren courtly. mrs. hoffman was fond of hearing herself talk, and launched out upon a variety of topics until ulick wished her anywhere but in his presence. he thought, however, it was diplomatic, for janet's sake, to be polite, and mrs. hoffman was delighted to find such an attentive listener. as a rule, her tirades were cut short with scant ceremony. she pressed him to have a cup of tea, and, thinking this was the only way to get rid of her for a time he consented. he went to the window and looked out into the street and saw someone walking down. he could hardly believe his eyes when he recognised warren courtly. "what on earth is he doing here?" he thought. janet followed him, and when she saw warren she turned as pale as death, standing almost rigid, unable to move. they must not meet. whatever happened they must not meet. that was her one thought, her sole desire. ulick's eyes were fixed upon warren. she pulled his sleeve. when he turned round and saw her face it told him all. "good god," he exclaimed. "irene, what about irene?" he seized janet's wrist, and pressed it so tightly that she almost screamed out with pain. "irene, his wife; good heavens, his wife, she must never know! do you hear, she must never know; it would kill her. do you hear me?" "yes," said janet. "promise you will never breathe a word to her of this." "i promise. you will help me if i require help?" "i will, janet. he must not see me," he said. janet pulled him towards the door and led him into the kitchen. "well, i never!" exclaimed mrs. hoffman. "there is no time for any explanation," said ulick. "mr. ----" "mr. warren is coming," put in janet, "and mr. hazelwell"--it was the name that came first to her mind--"does not wish to meet him; they are not friends." the door bell rang. "keep him here until mr. warren is gone," said janet. "i will attend to the door." mrs. hoffman was shocked. why was it necessary for mr. hazelwell's visit to be concealed from mr. warren? she would not allow these goings on in her house. one thing, however, there was no getting over, and that was there was a gentleman in her kitchen, and she had asked him to have some tea. he was a good-looking gentleman into the bargain, and mrs. hoffman flattered herself there were considerable remains of her early beauty left. "i am sorry this has occurred," said ulick; "but i really do not wish to meet mr. warren." "didn't you know it was mrs. warren who lived here?" she asked. "no, i saw her in feltham. she was a playmate of mine years ago. i had no idea she was married." "it is strange you should know mr. warren, too," said mrs. hoffman, curiously. "remarkable, i call it," he replied, as he accepted the cup of tea handed him. he heard voices in the next room and the tones were angry. ulick was dumbfounded at the discovery he had made. he saw now, and understood janet's reason for not wishing to return home, and he appreciated her delicacy. it was some consolation to think warren courtly got into this mess before he married irene, not after; and yet, judging from his presence here, he was keeping up the connection. his feelings can be better imagined than described. he loved irene, he had found out the truth ever since he lost her. she must never know it was warren courtly who tempted janet away from her home and allowed all the suspicion to fall upon himself. at the thought of warren's perfidy, his blood boiled, and he would have gone into the next room with pleasure and called him to account, there was no reason why he should not do so. no reason? only one, and that everything to him. he could bear the blame cast unjustly upon himself, the separation from his father, the loss of all the pursuits he loved, and a hundred times more, for irene's sake. irene was the one reason why he would not call warren courtly to account. he knew her nature, and how she would suffer if the truth reached her ears. she was not likely to hear it from anyone except himself or janet, and she had promised not to tell. did eli suspect warren courtly? he thought of his words, and felt he meant that if what he suspected turned out true, it would cause great trouble at anselm manor. eli would not be the man to cause that trouble. the voices in the next room grew louder, and mrs. hoffman said, "i am afraid they are quarrelling. mr. warren is a very irritable man." "does he come here often?" asked ulick. "no, he leaves her too much alone. he ought to be thankful he has me to look after her. mrs. warren is young, pretty, and inexperienced; he has no business to neglect her." ulick was glad to hear he neglected her; it was a sign he wished to spare irene's feelings. warren remained about half an hour, and then left. he would have been very uneasy had he known ulick maynard was on the premises, and still more that he knew all about his connection with janet. he had, as usual, quarrelled with her over money matters, but she had won in the end, as she was bound to do, considering the hold she had over him. she did not mean to let him shirk his responsibilities and he had no idea she would not have betrayed him to irene under any circumstances. she came into the kitchen and said, "you may come in now, mr. hazelwell--the coast is clear." ulick was glad to escape from mrs. hoffman, and when she was left alone that good lady commenced to sum up the situation to her own satisfaction. "they are rivals, that's what it is," she said; "and this one is worth half-a-dozen mr. warrens. there's no telling what men will do where a pretty face is concerned. i know what it is myself, and to think i should have thrown myself away on such a fellow as hoffman when i might have had anybody in those days. mrs. warren's in my charge, and she must be careful; but i like a little bit of romancing, and it strikes me i'm likely to get it in this situation." ulick had a serious talk with janet. "is it because warren courtly is the man who took you away from home that you decline to return to your father's house?" he asked. "yes." "i think you are right, now i know the facts. it will be better for me not to mention having seen you; it will only make eli uneasy and anxious to know more." she agreed with him, and promised to write to him if necessary. "were you quarrelling?" he added. "we had some words, as usual, about money matters." "he makes you an allowance still?" "yes, i could not live here without, and he has a right to do it," she replied. "mrs. hoffman says he seldom comes here?" "that is true." "i am glad," said ulick. "so am i. when he married miss carstone i made up my mind to see as little of him as possible. he promised to marry me when i ran off with him," said janet. "he deceived you, and deserves to suffer for it, but his wife must not be dragged into it," he said. "she will never learn anything from me," janet answered, earnestly. ulick went back to london thinking over the varied chances of the day, and wondering at the strange discovery he had made. so it was warren courtly who had robbed eli of his daughter, and allowed the blame to rest on him. he would let warren see that he knew the truth, that much satisfaction he meant having, but irene must be shielded no matter what happened. how different events might have turned out had he stuck to his guns and won irene, in spite of warren courtly, and the suspicions surrounding himself. had he done so, no doubt the truth would have come to light in a very short time; as it was, he must trust to his luck to clear the way for him. chapter xii. two schemers. the squire noticed an estrangement had taken place between irene and her husband. she was too proud to allow her real feelings to appear on the surface, but he saw below it and knew there was discord somewhere. redmond maynard, since his son's departure, had led a lonely life. everyone in the county sympathised deeply with him, but he was not a man to be soothed with kindly words; on the contrary, they irritated him. he went about his daily avocations as usual, but it was evident he had lost much of the interest in his surroundings. dr. harding ordered a change, but the squire protested he was in a perfect state of health, and that there was no occasion for him to leave hazelwell. the doctor was an old and valued friend, in addition to being his medical attendant. he practised in various parts of the county, his connection being select and extensive. dr. harding's was a familiar figure in the hunting field, and when he could spare the time he was nothing loth to attend a race meeting. he was an excellent shot, and always had a standing invitation to join the parties at hazelwell. of late, however, visitors there had been few and far between, and dr. harding saw the squire was gradually falling into a fit of despondency which boded ill for his health. he spoke to irene about it, knowing the influence she had over him, and requested her to persuade him to go south for a time. this she did in her own winning way, promising warren and herself would accompany him if he thought well. "that is an inducement certainly, to have your company," he said. "i will think it over. i expect harding has been putting you up to this," he added, smiling. "dr. harding is only anxious about your health, and i am sure he advises you for the best," she said. "i am aware of that," replied the squire; "but we do not always follow the advice we ask. it is foolish, of course, and we ought to obey the doctor when we call him in. i rather fancy a change would do you good, irene, you are not happy." she looked troubled and said quickly-- "you are mistaken, i am perfectly happy; i have everything to make me contented." "has warren been behaving himself lately?" he asked. "he always behaves himself," was her answer. "i am glad you think so; i do not," he said gruffly. "warren is going the pace, and you know it." his anxiety about irene caused him for a time to forget his own troubles. eli todd watched the squire, and noted how worn and aged he was growing. this caused him many qualms of conscience; he knew the cause, and would have liked to remove it. he wrote a long letter to ulick, telling him how his father's health suffered, and begging him to return. this caused him to wonder if he was doing right in remaining away. now that he knew everything connected with janet's disappearance from home, he felt it was impossible for him to go to hazelwell and meet irene, as he was sure to do. he wrote to eli, explaining as well as he could that it was impossible for him to return at present, but circumstances might arise which would enable him to do so at no distant date. with this eli had to rest contented, but he would have preferred something more definite. it was shortly after the saint's great race with pinkerton at kempton that the squire came into eli's cottage and sat down for a chat. eli gave him full particulars of all the mares and youngsters in the stud, and said there would be some good prices realised at doncaster in september. "honeysuckle's foal will be a tip-topper," said eli. "he'll run well into four figures." "i shall not sell him," replied the squire. eli was glad to hear this; it meant the squire thought of racing again. "shall you have him trained?" he asked. "yes, it is some time since i gave fred may a turn. by the way, he has got hold of a champion in the saint. that must have been a splendid race at kempton. i wonder who mr. lanark is?" "a new recruit to the turf," said eli, smiling, "and he has made a rare good start." "he little thinks his son owns the saint," thought eli. "he has got into the right hands. fred may is thoroughly honest. mr. lanark, whoever he is, may congratulate himself. i wonder if he would sell the saint?" said the squire, half to himself. eli smiled; he thought it would be a curious thing if the squire bought his son's horse. it occurred to him this might be the means of bringing them together. "i should think it would be a difficult matter to induce him to part with him," said eli. "there can be no harm in trying," said the squire. "i like the saint's breeding; he would do well for the stud." "why not run down to fred may's and see what can be done?" said eli. "it will be a change for you." "i think it will, and you had better come with me. i ought to write and let him know we are coming." "i will do it to save you the trouble," said eli. "very well, fix it for next thursday, if that will suit mr. lanark, providing he is willing to sell," replied the squire. eli cudgelled his brains how to bring about the meeting he desired. if ulick knew his father was coming to newmarket to see the saint he would not be present, of that eli felt certain. the only plan that suggested itself to him was to take fred may into his confidence, for it was evident to eli the trainer knew nothing of the misunderstanding between father and son. he wrote his letter after much deliberation, and anxiously awaited the reply. it came by return of post, and in it the trainer plainly showed how astonished he was at the breach between them. "i will do all in my power to help you to heal it," he wrote, "but i am afraid we shall get into trouble. neither the squire nor his son like being dictated to, and they will probably think we have taken a liberty. however, we will risk it. bring him on thursday, and i'll see that his son is here, you can leave that to me. if we can effect a reconciliation we shall have done much good. the saint is an extraordinarily good colt, equal to the best derby form, and i am very glad i advised mr. maynard to buy him. tell the squire there is no price upon him, but that mr. lanark will be delighted to see him and show him his champion, and one or two more he has in my stable." eli sent a note up to the squire stating the matter was arranged, and they had better go to london on the wednesday, and on to newmarket next day. to this arrangement he agreed, and sent bob heather with a letter to tell irene of his intention. "if you and warren come to town i will meet you at the walton hotel on friday." irene sent back a reply to the effect that they would be there, as warren had to go up to town again at the end of the week. when ulick received a letter from his trainer requesting him to go to newmarket on wednesday, he hastened down at once, fearing something might have gone wrong with the saint. "he's all right," said fred may, in reply to ulick's anxious inquiries, "but i have some rather startling news for you. a gentleman is coming to see him to-morrow; he wishes to buy him. i thought you would have no objection to showing him the saint yourself." ulick laughed as he replied, "he is coming on a useless errand; i would not sell him at any price." "never refuse a good offer," said fred may. "surely you would not like to lose him?" he replied. "certainly not, but i should advise you all the same to take a stiff price." "don't you think he will stand training?" "not a shadow of doubt about that," was the trainer's reply. "then i shall not part with him. who is the gentleman?" "i am not quite sure, but i fancy he is rather an exalted person," said fred, mysteriously. "you have brought me down on a wild-goose chase," laughed ulick. "you don't even know the name of the intending purchaser. i am surprised at you, fred; however, i forgive you. i am always glad of an excuse to run down to newmarket and have a gallop on the heath." the squire and eli came by an early train, and arrived at stanton house, the trainer's residence, unseen by ulick, who happened to be reading the paper in fred may's room. after a few words of welcome with his old patron, the trainer said he would tell mr. lanark they were here, and left the room. eli felt very uncomfortable; he wondered if there would be an explosion. he had agreed with fred may that it would be better to leave them alone together. the door opened, and the trainer said, "this is mr. lanark, i think you know him?" father and son were face to face, and, taking advantage of their astonishment and consternation, the trainer and eli beat a retreat, wondering how their plot would succeed. for a few moments neither of them spoke. both knew they had been brought together by eli and the trainer. at last a smile came over the squire's face, and he said, as he held out his hand, "we have been caught cleverly, ulick, and i trust it is all for the best; it is a long time since we met, my boy." his voice shook at the finish, and this touched ulick; he noticed how his father had changed, he seemed much older, and his face more worn. he clasped his hand and said-- "we have both suffered; it was all a mistake." he seemed at a loss for words. had his father decided to do him justice, or did he still suspect him? it would be impossible for him to return to hazelwell at present, and be constantly meeting warren and his wife; that was more than he could endure, and yet he was unable to explain the reason to his father. "so you are mr. lanark," said the squire, laughing more heartily than he had done for many a day. eli and the trainer, listening like two guilty schoolboys in the hall, heard him, and the former said, joyfully-- "it's all right, fred, that's the squire's laugh, and right glad i am to hear it." "it's splendid," said fred, as he rubbed his hands in high glee; "we must crack a bottle over this, eli, come along." "i am mr. lanark," said ulick, "and i own the saint, but he is not for sale," he added, smiling. "never mind the horse at present; tell me what you have been doing," said the squire. "living quietly in a flat in west kensington, and doing a little racing," replied ulick. "not quite so pleasant as hazelwell?" inquired his father. "there is no place quite like hazelwell to my mind," said his son. "i was fearfully dull and miserable at first, but i have become fairly used to it now." "you will come back to our home?" was the next question. ulick looked troubled; what could he say, how make an excuse? "there is no occasion to hesitate," said the squire. "return with me to-day; the flat can look after itself." the temptation was great. he thought of hazelwell and all it meant to him; then he thought of irene. if he was constantly in warren's company he felt he must betray himself. better to stay away, far better for all of them. "i cannot return to-day, father," he said, quietly. "i have very good reasons for not doing so. trust me, believe in me; i am acting for the best, as one day you will discover." the squire's face clouded. "he dare not face us all after what he has done," was his thought. he sighed heavily, and his son knew what it meant. "you still believe me guilty," he said. "you are wrong, quite wrong. i can prove my innocence, but you ought not to require that of me. cannot you trust me, father?" the appealing tone in his voice was unmistakable, there was a ring of sincerity in it, and the squire wavered. ulick had not been accustomed to deceiving him. if he could only bring himself to believe in his innocence; but the evidence was damning, and now his refusal to return to hazelwell confirmed it. "do you know who took janet todd away from home?" he asked. "yes," replied ulick, in a low voice. "ah!" exclaimed the squire, in a tone of satisfaction. "then why have you not given me his name long ago?" "because i only discovered it the other day, and that quite by accident." "who is the scoundrel?" "i cannot tell you." "you must," thundered the squire. ulick remained silent, nothing his father might say would make him break his resolve. it was hard, very hard, and at that moment he hated warren courtly heartily. "come, my boy," said his father, in a milder tone, "let there be no more differences between us. are you satisfied if i say i am convinced of your innocence, and ask you to forgive me for my unjust suspicions? i regret the hasty, angry words i said that night. come back home with me, and let bygones be bygones." ulick was moved, for he knew what it cost his father to speak such words, and acknowledge himself in the wrong. it was an appeal that cut him to the heart to refuse. "if you knew all, father, you would say i was acting right not to return home at present. to hear you say you are convinced of my innocence has lifted a heavy load from me, and i thank you for those words with all my heart. how i long to return to hazelwell, you must know, and therefore will understand the weighty reasons i have for not doing so. trust me, father, believe in me, and i shall be the happiest man alive." the squire did not hesitate. he spoke steadily as he said, "i will trust you, my son. we have been separated too long. if you cannot return with me, i know there must be grave cause of which i know nothing. what it is i cannot imagine, but you will tell me some day, and i hope and pray that it will not be long. if you will not return with me to hazelwell, you must come to the walton with me and spend a few days." "willingly," said ulick. "it will be like the good old times for us to be together again." "i feel a new man," said the squire, heartily, as he rose to his feet. "we will go and find those two schemers, eli and fred, and then have a look at the saint." chapter xiii. the squire and the saint. redmond maynard opened the door, and, followed by his son, went in search of the culprits. he knew his way about stanton house, having often stayed there when fred may trained his horses. "i know where we shall find them," he said, "in may's room." they entered without ceremony and surprised the worthy pair enjoying a glass of champagne. they looked ludicrously guilty, and the squire burst out laughing. "you think you are very clever, no doubt," he said. "as it happens, everything has turned out for the best, but you might have got into trouble had it been otherwise." "we had not much doubt about succeeding, or we should not have risked it," said eli. "i am sure you are not sorry we did so." "no, we are perfectly satisfied," replied the squire, "and you both deserve credit for all you have done." the trainer sent for another bottle of champagne, and the squire and ulick joined them. "there is no chance of buying the saint, mr. lanark says," remarked the squire, smiling; "but as the horse is in the family i do not see that it matters much. one thing you must promise me, when he has finished racing you will send him to the hazelwell stud." "with pleasure," replied his son. "but he will stand a lot of training." "i shall be surprised if he is not running as an aged horse," said the trainer, "for i never saw one with better legs or a sounder constitution; he is built for work, and cannot have too much of it. i only wish he was in the derby, he is the very horse for that race." "let us go and see him," said the squire. and they went towards the stables. "i wonder what my father will think of his colour?" said ulick to the trainer. "it will surprise him, and he will be disappointed as you were, until he looks him over," was the reply. "eli, i shall not forget what you have done for us," said the squire, as they walked across the yard. "i know it was your plan that brought us together. what made you think of it?" "i saw you were feeling the separation more every week, and i determined to put a stop to it if i could, so i took fred may into my confidence, and he eagerly agreed to my scheme." "i wonder why ulick will not return to hazelwell with me?" mused the squire. "is he not going home with you?" asked eli, surprised. "no, he says he has good reasons for not doing so. he knows who ran away with janet, but he cannot tell me. do you know?" asked the squire, quickly. "no," stammered eli, thinking to himself perhaps ulick's suspicions rested upon the same man as his own. the squire looked at him keenly, and said, "i believe you do. confound it, i cannot make it out at all; why am i kept in the dark?" eli was glad when the trainer called out, "you are going too far; this is the saint's box." the squire's mind was diverted, and he turned sharply round and walked back. the trainer threw open the door of the box, and the saint was stripped for their inspection. the squire looked at him in astonishment, and said, "is this a joke, that cannot be the saint? what a horrible colour! i never saw such a dirty grey before." they laughed, and eli was as much taken aback as his master. "that is the saint," said ulick, "and i am not surprised you do not like his colour. i thought as you think when i first looked at him, and so did his owner, who parted with him solely because of his colour, and has regretted it ever since. i refused to purchase him for no other reason." "then who bought him?" asked the squire. "fred may, and resold him to me at the price he gave for him. if it had not been for him i should not have had the colt at all." "upon my word i cannot help being disappointed," said the squire. "he is not fit to look at." the trainer laughed heartily, as he replied, "come, mr. maynard, that is too bad, after all he has done. he has never been beaten yet, and do not forget he 'downed' the present derby favourite as a two-year-old. forget his colour, and examine him for his good qualities. i do not think you will find a fault with him." the squire went up to the saint and carefully handled him. he was a considerable time making his inspection, and said at the conclusion-- "you are right; i cannot find fault with him, he is perfect, except for his colour. what a pity it is; it will never do to breed from him." "i should chance it," said ulick. "he may get them a much better colour than himself, and as far as make and shape and performances are concerned, he cannot very well be beaten." "when does he run again?" asked the squire. "in the coronation cup in derby week. it is run over the derby course, and we want to show them what he can do. he'll meet last year's derby winner, the cesarewitch winner, and the gold cup winner of last season; if that is not a test of his quality, i do not know where it is to be found," said may. "that will be a race," replied the squire, "and i must be there to see it. i have a very good colt foal out of old honeysuckle i am going to keep, and i shall send him to you at the back-end." "i shall be very pleased to have him," replied may. "what a wonder honeysuckle was on the turf, and at the stud she has been even a greater success." "and that does not always follow," said the squire. "by no means," replied the trainer. "the contrary is often the case." the other horses at stanton house were looked over, and after luncheon the squire and his son returned to london, eli going back to hazelwell by a different route. on their way up to town ulick gave his father a full account of his doings since he left home; and the squire, in return, informed him of the course of events at hazelwell. "if it had not been for irene i should have been still more lonely," he said. "she was with me last winter for some time, and cheered me up, although i am rather afraid she was not particularly happy herself. i wish you had fallen in love with her instead of warren, it would have been a good thing for all of us." "if he only knew how i loved her," thought ulick. aloud he said, "she ought to be happy. anselm manor is a fine place, and her husband has plenty of money." "he had," remarked the squire, "but i do not know whether it is the case now. he gambles and is seldom at home. he had to sell holme farm to pay his debts, it was the best part of the estate. he had not the sense to offer it to me; i would have given him half as much again as he sold it for." ulick was surprised to hear this; he knew warren courtly was very well off, and his gambling transactions must have been very heavy to force him to sell holme farm. "does irene know of this?" he asked. "yes, she cannot be kept in the dark. they have not been married long, as you are aware, and yet i am very much afraid she has found out her mistake, and, what is worse, i encouraged her to accept him. it has all been a deplorable bungle, but i hope warren will pull up in time." they drove from liverpool street to the walton hotel, and ulick sent round to his rooms for his clothes. as he dressed for dinner he little thought that warren courtly and irene were to be of the party; he was unaware of their presence in the hotel, his father purposely not having mentioned it in case it might drive him away. it wanted half an hour to dinner-time, and he opened the window and looked out across the gardens, the embankment, and the river. the scene attracted him, although he had seen it many times before; but the dull, dark beauty of the thames, as it flows through the great city to the sea, possesses an irresistible fascination which seldom palls. london and the thames are bound together by historical ties which can never be undone. the great watery highway glides heavily along under many vast bridges, past huge warehouses, docks, and shipping from all parts of the world, until it gradually empties itself into the channel, and is lost in the vast sea. ulick knew paris well, and wondered why there were no steamers plying along the thames as they did on the seine. he thought it a shame this great river should be thus neglected, for no more imposing view of london can be obtained than from a boat. he carelessly watched the traffic on the embankment, and the people lounging on the seats in the gardens below. london is always busy, and yet it contains myriads of human beings whose sole occupation is to kill time. at the dinner-hour he went downstairs. his father informed him he had engaged a table, and the waiter pointed it out to him. he crossed over and sat down. in a few minutes he saw his father enter the room, and almost fell off his chair in astonishment and dismay as he saw warren courtly and irene with him. "it is a little surprise i have not exactly prepared for you, but am giving you," said the squire, smiling. "i have explained to them that we are quite reconciled, and that there are no differences between us." ulick shook hands mechanically with warren courtly, who felt very uneasy, and irene, who did not conceal the pleasure it gave her to see him again. "it is the best news i have heard since you left hazelwell," she said. "i thought it too good to be true when your father told me of your meeting and reconciliation at newmarket." "and i am more than pleased to see you again," he said, earnestly. "you have not quite forgotten your old playmate and companion?" "oh, no; i never can forget those days; they were the happiest of my life." she did not think what she was saying until warren said abruptly-- "that is not very complimentary to me." irene coloured slightly as she replied-- "you understand what i mean." "and heard what you said," he replied. "i am very glad irene was so happy at hazelwell," said the squire. "we always tried to make her so." the conversation during dinner-time seemed to drag; there was a feeling of restraint between the three younger members of the party which the squire, who was overflowing with good-humoured happiness, failed to notice. he talked freely and well, and ulick was glad of it. from time to time he glanced at warren and thought-- "if he knew i had met janet, and seen him in mrs. hoffman's house at feltham, i wonder what he would do? he knows he has done me an irreparable injury, and yet it does not seem to trouble him much." after dinner warren courtly said he had letters to write, and asked to be excused for half an hour. the squire went into the reading-room, "just for a quiet doze," he said, smiling, and irene and ulick were left alone. they went on to the balcony and sat down. it was a beautiful may evening, much warmer than usual, and the air was refreshing after the heat of the room. "you cannot know how the squire has suffered during your absence," she said, after a few remarks on various topics. "do you not think he is older, i mean has aged very much?" "yes," replied ulick, "and i am very sorry if i have been the cause. still, i could not have acted otherwise. i would do it again if necessary." she wished to ask him if his father believed in him, knew he had accused him unjustly, but it was a delicate matter. still, they were old friends, and there could be no harm in it. "is the squire satisfied he made a mistake, and he was in the wrong?" she asked. "yes, i have that satisfaction, although i cannot return to hazelwell at present." "not return!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "what reason can there possibly be for that?" "a grave reason which i cannot explain to you, but which my father accepts, although he fails to understand; may i ask you to do the same?" "indeed, yes; but i am very, very sorry you are not coming home," she said. "i am glad to hear you say that," he replied, earnestly, "because i value your good opinion very much, almost as much, if not quite, as my father's." "you have always had my good opinion," she said, softly. "then you never believed me guilty?" he asked, eagerly. she hesitated; she had at one time thought he might have become entangled with janet. she would not deny it now. "you must forgive me, ulick," she said. "remember, i heard the story from the squire, and i had no opportunity of hearing your side. what else could i do? i confess i thought as he thought, but i no longer do so now you are reconciled." "you thought me capable of stealing janet todd from her father, from eli, who would have willingly done anything for me?" he said, reproachfully. "not that; no, not that," she replied. "i never gave that a thought." "you did not believe janet went away with me?" "no, i was sure she did not." he looked surprised, she spoke so certainly. "why were you sure?" "because eli told me you left the house alone, when janet was in her room." "how did he know, he left us alone together when he went out?" "he was sure of it, and i believed what he told me," she said. ulick thought eli must know more about janet's disappearance than he cared to tell. he did not know where she was, but it was quite possible he knew with whom she ran away. "he spoke the truth," said ulick. "i did not injure janet in any way, nor did she leave home with me." "i wonder who she went with?" said irene. "have you any idea?" "how can i possibly know?" he said, evasively. "no, of course not," she replied. "but i cannot understand why you will not come back to hazelwell." warren courtly joined them. he heard his wife's last remark, and remarked-- "you can have no reason for remaining away now you and the squire are reconciled." "i have an excellent reason," said ulick, looking him straight in the face in a manner that made him feel very uncomfortable. chapter xiv. a discovery imminent. warren courtly remained in london, and his wife returned home with the squire. irene was accustomed to his frequent absences from the manor, and became somewhat reconciled to being alone. the squire, however, was exceedingly angry with him, and ventured to remonstrate, but received no satisfaction from the interview; on the contrary, it tended to widen the breach between them. ulick promised his father he would return to hazelwell as soon as circumstances permitted, and the squire stated his intention of coming at the end of the month to see the saint run in the coronation cup at epsom. warren courtly had a serious quarrel with felix hoffman over the letter he wrote to irene. felix, however, was master of the situation, and told him so. "i know who you are, and that you have a wife at anselm manor; i wonder how she would take it if i introduced her to mrs. warren?" "you dare not, you scoundrel," said warren. "i have never lived with mrs. warren, you know it." "i know she is no more mrs. warren than i am, unless you have committed bigamy, which is not at all likely," he replied. "if you say one word to my wife about mrs. warren and myself, you will repent it," said warren courtly. "shall i? then you will have to make it worth my while to hold my tongue," replied felix. "turning blackmailer, are you?" said warren. "what is your price?" "fifty pounds will carry me over this month, and i promise not to trouble you if i have good luck with it." "and supposing you have bad luck?" "then i am afraid i must trespass upon your generosity again," replied felix. "and how long will this sort of thing go on?" "it all depends upon circumstances. i may not require your assistance for some time." "and if i refuse your request?" "then i shall feel it my duty to enlighten mrs. courtly." there was no way out of the fix, so he paid felix hoffman fifty pounds, thankful to be able to keep him quiet for a time, until he could think over what was best to be done. why did he not make a clean breast of it to irene? his folly was committed before he married her, and she could not blame him for attending to janet's wants. it was shameful to leave ulick under suspicion. then he thought, "but he is not under suspicion now. i wonder why he does not go home. it is very curious. he cannot have discovered anything about me, that is almost impossible." ulick was half inclined to tax warren with being the cause of all the trouble, and would have done so in all probability had a favourable opportunity occurred. fortunately it did not, or angry words might have passed between them, which would have led to a serious quarrel. felix hoffman had bad luck, and a few days after he received the fifty pounds he lost it all, and more with it. he had no hesitation in asking for assistance, which warren point-blank refused. "i see what you intend doing," he said, "and i do not mean to be bled. i will face the consequences, and you can do your worst." felix hoffman was taken by surprise at the unexpectedly bold front shown, and said, angrily-- "very well, you know what will happen." "but you do not," replied warren. "i have a very good idea." "i have told my wife everything, what do you think of that?" "i don't believe it," said felix, quaking lest it should be true. "you may please yourself about that," warren answered. "i have no desire to speak to you again." "then out of my house mrs. warren, or whoever she is, goes neck and crop." warren laughed provokingly, as he replied-- "it is not your house, and if anyone goes it will be yourself. i shall have great pleasure in assisting your mother to get rid of you, and i am sure it would be a relief to her." felix hoffman went home in a towering rage. he owed a lot of money, and knew if he did not pay up that the bookmakers would show him scant courtesy. some of them he had not treated well in his more prosperous days, and they would only be too glad to retaliate. mrs. hoffman knew her son's temper was none of the best, and she saw he was in a bad humour. he did not, however, mean to let her into his secret as to the identity of mr. warren, nor had he any desire that janet should leave the house; on the contrary, now he had calmed down, he was sorry he hinted at such a thing to mr. courtly. he cudgelled his brains as to which was the best way to obtain money. he repaid the loan of five pounds to mrs. courtly in order to inspire her with confidence in him; he would write again and ask for a loan of five-and-twenty pounds; it was not much but it would be useful as a stop-gap. he was careful over the composition of the letter, and anxiously awaited a reply. it came, and there was no money enclosed. mrs. courtly wrote to the effect that her husband had warned her against him as an unprincipled cheat. she explained that she had shown his former letters to him, and that was his comment upon them. she had no desire to hold further communication with him. this roused felix hoffman, and his anger for a time mastered him. he would make warren courtly pay dearly for this, and give his wife a shock she would not get over for a long time. janet little thought, as she sat reading a novel, what was going on in the next room. felix seized pen and paper, and commenced writing furiously. he read the letter when finished, and found it ridiculous. he must write in a calmer, more methodical and convincing strain, or she would take no notice of it. at the end of an hour he had composed something that suited him. he could give her some information about her husband, and his goings on when in london, that would open her eyes, but he must be well paid for it, and have a hundred pounds down. he hinted that there was a lady in the case who went under the name of mrs. warren. "she resides with my mother, whose address i will send you if you forward me the amount i have named. i assure you what i write is true, and you can prove it for your own satisfaction. i have seen mr. courtly there many times with the lady named." there was more to the same purpose. "if that does not fetch her, i'll never write another letter," he said, with satisfaction at the thought that he was firing a mine that would explode in a manner warren courtly little dreamed of. when irene received the letter she was at first inclined to tear it up, but curiosity prevailed, and she read it. her cheeks burned with anger. how dare this scoundrel make such a charge against warren. whatever he might do in the way of gambling and spending money foolishly, she was sure he would not deceive her as this man suggested. she read the letter again, and became more uneasy. it was within her power to find out whether he had told her a lie or otherwise. was it a ruse to get a hundred pounds out of her? that could hardly be the case, because the writer gave his address and was known to warren, who could bring him to book for slandering him. she thought over his constant absence from home, his frequent visits to london, even when no racing was going on, his increased expenditure. might not a portion of the money go in the manner suggested? irene had very little knowledge of such matters, yet she had sense enough to perceive that if warren was entangled much money would be required. she became restless and excited. something must be done, she could not exist in this state of suspense. if warren had deceived her, she would never live with him again. eventually she wrote, enclosing the amount required, and requesting mrs. hoffman's address. felix was delighted at the success of his scheme, and sent the same address he had given before. "my mother lives with me," he wrote, "and mrs. warren is in the house. she is nearly always at home; but if you call and she happens to be out, my mother will attend to you. ask to see mrs. warren." "living in the same house," thought irene, "then it must be true. oh, how miserable i am." she made arrangements to go to london, taking her maid with her, and requesting mrs. dixon to inform mr. maynard of her departure. "tell him i shall stay at the walton with warren, and that we shall probably remain until after epsom week." she had no idea whether warren was at the walton, or otherwise, because he always wrote from his club. she thought of the scented paper on which he had once written, and her heart sank. mary marley, her maid, was surprised, but delighted at the prospect of a visit to london, for it was some time since she had been there. irene was silent during the journey, and went to bed early after dinner. her maid was surprised her master was not there, but she made no remark. she knew her place. next day irene went out alone. she drove to waterloo and booked to feltham. arriving at the station, she asked for mrs. hoffman at the address given. the porter directed her, and looked at her admiringly as she left the station, as it was seldom he saw such a stylishly dressed lady, and wondered who she could be. irene's heart beat painfully fast as she walked slowly along the road. the house was not far from the station the porter told her, and she dreaded reaching it. she felt half inclined to turn back. perhaps it was some cunning trap laid for her by this man. she had read of the mysterious disappearances of women, and the prospect was not pleasant. she did not lack courage, and as she had come so far she would not turn back. she reached the house, opened the gate, and rang the bell. mrs. hoffman opened the door. "does mrs. warren live here?" asked irene, dreading her answer. "yes. she is out doing a little shopping at present. will you come in, my lady?" said mrs. hoffman, overwhelmed at the sight of such expensive raiment and at irene's aristocratic features. "thank you, i am anxious to see her," she said, as she entered the house, feeling that her life was about to be shattered, and all her fears realised, before she left it again. mrs. hoffman opened the door of the front room, and said-- "this is mrs. warren's sitting-room; i am sure she will not be long." irene thanked her and sat down. as she did not seem inclined to talk, mrs. hoffman discreetly withdrew, although she would dearly have loved to linger and gossip. irene looked round the room curiously. it was neatly furnished, but there was nothing to give her a clue as to the identity of its occupier, nor did she see anything indicative of warren's frequent presence in the house. she was relieved at this; after all, there might be some mistake, and she could apologise and leave. she would willingly have given another hundred pounds to find out she had been deceived by felix hoffman, and allowed him to go scot free into the bargain. irene moved about the room looking at sundry books and papers lying about on the table. she saw no signs of work-basket, or anything to indicate that mrs. warren was industrious, and again her hopes sank. time passed slowly, and she commenced to feel uneasy. she was inclined to leave the house. she rang the bell and mrs. hoffman appeared. "do you think mrs. warren will be much longer?" she asked. "perhaps i had better call again, but as i came from london i am anxious to see her." "i expected her in before this," said mrs. hoffman. "perhaps you had better wait as you have come so far." "will mr. warren be with her?" "oh, dear no; he seldom comes now," said mrs. hoffman. irene was thankful for this; it was a grain of comfort, and she anxiously caught at any straw. "they do not live together," said the gossiping woman, "but the separation is by mutual consent. they quarrel occasionally when he is here, and he always seems glad to get away. mrs. warren is a nice lady, i like her very much, but of course you know her?" "of course," echoed irene. "and her husband?" "yes." "i wonder who she is?" thought mrs. hoffman. "she's not in the same circle as mrs. warren, that's certain. how did she find out the address?" "mrs. warren sent you her address i suppose?" asked mrs. hoffman. "i knew it," was irene's answer, "or i should not have been here." mrs. hoffman felt it would be indiscreet to put further questions on this matter. she heard the gate click and said-- "i expect this is mrs. warren. i will mention you are here. what name, please, my lady?" "do not tell her anyone has called to see her," replied irene, hastily, "it will be a pleasant surprise for her, as she does not expect me." chapter xv. the result of the discovery. "you have been a long time," said mrs. hoffman to janet. "i went for a walk through the park; it is such a nice morning," she replied. irene heard her voice and started at the sound. it was familiar. where had she heard it before? she felt she was on the verge of a startling discovery, and became agitated. she determined not to appear at a disadvantage, and therefore controlled her feelings. janet entered, unaware there was anyone in the room, and as irene was hidden from view behind the opened door she did not see her. she walked to the table to put down a parcel and irene saw her. at first she was too bewildered to speak; then she said sharply-- "janet, what are you doing here?" janet todd looked round, frightened and startled at the unexpected question. when she saw irene she staggered back and sank into a chair, covered with shame and confusion. she made no answer, and irene stood looking at her, still unable to grasp the full meaning of the situation. "how is it you are living here?" she asked. "are you a friend of mrs. hoffman or mrs. warren?" janet looked at her with tears in her eyes, and said, in a broken voice-- "oh, why have you come here? please go away and leave me; i am a miserable, wretched woman." it was far from irene's intention to leave her without learning the truth. the appearance of janet was totally unexpected, and she could not account for it. "i shall not leave you until you tell me why you are in this house, and who induced you to leave your home. i know it was not mr. maynard." "it was not; he is a good, brave man, and would never wrong any woman," said janet. "i cannot tell you why i am here--i dare not." "i was told to ask for mrs. warren. where is she?" "who told you to ask for her?" "that does not matter." then it suddenly occurred to her that janet might be mrs. warren, and the thought seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. she came forward and, bending over her, said in a low voice-- "you are not mrs. warren, are you? tell me you are not, janet, for pity's sake." she made no reply, but sobbed convulsively, her body shook, and she shivered painfully. "are you mrs. warren?" asked irene again, in a tone which demanded an answer. "yes," faintly sobbed janet. "and mr. warren is my husband. janet, how could you do me such a bitter wrong? i have always been your friend," said irene. despite the trouble and confusion she was in, janet saw there was a misunderstanding, and she must do all in her power to make the best of things. "i did not wrong you," said janet. "i ran away with mr. courtly before you were married to him. if there be any wrong, you did it to me by taking the place i ought to have occupied." irene started; janet was putting a different complexion on the case. "so it was my husband who induced you to leave your home?" she asked. "yes, and he promised to marry me." "and you believed him?" "yes." "did you leave your father's house with him the night mr. maynard had the quarrel about you?" "i did." "you saw him that night?" "yes, and he told me everything, but forbid me to speak about it to the squire. he was very angry, and said his father had no right to accuse him, and that he would not return to hazelwell until he asked his forgiveness." "did you tell him you had arranged to leave home with mr. courtly?" "no, i dare not; he would have told my father, and i should have been detained." "and you have known all this time that suspicion rested upon mr. maynard, and that he was suspected of having gone away with you?" asked irene. "that is so, but he has forbidden me to speak about it." "he knows you are here!" exclaimed irene. "promise you will not mention it to anyone, and i will tell you all," said janet. irene sat down and, as she did so, said-- "if i promise i will not mention what you tell me to anyone but my husband, will that satisfy you?" "why inform him?" "because i may find it necessary," said irene. "it will be better not to do so." "i am the best judge of that," she replied. janet then gave irene a full account of her life since leaving home with warren courtly, and how ulick had called to see her, after accidentally catching sight of her in feltham, and of his presence in the house when warren courtly called. "mr. maynard knows all?" exclaimed irene, in consternation. "everything," replied janet, "and he was most anxious you should not discover the truth. he will be very angry if he finds out i have told you." then it was to save her pain and shame ulick had allowed the blame to rest upon his shoulders, knowing at the same time her husband was guilty. why had he done this for her sake? her heart answered her, and she knew he loved her and that she loved him. what a mistake it had all been. the squire had blundered, and ulick had thrown away his chance of happiness and her own by his hasty conduct. it was done, and could not be undone, and she must bear it as well as she was able. how she wished janet had told him, the night he left hazelwell, that she was about to leave her home with warren courtly. ulick would have prevented it, and everything would have been so different. it was some time before she spoke; then she asked-- "what is my husband to you now?" "nothing," said janet, colouring. "since he married you we have lived entirely apart. you can believe what i say. i have no love for him, he has none for me. he makes me an allowance, which he has a right to do. we are not even good friends, and i do not care if i never see him again. i was a vain, foolish girl when i ran away with him, and have bitterly repented it ever since. mr. maynard told me my father was anxious for me to return home, and he strongly advised me to do so, until he discovered who mr. warren was; then for your sake he bade me keep silent and remain where i am." irene was somewhat relieved at this. from janet's statement she gathered her husband had been faithful to her since their marriage, and that, to a great extent, condoned his offence towards herself, but she could not forgive him for so cowardly allowing the blame to rest upon ulick. the contrast between the two came vividly before her. her husband hiding his wrongs by sacrificing a friend; ulick maynard knowingly bearing the blame to shield her from sorrow and shame. she felt sorely tempted to go to ulick, fling herself into his arms, and ask him to take her away from it all. she knew he would resist this temptation for her sake, and after a moment's consideration she also knew it was impossible for her to act in such a manner. "we must keep this interview to ourselves," said irene. "no one must know of my visit, and you must tell mrs. hoffman i am a friend, any name will suffice to satisfy her. i am very sorry for you, janet, and advise you to return to your father." "i cannot. mr. maynard made me promise not to do so until he gave me permission, and i could not face the people in helton after what has happened." "you will live that down," said irene. "i will take care no one talks about you, as far as i am able, and i can do a good deal to help you." "it is very kind of you," replied janet, "and i hope some day to see my father and live with him again. i am not so bad, and i have kept myself respectable since i ran away." "i quite believe that," replied irene. "do you think my husband will call here again?" "i hardly know; he has posted me money lately. i have no desire to see him," replied janet. "you will oblige me by not seeing him," said irene. "forbid him the house. if you require money write to me, and i will send it." "he might see the letter and recognise my handwriting." "that is of no consequence. if he does he will soon learn i have seen you and know everything," said irene. "i will write and tell him i wish him to keep away from the house, and i feel sure he will do as i desire," said janet. irene remained some time longer, for they had much to talk about. when she was leaving janet said she would write to her at once if there was anything of importance she thought she ought to know. when irene returned to the walton, her maid told her warren courtly had called, and was very angry when he discovered his wife had come up to london without informing him. "the manager told him you were here," said mary. "i expect he thought he had come to see you." "did you see mr. courtly?" "yes, and he asked me where you had gone. i told him i did not know, but that i expected you back in the afternoon, and he said he would be here for dinner." irene went to her room, and after dismissing her maid thought over the best course to pursue. should she tell him of her meeting with janet, and that she had learned everything, or would it be better to leave him in the dark? what excuse could she give for her journey to london? state she had come to give him a pleasant surprise, and that the squire would be there in a day or two for the epsom week. perhaps that would be the better plan. if he was unreasonably cross and irritable, she might possibly throw out a hint that would startle him and make him more careful. it was four o'clock, and she did not expect him for dinner before seven, so there was ample time to review the eventful morning she had spent with janet todd. this she was doing when her maid knocked at the door and said mr. ulick maynard had called to see her. irene did not expect him, his father must have written at once to inform him she had gone to town. "where is he?" asked irene. "in the reading-room." "i will see him in my sitting-room," she said; and her maid went away to give the necessary instruction. "i am glad to see you," said ulick, as she entered the room. "it is an unexpected pleasure. i had no idea you were in town until my father wrote me a hurried note." she shook hands with him, and as she did so the thought that he knew what her husband had done, and how he had acted, caused her some confusion, at which ulick wondered. "i came to town to give warren a surprise," she said, hurriedly. "i have not seen him yet, but he has called, and my maid says he did not seem overwhelmed with joy at my presence." "then he ought to have been," said ulick. "he is joining me at dinner. will you make one of the party?" she asked. "if you wish it, and you think he will have no objection?" "i am sure he will be pleased to see you." "in that case i have no hesitation in accepting. i will run home and dress." how lovely irene looked; he felt he must go away, leave her presence, or he would be tempted to betray his feelings. he little knew how strongly she controlled herself, and how deeply she loved him. it was well for them that it should be so. warren courtly's temper had not improved when he arrived again at the walton. he went to irene's room and waited impatiently for her, and she did not keep him long. "what brings you to town in such a hurry?" he asked. "i felt lonely and thought i would give you a surprise," she said, with a faint smile. "you had no business to come without first writing me about it." "i saw no harm in it." "harm, no; but it is a strange proceeding on your part," he replied. "are you not pleased to see me?" she asked. "of course i am," he answered, testily. "it's the manner of your coming i do not approve of." "you will soon recover from the shock," she said, carelessly. "shall we dine at seven. i have invited ulick maynard to join us. he called this afternoon, and i thought it only polite. he accepted on condition you had no objection, and i said you would be very pleased to see him." warren courtly with difficulty suppressed an oath. of late he had avoided ulick, and he was the last man he cared to meet. "i would rather have had you to myself," he said. "ulick is such an old friend, he will make no difference," she replied. "you are precious fond of his society still," he said, showing his ill-temper; "i should have thought you would have preferred being alone with me, if you came down to give me a surprise. perhaps you wrote and informed him you were coming here." irene was angry at this remark, and said-- "you know i did no such thing, and i am surprised at you insulting me by such a remark. his father wrote and gave him the information." "at your suggestion," sneered warren. "you are in a bad temper, and forget yourself," she replied. "i will leave you to recover your manners. remember one thing, if you make any more suggestions of a similar kind at dinner i shall retaliate. i am quite capable of giving you a very unpleasant surprise if you fail to treat me with respect." she went out of the room, and he stood looking at the closed door. then he said to himself-- "what has come over her? i never found her in this mood before. i must get to the bottom of it. retaliate, will she? well, we shall see." chapter xvi. a race to be remembered. it was not a social meal, anything but that, and they were glad when it was over. warren courtly, irritable and ill at ease, spoke once or twice to his wife in such a manner that ulick glared at him savagely; he noticed it, and enjoyed it. unfortunately, warren was going from bad to worse. he realised the truth of the saying that evil communications corrupt good manners. at his club he played bridge and lost large sums. on the racecourse he tried to repair these losses, with the inevitable result. his fortune, at one time ample, gradually dwindled away, and he knew that if he did not pull up anselm manor would be in the market in a couple of years or so. irene had no idea things were as bad as this; her mind was occupied with other matters. the knowledge she possessed of her husband's conduct towards janet todd and ulick she found burdensome. she was positively certain ulick would not tell the squire, and she felt he ought to know, but she had promised janet to tell no one but her husband. when she left them to retire for the night, warren commenced to talk about racing. he had a substantial bet about sandstone for the derby at very fair odds, and was sanguine of winning. he discussed the race with ulick, who was of the same opinion that sandstone would win. "if he does," ulick remarked, "i should put part of the winnings on my horse for the coronation cup." "your horse!" exclaimed warren. "i had no idea you owned one." "more than one--several," replied ulick; "but the saint is the best." "you own the saint!" said warren, more and more surprised. "i have heard it said he is the best three-year-old we have." "he is not far short of it," he replied. "at least, that is the opinion of fred may, and he is a very good judge." "you are lucky to own such a colt. where did you pick him up?" ulick explained how he came to possess him, and warren said, grumbling, that some people had all the luck. "i have been deuced unfortunate of late," he went on, "and a big win is the only way out of the difficulty that i can see. if sandstone lands the derby i will have a plunge on your horse. i am much obliged to you for telling me." "i shall be glad to hear of your winning a good round sum," replied ulick. "i was sorry to hear you were compelled to part with holme farm." warren's face clouded. he had heard quite enough about that, and said-- "i don't see what there is to make such a fuss about. something had to go; why not that part of the estate as well as another?" "my father says he would have given you half as much again for it." "i could not have accepted it; he would merely have done it out of kindness." ulick thought this probable, and knew his father would do that, and more, for irene's sake. the squire arrived at the walton, and was feverishly anxious for the saint's race to be decided. fred may had sent glowing accounts of the colt's progress, and considered he had a chance second to none. "we will show them what he is capable of this time; it will be the race of his life. he has never been quite so fit as he is now, and i fear nothing, not even vulture," he wrote. "by jove! that is good news," said the squire. "the olive green will win, my boy." on derby day they all went to epsom, where redmond maynard had a box, and the great scene was repeated as it has been for many years. it was one of the sights of the world, most uncomfortable, but unique. sandstone won somewhat easily, and warren was jubilant. he meant to invest the bulk of his winnings on the saint. he confided to irene that if ulick's colt won his difficulties would be well-nigh at an end. "i had no idea you were in difficulties," she said. "not very serious," he replied, in an off-hand manner, which did not deceive her, "but still bad enough to be unpleasant." thursday, the day after the derby, was fixed for the coronation cup, and the half-dozen horses that were likely to go to the post were all great performers. it was a meeting of champions, a race to be remembered, and a thorough sporting affair. the crowd was much larger than usual on this day, and the race was looked forward to with as much eagerness as the derby had been the previous day. warren courtly was in a fever of excitement. he had backed the saint to win him several thousands, and when he saw him in the paddock felt inclined to put more on. the colt's peculiar colour rendered him easily distinguishable, and he was mobbed in the paddock, taking it as unconcernedly as usual. ben sprig was to ride him again, and he felt a trifle anxious as to the result. he had never been beaten on the saint, having scored five victories in succession; but he knew the five horses he was to meet in about a quarter of an hour were probably the best in the country. vulture had won the derby the previous year, as easily as sandstone, and followed it up by a st. leger victory. coralie, a handsome mare, had an ascot gold cup to her credit. avenger made hacks of the last cesarewitch field. decoy duck was an eclipse winner; and mermaid landed the oaks in vulture's year. well might men gasp and exclaim, "what a field. it beats the derby into a cocked hat." no wonder the betting was fast and furious, and backers were split up into half-a-dozen parties. it was the more venturesome speculators who stood by the saint. the old hands preferred one of the other tried stayers. "it is too much to expect of him," they said of the saint. "it's more than sandstone could do, and look how he won the derby yesterday." vulture was favourite, then coralie and avenger, and the saint figured at eight to one. "it is a real good price," said the squire. "i must have a hundred on," and when he had booked that he longed for more, hesitated a moment or two, and then doubled it. irene caught the fever and made warren put a "pony" on for her. ulick had a small amount going, and warren had plunged. cautious fred may departed from his usual custom of having "a tenner on" and invested fifty, and had done the same for ben sprig, who was not supposed to indulge in such iniquitous practices, for fear of the far-reaching arm of the stewards of the jockey club. ben was a cautious man, and could conscientiously say he had never made a wager in his life--it was always done for him. great was the excitement as the horses went on to the course. vulture, wearing the stars and stripes of his american owner, was first out, his jockey sitting crouched on his withers--an ugly sight, but often effective. then came the handsome coralie, in purple and scarlet, followed by avenger's yellow and red cap, with decoy duck and mermaid close behind. "there's only five of 'em," said one spectator. "where's the other? what is it?" "the saint, of course; ben sprig's up, he's always last out." the saint cantered slowly down as the others galloped past, and ben, whipping him round, followed in the rear before half the onlookers were aware the colt had come out of the paddock. away they went to the famous derby starting-post. here vulture showed his scant respect for decorum by lashing out all round, and in a final flourish tried to dash through the tapes, but did not succeed. after a quarter of an hour wasted by these vagaries on the part of the favourite, the half-dozen started on their journey. coralie dashed off with the lead, followed by vulture and avenger, with the other three close up. it was evident it was to be a race from start to finish between the lot. they disappeared from view, and as they came in sight again, the mare still led, and the horses ran wide. the half-dozen were all on terms with each other. tattenham corner was reached and the crowd on the new stand cheered wildly as they swept past. it was here that ben sprig always looked out for a chance of gaining a few lengths. he wanted them more than ever on this occasion, and meant getting them if possible. he hugged the rails, and kept the saint well in hand. he lost no ground but he gained none, as they were all adopting similar tactics, and none of the horses ran wide. the half-dozen seemed dangerously heaped together as they rounded the bend, and the crowd on that part of the course anticipated a spill, but happily it did not occur. coralie led down the hill, the purple and gold glittering and shining royally in the sunlight. the party in the squire's box were unusually excited, which was not to be wondered at. fred may was invited to join them, and he was more anxious than he had ever been before over the result of a race. he had said he "feared nothing," with the saint, and meant it. if he had a dread of one, it was vulture, for he knew him to be a great horse, despite his temper. "they keep their places," said the squire, "but i fancy the saint is drawing up a trifle." warren courtly was very pale, and his hand shook as he held his glasses. irene glanced at him, and thought-- "much depends on this race, or he would not be like that." she turned to ulick, who stood at her side, and said, "you take it coolly, are you confident of winning?" "yes, i think he will win; i know ben is riding a splendid race, and saving him for the finish up the rise. that is where it tells." "i do hope he will win, ulick," she said. he looked into her eyes and read more than he dared hope for. coralie had run well, but now they were racing in deadly earnest. vulture wrested the lead from her, and his giant stride told its tale. he shot out like a greyhound, and a great shout greeted the favourite's move. avenger was close on his heels, and ben was gradually creeping up with the saint. they were in the hollow now, in full view of the crowded stands, and the battle was watched with the greatest interest. not more than five lengths between the six horses--a sight seldom seen in such a race. decoy duck and mermaid were in the rear. "i am afraid he will hardly do it," said the squire, "but what a race it is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten." warren courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. would the saint get up and win? it seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and ulick looked confident, so there must be a chance. the victory of ulick's horse meant much to him, of his defeat he dare not think. seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle. ben sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the saint to go one better than he had ever done before. he knew what a good colt he was, he never doubted his courage, but in front of him was vulture, a more than ordinary derby winner, avenger, the newmarket crack, and the handsome coralie. he knew he had the ascot cup winner at his mercy, he fancied avenger would have to play second fiddle to the saint, but what about vulture? would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? for the first time since he had ridden the saint he doubted. vulture was three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. it seemed almost impossible to catch him, but ben knew the impossible often became the possible with a good horse. win he must; the saint should not lower his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and stripes, and he, ben sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding, would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little yankee in front of him. ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat fast. the saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. the colt was full of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would. who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable day? who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of victory? who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed to shoot forward with lightning speed? ben sprig fancied he was being hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the saint. ulick's colt passed coralie like a flash, drew level with avenger, beat him, and ran up to the vulture's quarters before people had time to grasp the wonderful feat. fred may shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore expected to regard everything as a matter of course. ulick shouted, the squire waved his hat, warren courtly sat down, the strain was too great, and irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head. vulture's jockey was not caught napping--americans seldom are--and he rode his best, but he had met his match. the grim determination of the elder man was not to be denied. ben sprig felt his honour was at stake, he must "beat this kid." the two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they knew what it all meant as well as the riders. there is no sight in the world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his eyes. vulture and the saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive green were locked together. only for a second or two it lasted, and then ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "mr. lanark's" champion won the coronation cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever witnessed on any course. chapter xvii. the squire overhears. the saint's wonderful victory was the chief topic of conversation for the remainder of the afternoon, and it was discussed all over the course. it was acknowledged to have surpassed the derby victory of sandstone, and the merits of the pair were a fruitful source of conversation. perhaps warren courtly had as much reason to rejoice as anyone over the saint's win, for he had landed a large stake. he left the box and went into the ring, where he met several acquaintances, who congratulated him. felix hoffman stood alone in the paddock, his face gloomy and desperate. he had been hard hit again, his bad luck stuck to him, and he had lost the hundred pounds he received from irene. he had plunged on vulture and lost, and cursed "the curiosity" for beating him. the squire and his companions went down to the paddock to see the winner, and congratulate ben sprig. warren was not with them, but he followed later on. ulick and irene returned to the box, as she was anxious to sit down and rest after the excitement of the race. the squire stood talking with the trainer and ben sprig, and warren courtly was coming towards them when he encountered felix hoffman. he tried to avoid him, but felix was in a desperate plight, and meant to obtain assistance somehow. "had any luck?" he asked. "yes," replied warren. "i'm dead broke; lend me a tenner to try and get a bit back." "not a farthing," replied warren, who moved on, but stopped when he found felix hoffman following him, and said, angrily-- "go away, i will have nothing to do with you." "you must help me; i have done a lot of dirty work for you." warren was losing his temper, and his eyes had an angry gleam in them. "if you pester me i shall give you in charge; go away." still felix held his ground, and said-- "i only ask for a trifle; it will pay you to give it me." "get out of my way or i will knock you down," was the reply. the squire, walking across the paddock talking to ben sprig, was so engrossed he failed to notice them. "knock me down, will you?" said felix. "i'd like to see you do it. if you don't do as i ask, i'll go straight to your wife and tell her all about your dealings with mrs. warren. she's here; i saw her in the box with you." warren raised his hand and in another moment would have struck him, but the squire heard the words, and held his arm back in time to prevent the blow. "who is this fellow?" asked the squire. "felix hoffman is my name, at your service." "do you know him?" he said to warren. "oh, yes; he knows me very well," answered felix. "i did not address you," replied the squire; and repeated his question. warren nodded as he said, "unfortunately i do; he is a regular scoundrel." "i am not as bad as you," was felix's retort. "i haven't got one wife; you have two." "what does the man mean?" asked the squire. "he's a fool, or worse; come away from him," said warren, "or i shall do him an injury." "i don't know who you are," said felix, addressing the squire; "but if you are his father-in-law i can tell you he is a bad lot. his wife, mrs. warren, lives with my mother, and that is the address; you can call and see for yourself," he said, as he handed him a card. warren snatched it out of his hand and tore it up. "give me another card," said the squire, and felix handed one to him, warren not daring to interfere on this occasion. they moved away from felix hoffman, and the squire said-- "what is the meaning of this? is there any truth in it?" "he's a confounded liar," said warren, angrily. felix hoffman heard him, and said-- "i am not. if you want to learn the truth, ask his wife; she knows all about it." warren stepped up to him in fury, struck him a heavy blow on the mouth, and knocked him down. fortunately a race was being run at the time, and there were only a few people in the paddock. the squire forced warren away with him, and they left felix sprawling on the grass. "you ought not to have struck him," said the squire. "he deserved it." "was there any truth in what he said?" "no, none whatever. it is true i have been to his house, and that a mrs. warren lives there, but i have nothing to do with her, you may rest assured of that." "he said irene knew all about it." "which is absurd, because there is nothing to know. that is the man who wrote the begging-letter irene showed you, and you said the matter ought to be placed in the hands of the police." "the scoundrel; he deserves all he got and more," said the squire. warren was relieved at this change of front, and said-- "he once gave me a winner at hurst park, and he has pestered me for money ever since. he was asking me to lend him ten pounds just before you came up. it was because i refused he trumped up this story about mrs. warren. it is all a fabrication." "i am glad to hear it," answered the squire, not quite satisfied. warren went into the ring, and when the squire entered the box ulick left irene in his charge. "we have had rather an unpleasant scene in the paddock," said the squire; "that fellow hoffman, who wrote to you, insulted warren, and he knocked him down. it served him right." irene turned pale and said, in an agitated voice-- "what did he say?" "told a pack of lies about warren and some woman living at his house. i don't believe a word of it," said the squire. "he gave me his address and told me to go and find out for myself. here it is," and he handed her the card. irene was in desperate straits. he must be prevented from visiting mrs. hoffman's house at any cost. "of course, you will take no notice of it," she said. "the fellow actually said you knew all about it, but i did not believe him. by gad, if i thought warren had deceived you i would make things hot for him." "he has not deceived me," she replied. "please do me a favour; take no further notice of the matter." "warren snatched the first card he offered me out of his hand. why did he do that?" asked the squire. "no doubt he thought it an insult for him to offer it to you," she replied. "that may have been the reason. i hope so," he replied. a feeling of depression seemed to have come over them, and ulick, who had returned, said-- "i am afraid the excitement has been too much for you all. shall we go home, there are only two more races?" they readily agreed, with the exception of warren, who said he would see it out and return after the last race. this irritated the squire, but he made no remark, and they left him to his own devices. warren immediately sent a telegram to janet telling her to go away at once, as the squire had her address. janet was surprised at this, but she wondered still more when another wire came from irene to the same effect, and asking her to send an address to the walton. the squire, however, had no intention of going to feltham, and when he returned to hazelwell janet went back to mrs. hoffman's. warren courtly felt he had better make a clean breast of it. he would tell irene all, and trust to her generosity to forgive him. a week after the races, when they had returned to anselm manor, warren courtly said to his wife-- "irene, i have something to tell you: it is humiliating for me to have to confess that i have done wrong, and it will cause you pain to hear my story." she knew what he was about to say, but thought it better to allow him to tell his own story. she was glad he made her his confidante, and confessed his fault. she felt she could almost forgive him. to love him was impossible, for her heart was not in her own keeping. "you recollect when janet todd disappeared from home?" "and ulick maynard was, and still is by many people, suspected of wronging her," she said. "he did not wrong her, he is perfectly innocent. it was before i became on intimate terms with you that i was infatuated with janet. she was pretty and attracted me, and gradually we drifted together, until we became more than mere friends. i persuaded her to leave home and go to london. she is there now, and i have never deserted her, or let her want for anything. when i knew you, irene, and loved you, i severed all connection with janet, and we have been almost strangers to each other ever since our marriage. can you forgive me for what i have done? it would have been unpardonable had i continued to see janet, but i have only done so when she requested more money than i thought necessary." he felt relieved now he had told her, and waited for her reply. "i have not much to forgive," she said. "it is ulick maynard who has been wronged. you must tell the squire all." "never," he exclaimed. "then i shall be compelled to do so, to clear ulick. that reparation you owe him, if not more," she said, firmly. "i would not have told you had i thought you would act like this." "it was needless; i knew all. i have seen janet, and she has confessed everything to me," was irene's reply. he looked amazed. "you have seen her!" he exclaimed. "how did you find her out?" "felix hoffman sent me her address, for a consideration." "so you have been spying on me, playing the lady detective. i am much obliged to you, and am sorry i confessed my fault," he said, sneeringly. "when you confessed i admired you for it; you are changing my opinion of you," she replied. "i forbid you to tell the squire. perhaps you would like to confide in ulick, you appear to be very good friends?" "it would be useless, he already knows everything," she said, quietly. warren courtly felt decidedly small, but he hardly believed her. "he knows nothing," he said. "he does, for he was in her house on one occasion when you called to see janet. he heard her story, and for my sake forbade her to speak of it, or return home," she said. "for your sake," he said, sarcastically. "did he tell you this?" "no; ulick is far too honourable for that," she replied, hotly. "he is not mean or underhand. janet gave me the information." "which, no doubt, you were glad to receive," he said. "i was, for it proved there was at least one man in the world who thought me worthy of sacrifices on his part," she answered, bitterly. "if he knows i took janet away, why does he not tell his father?" asked warren. "he will never tell him." "because he loves you?" said warren. "and if he does?" she asked, proudly. "what then? am i not worthy to be loved by a good man?" "do you return his love?" he asked, savagely. "yes," she said, calmly. he laughed harshly, as he replied-- "then you have no cause to complain of my conduct with janet." "you degrade yourself and me by speaking in that manner. you know that ulick has no knowledge that i love him, or is aware that i know he loves me. i am your wife and will do my duty. you will have no cause to complain, all the wrong is on your side," she said. "tell the squire if you like," he said. "only remember, if you do i shall sell anselm manor and leave the country, and you will go with me. you are my wife, and must obey me." "that is a threat you will never carry out," she said. "i will; so you can think it over. there is another thing i wish to mention. if you inform the squire, i will make matters very unpleasant for yourself and ulick. i have ample grounds for suspicion." she did not deign to answer him, but walked proudly out of the room. "so he knows," thought warren, moodily. "what a coward he must think me. i'll prove to him i am not one before this year is out, how or when i do not know, but i'll do it." he went into the stable yard and mounted a horse that stood ready saddled. irene saw him ride away at a breakneck pace, and wondered where he was going. after all, he was her husband, and she felt anxious about him. she knew how he would feel about ulick, and dreaded the consequences. she wished she had spoken more kindly to him, but he insulted her with his implied suspicions. as the evening wore on, and he did not return, she became more and more uneasy. it was after eleven when she heard the sound of horse's hoofs coming up the drive, and shortly after warren entered the room. "i am glad you have returned," she said, softly. "i was anxious about you. i spoke harshly to you, perhaps, but i was excited, and hardly knew what i said. if you wish i will not tell the squire about janet." he was surprised at her words. his ride had done him good, the gallop across country had aroused him to a better frame of mind. "i thought you would not care what became of me," he said. "when i can screw up my courage i will tell the squire ulick is innocent, but i cannot do it yet. give me a little time, irene, and all will come right in the end." "i hope so," she said. "do not be reckless because we have quarrelled. let us make the best of things as they are. i am very glad to hear you have decided to tell the squire all, it is the very best thing you can do, and i am sure it will be a relief to you." chapter xviii. "tally-ho!" the year passed rapidly away, and the hunting season was in full swing. the rushshire hounds were to meet at hazelwell, and ulick saw the fixture in the paper. "by jove! i should like to have a spin with them again," he said to himself; "it is more than two years since i had a rousing gallop over our country. i cannot go to hazelwell, but i have a good mind to join them as they pass through helton village on the way to brecon wood. i'll write to eli and ask him to put me up for the night, and he will be able to give me a mount. my father will be out with the hounds, and many people will recognise me, but i can vanish when the hunt is over. it will be amusing to see how the good folks take it, and whether they object to my presence." he wrote to eli, who was in a flutter of excitement when he received the letter. of course, he would give him a bed, and be glad to see him. "if i could only get random for him to ride," he said to himself, "that would be a treat. i'll try it on, anyway." he rode over to anselm manor and fortunately found irene alone. to her he showed ulick's letter and she was delighted to hear he was coming down. "i have come to ask a favour of you," said eli. "i shall have much pleasure in granting it, if i can," she replied, with a smile. "will you lend me random to mount him on?" he asked. "i shall be delighted," she replied. then she wondered what warren would say, as he would be sure to inquire where the horse was. she could tell him she had lent him to eli for a friend to ride, as she did not intend to hunt that day, but merely to be at the breakfast at hazelwell. "you can take him back with you now; one of the grooms can ride over," she said. eli was delighted at the success of his plan, and as he looked at random in his box, said-- "you will be surprised to have your old master on your back, but i expect you will know him again." ulick arrived at the hazelwell stud farm, and eli greeted him heartily. "something tells me you will not leave us again," he said. "you are wrong, eli; i cannot go to hazelwell yet, not until----" he hesitated. "not until what?" asked eli. "until the man who ran away with janet thinks fit to confess to my father," said ulick. "then you will have to wait a long time," said eli, "for he has not got it in him." "you know him!" exclaimed ulick. "not for certain, but i have a very good idea. we will not talk about that. have you heard anything of janet?" "yes," said ulick. "she is well, and i know is leading a respectable life, but she cannot come home at present, and does not wish you to see her until she has asked you to forgive her." "i am glad to hear that, it is good news; but i should like to have her here again. if you know where she is, tell her i have forgiven her long ago." he did not ask why she did not come home, but her refusal to do so confirmed his suspicions, and he thought he understood her reason for remaining away, and approved of it. "i have a good mount for you," said eli. "would you like to see him, or will you wait until the morning?" "we may as well look at him now," said ulick, "and then i can dream of one of the best runs on record." they went out and across the yard, eli lighting the way with a lantern. he opened the door of a box near to that in which ulick entered the night he gave him such a surprise. holding up the light, eli said-- "he's not a bad sort, is he?" at first ulick did not recognise the horse, as the light was not particularly good. he stepped up to his side, and random sniffed and pushed his head against him. "he seems to know me," said ulick. then, as he took another look at him, he exclaimed-- "why it's random! good old random; where on earth did he spring from?" he patted the horse, and it was quite like the meeting of two friends after a long separation. "i borrowed him," said eli. "from mrs. courtly?" "yes, and she was delighted to lend him." "will she be at the meet to-morrow?" "no, only at the breakfast." "i wonder what warren will think when he sees me on him?" thought ulick. "i expect she will merely explain that she lent him to eli, and not mention my name." he looked forward eagerly to riding his old favourite at a meet of the rushshire hounds again, and yet he had strange misgivings when he was dressing, that something was about to happen which would change the whole course of his life. he had no inkling as to what it was, but the impression was there, and he could not get rid of it. he said nothing to eli, and was as cheerful as usual at breakfast, and when he mounted random he almost wished the day was over. he rode towards helton, and met several people on horseback going to hazelwell. some of them recognised him, others he fancied did so but avoided looking in his direction. james bard, the veterinary surgeon, gave him a hearty welcome, and insisted on riding back with him to his house in the village. "i am right glad to see you again," he said, briskly. "you have been away from us so long. i hope you have returned to stay." "not yet," replied ulick. "i have not been to hazelwell; i am going to join them as they pass through the village; they are sure to draw brecon wood first." "then i remain with you," said james bard. "you must go to hazelwell; my father will miss you at the breakfast, and will be angry." "not when he learns why i remained away," replied bard. they rode together to james bard's house, and remained there until the hounds came in sight. they stood at the window and watched them pass, and there was a large muster at the meet, the hazelwell hunt breakfast always drawing a big crowd. "it will be comparatively easy to remain unrecognised amongst that lot," said ulick. "i did not see my father." "the squire has been down with the gout," said bard, "and dr. harding has made him rest. i expect he will chafe a good deal at having to remain at home to-day." ulick was sorry his father had the gout, yet was glad he was absent from the hunt. when the party cleared the village, james bard and ulick rode after them, in the direction of brecon wood. as they neared the well-known haunt of the best foxes in rushshire, they heard the hounds making music, and in a few minutes the well-known cry was heard, and they had "gone away" after the fox. ulick set random going, and, followed by james bard, quickly came in sight of the field. in front, well ahead, the hounds were streaming away over some open pastures, the fox going at a great pace, and the field in straggling order. "he's got a capital start," said ulick. "we are in for a good run." "if it's the 'old dog' we went after last season, he'll make it hot. we shall soon tell, he generally doubles round and makes for hazelwell coppice at the other side of glen church." "sixteen miles if it's a yard," said ulick. "and good going all the way, but there are some stiff fences, and we shall have to face the tone river." "swim it or leap it?" laughed ulick. "you'll get over it on that fellow. i don't know about mine. i fancy i have seen yours before." "so you have. it's random." "good gracious, so it is. you'll have nothing to fear, and if anyone is in at the death, it will be yourself," said bard. it was not long before random left the veterinary surgeon in the rear, and carried ulick well to the front of the field. the horse fenced splendidly, and had a good rider on his back. warren courtly inquired where random was, and irene told him she had lent him to eli for a friend of his to ride, and with this he was satisfied, and did not ask who he was, much to her relief. ulick saw warren ahead of him on a big irish grey, a strong puller, but a good fencer, rather a dangerous horse to ride when his blood was up. "he'll be surprised when he sees me on random," thought ulick, who had by this time forgotten all about his early-morning presentiment in the excitement of the chase. they were galloping over a ploughed field, and the going was heavy, beyond was a meadow, and in the distance the river tone could be seen. it was narrow in some parts, and not deep, but the banks were treacherous, and often brought riders to grief. out of the plough into the meadow they went at a fast pace. the old fox knew his way about, and bore away to the left. there was an old tree fallen, three parts of the way across the river, and he headed for it. racing along the huge trunk with sure steps, he reached the end, made a long jump, and scrambled up the opposite side, and raced away up the steep incline towards hazelwell spinney and glen church. warren set the grey at the water, and he cleared it gallantly. ulick flew over on random, and as they galloped up the hill got ahead of him, but was not within shouting distance as he passed him. at first warren did not see him, but presently he recognised random, and then ulick. he was never more surprised in his life than to see ulick on random at that particular moment. it staggered him for a few minutes, and when he recovered from the shock he was extremely angry. "so it was to him she lent random," he muttered savagely. "she knew he was here, at helton. i wonder if they met when i was out. you shall suffer for this, irene. perhaps he thinks i am a coward; i'll show him who is the better man to-day. damn him, i'll beat him, or know the reason why." he rode the grey roughly, and the horse resented it. he pulled harder than ever, and the wild irish blood in him revolted at his rider's handling. only half-a-dozen horsemen were near them, the bulk of the field had cut across country, knowing where the fox was making for. all the men following the track of the hounds were hard riders, and would have scorned to adopt such tactics. "that's ulick maynard," muttered the huntsman. "i'm glad to see him out again, and on random too. i wonder what he's done with old eli's girl? she was a pretty wench. it was a bit rough on eli, that was, and i didn't think mr. ulick was the man to do it. however, there's no telling what will happen when there's a woman in the case." ulick was thoroughly enjoying himself. he loved following the hounds, and had done so ever since he was a boy. he knew the country well, and was aware it would take random all his time to keep going to the finish at this pace. they were nearing glen church, and beyond, in the distance, was hazelwell coppice, the house being hidden amongst the trees a couple of miles away. ulick took in the well-remembered scene at a glance. he called to mind how he had galloped over this country with the squire and irene, and how they had found it a difficult task to keep up with his father. he wished irene was there now, so that he could give her a lead over that big, stiff-set hedge a hundred yards ahead of him. he forgot all about warren on the grey. there were the hounds scrambling through the bars of the gate, dashing through the holes in the hedge near the bank. once he caught sight of the fox streaking along with his tail straight out, his head down, and his body almost level with the ground. "he's not half done yet," thought ulick. "he deserves to get away, and i hope he will save his brush." the fox meant doing so if possible, there could be no doubt about that. round glen church was a high, rough stone wall, built in the old style, stone piled upon stone, not bound together in any way, except by the pressure of one upon another. the coping on the top was loose, and in places big stones had rolled off on to the grass, for the church stood in a field, and was approached by a footpath. the fox seemed of a pious turn of mind, for he headed straight for the church, as though hoping to find sanctuary there from his desperate pursuers. ulick expected to see him run round the churchyard, but instead of that he scrambled up the wall and made his way amongst the tombstones and over the graves of men who had hunted his ancestors in years gone by. "if you think i am going to follow you over there you are mistaken," said ulick. "i have no desire to join the silent residents in that locality. i'll ride round and catch you up on the other side, it is not far out of the way." he watched the hounds scrambling over the rough wall, which stood on a rise on the ground, and saw from their movements they were well-nigh beaten. warren courtly was not far behind. he saw ulick check his mount, and then make for the corner of the churchyard. he was near enough to be heard, if he shouted, and he called out-- "follow me over the wall, if you have pluck enough; don't sneak round that way." chapter xix. a fatal leap. ulick heard him, and, turning round, saw the grey galloping at a great pace straight for the churchyard wall. he did not accept the challenge; it would have been madness to do so. he called at the top of his voice to warren to stop. "he'll never clear it! pull up!" shouted ulick, excitedly. for answer, warren merely looked in his direction, and smiled grimly. "come on!" he shouted again. "are you afraid?" ulick was not afraid, but he had no desire to break his neck, and that was probably what warren would do if the grey failed to top the wall. there was no chance of stopping him, and ulick determined to see the result of the dare-devil leap. "he's mad to attempt it!" he said. "the horse is a good one, but he'll never get over it. i would not risk it on random for a fortune!" there was no one else near; the four or five horsemen had skirted round the wall, and were riding hard after the hounds, who had by this time cleared the churchyard. ulick waited for warren's rash leap, and his heart almost stopped beating in his intense anxiety to see him safely over. the presentiment of the morning flashed across his mind, and he wondered if this was to be the result. warren knew what lay before him; but his blood was up, and so was the grey's. the horse pricked his ears as he saw the formidable obstacle in front of him, but he did not shirk his work. on the contrary, he regulated his stride, and prepared for the desperate leap. as warren drew near to the wall ulick rode forward, in order to render assistance should it be required, for he feared the result, and wished to do all in his power to help him. up the incline galloped the grey. had the wall stood on the level he might have jumped it, although that was doubtful. the horse took off well, rose at the wall, and would have cleared it safely but for the fact that a huge raised gravestone, over a vault in the churchyard, stood close beneath it. the horse saw it, tried to avoid it as he leaped, caught his hind legs on the wall, fell heavily forward, and threw warren with terrific force head first on to the slab. ulick heard the crash and shuddered. horse and rider failed to rise. he rode quickly to the spot, flung random's bridle over a big coping stone, and scrambled over the wall, almost falling over the horse as he landed on the other side. he merely cast a rapid glance at the grey, and saw he was fatally injured, and rushed forward to warren courtly, who lay stretched out on the top of the slab where he had fallen. ulick stooped over him, and said, in an agitated voice-- "warren! warren! are you alive? speak to me!" there was no answer, no movement in the body, which lay dangerously still and inanimate. ulick tore open his vest and collar, and lifted him up. as he did so the head fell back, resting on his chest, and for a moment the eyes opened with the shock, but quickly closed again. ulick shuddered. that limp movement of the head, he knew what it meant. there was no hope. warren's neck was broken. he had pitched on to his head, and the fall was bound to be fatal. he supported the dead man for a considerable time, hoping against hope that he would show some sign of life. his thoughts wandered to irene, and he wondered how she would bear the shock. he must break it to her as gently as possible. she must hear it from no one but himself. he was of no use here. warren was beyond human aid. he laid the body gently down, and covered the face with a handkerchief; it looked weird and uncanny, resting there in the scarlet coat on the top of a vault, in the picturesque old churchyard. getting over the wall, he remounted random and rode away for assistance. there was no one in sight. then he espied two figures in the distance walking towards him; one was his father, the other irene. they saw him, and his father waved his stick. there was no excuse; he had to pull up and meet them. he was bewildered, at a loss what to do, what to say; and as he thought of warren lying still in the churchyard he shuddered, and was almost tempted to make a bolt. "you are not often out of the hunt," said the squire. "irene let the cat out of the bag, and told me you were here, and that eli had borrowed random for you. i am glad to see you out with the hounds again, but you ought to have come to breakfast." "have you had a fall, or missed the hounds?" asked irene. "i am afraid i have taught random bad manners. have you seen warren?" he made no answer, but looked vacantly before him, and she said, anxiously, as she noticed the green moss from the stone on his coat-- "have you hurt yourself? you look as though you have had a fall." "i have not had a fall," he said, in a voice strangely unlike his own. the squire was quick at reading faces, and knew something had happened. did it concern irene? had warren been injured? he took her by the arm and said-- "come, let us go home; and, as ulick has missed the hounds, he can come with us." irene hesitated. she felt ulick was concealing something, either from her or his father. what was it? had anything happened to her husband? she stepped forward before he dismounted, placing her hand on random's neck, and, looking up into his face, said, quickly-- "something has happened; i can see it in your face. there has been an accident. is it warren?" he avoided her gaze. how could he tell her, and the churchyard where he lay quite close by? the squire saw there was serious news, and said, as cheerfully as possible-- "has warren had a spill? i hope it is not serious." "yes, he had a bad fall. i have just left him. i was riding for assistance when i met you." irene turned white, and the squire supported her. "where is he?" she said. "let me go to him." ulick dismounted and said-- "you must be brave, irene! warren has had a very bad fall." "where is he?" she asked again. "he attempted to leap the churchyard wall and follow the hounds. it is a dangerous jump, and the horse fell, throwing him heavily." "then why do you delay? ride for assistance at once! we will go to him," she said, and started off at a rapid pace in the direction of glen church. this was ulick's opportunity. he stepped up to his father, and said-- "do what you can to comfort her. he's in the churchyard, lying on harewood's vault. i am better away." "he is not----?" asked the squire, and paused. ulick nodded. "he fell on his head on the slab and broke his neck. now go after her." "call out to her to stop; i can hardly limp along," said the squire. "irene!" called ulick. she turned round, and he pointed to his father. she came hurriedly back, and said-- "take my arm--we will go together." ulick mounted random and rode rapidly away to hazelwell, where he ordered a carriage and the requisite necessaries to be sent to the church, and dispatched a man for the doctor. meanwhile the squire and irene were nearing glen church. "irene," he said, in a low voice, "ulick has told me warren is very badly injured; you must be prepared for the worst." she looked at him with frightened eyes. "prepared for the worst!" she muttered. "is his life in danger?" "i am afraid so." she gave a little sharp cry, and hurried forward again. "you had better remain with me," he called, and she obeyed him without a murmur. they reached the churchyard, and passed under the porch through the gateway, and at the far side, near the wall, the squire saw a red coat on a tombstone; then he distinguished the form of a man. irene had not seen it, and he led her down a side path. "be brave, irene!" he said. "if he is in danger you will have to summon up all your courage to help him." "i will," she said; "indeed i will." then she saw the red coat, and started back, her hand pressed against her heart, her eyes filled with horror. "he is lying on the stone on the top of a vault," she said, in a hollow voice. "how did he get there?" she stumbled forward over the graves, leaving the squire to follow. she grazed her ankles, but heeded not, and at last she reached him. snatching the handkerchief away, she stood looking at his face, with the closed eyes and the black mark on the neck. she stood perfectly still; no cry came from her; but her look of horror told she knew he was dead. the squire reached her just as she fell forward, insensible, on her husband's body. he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and sat down on the slab. with one hand he drew the handkerchief over warren's face again. "this is a sad blow," he thought. "it is a blessing she is insensible. it may be all for the best." he allowed her to remain in this state for some minutes, and then tried to rouse her. his foot pained him, but he scarcely felt it. irene opened her eyes and shuddered. at first she did not realise where she was, but, as she caught sight of the gravestones, they recalled all. "he is dead!" she said, slowly. "poor warren! he is dead!" the tears came to her relief, and the squire remained silent, with his arm supporting her. suddenly she flung herself on warren's body and moaned bitterly. the squire placed his hand on her shoulder, and said-- "irene, bear up; there is much to be done. we must take him home--to hazelwell first, if you wish; it is nearer." "no, no!" she said. "to the manor. i want to be there with him alone!" the carriage came, and was closely followed by ulick and dr. harding, who examined warren, and found his neck broken. tenderly they placed him in the carriage. irene insisted upon getting in, and the squire followed her, saying to ulick-- "you and dr. harding had better follow us to the manor." warren courtly was taken back to his home, which he had left in the morning full of health and spirits, if not happiness. he little thought, when he mounted the fiery grey, how he was to return. the news of the fatal accident soon spread, but it had not reached anselm manor, and there was consternation when they arrived. mrs. dixon did all in her power for her mistress, and managed to calm and soothe her. "it is dreadful!" moaned irene. she did not love warren, but the shock of his death affected her terribly. it was so sudden, so unlooked for; and he was so young. she could hardly believe it. dixon remained with her during the night, and towards early morning she sank into a troubled slumber. "i cannot remain here," said ulick, soon after their arrival. "it would not be right for me to do so. you will remain, father?" "yes; but you must go to hazelwell," was the reply. warren was dead, and irene knew nothing of his connection with janet. he was glad of that; he had no hesitation in going to hazelwell now. "i will," he replied, and the squire gave a sigh of relief. "home again, at last!" he thought. "warren's death has brought us together again; once at hazelwell he will not leave it." warren courtly was buried in anselm church, in the vault where several of his ancestors reposed; and irene was a widow, having been only a very short time a wife, and that only in name. it was a shock to the county, and the members of the rushshire hunt in particular, and it was generally acknowledged warren's rashness at attempting such a leap caused his early death. ulick and the squire examined the wall where the grey and his rider were killed, and the latter said-- "i wonder what made him attempt it? as a rule he was not rash." ulick explained what had happened, and how warren had dared him to follow him. "i wonder sometimes if he was angry because irene lent me random to ride, and that caused him to act as he did." "i should not be disposed to look at it in that light," answered his father. "he may have been surprised to see you out, more especially on random; but there was no harm in your riding him. there was something else at the bottom of the challenge he threw out to you. did you ever doubt his courage?" "if i did, he was unaware of it," was the answer. "then it must have been in a sudden fit of rashness he did it," said the squire. janet todd read the account of the fatal accident to warren courtly in the paper, but she did not grieve much over his death, although she felt sorry it had taken place. there was nothing now to hinder her returning to her father, and it was the only thing she could do, as she had very little money. she wrote to eli begging his forgiveness, and asking if he would take her back. needless to say, his reply was loving and fatherly, and he implored her to come home without delay. janet returned, and eli--good, large-hearted man that he was--received her with open arms, and she was grateful for his kindness. some weeks after her return he said to her one night-- "janet, i had made up my mind never to allude to the past, but i will ask you one question and have done with it." she knew what the question was, and decided there could be no harm in answering it now, more especially as irene knew the whole circumstances. "i will answer any question you care to ask me," she said. "who induced you to run away and leave me?" he asked. "warren courtly." "i thought as much," was his reply. chapter xx. perfect harmony. it was over twelve months since warren courtly came to an untimely end, and the squire and his son were in the morning-room, where he had kept vigil on the anniversary of ulick's departure. there was no snow on this occasion, as they looked out of the window at the familiar scene; but the ground was held in the grip of a hard frost, and the white crystals had not yet vanished from the trees. "irene is coming for dinner to-night," said the squire, as he looked at him. "and who else is coming?" "only dr. harding and the vicar and his wife," replied his father. ulick did not immediately reply, but stood at the window while the squire sat down. bersak, who was lying on the hearthrug, went to him and licked his hand. he patted the dog's head, but, as he made no movement to go away, bersak went and laid down at the squire's feet. during the months that had elapsed since warren's death he had seen very little of irene, had, in fact, avoided her as much as possible, and absented himself a good deal from hazelwell, his excuse being that he liked to see his horses run, especially the saint. the "curiosity" had won some good handicaps, and, at the squire's request, he had been sent down to hazelwell at the end of his four-year-old career, much to fred may's chagrin, as he wished to keep him in work, and said it was throwing money away to send him to the stud at that age. ulick, however, wished to please his father, so the saint was now an important member of the hazelwell stud, and eli todd was as proud of him as the trainer had been. the squire knew it was not altogether racing that caused his son to vanish from home for weeks at a time. he appreciated the delicacy of feeling which actuated him and took him away from irene's presence in the early months of her widowhood. he saw in his conduct a sure sign that he was in love with her, and he gleaned from irene's look of disappointment, when she saw ulick was absent, that she returned his affection. it had always been a thorn in the squire's side that he had induced irene to marry warren courtly, who was unsuited to her, and had thus placed an insurmountable barrier in ulick's way. by an accident that obstacle had been removed, and he did not intend his cherished idea should again come to nothing. the squire did not mourn for warren courtly. he was no hypocrite, and, although sorry for his early death, he argued that it was all for the best, more especially when he came to examine into his affairs, and afterwards when he had made janet tell him who had run away with her. this she did on giving his word he would keep her secret. warren, who had left the squire joint executor with irene, had involved the anselm estate heavily, and it would take some years to wipe off the debt that had accumulated. irene had a considerable income, but not more than half she had a right to have expected. there was a mortgage on the manor itself, but the squire quickly took that up on his own account. as ulick looked out of the window, his thoughts were busy with memories of the past, and in them irene was a conspicuous figure. he had waited more than twelve months, and held his peace, although he was impatient to pour out his love to her now she was free. he was thinking whether he would have an opportunity of doing so to-night, and, if it occurred, whether he would take it. what would her answer be? he did not wish to be over-confident, but he looked forward to a favourable reply, and his heart beat fast in expectation. he was not aware irene knew who ran away with janet, and he was pleased to think she had no knowledge of warren's conduct. his father watched him with a smile on his face, and thought-- "he means to ask her to-night. he is making up his mind, and i will see he has the chance." "is there anything particularly striking to look at out there?" asked the squire. "if so, i will join you." ulick laughed as he replied, "i was taking very little notice of the view. i was thinking over old times." "pleasant thoughts?" "yes, most of them." "we were a couple of fools to remain separated for such a long time," said the squire. "we appreciate being together again the more now," replied ulick. "eli is precious glad to have that girl of his back again," said the squire. "i hope the lesson she has had will teach her to behave better in the future." "there is no fear about that," replied ulick. "it has been severe." "not nearly so severe as she deserved," was the reply. it was a merry dinner party, and they were all in high spirits. later on in the evening the squire and the vicar's wife challenged the vicar and the doctor to a quiet rubber, which was eagerly accepted. "you two young people can look after yourselves," said the squire to irene and his son, and she flushed slightly at his words. whist was an interesting game to the players, but ulick and irene evidently found it slow as spectators, and quietly left the room. a bright fire was blazing in the drawing-room, and irene sat down at the piano and idly ran her hands over the keys. the lamps shed a soft, yellow light over the room, and the effect was soothing and tranquil. presently irene sang a simple song, and, when it was ended, went on with another. she was fond of music; so was ulick, and he listened to her sweet, low notes, and watched her face as she sang, half unconscious of his presence. when she stopped and looked up she found him standing near her. their eyes met, and, taking her hand, he said-- "irene, i have something to say to you." she knew what he meant, and knew what her answer must be. he pleaded his cause well, and she listened, smiling encouragement when he faltered. he asked her to be his wife, and she consented without any false hesitation. they were very happy, and ulick felt that somehow the world was a very good place to live in, and that the ways of life were not quite so crooked as some people were desirous of making out. he could not realise that irene had ever been warren courtly's wife. he seemed to have possessed her ever since she came to hazelwell on the death of her father. she was his irene, always had been, and always would be for ever more. and irene was very happy. she knew her brief life with warren had been all a mistake. she regretted his death, and the manner of it, but it had not blighted her life. she had known of people who had mourned distractedly the loss of a dear one, and in a few months had changed the garments of widowhood for those of marriage. in a few years warren would be merely a memory, nothing more, and it had been his own fault. having neglected her during life, it was not reasonable to expect he would be reverenced when dead. she knew she had always loved ulick, although she had been unaware of it, and now the realisation of her happiness was at hand. she was to remain at hazelwell for the night, and when the other guests departed the squire was told what had happened. "i knew it was coming," he said, joyfully. "i saw it in your faces. come and kiss me, irene; you are not jealous, are you, ulick?" "not at all," he replied, laughing; "but i envy you." "what!" he exclaimed. "not had one yet?" "dozens," whispered irene, in his ear, and the squire laughed heartily. "you recollect this room when i sat up all night waiting for ulick to return?" said the squire. "yes," replied irene; and then she added, "it is the very day." "so it is, my child," he replied, "and i take it as a happy omen for your married life." * * * * * in the summer, when the trees were full of leaf, and the birds carolled their sweetest and best, ulick and irene were married. it was a quiet wedding, and they went abroad for some considerable time. on their return they resided at anselm manor, and the squire divided his time between hazelwell and their home. ulick had learned from his wife that she knew all about janet and warren, and it was not long before they found out that the squire was in possession of the facts. as for janet, she accepted the position of lady's maid to irene when mary marley and bob heather were married. this bold move on irene's part effectually silenced the gossips, who clung to the belief that ulick was the cause of janet's trouble, and that they had run away together. it was acknowledged that mrs. maynard would never have had janet in her service had such been the case. happiness reigned supreme at anselm manor, and when the squire heard of the arrival of a son, and that he was a grandfather, he gave a whoop of joy that startled the decorous quietude of hazelwell. "and if it isn't on the very day, the same day that ulick left me, and the day on which irene consented to be his wife." the new arrival made the squire feel young again, and no signs were wanting that the little one would be a prime favourite with him. years soon roll by and time never stands still. the child grew into a fine boy, and there were others to keep him company. there was every sign that anselm manor would be the home of many happy children. the laughter of youth rang through the old rooms, and echoed down the passages and along the walls, where monks and friars had revelled and prayed and told their beads hundreds of years before. anselm manor had taken on a new lease of life; a new spirit was infused into it--the buoyant spirit of youth. ulick and his wife were often seen in the hunting field, and occasionally at some of the principal race meetings; and there was much rejoicing at hazelwell when fred may pulled off the jockey club stakes with the colt out of honeysuckle, that had only just escaped being born nearly "a year old." the saint was making a name at the stud, and his early foals were promising, but none of them were the colour of their sire. ulick, however, wanted a grey by him, and in due time got his wish, and a promising youngster he looked. janet did not forget mrs. hoffman. the woman had been kind to her in her way, and she often received a present from the manor. as for felix hoffman, he got into trouble with the police, and had to leave the country in a hurry, only just escaping the meshes of the law, in which he thoroughly deserved to be entangled. squire maynard, so everyone said, had grown young since his son's marriage with irene, and a fine, noble country gentleman he looked as he walked or rode, with his grandson on a cob at his side. young ulick was very like the squire, who saw his own youth reflected in him, and indulged him accordingly. irene, as a mother, was far more attractive than she had ever been before, and her husband and children adored her. they were proud of her good looks and of the admiration she invariably excited. ulick sometimes thought of that fatal leap warren courtly took when he passed glen church, and saw again the red-coated figure on the cold slab near the wall, but the melancholy remembrance quickly vanished. there is too much sunshine in his life to be hidden by passing clouds, and happiness leaves no room for discord. everything is in harmony; there are no jarring notes; and long may it be so with them all. the end. london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited. nat gould was unquestionably the greatest sporting novelist of the age. his versatile stories are read and enjoyed by millions, both young and old. some of his finest works are now available in the royal [illustration: ascot library, and a list of them appears below. each _look for this volume contains pages, is handsomely bound in cloth, diamond on with attractive coloured rapper, and is published at the back of w _s._ net, or _s._ _d._ post free of the publishers, the wrapper._] g. heath robinson & j. birch, ltd., chancery lane, london, w.c. . _now on sale_: _ready shortly_: in royal colours. the three wagers. by nat gould. by nat gould. the runaways. the second string. by nat gould. by nat gould. black bess. the rajah's racer. by nat gould. by nat gould. with silken rein. bred in the bush. by nat gould. by nat gould. in low water. the gold whip. by nat gould. by nat gould. settling day. a near thing. by nat gould. by nat gould. ask your bookstall clerk or bookseller to-day for the volumes of the royal ascot library now on sale, and at the same time place an order for all future additions. the books are made to fit the pocket, and measure - / in. by - / in. london: g. heath robinson & j. birch, ltd., chancery lane, w.c. . admirers of nat gould and all lovers of life in the open will find a rich source of enjoyment in out and away, the quarterly magazine devoted to every conceivable phase of existence apart from indoors--motoring, hunting, yachting, walking, sport, shooting, fishing, and the hundred-and-one interests of land, sea and air. out and away takes you back to the long grass and the glint of the sun in the genial companionship of eminent writers and artists. out and away is the magazine that makes you glad to be alive. it enriches the enjoyment of the out-of-doors, and is a welcome guest at all times and in all seasons. out and away is obtainable of all booksellers and at the railway bookstalls, price s. d. net. the annual subscription is s., post free. [illustration] london: g. heath robinson & j. birch, ltd., chancery lane, w.c. . * * * * * * transcriber's note: throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page , a single quotation mark after "two years ago" was replaced with a double quotation mark. on page , a single quotation mark after "at helton striking," was replaced with a double quotation mark. on page , "made mistake" was replaced with "made a mistake". on page , a single quotation mark before "that was quite" was replaced with a double quotation mark. on page , a period after "you intend doing" was replaced with a comma. on page , a quotation mark was added after "him the information." on page , "where killed" was replaced with "were killed". books for sportsmen published by bellairs & co., hart street, bloomsbury. in scarlet and silk. recollections of hunting and steeplechase riding. by fox russell. with two drawings in colour by finch mason. s. net. new sporting stories. by g. g. s. d. net. _the times_ says:--"new sporting stories are written by a man who evidently knows what he is writing about.... the sketches are short, racy and to the point." travel and big game. by percy selous and h. a. bryden. with illustrations by charles whymper. s. d. net. the chase: a poem. by william somerville. illustrated by hugh thomson. s. net. in this fine old poem now ably illustrated by mr hugh thomson are the original lines, quoted by the immortal jorrocks-- "my hoarse-sounding horn invites thee to the chace, the sport of kings, image of war, without its guilt." great scot the chaser, and other sporting stories. by g. g. with portrait of the author. s. d. net. _the daily telegraph_ says:--"g. g. is a benefactor to his species." curiosities of bird life. by charles dixon, author of "the migration of birds." [_in the press._ animal episodes and studies in sensation. by george h. powell. s. d. net. tales of the cinder path. by an amateur athlete [w. lindsey]. s. d. net. reminiscences of a yorkshire naturalist. by the late w. crawford williamson, ll.d., f.r.s. edited by his wife. s. net. entertaining books published by bellairs & co., hart street, bloomsbury. a man and a woman. faithfully presented by stanley waterloo. s. d. net. beyond atonement. a story of london life. by a. st john adcock. s. d. net. a husband's ordeal; or, the confessions of gerald brownson, late of coora coora, queensland. by percy russell. s. d. net. a bride's experiment. a story of australian bush life. by charles j. mansford. s. d. net. eighty years ago; or, the recollections of an old army doctor, his adventures on the fields of quatre bras and waterloo, and during the occupation of paris, . by the late dr gibney of cheltenham. edited by his son, major gibney. s. net. the soldier in battle; or, life in the ranks of the army of the potomac. by frank wilkeson, a survivor of grant's last campaign. s. d. net. nephelÈ. the story of a sonata for violin and piano. by f. w. bourdillon. s. d. net. a darn on a blue stocking. a story of to-day. by g. g. chatterton. s. d. net. the mystery of the cordillera. a tale of adventure in the andes. by a. mason bourne. illustrated. s. d. net. the lure of fame. by clive holland, author of "my japanese wife." s. d. net. the old ecstasies. a modern romance. by gaspard tournier. s. d. net. the tantalus tour. a theatrical venture. by walter parke, joint-author of "les manteaux noirs," and other comic operas. illustrated. s. d. net. sporting society [illustration: in full cry. by r. caldecott.] sporting society or _sporting chat and sporting memories_ stories humorous and curious; wrinkles of the field and the race-course; anecdotes of the stable and the kennel; with numerous practical notes on shooting and fishing from the pen of various sporting celebrities and well-known writers on the turf and the chase edited by fox russell illustrations by randolph caldecott. _in two volumes--vol. ii._ london bellairs & co. contents page sporting of the past and the present day by "old calabar" down the beck by g. christopher davies an apology for fishing dogs i have known by captain r. bird thompson november shooting by "old calabar" sporting adventures of charles carrington, esq. by "old calabar" my first day's fox-hunting by the owner of "iron duke" my first and last steeple-chase a story of a "dark" horse salmon-spearing carpe diem by the author of "mountain, meadow and mere" newmarket by captain r. bird thompson kate's day with the old horse by clive phillips wolley some curious horses by captain r. bird thompson sporting for men of moderate means by "old calabar" partridge manors and rough shooting by "old calabar" who is to ride him? by "old calabar" a cub-hunting invitation by the editor told after mess by the editor sporting of the past and the present day "o tempora! o mores!" how our grandsires would stare if they could only see how differently sporting in all its branches is carried on now-a-days; it would make their pigtails stand on end, and the brass buttons fly off their blue coats in very fright. there are few of the squire western school now left; but occasionally you may still come across some jovial old sportsman of eighty years or more, who, though his form is shrunken, and his snow-white head proclaims that many winters have passed over it, yet carries a pair of eyes as bright and keen as of yore, eyes that glisten again when he launches forth on his favourite hobby. i know several gentlemen nearer eighty than seventy who still shoot, and keep a fine kennel of dogs. one of these gentlemen only last year took a moor in scotland for five years. may he live to enjoy it and renew his lease. i could name many close on, ay, over fourscore, who ride well yet to hounds; and though they may not be such bruisers as they once were across country, yet are difficult to choke off. it is just forty-one years [this was written twenty years ago] since i had my first mount to hounds. there is no _non mi ricordo_ with me. i can recollect the day as well as yesterday, the pinks, the beaver-hats of curious shape, the short-tailed horses, are too vividly impressed on my memory ever to be effaced. men went out in those days for hunting, and not merely for a gallop. time changes all things, and i suppose we must change with the times; but are these changes for the better? well, i will not give an opinion, but leave others to decide. the hounds of those days were not nearly so fast as those of the present; and i am inclined to think that our hounds are now bred too fine and speedy--for some countries they certainly are--and often flash over and lose a scent which ought not to be lost. hunting, in the days i speak of, could be enjoyed by men of very moderate means, for it was not necessary to have two or three horses out. in some countries, especially woodland ones, one horse may still do; but, as a rule, hounds are now so fast, and horses so lightly bred to what they were, that no hunter, however good he may be, can live with them from find to finish. if you wish to see a run out, you must have your first and second horsemen riding to points. these men must not only be light-weights, but steady, know the country, save their animals, and be there when wanted. you seldom, at least where i hunted, saw men driving up to the meet in their well-appointed broughams, mail-phaetons, or what-not. a long distance was done, in my early days, on a cover hack; and one hunter did where three are now required. in the present day you see men stepping from their close carriages with the morning papers in their hands, beautifully got up--a choice regalia between their lips, with holland overalls to keep their spotless buckskins from speck of dirt or cigar ashes. very different from the hardy men you encountered years gone by, alas! never to return again--cantering along on a corky tit, with _leather_ overalls. now you have all sorts of devices--waterproof aprons _before_ and _behind_--in my idea it only wants some enterprising man to bring out a hunting-crop with an umbrella, something similar to the ladies' driving-whips, whip and parasol in one, to complete the picture. fancy men hunting with _waterproof aprons_--they should go out for _nurses_! perhaps, as years creep on, one is wont to look back on his youthful days and fondly imagine nothing is done so well now as then. understand, i do not say hunting and shooting are not as good as they were. i do both still, and enjoy them as much as ever; but there is not so much _sport_ in them, to my mind, as formerly--men are not the _hardy_, genuine sportsmen they were. horses are much dearer now than twenty, thirty, forty years back--provender also. where £ would go thirty years ago, you require now nearly £ , s.; this alone prevents many men from following their favourite pursuits. the time is not far distant when hunting will be given up in england; railways, the price of land, and the high market prices which must necessarily come with an increase of population, are doing their work slowly but surely. the present generation are not likely to witness it: so much the better, for it would break the hearts of some to see the noble pastime of hunting on its "last legs." waste land, too, is being rapidly enclosed, and what are now wilds, fifty or sixty years hence may be flourishing districts. how many country villages are now huge towns! i remember, years ago, when i used to meet the queen's hounds, before the south-western line was made, there was only one old wayside inn at woking, which was much resorted to by "the fancy," for it was a noted spot for pugilists. many and many a prize-fight have i seen there. now woking is a little town--i mean the new town, not the old town some four miles distant; and the spots where i used to knock over the snipe and plover are now built on and enclosed. and so it will go on to the end of all time; bricks and mortar, iron and compo, will rise up, large and small buildings, all over the face of the country, and those whose hearts are still bent on sport will have to go farther afield for it. but this is already done. france, sweden, norway, hungary, bohemia, bavaria, and other countries, have their english sportsmen. railways have made nearly all places within reach of those with means. scotch moors that you could rent thirty years ago for £ a year, are now £ ; the rivers the same; and grouse that are killed one day in scotland are eaten the next in all parts of the united kingdom. some men meet the hounds now thirty and forty miles away from home. they breakfast comfortably at home, then step into the train, and are whirled away with their horses and grooms; have a gallop, come home, or perhaps go out to a grand luncheon; lounge down to their club, or do a few calls, then dine, and go to one of the theatres to see the last new thing; finish up with a supper or a ball, or perhaps both. old squire broadfurrow has ridden his stout, easy-going hack to cover, has had a clinking day, and a fox run into, as the crow flies, about eight-and-twenty miles from his home. the old man, nothing daunted, jogs quietly along and pulls up at the first country inn, orders a chop for himself and a bucket of gruel for his horse, gets home in good time to entertain three or four choice souls at dinner, ride the run over again, and talk of some shooting they are going to have on the morrow. reader, which is the pleasanter style of the two? which the most healthy? railways and hunting i cannot reconcile with my ideas of sport; there is a sort of cockneyism about it that i do not like; it seems to me poor "form." men change, too, in their ideas as well as their dress. i was talking some time ago to an old friend of mine who had been an inveterate fox-hunter, did his six days a week, and spent the seventh in the kennel; if you asked him what sunday it was, you always got the same answer, "infliction sunday." i asked him how he was getting on in the hunting line. "hunting, my dear fellow; why, i have given it up years ago--all humbug! what on earth is the use of a man making a guy of himself, putting on a pink coat, top-boots, and uncomfortable leather breeches, and for what?--to gallop after a lot of yelping dogs, and to catch a fox which is of no earthly use to any one when he is brought to hand; endangering your neck, breaking fences, and destroying land and the crops. hunting is an idiotic fashion; half the men only hunt for the sake of dress, and for mounting the pink. if they must hunt, why not dress like reasonable beings, in comfortable cords, gaiters, and a shooting-jacket? ah! then you would not see half the men out you do now. i am quite ashamed to think i ever hunted. just come and look at my shorthorns, will you?" in sporting parlance, i was "knocked clean out of time;" this was the inveterate six-days-a-week man. "but you shoot?" i asked, seeing it was necessary to say something. "oh yes! i shoot, and fish occasionally, when the may-fly is up--anything but hunting. there, what do you think of that bull?" shooting, too, is wonderfully changed. where are the high stubbles we so eagerly sought on the first of september?--gone, gone for ever. the reaping-machine cuts it off now as close as the cloth on a billiard table. it has often been said the birds are wilder at present than they were: admitting this to be the case, the cause probably is the high state of cultivation, and nothing more. there is not the cover there was formerly to hold them, and therefore they are more difficult to get at. turnips are now sown in drills, and not broadcast, as grain usually was. if you work down the drills, the birds see you, and are off the other end: the only way is to take them across. yet there are thousands of places where the cover is good and plentiful; and where this is the case the birds lie as well as ever. game is scarcer than it was, except on manors that are highly preserved: it must be remembered that where there was one shooter formerly, there are twenty now. it is a difficult matter at present to rent a shooting, for directly there is anything good in the market it is snatched up at once. the general style of shooting of the present day is odious--large bags are "the go." in some countries it has done away with the noble pointer and setter altogether; nothing but retrievers are used. the guns, beaters, and keepers are all in a line: a gun, then a keeper with a retriever, a beater, another gun, and so on. the word is given, and away they go, taking a field in a beat. as you fire--possibly there are two or three guns popping at the same bird--a keeper falls out, and finds it with his retriever, whilst you are going on. can this be called sport? it is nothing more than pot-hunting, wholesale butchery. give me my brace of pointers and setters, and let me shoot my game to points; there is some pleasure in that. what can be a more beautiful sight to the shooting man than to see a brace of well-bred dogs, ranging and quartering their ground like clockwork, backing and standing like rocks, steady before and behind, and dropping to fur and wing, as if they were shot? working to hand, and obeying your slightest word--beautiful, intelligent creatures--there is some pleasure in shooting over such animals as these. then driving is another pot-hunting system, and does no end of harm; and so those who practise it will find out before many years are over. more game is wounded and left to pine away and die than many have an idea of--a more cruel and unsportsmanlike system has never been thought of, and i much regret it has its votaries. a heavy hot luncheon from a norwegian kitchener is now the correct thing--heavy eating and drinking must form a prominent feature in the day's programme, otherwise it is not sport. a few men are still content with their sherry-flask and sandwich, and i would back these to beat the others into fits in a day's sport. one does not go out to eat, but to shoot, and a man that has laid in a heavy luncheon can neither walk well up to his dogs nor shoot straight after it. great improvements have been made in guns. the old flint that took half an hour to load was a bore; the flint had every now and then to be chipped and renewed, the pans fresh steeled, the touch-hole pricked, powder put in the pan, and even then there were constant misfires and disappointments. the flint in time gave way to the percussion, a great improvement; but there are many inconveniences with this; unless the nipples are kept clean, and the gun washed each time after using, constant misfires are the consequence. then, in cold weather it is no end of trouble to get the caps on. with half-frozen fingers it is a difficult job; but this has been remedied by a cap-holder, which sends the caps up with a spring as you want them. with both flint and percussion there were great inconveniences in loading; the spring of your powder or shot flask might break, and then you had to judge your charge till they were repaired. all this trouble was put an end to by the introduction of the breech-loader, which has not half the danger, is ten times quicker, and much more convenient in every way; the ammunition more easily carried, and there are very few misfires. the gun wants no washing, merely a rag passed through, and it is clean. but i am not going into the subject of guns and all their improvements; i have merely mentioned these to show the great stride that has been made in the last fifty years in shot guns. steeplechasing and racing i must touch on, and the little i have to say will not be in its favour. the hateful passion of betting is slowly but surely ruining the turf; for there are not the same class of men on it that there were thirty years ago. where do you see fine old sportsmen like the late sir gilbert heathcote? he raced for the pleasure of racing, and so did many others who never betted a shilling; but it is all altered now, and not for the better. young men--ay, and old ones too--ruin themselves by betting; government and other clerks squander their salaries away, which might maintain them, and perhaps a mother or a sister who is totally dependent upon them; the butlers and footmen pawn the family plate _to meet their engagements_; and the shop-boy is often detected _in flagrante delicto_, with his hands in the till, purloining a half-crown or two to enable him to go with mary hann to 'ampton. you are pestered with letters from tipsters--scoundrels who know just as much of a horse or racing as they do of the man in the moon. the man from whom you can get nothing else, is always ready with his advice on the momentous subject of "what to back" for this race or that, quite ignoring the question of whether he really does or does not "know anything," to use turf parlance. betting will never be put down entirely, but much might be done. were i to commence racing again, i would hit the ring and the betting fraternity as hard as i could to scare them from backing my horses for the future. this cannot always be done, but after one or two such lessons people would be shy of burning their fingers over my stable. i daresay i should be called an "old curmudgeon," "selfish brute," and "no sportsman;" but after all said and done, you race to please yourself, not the public. you have to pay the hay and corn bill, trainer's expenses, and, above all, entry fees, far the heaviest item in the whole list; and surely, if any money is to be had over a race, the owner should be allowed "first run" at it. we see no alice hawthorns or beeswings now-a-days; racing men cannot afford to let their colts or fillies come to maturity: most are broken down before they are three years old. government ought to interfere and put a veto on two-year-old races; this done, and the one and two thousand, the derby, oaks, and leger made for four-year-olds, then we might hope to see our racehorses and hunters coming back to their former stout form. but this we shall never see. john bull, with his proverbial stubbornness, will stick to his old line. i was one and twenty years riding and racing in france, and was highly amused when the french first began sending over horses to us; we generously allowed them seven pounds--half a stone. how i laughed and chuckled in my sleeve when i heard this! after a little time mr bull found this would not do, so he came to even weights; but he received such a lesson with fille de l'air and gladiateur, that it made the old gentleman stare considerably, and pull rather a long face. racing men, i will tell you what you probably already know, but will not admit--the french could better give us seven pounds than we them: their three-year-olds are nearly as forward as our four-year-olds. the climate of france is warmer than ours, horses do better and furnish quicker there, and the time is not far distant when they will beat us as easily as we used to beat them. it is no use disguising it; it is a fact, and a fact, too, that is being accomplished; for no one will deny that the french already take a pretty good share of our best stakes. they have a climate better suited for horses, they buy our best sires and mares, have english trainers and riders, therefore what is to prevent them from beating us? they have done it already, and will continue doing so. we have found out that when we take horses over there we are generally beaten, and this alone ought to convince us that the french horses are more forward than ours. racing now-a-days is nothing more than a very precarious speculation, and the practice of some on the turf to gain their own ends is anything but (not to use a stronger word) creditable. within the last few years, gentleman after gentleman has left the turf disgusted and disheartened; and well they might be, for if a man is not very careful, there is no finer school than a racecourse to pick up swindling, dishonesty, and blackguardism. your fashionable light-weight jocks of the present day have their country houses, their valets, their broughams, hunters, and what-not. the old riding fee of £ for a losing race and £ for a winning one is seldom heard of except at little country meetings. trainers and jockeys are at present much bigger men than their masters; and why? because they allow them to be so; they may owe them a long bill, or be foolishly good-natured in putting their servants on the same footing as themselves by undue familiarity--'hail fellow well met' with them. racing will never be what it was again, for the reasons i have mentioned. speculation is too rife to allow it a healthy tone. shortly but few gentlemen will be left as racing men, and the turf will be represented by the lower five, and men to whom the meaning of the words honour, honesty, principle, and conscience, are unknown. coursing too, a healthy and fine amusement, even this cannot be enjoyed without the presence of the betting fraternity, bawling and shouting. a clean sweep should be made of them. pigeon-shooting as well. although i am not an admirer of this pastime (sport i will not call it), yet one cannot stroll down to hurlingham or the bush, to look on, but what one must be pestered with odds offered on the gun or bird. your shady and doubtful betting men are nuisances. who on earth wants to lose a lot of money to moneyless scoundrels? but there are fools who do so, and they deserve to be fleeced. many of our old sports have died out. the ring is a thing of the past, and so is the cock-pit. i am savage enough to say i liked a prize-fight and a cock-fight. when it was on the square, a prize-fight was a most exciting scene. yet both have very wisely been put down, and athletic sports take their place. i seldom see the fine old game of bowls played now. le gras, too, has gone out. polo, which i think nothing of, is the rage amongst gentlemen now. i see nothing in it whatever; it is a wretched game for the _lookers-on_; but then it is the fashion. the fine old game of cricket is totally altered. i shall have the cricketing world down on me, but i care not. i think the present style of bowling has entirely ruined the game as a game of science. there are not many graces in the present day, nor were there many wards of the olden time. cricketers of the present day look like so many hogs in armour; and where one man bowls tolerably over-handed, fifty who attempt it cannot bowl at all--they are never on the spot. consequently the balls break anywhere. i would ten times rather stand before the fastest man in england who is true than i would to a middling fast one who is not. i remember, many, many years ago, at the royal clarence cricket club--alas! defunct (i have the button still)--which had its ground on moulsey hurst, taking old ward's wicket the third ball with a round-hander. it was a bit of practice we were having: i was a lad at the time, and the old gentleman had stuck half-a-crown on the centre stump for me to bowl at: he had no doubt played carelessly, wishing to give me a chance. he looked surprised at seeing his wicket fall. he coolly put them up again, and on the centre stump was a sovereign. "there, young fellow," he said, "bowl at _that_." i did bowl at _that_, till i was almost ready to drop, but _that_ never came into my pocket. yes it did, though, but not by taking his wicket. i shall never forget the fine old gentleman, with his bat nearly black with oil and age. cricket still holds, and always will deservedly hold, a high place in our english sports. boats and rowing have made immense strides for the better; the only thing i am disposed to cavil at with regard to it is the training. i am inclined to think the severe preparation they have to go through to get fit, tells on the constitution of young men who are not full grown and set. but training now is so carefully looked to, that after all there may not be the danger one imagines. one thing is certain, that it is much less dangerous to row or run a severe race _well prepared_: it is inward fat that chokes men, causes apoplexy and what-not. men in training, if they are careful and do not catch cold, and are not too severely taxed, have little to apprehend; and this is why an experienced trainer is necessary. bicycling, too, is a fine healthy amusement, develops the muscles and keeps a man in wind and health: he may get all over the country and at one-tenth the former expense of railway travelling. but bicycling, like all other sports and exercises, has its abuses as well as its uses, and when one sees men flying along a road (to the manifest danger of the public) bent double over the handles of their machines, it gives one pause, as to whether crooked backs, contracted chests, and knee trouble are not in store for a future generation. there are many lakes, large and small, in scotland, wales, and ireland, that cannot be either fished or shot for want of a boat. it is costly to get a boat up the mountains, and very often, especially in ireland, there are no roads, or horses cannot traverse them. therefore something light but safe is necessary. the rev. e. l. berthon, of romsey, hants, has invented a boat which is admirably suited for the purpose: it is a folding canvas boat of two skins, _cannot be overset_, and is quite buoyant if filled with water. the one i have is a fishing boat; it carries four, but two can go with comfort; it is only pounds in weight, feet long, and feet broad. they are made any size, as will be seen from the extract i give from the _times_. "berthon's collapsible barge.--among other scientific devices with which the 'faraday' is supplied, with the view of facilitating the laying of the direct united states cable, is a 'collapsible barge,' the principle of which, the invention of the reverend e. l. berthon--a name already well known in nautical circles in connection with his perpetual log--was originally applied by mr berthon to life-boats, a number of which, it is stated, are in course of construction. the barge was built by mr e. r. berthon, the son of the inventor, and is to be used in laying the shore ends of the cable, of which it will carry from to tons with a very light draught of water. the proportions of length in the barge are very unusual, being nearly to , the dimensions being, length feet, width feet, and depth feet; such, however, is its collapsibility, that, stowed away on the deck of the _faraday_, it only measures feet at its greatest width. the barge is cellular in construction, and when a small confining rope is cast off it extends automatically, inhaling into its ten cells about cubic feet of air. during the process of expansion, the jointed bottom boards, which are feet wide, fall into their places, and, lever staunchions being placed under the gunwales, the barge is ready for lowering in a minute or two. when in the water a very substantial platform is lowered into the barge, composed of beams - / inches thick and inch planks; upon this deck the cable will be coiled, and paid over a large iron sheave at the stern-post. the barge weighs about cwt., and having great powers of flotation, with light draught, is expected to be very serviceable in laying the shore ends of the new cable; the principle, moreover, appears to be one which it might be found desirable to introduce into the life-boat service." mine is the smallest size made, and when collapsed is only inches wide. to open and launch it takes less than one minute. it also sails very well, and on lakes, with a small spritsail with brails, it is exactly the thing. a prettier and more useful little boat i never had. i have mentioned this boat because i have often been asked about such a thing. if by any chance the outer skin should be injured--which is not likely, for the canvas is immensely strong--it makes but little difference to the boat, and the injury is easily repaired. i can strongly recommend it to any one wanting such a thing. but to "our mutton"--sporting of the past and the present day. returning to olden times, our fathers and forefathers were not ashamed to run horses, greyhounds, etc., in their _own_ names; now men do so more and more under _assumed_ ones. this is unfortunate, and opens the door for many abuses; and the sooner it is put an end to the better. i do not believe in the early hours at which our ancestors used to take to the field. game is not moving very early; therefore, in partridge shooting, dogs have not such a chance of finding game as they have an hour or two later. nine o'clock is quite early enough for the partridge or grouse shooter; about four in the afternoon is the most deadly time, because scent then begins to ascend, and the dogs catch it much quicker, and birds are then on the feed. the stubble, at this time, is the place to find partridges. it is a great mistake to walk too fast, shooting, because much game is missed in this way; even very fast dogs require sufficient time to make their ground good; in thick turnips you can hardly walk too slowly. but i must hold, these notes are growing too long under my "grey goose quill." (i am old-fashioned enough to prefer a quill pen to a steel one.) old fellow-sportsmen, and young ones, adieu. may you have a good season, and good health and spirits to enjoy it! down the beck an angling reverie like the dormouse, the approach of spring draws forth also the angler. so early as february trout-fishing begins in the west of england, and good sport may be had during march and april. may, however, is the month of months for the trout fisher, certainly in the midland counties, and wherever the may fly is found, and probably in the west as well. with the first sunny gleams of february that herald the full burst of spring, halieus and poietes may be seen rod in hand down their streams, rejoicing that the many cold days, during which they have been longingly fingering flies and tackle at home, are at length ended. so many eulogies have been heaped upon fishing, which culminate in the enthusiasm of gentle isaak, the father of the craft, that the world must indeed be tolerant if it can read any more. but between his zeal on the one hand, and the venerable dictum of dr johnson on the other, lies a truer appreciation of the art of angling with a fly as being the busy man's most suitable recreation, in the strictest sense of the word, in these feverish days of intellectual and social bustle. besides the love of sport for its own sake, fly-fishing provides numerous secondary delights and occupations for thoughtful, observant natures. whatever be a man's hobby, he can ride it as hard as he chooses down the banks of a trout stream. the rigour of the game is all very well for whist; but fishing, with no other object than killing fish, is altogether mean and ignoble. in this pursuit the fisherman may be conchologist, ornithologist, or botanist as well--nay, he may be all at once, and probably is so if he be a devoted student of nature. the poet can throw off a sonnet while he flings his fly; the clergyman will be taught by angling, as truly as by shakespeare, how to find sermons in stones, and books in the running brooks. did not st anthony convert heretics by preaching to the fishes? like narcissus of old, the lover may see his other self mirrored in the quiet waters. whatever be his profession, while the angler meditatively saunters on with a blade of grass between his lips, his thoughts will sooner or later be certain to find their own peculiar bent. even the philosopher ought to be attracted from his study to the brook. plutarch tells how the pythagoreans abstained from eating fish, deeming them, on account of their dumbness, creatures most kindred to the philosophic mind. theology itself has not scrupled to embalm the highest mysteries under the symbol of a fish; and grave bishops at present do not disdain exploits with the salmon-rod that are duly chronicled in the columns of the _field_. thus, the true angler may well join sir h. wotton in deeming the hours spent on his favourite sport "his idle time not idly spent," even if he cannot echo his sentiment that "he would rather live five may months than forty decembers."[ ] we have always regretted that good bishop andrewes, the model of a saint, a scholar, and a divine, did not angle. what additional zest would it not have lent to those rambles of which his biographer speaks in such simple language! "his ordinary exercise and recreation was walking, either alone by himself, or with some other selected companion, with whom he might confer and argue and recount their studies; and he would often profess that to observe the grass, herbs, corn, trees, cattle, earth, waters, heavens, any of the creatures, and to contemplate their natures, orders, qualities, virtues, uses, &c., was ever to him the greatest mirth, content, and recreation that could be; and this he held to his dying day."[ ] [ ] walton's life of sir hy. wotton. [ ] life of bishop andrewes by h. isaacson, his amanuensis. andrewes' works, anglo-catholic library. "wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude; where, with her best nurse, contemplation, she plumes her feathers." there is little doubt that had the writer of these well-known lines been able to tear himself from his books for any diversion, it would have been in order to angle. a great authority recommends a man weighed down with overwhelming mental trouble to learn a new language by way of diverting his thoughts from self; it would be far more efficacious for him to sally out fishing, not, certainly, to stand for hours beside a sullen pool angling with float and worm--this would be to invite suicide--but to ramble down the bank of some winding stream, burdened with nothing heavier than a clear conscience and a light fly-rod. then may st nicholas speedily befriend his votary! now put on your flies--a green drake, by all means, if it be may--if not, nothing can be better than the "red spinner," the "coachman," and, above all, "the professor," from its taking qualities--fit namesake of christopher north. we have reached the beck, and this warm south wind "will blow the hook to the fishes' mouth." without the abundance of trout, which, according to audubon, characterised the river sehigh in north america, where he "was made weary with pulling up the sparkling fish allured by the struggles of the common grasshopper," the beck possesses--what is more grateful to the true angler--a fair amount of fish, which it requires considerable skill to hook. the local name, "beck," shows that it runs through a country which was overrun by the northmen, and its character is not dissimilar to theirs. it has none of the abrupt headlong manner of a pure keltic brook, overcoming all obstacles by sheer persistent force, as seen in wales, in the highlands, and in north devon. nor does it wind along in slow, deep volume, like a teutonic brook, or the offshoot of a dutch canal, bereft indeed of all the lighter graces which adorn a beautiful stream, but irresistible withal, and beneficent. it rather unites the two characters, meandering with crystal eddies and murmurous flow, "kissing the gentle sedges as it glides," now circumventing a hillock that could not well be sapped, and now, as befits the length of its course, flowing silently, with full streams, through a croft knee-deep in daisies and meadowsweet; lovingly cutting its sinuous s's through the sward, as izaak walton carved his initials on casaubon's tablet in westminster abbey; and yet again, like the laureate's brook, "chattering over stony ways, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel,"-- happy combination of elements from the diverse nationalities that make up the english nation. it distinguishes the names of the parishes through which it passes in some places by the norman addition to them of "le beck," while they themselves frequently terminate, after the scandinavian fashion, in "by" (_i.e._, dwelling). however, as there are in lincolnshire alone two hundred and twelve places which have this termination, the exact locality of this particular beck can only be dimly guessed; and, sooth to say, if the angler has a failing, it consists in a natural dislike to reveal the exact situation of his favourite "stickles" to another. few objects in nature are so beautiful as running water; it soothes the mind as well as the eye, and disposes to reflection, sobering the jar of contending passions in the soul as it gleams along, always different in its chequered eddies, and yet always the same. the vegetation that springs on the brink of a stream very much heightens its charms to the true angler, who is always more or less of an artist and poet. round this beck there are, indeed, no ferns tufting each projecting shelf, and seizing upon every bare stone and decayed tree. east anglian scenery is wofully deficient in this element of the picturesque; but wild flowers gem its banks, "thick set with agate and the azure sheen of turkis blue and emerald green that in the channel strays." at every turn the marsh marigold blazes in brilliant golden clumps, while the water violet and bladderwort, most curious of our water-weeds, find place round many of the deeper pools. overhead, too, hoary willows lend a great charm to the scenery, and patriarchal thorn bushes, that glitter with snow-flowers every may, and wonder at returning winter as they view their whiteness reflected below, while abundance of forget-me-nots, "for happy lovers," seek the most retired spots. too often in the south of the county, as, for instance, round croyland abbey, lines of melancholy poplars disfigure the prospect, as they do (alas! _did_) round metz, avignon, and other french towns. it is curious, by the way, that so vivacious a people as the french should be fond of this, the most _triste_ of trees. here, however, willows are in exact keeping with the landscape; and as they turn the glaucous under-surface of their leaves to the light in the shivering breezes, instead of sadness, they speak of joy to the angler, for it is just when these capfuls of wind blow that the lazy trout in the holes under their shade rise eagerly at the fly. once every year, in the city church of st james, in accordance with a benefactor's will, a sermon on flowers is preached from some floral text, to a congregation mainly composed of young people, each of them careful to carry a nosegay with them to the service. a walk down the beck, to one who knows anything of botany, or, better still, who really loves our wild flowers, is in itself a perpetual sermon. and how much are its exhortations strengthened if the angler be somewhat of an ornithologist! what a joyous melody proceeds from the ivy-covered fir, as will wimble[ ] makes his way to the beck! [ ] "he makes a may-fly to a miracle, and furnishes the whole country with angle-rods."--_spectator_, no. . "that's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never can recapture the first fine careless rapture." on this sunny bank, in the first gleam of spring sunshine, may be noticed a sprightly little bird hopping along, glad to have completed his migration to our shore--the wheatear, which tennyson aptly terms (if we read him aright) "the sea-blue bird of march." and later on, the cuckoo is first heard down this glade, gleefully "telling her name to all the hills," till june renders her hoarse, and the clear note becomes "cuck-cuckoo! cuck-cuck-cuckoo!" and endless is the harsh iteration if another of her family answer the challenge. peering carefully round a thicket, too, may be seen the waterhen, proudly tempting her black brood to cross the stream for the first time; or haply a wild duck, that has sat on her eggs till the angler's foot almost touches her, flaps suddenly her wings, and skims under the overhanging alders. if the fisherman be an observant lover of nature, these and the like country sights and sounds will bring him great contentment even though he take no fish. and so speaks dame juliana berners, in her "treatyse of fysshynge with an angle"--one of the quaintest productions of early english literature:--"atte the best he hath his holsom walk and merry at his ease, a swete ayre of the swete savoure of the meede flowres: that makyth hym hungry. he hereth the melodyous armony of fowles. he seeth the yonge swannes, heerons, duckes, cotes, and many other foules wyth theyr brodes. and yf the angler take fysshe, surely thenne is there noo man merier than he is in his spyryte." down this beck an artistic eye will find many a feast of colour. the keeper's cottage stands on a high bank; and a more charming domestic subject was never painted, even by millais, than one which may be noticed there any day in august. his little girl, bare-headed and rosy-cheeked with the merriest of light-blue eyes, stands under a forest of sun-flowers, which spread their huge yellow discs above, while sunbeams break through and leave their gold on the little maiden's hair, and play round her, earnest, we will hope, of her future, as she drops a courtesy to the passing angler. a little farther on, the briony, with its brilliant berries, will festoon the grey trunk of its cherishing oak with a glory, in autumn, that cannot but charm the eye. the wild hyacinths of april are like a fold of blue sky that has descended upon the wooded hollows. in the thatch of the labourer's cottage is one deeply-set window, with a few tiles under it, on which lichens and moss have established a footing. it has just rained, and the contrast between their vivid greens and the brilliant red tiles is delicious. it is thus that much of the monotony inseparable from a dull country may be relieved, by judiciously educating the vision to find beauties where ordinary eyes see nothing unusual. the pensiveness of an angler's "sad pleasure" will be found agreeable leisure for this purpose. the various animals again to be found down the beck, and the intimate acquaintance which can be made with them in their native haunts, form by no means the least of its charms. it is wonderful how tame all wild creatures become, and how their characters expand to men, who, like waterton and thoreau, the american naturalist, take pains to gain their confidence. the water rats, timid enough when any other foot approaches, look with fearless friendship on the gentle angler. at his ease he may watch them perched on a raft of drifted sticks and weeds nibbling the arrowhead with the utmost composure, or swimming about like a miniature colony of beavers. it is cheering to reflect, when they are seen under such circumstances, that although the miller may owe them a grudge for undermining the banks of his dam, they are of all animals the most harmless to the farmer. he is too often, however, apt to confound them with the destructive pests of the granary, and (though they are really voles and not rats) to lump all together as vermin, and issue an edict of universal extermination accordingly. what a blessed day will it be for the lower animals when farmers imbibe a taste for natural history! at dusk may often be discerned down the beck another innocent creature, the hedgehog, long remorselessly hunted down because vile calumnies had attached themselves to him of eating partridges' eggs and being addicted to sucking milk from cows. the latter accusation is simply an impossibility, while as to the former, we are afraid it is too true that he has a sneaking liking for eggs; but the damage he does is infinitesimally small, when not computed by gamekeepers' arithmetic. a pair of hedgehogs making love in their curiously awkward fashion, puffing and blowing like grampuses, is a strange sight; while the piglings, before their spines have grown, form the most amusing of pets. about the saddest spectacle that we ever witnessed was an old hedgehog that had been cut asunder by a train, at a railway crossing, while her brood of six or eight were still round her, unharmed and wondering what had happened. we transported the poor orphans to the nearest damp ditch and left them to the rough care of mother nature. not very far from the beck is a colony of badgers, an animal much persecuted where any linger in other parts of the country, but in this east anglian shire acquiring a decided commercial value. anything that will encourage foxes is here greatly in request, consequently badgers are deemed useful creatures in a cover, as they make earths which afterwards tempt reynard to take possession. an angler is a subject of perpetual wonder to cows; but too often as he turns round from the water's edge in some rich meadow, he finds himself the centre towards which the curved fronts of two or three oxen converge uncomfortably close, literally placing him on the horns of a dilemma. the sleek heifers, however, approach him without any signs of attack or trepidation, and often run the risk of being caught as he rapidly draws his flies back for a cast. tame ducks and water rats are frequently thus caught; but the most singular coincidence of this kind happened to a friend who, on going down the otter to fish, had to cross a bridge. whirling his flies over this as he passed, a swallow, darting underneath, took one and was captured. on his return in the evening he again whisked his flies over the bridge, and a bat, snapping at one under the arches, was taken in the same ignominious manner. all this time, as is not uncommon with lovers of nature, we have lost sight of our main purpose in coming down the brook--fishing, to wit. the art boasts a long descent, according to walton, the highest authority to whom a fisherman can bow. "some say it is as ancient as deucalion's flood; others that belus, who was the first inventor of godly and virtuous recreations, was the first inventor of angling," with much more to the same purport. it is a curious commentary on the aristocratic principles of the fifteenth century to find dame berners, in the aforementioned "treatyse," confining the sport to the well-born. she could not imagine it a recreation of the multitude, or even of "ydle persones." with her it is emphatically "one of the dysportes that gentylmen use." her enthusiasm for the sport knows no bounds, and must have made many generations of englishmen anglers. the treatise evidently supplied the idea of "walton's angler," the book which next to "white's selborne," has gone through more editions than any other secular work in the language. "it shall be to you a very pleasure to se the fayr bryght shynynge scalyd fysshes dysceyved by your crafty meanes, and drawen upon lande," she says; but, either fishermen have become less skilful since her days, or trout more timorous, if we may judge from her wonderful frontispiece of a man angling (and that successfully) with a rod like a flail, and tackle resembling the trace of a carriage. neither the salmon, monarch of the salmonidæ, nor the lovely grayling, which is only found in midland and welsh waters, is to be expected in the beck. still the common river trout is no mean antagonist for an angler's mettle. of all fish trout are most vigilant and suspicious; the least unwary movement, adventuring even a hand out of shelter or into bright sunshine, incautiously thrusting his head over the bank, or interfering in any way with the skyline, will certainly betray the angler. he may gain a slight advantage over their craft, however, by remembering that their habit is to feed with their heads to the stream. a beginner may rest assured that the golden secret of success in trout-fishing is to keep well out of the fishes' sight by availing himself of every natural cover, a tree-trunk, bush, &c., or by approaching the stream, if he is very much exposed, in a stooping position. he must, for the most part, learn, by observation, the many singular habits and characteristics of his quarry, and here it is that the old fisherman excels the tyro. the remarkable manner in which the fish's colours change with the nature of the stream in which it lives, is one of these curiosities of the trout. there is all the difference in the world between a fish taken from the chalky streams of wilts and one that inhabits the dark peaty burns of devon or south wales, while both are inferior in beauty to the red-spotted lusty fish of a nottinghamshire river. internally they are of two types, one with red flaky flesh, like salmon, the other white; these variations, however, frequently run into each other. the practical fisherman only can appreciate the great diversity of activity which exists in fish of different sizes and streams, and probably in the same fish in the prime and end of the season. in one bickering rivulet the trout will all be vigorous and bold, leaping out of the water when hooked and dying hard, "game to the back-bone," in sporting phrase. in a sluggish brook the fish seem often to participate in its idiosyncracy, the larger ones tamely surrendering after a few monotonous struggles, the little trout diving to the bottom, and, like tench, hiding their heads in the mud. we have had to stir such fish up with the landing net before it was possible to do anything with them. another curious fact is, that if a fish be taken out of a favourite hole, another will almost always be found to have replaced it the next day. perhaps the most remarkable theory which has been advanced concerning the intelligence of trout is that of sir h. davy in "salmonia," which he terms their "local memory." a brief outline may furnish one more subject of observation to the philosophic angler. sir h. davy asserts that if a trout be pricked with a fly (say a blue upright), and then escape, he will never rise again in the same pool to that particular fly while the surrounding circumstances are the same. drive him, however, down to another hole, or wait till a flood has changed the aspect of his familiar haunt, and he will take it as greedily as a fish that has never experienced the deceit of an artificial fly. the associations of bank, stones, tree-trunks, &c., in his hole, act like visible mentors, and remind him, as the fly passes overhead, that it was when surrounded by their associations he was simple enough to rise to its fascinations. solving such questions as these is one of the numerous secondary delights of fly-fishing. another speculation which may be pointed out to anglers of an inquiring turn of mind, is to demonstrate why sluggish, muddy streams invariably produce better fish than the sparkling devon or welsh brooks. thus in the beck, down which our ideal fisherman is wandering, the largest fish which has been taken of late years weighed three pounds and a half, while trout of a pound and a half in weight are by no means uncommon. three-quarters of a pound is a fair size for the fish of mountainous streams, while the majority of their trout do not exceed half a pound. doubtless, the greater abundance of worms and ground bait in a muddy brook contributes to the larger size of its fish, but it certainly is not the sole cause of their superiority. the flies which the modern angler imitates in fur and feathers, belong mostly to the families which entomology knows under the names of _phrygancæ_ and _ephemeræ_. all anglers should know something of these curious tribes; and nowhere is a better account of them to be found than in that fascinating book, "salmonia." the _phrygancæ_ (the "stone-flies" of the angler) have long antennæ, with veined wings which fold over each other when closed. the eggs of the adult flies are laid on the leaves of willows or other trees which overhang the water. when they are hatched, the larvæ fall into the stream, collect a panoply of gravel, bits of stick, shell-fish, &c., to surround them, and after feeding for a time on aquatic plants, rise to the surface, burst their skins, and appear as perfect flies. the _ephemeræ_ (or "may-flies") were noticed so long ago as aristotle's time, in connection with the brevity of their life. they may be known by carrying their wings perpendicularly on their backs, and by several filaments or long bristles protruding from their tails. their aqueous existence, like the stone-flies', sometimes lasts for two or three years; but as flies their life is thought never to exceed a few days in length, often but a few hours. in fact their life is, to all intents and purposes, over when their eggs are laid, and this function takes place directly they emerge into the winged state. besides these, however, there are multitudes of nondescript flies used by those anglers who commit themselves to the persuasive powers of the fishing-tackle maker, and fill their fly-books with his gorgeously-coloured creations; but with the stone-flies, may-flies, and other simple flies previously enumerated, most real anglers are contented. the greatest nuisance to the fisherman on the banks of the beck are the hovering swarms of flies and gnats. nature's profusion is almost inexhaustible in this division of her kingdom. in hot, sunny weather, they persecute the angler till he well-nigh gives up his sport, and betakes himself to moralize how his situation, lonely though it be, is no inapt type of a man's spiritual loneliness in the midst of that crowd of his fellows called society, "where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies." yes, here is the whole winged legion avenging, as it were, the slight the angler puts upon them by his grotesque imitations, in number and description more fell than walton ever imagined in the marvellous flies he directs his disciples to dub--"the prime dun, huzzard, death drake, yellow miller, light blue, blue herl," and all the rest! it would require a piscatorial entomologist to identify them; and when they buzz around their victims, how well can these enter into dante's grim fancy of the wicked in hell being exposed naked to the stings of wasps and flies! it is useful, however, to be thus reminded that even so innocent a sport as angling has its drawbacks. perhaps such small annoyances should be received as part of the discipline of fishing; winged blessings they then become, modes of teaching unpleasant, perchance, at the time, but none the less fraught with profit to the true angler, who is always more or less of a moralist. it is time, though, to turn homewards. our endeavour has been to depict some of the charms connected with angling, and to recommend it as a recreation specially adapted for the feverish agitation of modern social life. over and above its immediate end, it is a school for moral virtues and the observing faculties which cannot be too highly honoured. the fisherman, like the poet, must be born; but he owes his success, even more than the poet, to perseverance and observation. however long the sport may be intermitted, when a man has once tasted its joys, and imbibed a thorough love of angling, he resumes it with eagerness on the first favourable opportunity. nay, the taste is one which deserts not its votary in death. few angling reminiscences are more touching than the scene which his daughter has described so pathetically, when poor christopher north lay on his death-bed. in the intervals of his malady, he had his fly-books brought to him, and derived a melancholy pleasure from taking out his old favourites one by one, and lovingly caressing their bright plumage and carefully tied wings, as they were spread out on the sheets. it must be confessed that angling is justly open to the charge of being a solitary, taciturn, meditative sport, which shuts a man out from his kind. we are cynical enough to fancy that if he be shut up with nature instead, he will suffer no great harm. indeed, to admit the impeachment is only tantamount to owning that fishing, after all, is but of this world, and necessarily an imperfect energy. herein lies its chief excellence in the eyes of hard workers; so there is no need elaborately to refute the objection. let a man try it, and _solvitur ambulando_. so good is it that the aforesaid dame juliana indulges in no exaggeration when she says--pardon once more an angler's loquacity--"ye shall not use this forsayde crafty dysporte for no covetysenes to th'encreasynge and sparynge of your money oonly, but pryncypally for your solace, and to cause the helthe of your body and especyally of your soule." though it be to our own loss, we would nevertheless invite every reflective mind to the beck, to derive inspiration and satisfaction from communion with the simple joys of nature. may skill and perseverance there bring the angler the usual happy results, and--blessing of blessings where fishing is concerned--may his shadow never be less! m. g. w. an apology for fishing ever since the time when the famous definition of angling as a combination of "a stick and a string with a worm at one end and a fool at the other" was first given to the world, it has been the custom of a large section of society to disparage the particular sport, which has for its object the catching of fish, very much more than any of the other developments which the killing propensity takes among sportsmen. when a man mentions that he is going off on a fishing expedition, the announcement is not met with the respect which is accorded to him who proclaims the fact that he has it in contemplation to spend a day in beating the turnips for partridges, or riding across country in pursuit of a fox. people have a provoking way of smiling when fishing is spoken of; and when they meet you, armed with the necessary paraphernalia which makes up an angler's equipment, their countenances directly assume either an amused expression, indicating a state of feeling not very remote from absolute pity, or a look of delicate forbearance which is almost the more difficult to bear of the two. there surely never was any pastime regarded with so little respect as this of fishing. but one good quality (that of patience) is ever identified with it; and even that, when connected with this particular sport, is sometimes spoken of in a disparaging tone; so that it is by no means an uncommon thing to hear a man brag of his deficiency in this respect, saying, "i've not got patience enough for that sort of thing"; as if the fact redounded enormously to his credit. "going fishing?" says your hearty friend as he meets you in the hall, equipped for the sport, "you must be hard up for some amusement--for of all the deadly-lively proceedings----" "going fishing?" says another. "well, it's certainly too early in the season for anything else in the way of sport; but still----" the very partisans of fishing, too, help, in a certain way, to bring it into discredit. what a literature it has! the literature of all sport is apt to be trying; but this of fishing is surely especially disastrous. the facetious element always figures here in such grievous force. nor only that. dreadful conventional forms of expression, phrases in inverted commas, involved ways of expressing a simple thing, abound--so that one meets continually with such expressions as the "gentle craft" and the "finny tribe." the sportsman who devotes himself to fishing is called a "member of the piscatorial fraternity," or a "brother of the angle," or a "disciple of 'old izaak,'" or by some other roundabout and exasperating designation. why it is that people who write on this particular subject cannot express their ideas in plain english and avoid such forms of speech as the above it is difficult to say; but so it is. these stereotyped phrases are to be ranked among the conventionalities of "piscatorial" literature. another of these is a perpetual insistence upon the contemplativeness of character which this particular sport tends to develop in those who engage in it. the fisherman is supposed to be left by his pursuit at leisure to ponder and reflect on all sorts of abstract questions wholly unconnected with what he is about. fishing is called the contemplative man's recreation, and seems, indeed, to be looked upon by a very large section of society as a sort of excuse for mooning. for my poor part i confess that it seems to me that the fact is far otherwise. if there is one thing more than another necessary to fishing, it is that the man who engages in it should have all his wits about him, and be thoroughly absorbed in what he is doing. a fisherman who took to being contemplative would, i fancy, stand but a poor chance of catching anything, and would certainly find himself involved in many difficulties connected with the management of his rod and line. while he was contemplating, his fly would speedily get itself fastened to some neighbouring tree, or fixed, may be, into some unattainable part of the contemplative one's own costume; while, if the line were suffered to remain in the water, the flies would certainly be carried by the current into a bed of weeds, or get twisted round a stone at the bottom of the river. the study of the beauties of nature, again, is an occupation which angling is supposed to lend itself to. yet even this, as it seems to me, is hardly likely to be carried very far by the really keen sportsman. when walking briskly across the hill or on the moorland on his way to the river he may, indeed, take note of the picturesque outlines of a distant mountain or the rich colouring of a patch of heather and fern, just as he is conscious of the freshness of the air or the warmth of the sun; but he will hardly, when there is any fishing to do, be likely to dwell on any of these delights, however much he may revel in them at other times. when once he gets really to work he is entirely absorbed in the sport, and will think of little or nothing else till the time comes for putting up his traps and going home. and it is just this which gives such value to every form of sport, and makes them so essential an element in the troublous life of the nineteenth century. they absorb the thoughts and confine the attention, for the time being, to what--in a comparative sense--may fairly be called trifles. you cannot occupy yourself with any deep abstract speculation when it is a question of catching a trout or bringing down a partridge. the fact is that a prodigious amount of ignorance prevails in connection with the sport of angling. people class all forms and modes of fishing together, and include them every one under the definition given at the commencement of this paper. the prevalent idea in the minds of most people is that fishing consists of sitting in an arm-chair in a punt watching a float bobbing up and down in the water, and partaking at intervals of very flat beer served out of a stone jar by the attendant boatman. now this--the very lowest form of fishing that exists, and, unhappily, the form under which it is the oftenest and most conspicuously presented to view--so little really represents this particular sport, that i think i am hardly speaking too strongly in saying that no real fisherman would consent to hear such a proceeding classed under the head of fishing at all. when a sportsman speaks of fishing, he is thinking either of fly-fishing or spinning, and most generally of the former. for fly-fishing, rightly engaged in, it is not too much to claim a very high position indeed among the sports of the field; many of the qualities on which it makes demands being the same which are required for the other forms of sport, while it also implies some which are not called for in those others, except, perhaps, in that of deer-stalking. to be a perfectly good fisherman a man requires strength, agility, spirit, quickness and accuracy of eye, a neat hand, a nimble foot, considerable ability as a tactician, presence of mind, and coolness, coupled with the power of keeping his wits always about him. nor is this all; a fisherman must have, besides, certain moral qualifications of an exalted nature. he must be possessed of patience, perseverance, and good temper; and, in addition to all this, he must thoroughly well understand his business in all its more intricate technicalities. let us proceed to consider some of the points here insisted on a little in detail. in fishing for trout with an artificial fly--a branch of sport to which, with the reader's permission, we will in this 'apology' entirely confine ourselves--it is necessary, as it is in a great many other things, that a man should thoroughly understand what it is that he is doing--how, in short, the case stands. it stands thus. he sees before him a sheet of water, containing, as he has reason to suppose, a certain number of fish, some comparatively stationary, some darting hither and thither, all very much alive, very watchful, constantly on the look-out both for what may bring them advantage in the shape of food of divers kinds, or for what may give them cause for apprehension, in the shape of fish larger than themselves and of a predatory nature, herons, otters and, above all, men. to these creatures, vigilant, timorous, suspicious, it is the angler's business to present an object which they are to suppose is an insect which has dropped into the water and is floating down with the stream more or less near to the surface. if the fisherman succeeds in conveying this impression; if his counterfeit insect is a successful piece of imitation; if the fly which it imitates is one for which the fish has a liking, and if the fish itself happens at the particular moment to be "on the feed"--if all these conditions are fulfilled, then it will happen that the trout will rise swiftly through the water, will seize the bait, and the fisherman's object will be gained. this desirable consummation is, however, harder of attainment than might be supposed. very much is implied in the bringing that transaction which has just been described to a successful issue. if the particular portion of the stream into which you throw your fly is not the spot where a trout lies, if your fly is not well imitated from nature, or does not represent the kind of insect which the fish affects, if the hook is too little concealed, or the line too coarse, above all, if you yourself are conspicuous, standing on the bank, your chance of inducing a trout to rise is slender in the extreme. the fact is that the fisherman ought to look at this transaction from the trout's point of view and not from his own. of the fishing-rod and line, and of the person who manipulates them, the trout must be kept wholly unconscious. this sounds a simple statement enough; but it does, in fact, imply a great deal. in the first place it implies that both the water and the atmosphere shall be in a condition favourable to the mystifying and confusing of the fish which we are bent on capturing. the atmosphere should not be bright and clear to an excess, nor, by rights, the water either. the water, again, should be, to a certain extent, troubled and agitated. this is effected in a running stream by the current; but in lakes and calm, deep rivers, especially in the former, it can only be brought about by a certain amount of wind, and for lake-fishing it may therefore be confidently asserted that a slight breeze is absolutely indispensable. a line falling on perfectly smooth water, however fine and delicate such line may be, or however skilfully cast, will make a certain amount of splash, which would awaken the misgivings of any fish which happened to be near. one of the greatest of all the difficulties connected with the catching of fish is that experienced by the sportsman in keeping himself out of sight. at the first glimpse of a man moving by the side of the river, every fish at once darts away as fast as his fins can carry him. to this assertion there are few people who would venture to demur; and yet how common it is to see a fisherman placed on a high bank, with his whole figure in strong relief against the sky, and moving down the water, with all the fish in the river facing him as they lie with their heads up-stream. it can only be by some strange accident that he will take a fish under such circumstances. almost the first thing which the fisherman should think of in setting about his business is to conceal himself as much as possible. there are several ways in which this may be effected. in the first place, if the wind will at all allow of it, he should always fish up-stream, as he will then have the backs of the fish turned towards him instead of their faces. fishing up-stream is more difficult and more laborious than fishing down, the current bringing the line back almost as fast as it is thrown in, so that the labour of casting it is almost incessant. still, for the reason given above, it is better. it is good again for the angler to get behind some big rock or bush large enough to hide the greater part of his figure, remaining there, with as little motion as possible, till he has thoroughly fished every speck of water within his reach. or if there are no bushes or rocks to be had for purposes of ambush, it behoves him to crawl along on the lowest part of the bank on his knees, aiding himself with the hand which is not engaged with the fishing-rod, and sometimes even to wriggle himself along after the manner of a snake--anything to diminish his conspicuousness. now all this is not by any means easy of accomplishment. to creep along in the manner just described, encountering some obstacle at almost every step--huge stones which, unless he is very careful, he tumbles over, small tributary streams which he plunges into--to get over and through all these difficulties, in a doubled-up position, which renders feats of agility very difficult indeed to accomplish, is not an easy task, especially as all the time he has to wave his line round and round in the air, to be ready for a long cast when he at last sees his way to that consummation. this is arduous work, depend on it, and yet, short of this, i don't know how, under some circumstances, his object is to be obtained. for fly-fishing, to be attended with success, is not a simple operation, but, on the contrary, a very complicated one, as any proceeding involving so exceedingly intricate a _ruse_ as this one does, inevitably must be. that it _is_ a _ruse_ there can be no sort of doubt. unless you succeed in taking this creature in, you will never succeed in capturing him. this is no open onslaught, as is the case in shooting and hunting. strategy is your only chance, and the more deeply laid your plot, the greater is your chance of succeeding. there is one element in the construction of this deeply-laid scheme which requires to be considered with an especial carefulness. the structure of the fly which is to be set before the trout on whose capture we are bent is an ingredient in the transaction the importance of which must by no means be overlooked. it should of all things--and this is a point not enough considered by the makers of these little works of art--be one which looks well in the water. there are many flies sold which appear perfectly right and natural while they remain out of the water, but which, when once they are thoroughly wetted, assume an entirely different and most inferior appearance. the loose wool and feather strands, which form the body of the fly, get matted together and the whole mass of them much reduced in size; the wings cease to stand out away from the body and from each other, and the hook, owing to the reduction of the size of the fly generally, which is effected by the tightening influence of the water, is left much too bare and prominent. the best way to obviate these difficulties is to make the body of the fly somewhat fuller and more fluffy than it is intended to be, and to dress it as far down towards the bend of the hook as is compatible with symmetry of structure. the hook is sure to be conspicuous enough at best, but every pains should be taken to make it as little so as possible. we are particular about all sorts of minute considerations of colour and form; we refuse to allow of the deviation of the sixteenth of an inch from the right standard in the length of a tail, or of the faintest false shade in the colouring of a wing--in all these matters we are exact and scrupulous, and rightly so; but is it quite consistent with such close attention to detail that we should be indifferent to so remarkable a deviation from the right model as is found in the immense and conspicuous hook which protrudes beyond the body of our counterfeit insect, and which seems quite as much calculated to attract attention as any other part of the fly? of course, to some extent, this cannot be helped, the hook being a necessity of the fisher's case, but surely it might in many instances be much more carefully concealed than it is. the fly might, for instance, be dressed not actually on the shank of the hook, but on a piece of gut or bristle attached to it and hanging loose on the hook so as almost to hide it. in putting on a worm as a bait--the worm having the advantage of being the real thing--we take the utmost pains to conceal the hook; in putting on the fly--which has the disadvantage of being not the real thing but a counterfeit--why should we not do precisely the same thing? it cannot be insisted on too strongly and too frequently that the whole of this transaction, which we call fly-fishing, is, from beginning to end, a most elaborately carried out piece of deception. but troublesome and difficult and inseparably connected with all sorts of disappointments as it is, yet is the game unquestionably well worth the candle, fishing, when really successful, being beyond all question one of the most delightful of occupations, while even when only moderately successful, it is full of charm and interest to any one who takes it up in earnest. dogs i have known i was always very fond of dogs, but it was a long time before i was allowed to have one of my own, my parents apparently considering that dogs were composed of two equal portions of hydrophobia and fleas. my first dog was a large brown and white spaniel with a very curious temper. sometimes he would lie on things in his kennel nearly all day, for no apparent reason. if you tried to pet or coax him it did no good, but if no attention were paid to him he would get out of the sulks and be all right in a short time. he could never be induced to go into the water to swim. i often attempted it by keeping him tied up without food and then loosing him and throwing bits of biscuit into the moat near the house. he would then pick out and eat all the bits that were within his reach by wading, but would not make the least attempt to go for a piece which was out of his depth. i once thought that i had devised a plan by which he must swim, but it failed. it was this. there was a high paling along one side of the moat with a strip of grass about a foot wide between it and the water, and here i put the dog, thinking he would be compelled to swim out, but no! after spending half the day whining and crouching down as if he meant to jump in, he set to work and scratched at the turf and tore at the palings with his teeth until he made a hole big enough to get through. after this i gave up trying to get him to swim. his temper was decidedly peculiar. when i called him to go for a walk, if he approved of the direction taken he would go--if not he would stand and look at me and then go straight home. once, however, he shewed a very remarkable and amiable trait. i left home and went abroad for a considerable time, and in my absence my father died. the dog at this time had not shewn any sign of attachment to my mother, but immediately after my father's funeral, whenever he was loose, he used to run straight to the drawing-room windows, and, if my mother was there, would remain standing for hours looking in at her; or, if the front door happened to be open, he would go in and walk quietly into the drawing-room. if his mistress were there he would lie down by her chair; up to this time he had never tried to get into the house, and directly i returned he never attempted it again, nor even appeared to notice my mother more than any other friend of his. poor old jehou, with all his eccentricities of temper i was very fond of him, and sorry when he disappeared. he went out with the carriage one day, and nothing more was ever heard of him, though rewards were offered everywhere. we were making a call and left him outside, and when we came out he was gone. however, we thought nothing of this, believing he would come home, but from that day forward the old jehou was never seen by us. my second dog was magnificent fellow--i never knew or heard of one with such wonderful sagacity and apparent power of reasoning. it was a huge black and white newfoundlander, of the colour they now call the "landseer newfoundland." i got him from an old keeper, to whom he had been left by his late master. the man did not want him, and knowing that i was very fond of dogs, he sold him to me, saying at the time "he was _a'most_ a christian"; and so he really was. our introduction was curious. i went off to see him, taking some food in my pocket to make friends with him; but the man told me that was no good--that if the dog liked the look of me he would be friends at once. when we reached the cottage, going round to the back, i saw a most noble-looking dog, who when we approached sat up and looked very gravely at us. the keeper said, "i've brought a gentleman to see you, old man," and i then spoke to him. the dog turned and looked at me steadily for some seconds, then rising and walking slowly to me, reared up on his hind legs, and, putting one huge paw on each shoulder, began to lick my face. that was the introduction, and from that day until "wallace's" death we were the firmest of friends. the man told me he had been broken for a keeper's night-dog, and was a first-rate guard--would never touch a child or bite a woman, but that he would bite any man or beast he was set at; and looking at his size and power i did not disbelieve him. he also warned me that no one must go near him when he was feeding. after having a full account of the dog, i went home, wallace following me as if we had known each other for years. soon after i had him, i went on a visit to a cousin who lived in a town in the north of england, and wallace, who went with me, distinguished himself greatly whilst there. one evening i was to meet my cousin at his counting-house, and at the time fixed went there, my dog, of course, accompanying me. on reaching the office, finding that my cousin had gone out, i sat down and waited, and as he did not make his appearance so soon as was expected, the office-keeper came and asked me if i would mind waiting by myself, as everything was locked up and my cousin could fasten the outer door himself (as in fact he often did). i had no objection, so all the gas but one small jet was turned out. very shortly after the office-keeper left, the door was opened very softly, and soon a man put in his head, and not discovering me in the gloom, as i purposely made no noise, came in; and a very ill-looking customer he was. discovering me, he started, and said something about an appointment, advancing as he spoke. directly the man got near, with one bound wallace was on him and had him down on his back on the floor. he tried to draw something out of his sleeve, but wallace instantly seized his throat--gently, it is true, but enough to give him a foretaste of what he could do. i shouted to the man to lie still or the dog would kill him, and rising up and going to him found he had an iron jemmy in his hand, which i took--warning him that if he moved the dog would throttle him. i went and called the police; they came and secured the fellow, who turned out to be the head of one of the most daring set of burglars in the north. besides the jemmy he had a brace of loaded pistols in his pocket, and would most undoubtedly have murdered me, if it had not been for wallace. the man had been "wanted" by the police for a long time, but they had never been able to get him, and there were great rejoicings at his capture. whenever i went out by day wallace always followed me, but at night, or in the dusk, kept close to my side, with his head almost touching my leg. if he saw anyone coming towards me that he thought suspicious he would go on in front, and turning with them as they came up follow them by me, and in the same manner if anyone was overtaking me, he dropped back, and then followed them until they had quite passed. he did one other very clever thing whilst he was with me in the north. one morning i had been to the club to look at the papers, etc., and on my return home found that i had lost one of my gloves. more for the sake of experiment than really thinking the dog would ever find the missing glove, i took off the other, and holding it to him, made a motion like throwing it away, saying, at the same time, "lost, wallace, go seek." the dog at once started off, and was away for some time--in fact, so long, that becoming uneasy, i started off towards the club. i had gone but a very little way when i saw wallace coming along, and to my great surprise, with the missing glove in his mouth. a policeman was following him at a respectful distance, so i went up to him and asked if he could tell me where the dog found the glove. he told me he saw wallace running along evidently looking for something, as he occasionally stopped, and seemed to make sure of his direction; following him, he saw him enter the club, and remain there a short time. he then came out, began sniffing about on the steps, and suddenly started off briskly. the man followed, and the dog, after going along one of the main streets for some way, turned down a side street, and soon overtaking an old beggar woman, made a snatch at something in her hand, and returned at full speed. the old woman had picked up the glove on the steps of the club, and had gone off with it, and if it had not been for wallace's extraordinary intelligence i should have lost my glove. one day, after my return home, wallace gave me a specimen of the education he had received from the keeper. there was a very pretty wood in part of our grounds with walks laid out in it. i was walking there with wallace, as i thought, when suddenly i heard someone roaring out, most lustily, that the dog was killing him. i called out to know where the man that was being killed, and he told me in the field outside, so i went out and found him on the ground and wallace over him--not biting or molesting him in any way, but merely looking down at the man, evidently very much puzzled as to why he made such a noise. calling wallace off, i asked how it happened, and the man told me that he was walking in the wood, and just stepped over the fence into the field when the dog jumped at him, and knocked him over. the fact was, that wallace had been trained to go outside any cover when the keeper went through it, and to seize any poacher that might come out. he had been taught, too, to jump at the man and knock him down by his weight, but not to bite or injure him in any way if he made no resistance; and i expect few would have been so foolish as to do so when they saw his size and appearance. wallace was a most inveterate cat killer. this had been clearly part of his early education; he killed almost every cat that he could get at. many were the unfortunate tabbies that he suddenly snapped up as they were comfortably dozing on the steps of a cottage. he would go quietly along, apparently taking very little notice of anything, when--snap--and tabby was no more, but there was one most remarkable exception, and this was our stable cat. i discovered it in this way:--one day i went into the stable yard and saw the cat walking across to where wallace was lying by his kennel half asleep, fully expecting to see her killed in a moment. i waited, and, to my great astonishment, saw her walk up to him, put up her tail, and rub all round him in the most affectionate manner, and as she passed his head, wallace just looked up and gave her a lick with his tongue. seeing me, the old dog jumped up, and, in so doing, trod on pussy's foot, who immediately turned round and bit and scratched. wallace took no sort of notice of it, clearly thinking that such an exhibition of temper on her part was beneath his attention. we lived about twenty-five miles from town, in a very fashionable and wealthy part of the country, which made it quite a "happy hunting-ground" for the london burglars, regular gangs of whom used to come down and "work" the district, in fact, ours was almost the only house that was not broken into, and this was entirely owing to wallace,--his sonorous bark effectually rousing everyone, and he never used it without occasion. we caught three men with a most beautiful set of burglars' tools. they had intended to try the house; wallace roused us by barking, and as he seemed nearly frantic, we felt sure that the men were near, so, turning out the men-servants, we loosed the dog in the garden. he soon picked up the scent of the men, and quickly ran into them in an outhouse about two miles off. numberless were the attempts made to poison him, but he would never touch the stuff, however cunningly prepared. we constantly found poisoned liver, and things of that kind, but it was of no use--wallace would sniff at the stuff, give it a scratch with his paw, and pass on. there was one very amusing trait in his character, and that was his determination that no one should bathe if he could help it. this came, i think, from his having, on one occasion, brought a child out of a pond into which it had fallen. by the way, he did not do it at all in the graceful way dogs are represented in goody-books, but by a firm nip in a very unromantic part of the child's body, making it roar out lustily, thereby preventing the bystanders from being at all uneasy on its account. an amusing instance of this occurred one day. a young cousin of mine was staying with us and said he should go down to the river and bathe--asking at the same time to take wallace with him. i consented, quite forgetting his habit. the two were away some time, but at length i saw them returning, the lad evidently in a very bad temper about something. when he came up he said "that abominable old fool wallace won't let me bathe;" i asked about it and heard that wallace sat down and watched him undress, in a very grave sort of way, but when he wanted to get into the river would not let him; walking in front of him whenever he got near the edge and completely preventing him from getting in. the boy tried all sorts of dodges to make the dog allow him, but it was of no use. he tried to run and jump in several times, but on each attempt wallace coolly sat down in front of him just as he thought all was clear, so that he was obliged either to stop short or tumble over the dog. when he gave it up and began to dress again, wallace lay down and watched him, and finally trotted back with him, with an expression on his countenance that showed he clearly thought he had done his duty. i had been warned by the man i bought wallace from, as previously noted, that i must never go near him when he was feeding, for he would not allow anyone to approach him then, and this i found to be true; but this habit of his caused me great alarm once. a little girl was staying in our house, and, of course, wanted to see my big dog, so i took her out to the stable yard to show him to her. wallace was feeding when we got there, and i told her we must not go near him then, and took her into the stables to see the horses. whilst i was talking to the coachman, she slipped out, and on going to look for her, to my horror i saw her just going up to the dog who was still feeding. i called out to her to come back, but the coachman said, "he won't hurt her, sir; he will let a child do anything almost to him." true enough--the child went up and patted him, and the dog first looked up, gave a wag with his tail and went on feeding. when he was loosed afterwards, he came to where the child and myself were sitting, licked her hands, and then came and put his great head on my knee and looked up at me, as much as to say, "could not you trust me with a child." i then remembered i had been told he would never touch a child, but there was one very curious point connected with this, which was that he would _never_ touch food of any sort, however fond he was of it, from the hands of a child. this he had doubtless been taught, so that poisoned or prepared food might not be given him by their means. i hardly ever saw a dog who had such very expressive eyes. once when out with me he was attacked and bitten in the leg by a mastiff; an ill-conditioned brute that was always flying at him. now wallace was most good-tempered and hardly ever fought, so i spoke to him and told him to come along, thinking the mastiff would leave him. instead of this it seized him by the ear, and wallace's ears were always very tender and painful in the summer; but he never retaliated--only looked at me in a sort of reproachful way, as much as to say "see what pain you have caused me." i could not stand it, and said, "kill him, wallace." shaking the dog off as if he was nothing, he gave him a grip between the forelegs and the dog was dead in an instant. wallace left him at once and came on after me as if nothing had happened. he certainly was one of the most intelligent dogs i ever met with; i kept him until he was very old, and when he was almost entirely blind, it used to be very curious to see the old fellow hunting me. when loosed, he would put down his nose and work till he got on my trail, and then, however i might have gone about and turned, he was sure to hunt up to me, and the pleased look which came into his old face when he found me and moved round my legs was very touching. however, poor old fellow, he got quite deaf as well as blind, and then to my grief i had to sign his death-warrant. long after this, i possessed a wonderfully intelligent dog, a pure-bred skye terrier, one of the real sort, with soft coat of wavy mustard-coloured hair tipped with black; sharp, prick ears, just turned over at the top; such taper paws; tail carried over the back and parting like an ostrich plume; she had dark eyes. i had her directly she could be taken from her mother, and in my bachelor days she hardly ever left me, often going in my pocket when i was riding--her head and forepaws outside. i once left her for six months with some friends whilst i went abroad, and on my return a most curious thing occurred. i drove from the station, distant about six miles from my friends' house, arriving there past nine in the evening. fanny (that was her name) was shut up in the harness-room, but about four o'clock the next morning i was awakened by scratching and whining at my door, and on getting up and opening it, there was fanny, who was exceptionally delighted to see me, and jumped on my bed and went to sleep. on getting up i noticed her paws were very sore and bleeding, and on going down, asked where she had been and how she had found me. it turned out thus: she had been locked up in the harness-room as usual, and this was quite yards from the house; but had set to work, and scratched her way out, tearing a hole through the weather boarding close to the doorpost; she then came round to a court at the back of the house, where there was a drain-pipe in one corner through the wall, to carry off the water when it was wasted; this she had torn at until she made the hole big enough to force her little body through, and getting into the house by an unfastened side door, made her way up to my room. but how on earth could she possibly have known that i was there? she had not seen me for six months, and i had not been near the stable, so she could not have heard my voice, and there was not any coat or wrap of mine left in the carriage. that she had got into the house by the way i have stated was quite clear from the state of her paws, and the marks on the stable and outer court. fanny amused me very much on another occasion. she had been taught to beg, and i went to the kennel, a paled-in one with benches round it, and opening the door, began to talk and play with the dogs, occasionally throwing them some pieces of biscuit. i threw a bit which one of the spaniels picked up, and jumping on to the bench, began to eat it. i suppose fanny fancied the piece very much, for she ran after the dog, jumped up on the bench in front of him and sat up and begged for it, just as she would have done had i had it. however, the spaniel did not pay any attention, but quietly munched up the biscuit. her jealousy of my wife, when we were first married, was most amusing. she could not bear to see us sitting together, and if i sat by my wife on a sofa, would get upon it, scramble on to my shoulders, walk round the back of my neck, and try to squeeze herself down between us. she was, too, a capital sporting dog, though for a long time i was afraid to take her out, as she was so like a rabbit or hare when moving through long grass or corn that i feared i might perhaps shoot her accidentally. however, she was always so very anxious to come with me that at length i took her, and she was quite invaluable. birds that would rise and be off at once, if you had a pointer or setter with you, appeared either not to notice her or be fascinated by her. i knew directly i entered a field with her whether there were birds or not, and she would take me straight to them. she also retrieved beautifully. the first time i found out her powers in this way i had shot two partridges, right and left, and to my great disgust both were runners and got into some standing corn. fanny seemed very anxious to go after them, so i let her go after one that i had marked down, and off she scampered, and to my great delight and surprise soon came back with it. on my taking it from her, she darted off again and in a little while returned with the other. after this, of course, i always used her for retrieving, and scarcely ever lost a wounded head of game. she could bring partridges and pheasants in open ground, but if they fell in thick cover, or if i sent her after a wounded hare, she could not bring them back, but used to make a short, sharp bark to let me know she had found them. poor little thing, she met, i fear, the fate of too many pets. we went from home leaving strict injunctions that every care should be taken of her; but, unfortunately, she sickened and died, i fear, of neglect. and now i must tell a most wonderful piece of kindness and compassion on the part of another dog. at the time fanny and her brothers and sisters were born, i had a fine black and white pointer dog. when fanny and the rest were a few weeks old, their mother died, and they had to be brought up by hand, and though every care was taken of them, and they had warm sheepskin rugs on their bench, they seemed very miserable and were always crying. whenever i went round their kennel i usually found this pointer dog sitting there looking at them through the palings, and i said one day to the keeper, "i suppose don would like to kill them all for making such a noise." "oh no, sir," said the man; "he pities them quite christian-like." "well," i replied, "if he does, just open the kennel door and see what he will do." it was opened and the dog ran in and began licking the puppies, who crowded round him. he then jumped up on the bench, followed by them, and lay down; the puppies crawled all over him, biting his ears and tail, evidently greatly delighted to have him, and finally settled to sleep in all positions on him, the dog never moving, and seemed almost afraid to breathe for fear of disturbing them--in fact, he took them entirely under his protection, and the contorted attitudes the dog would lie in rather than disturb the puppies were wonderful. i used to think he must hurt himself; but he would never leave them, and if i got him out for a little while, thinking he must want rest, he would always run back to them, never seeming happy until he had got in with them again. this continued until they were all grown big enough to take care of themselves. it has always struck me as being the most wonderful piece of pure benevolence i ever knew of. i once knew a very eccentric dog. he was a real old english spaniel, one of that kind you so rarely see, with long body, short legs, with great bone, grand head, jaws and teeth like a wolf's almost, and long ears that would meet round his nose. poor fellow, his temper was certainly unamiable, but i think this was caused by the state of his health. when he was a puppy he was troubled with insects, and a stupid groom, to show, i suppose, that he had some brains, declared he could cure him with some nostrum of his own; the effect of it being that the poor puppy's hair nearly all came off. his skin was burned in several places, and he was made so ill that for several weeks a veterinary surgeon did not think he could recover. he did though, at length, but his constitution had received such a shock that he was always subject to skin disease, and yet he could not stand the least medicine. he was a very curious animal, never showing much attachment to anyone; he would bite his best friends on the least provocation. nothing, though, offended him so much as being laughed at,--that was an insult he never forgave. if you began to laugh at him, he would growl in a very ominous manner, and, if you persisted in it, would snap at you and give you such a bite, that you would not care to try again. if you wished to please him, you had to get a lot of old birds' nests, and give them to him one by one; he would carry them about for some time, and then he would sit down and tear them to pieces. he was not particularly fond of going for a walk with anyone; but if you got some nests and gave him one occasionally, he would trot along with you as happily as possible. another curious habit of his was, that he would never get out of the way for anyone. when he was trotting along he never moved from his line if he saw anyone coming; but if he saw they did not intend to move, would begin to growl and look so savage that people usually made haste out of his way. when he happened to be running down a hill, he did not growl, but merely ran against people if they did not clear out--his great weight usually upsetting them, of which he took not the slightest notice. a great friendship arose between this dog and a fine cat we had, and it was very amusing to see them together. he would walk up to the cat and begin to lick her all over, and then she would rub all round him, purring, and seeming to be very fond of him--when all of a sudden she would stop, look up in his face and spit at him, at the same time giving him two or three sharp scratches, the only notice of which that he took was to close his eyes, so that they might not be hurt. poor dog, as i said before, he suffered from skin disease, and the medicine that you could give another dog with impunity would nearly kill him, and it was the same with any outward application. at length when, on one occasion, he was suffering very much, i took him to the huntsman of a pack of foxhounds, and asked if he could recommend anything, and he told me of some stuff he dressed the puppies with, that never hurt them, and gave me some. i had it applied to some other dogs, and it did not do them the least harm, so i ordered this dog to be dressed with it. it did not seem to affect him at first, but on the next morning he was found dead in his kennel. in spite of his unamiable character, which i put down to his bad health, i was very sorry to lose him, for he had more regard for me, i think, than almost anyone, and was a first-class dog for cover shooting, with me at least, for he would not pay any attention out shooting to anyone else. i have met with two cases of decided idiocy in dogs--one occurred fully thirty years ago. it was just about the time that pomeranian dogs were first brought into england. an old lady saw several of them abroad, and, admiring them very much, brought several home and gave them away as presents to her friends. she gave one to an uncle of mine; it was a white one, with a splendid coat, and altogether looked a model of the breed, and everyone who saw it remarked on its beauty; it had, however, very curious-looking blue eyes, and its habits were very strange. it would lie curled up on the hearth-rug in the dining-room the whole day, taking no notice of anyone or anything, except twice a day, when regularly, about half-past eleven in the morning and at four in the afternoon, it would get up, and, if the french windows were open, would go out on to the lawn. if they were closed, it waited till the door was opened, and then going out, went each day to the same exact spot, and commenced running round and round in a circle from right to left. having done this for some minutes, he would stop, rear up on his hind legs, and giving his head a most peculiar twist, much like the way parrots and owls twist their necks, he would then drop down again, and run the circle from left to right. having done this, he came indoors, and lay down on the rug. he never showed the least affection for anyone, or appeared to know them. if you called out to him, he would sometimes look up in a vague sort of way, as if he wondered what the noise was; and the foot-man had to lead him out to meals each day, as the dog never made the least attempt to stir in search of food. the man used to say he had more trouble to make this dog feed than to keep any others from devouring whatever they could get at. altogether, the dog did not seem to have the least sense in the world, and was, i think, an undoubted idiot. the second case of the sort i met with was in a large sort of retriever that a friend of mine had. he asked me to come and see a dog that had been given him, as it was a "very odd sort of beast," and so it was. it had the most curious coat i ever saw on a dog--very long and iron-grey, with black markings, a huge bushy tail, so big and so long that it gave one the idea that the dog's hind legs were in the wrong place, and, instead of being at the extremity of its body, were put on somewhere about the middle of its stomach. to add to everything, the dog squinted, a thing i never heard of or saw in any other dog before or since. it was not that one of the eyes was blind and did not move properly, but the eyes actually crossed one another; his head, too, was the shape of a solid parallelogram, and very narrow between the ears. the dog was fastened to a kennel, and was walking backwards and forwards in front of it, very much in the way a caged hyena does. on being loosed, it bundled off in a clumsy gallop, and soon ran right into a barrow that had been left on one of the paths. on being brought up by this obstacle, instead of jumping over it, as any other dog would have done, he moved round it, and when he found his head clear, galloped off again on the same straight line, which this time landed him in a laurel bush, through which he scrambled, and again went on in the same direction, and this i heard was his regular habit. he had another very awkward trick, and that was, if he was walking behind you, he would come up and lay hold of your leg, not apparently with any vicious design, for if you stopped and looked down at him, there he was with his eyes half shut, holding on to your leg with his teeth, as if it was necessary to support himself by such means. after a time he would drop his jaws off your leg and go maundering along as he had done before; but it was not altogether a pleasant trick. my last interview with the brute was not an agreeable one. we were to go out duck shooting on the river, and my friend proposed taking the dog with us in the punt to retrieve the ducks. this i decidedly objected to, as a wet dog in a boat is an unpleasant companion, so he was left on the bank to follow as best he might. the dog trotted along quietly for some way, until at length we fired at some ducks, when he jumped into the river to get them, as we thought; instead of which he swam up to the punt and seizing the pole in his mouth began to bite and tear at it in the most furious way. he then tried to scramble into the boat, and getting his fore-paws on the gunwale, began to tear at the sides in the most determined manner, snapping furiously at anyone who went near him. the only thing we could do was to try and duck him by means of the punt pole, but directly he came up again he attacked the boat afresh, so that my friend thought the best thing to do was to shoot him, which accordingly was done. i shall never forget the expression of ferocity in the dog's face or the mad way in which he tore at the sides of the boat and the punt pole. the dog i am now about to mention was, i consider, an instance of the action of over-instruction working on naturally weak powers. when out shooting at the cape, in the swehamsdam district, something in the bush attracted my notice, and on riding up i found it was a pointer in the last stage of starvation. pitying the poor deserted animal, i told one of my attendants to take it up and bring it to the waggon, which he did, and after forcing some broth down its throat, the dog seemed to revive, and with care it ultimately recovered, and turned out a very handsome animal. when it had got up its strength again, i took it out to try it. the dog ranged fairly and soon got on the scent of game, as i imagined. seeing him drawing on very fast, i though he had got a korhoram in front of him, and as these birds run tremendously, i made a circle to head the supposed game; but on looking back at the dog, saw he was standing dead at a small bush. i went back to him and tried all round it in every direction, but in vain. i then looked on the ground to see if there was one of the small land tortoises, which abound there, and which dogs will always point, but found there was not; so dismounting, i went up to the bush and then found he was standing at a small striped mouse, so i scolded him and made him come off. his next exploit was to make a splendid point at a pair of cast-off hottentot "crackers" which were lying in the bush, bringing up in his gallop in really magnificent style. on rating him for this, he fixed all his attention on me, and though he ranged well, kept his eye whenever possible on me, and if i stopped pointed at once, or even if i held out my arm. his last grand feat was a dead point at something that i thought was a piece of dead stick lying on the ground, and i was just on the point of taking it up to give him a cut with it for being such a fool when i discovered that it was a puff adder; so calling the dog off, i blew it to pieces with a shot, but my escape was a narrow one. after this, i gave the dog away to a lady who took a fancy to him, as he was so handsome, and it was most ludicrous to see him in her drawing-room pointing steadily at footstools or work-boxes, or anything that was shewn him. the dog had evidently been well broken, but its brain could not take the impression that he was only to point at game. he had a confused idea that he ought to point at anything with a scent to it, or anything he imagined his master wished him to. november shooting nearly three months have already passed away since the shooting season began. i won't say the three best months, because snipe and woodcock are coming in, and the cream of the pheasant shooting is yet to come. for myself, much as i like knocking over grouse and partridges, give me snipe shooting before all. it is the _fox-hunting of shooting_. i know of nothing more exciting than getting on to a good snipe bog, when they lay well and there are plenty of them. when they rise in _whisps_, that is, several at a time, you may make up your mind they are wild and difficult to approach. in snipe shooting always have the _wind on your back_. the snipe ever flies against the wind; therefore you have a much better shot than you would have if he were to dart away down wind. if you take a dog, let it be a cautious, knowing old pointer or setter; the latter is the animal for this sport, because he stands the cold and water better than the thin-skinned pointer; but i rarely take any dog but my retriever. as regards your dress, you are almost sure to get wet; therefore i never think of putting on long waterproof boots; they are heavy and tiring to walk in; and if you do get in over them, you are obliged to turn yourself up to let the water out; but your misery does not end here, the wet generally brings your worsted stockings down at heel, and your heavy saturated boots rub the skin of your heels, or ankle bones, which cripples you for days. put on a pair of thick worsted stockings, and a pair of your oldest and easiest lace-up boots; if there is a hole or two in them so much the better, they will let the water out all the quicker. i never use gaiters, they only get wet and make you cold and uncomfortable. i wear a pair of old trousers; but generally shoot in nothing but knickerbockers and stockings. if you have a long way to drive home, a change of stockings and trousers is advisable, and instead of shoes or slippers, i put on a pair of sabots and chaussettes: these can be procured at any french depôt. they are most comfortable and warm, and no trouble to put on. if you are shooting on heath, brown should be the colour of your dress; this, indeed, is the best colour for all work. many places that were famous for snipe when i was a lad, are now drained or built on. and a few years hence the snipe and woodcock will be rare birds with us. there is still a land within easy reach where they are to be found--ireland--and there i go every year for a couple of months, to a very wild part of the country, certainly, and where you must rough it; but still i enjoy it intensely: and when i am sitting by my turf fire, with my glass of potheen beside me, my old black clay between my lips, and my tired setters stretched at their ease by my feet, i feel thoroughly happy. there is one thing i always take with me on these irish excursions, and that is a comfortable arm-chair. i have had it carried eleven miles over the mountains for me, to the cabin or farm, or wherever i may be. this is the only luxury i allow myself. if you go farther afield than ireland, and are in for nothing but snipe shooting, then be off to america; south carolina is your mark, and where you may blaze away to your heart's content. the woodcock flies exactly the same as the snipe; but it is not necessary to be particular about the wind in his case. in beating large covers or forests, never go far in, but try the edges. these birds are also getting much scarcer, for they now take the eggs in norway and sweden, and eat them as we do plovers' eggs. in looking for woodcock in cold, wet weather, if you do not find them in their usual haunts, try the _sunny_ side of the wood or hill, where it is sheltered from the wind; they are remarkably fond of being where there are holly bushes. in shooting forests or large covers use spaniels; but these dogs must be _perfectly_ broken and never go out of gun range. it is a very common practice in france to have bells round their dogs' necks, so that you may know where they are; but i do not like it, it frightens the birds; and there is danger attached to it. the dogs are sometimes hung up by the collars. i once remember a very good dog, belonging to a friend of mine, being killed in this way--he was hung up in some thick underwood, and when we found him, he was dead. no hunting dog should ever wear a collar when out, under any circumstances. november shooting is good shooting, and coverts should not, as a rule, be beaten before then, as the leaves are not off enough; a quantity of game is wounded and never found, and is left to linger and die. in november, too, the walking is much better; it is cooler and the scent lies stronger; birds may be wilder but they are in finer condition, and remain so till the frosts come; but even then, unless it is very hard, they keep their condition. it is snow that destroys all birds' condition. a few days' snow, and birds not only fall miserably away, but they get much tamer, and immense numbers are killed by poachers, as well as rabbits and hares, which are easily tracked; and as they are not able to go at any pace, a dog with a very moderate turn of speed will run into them. the best bit of shooting i ever had was a forest in france which i hired; it was five thousand acres, famous bottom covert in it, and noted for woodcock; there was a capital shooting lodge, furnished, four large bed-rooms, two sitting-rooms, kitchen, back-kitchen, wood-houses, &c.; cow-house, piggery, stable for fourteen or fifteen horses, orchard of three acres, kitchen-garden, and small field, a gamekeeper's house, and dog-kennel; in fact, as a shooting-box it was complete; for all this i paid four hundred francs a year (£ ). the house stood in the centre of the forest; there was a good road to it, and there was a village a mile off at which you could get anything. i had it for some years, and i never enjoyed covert shooting so much; there was fine partridge ground all round the forest, which i had leave to go over; part of it was mine. there were a few roebuck in the forest, foxes, and plenty of badgers; with these last we occasionally had great fun. there was some very fair trout fishing, as well as duck shooting, any quantity of rabbits; and i never went out without bringing home a hare or two; there were quail in the season, and snipe too, and the woodcock shooting was capital. for a few days in november, thousands and thousands of wood pigeons made their appearance, and were very tame from a long flight; these were killed in great numbers. when they first arrived they were miserably poor, but after a few days they picked up, and were difficult to get at. i never enjoyed anything more than this bit of rough shooting; everything was so convenient and comfortable; by the bright wood fire of an evening we used to smoke, tell our stories, and spin our yarns. the game i killed, even at the small price it fetched, paid the rent and my english keeper. i do not mean to say i sold it, but i exchanged it away for other things wanted in the house. november, although one of the dreariest months of the year, is one of the best shooting months--certainly for general rough shooting. i have had capital sport in ireland in this month, especially with the woodcock on the mountains, as well as with duck and snipe. i always carried there a ten-bore gun, because i never knew what would get up, as most of my shooting lay on the borders of lough corrib; sometimes a duck or a goose would give me a shot, so i found a large gun better. the golden plover are capital fun in november. i once killed twenty-one at one shot. i was coming down lough corrib in my yacht, and discovered an immense number of plover on one of the small stony flat islands. i got the dingy out, and was sculled quietly down by one of the men. i got within forty yards of them, when they rose, and i gave them both barrels of no. shot. i picked up one-and-twenty, but i think there were one or two more i could not find. i have had very good duck-shooting on the lake, in november, which is twenty-eight miles long, and in one place ten miles wide. my shooting yacht was one of the most comfortable ones i ever saw, only ten tons; but there was every convenience in it and plenty of room. i used to go away for a week, and the quantities of snipe, cock, and wild fowl i brought back astonished the natives. i would run up some little creek or river of an evening and anchor occasionally; we cooked on shore when the weather was fine; we set the night lines, and had always plenty of pike, trout, and eels, and in summer any quantity of perch, from three-quarters to three pounds weight each. i am very fond of wild pheasant shooting in november; the birds are then strong, in good plumage, and worth killing. rabbiting, either shooting or ferreting, is capital sport; by november the fern and under cover are generally dead, and you can see the little grey rascals scudding along. for some years i, in cover shooting,--in fact, all my shooting, have used nothing but schultze's wood powder; perhaps it may not be quite so strong as the ordinary powder, but i am by no means assured of that; it is quite strong enough for any purpose, and has these advantages over the ordinary powder: there is not nearly so much recoil, and in a heavy day's shooting you do not give up with your head spinning and your shoulder tender. the report is not so loud either. the company say, "it shoots with greater force and precision;" this may or may not be; but i am satisfied of this that it shoots _well_, and certainly does not soil the gun nearly so much as other powders. but there is one thing that alone recommends it to me; that is, the smoke never hangs, and you can always use your second barrel. how often in covert shooting, or in the open, on a mild or foggy day, when there has been no breeze, has the smoke hung, and prevented you putting in your second barrel? hundreds of times to me! but with schultze's powder there is only a thin white smoke, which is no detriment or blind to the shooter. and there is also another great advantage it possesses, if it gets damp it can be dried without losing any of its strength. it suits all guns and climates. sporting adventures of charles carrington, esq. recorded by "old calabar" reader, must i confess it? i am a cockney, born and bred in the "little village." though i passed some eight or ten years in a government office, yet my heart was not in the work. i had frequent illnesses, which kept me away; those days--must i own it?--were generally spent in a punt at weybridge with one of the keens. at walton or halliford i was great in a thames punt; and i then imagined few could hold a candle to me in a gudgeon or roach swim; that i was _the_ fisherman of england, _par excellence_. i am wiser now. at last my absences from office were so frequent that i had quiet intimation to go; but, having friends who were pretty high in office, i got an annuity in the shape of ninety pounds a year. a fresh berth was procured for me at four hundred per annum, where i had a good deal of running about. this suited me much better, as it enabled me to indulge in my proclivities. i now took to shooting, and rather gave fishing the go-by. i believe i tormented every gunmaker in the west end to death. i was continually chopping and changing, inventing fresh heel-plates to the "stocks." i would have a thick one of horn for a thin coat, and a thin one of metal for a thick coat. then i had them made with springs to diminish the recoil. i was laughed at by every one who knew anything about the matter; but i was so eaten up by self-conceit that i imagined no one was _au fait_ at guns but myself, and would take no advice. my shooting was not what a sportsman would call "good form"; but this i did not believe. "dash it, muster carrington," said an old somersetshire farmer to me one day; "always a-firing into the brown on 'em, and mizzing the lot. it can't be the gun, or because you wear gig-lamps. you're no shot, zur, and never will be;" but i laughed at the old fellow's ignorance. rather rich that. i, with one of grant's best guns, not a shot--rubbish! but i determined i would make myself a shot; so i went over to ireland to an old friend of mine, who lived in a wild, remote part of galway. he was a first-class sportsman in every way; took great pains with me, and taught me a good deal. i learnt to ride to hounds with him, not well certainly, but in my vanity i soon imagined i not only rode, but shot better than my instructor. one day, after shooting at twenty-three snipes, and only killing one, and the next missing thirteen rabbits turned out from the keeper's pockets, i was fain to admit i was not the shot i thought myself; so i betook myself back to london--a sadder, but not a wiser man. i then entered one of the pigeon clubs. pigeon club? it was one. i won't say anything about that. if i had gone on with it i should soon have had pockets to let. i was terribly laughed at by every one, for i could neither shoot nor make anything by betting. i then determined to try hunting, and wrote to my old friend in ireland to procure me a couple of horses. this he did, and sent me a couple of good ones. i enjoyed the hunting more than i did the shooting, because i could ride a little, and got on better. sending my horses down to the country one fine morning, the next i followed them to ----, where i had taken a little box for the season. many were my mishaps during the few months i was there, which was not to be wondered at. i was in the famous run i am about to relate, and one of the unfortunate victims who came to grief on that occasion. in the county of croppershire, and not far from the little post town of craneford, a pack of fox-hounds was kennelled: they were under the joint mastership of two gentlemen, samuel head, esq., commonly called soft head, and henry over, esq., who was usually designated hi over; the secretary was george heels: he went by the name of greasy heels. a local wag had nicknamed it the "head-over-heels hunt;" but another aristocratic gentleman and a public-school man said that a much more _distingué_ and appropriate title would be the classical one of the _sternum-super-caput_ hunt. this it was ever afterwards called; and certainly no hunt deserved the name better, for hardly a man amongst the whole lot could ride; they were ever being _grassed_, or "coming to grief." men from the next county used to say to each other, "old fellow, i am in for a lark to-morrow. i'm going to see the 'sternum' dogs;" or, "i am going to drive the ladies over next week, when the sternum hounds meet at the cross-roads; they want a laugh, and to see a few falls." the huntsman to these hounds was john slowman. he was not a brilliant huntsman, but he could ride; he had no voice; could not blow the horn well, which was, perhaps, a lucky thing. somehow or other the sternum hounds generally killed, and had a great many more noses nailed to their kennel-door than most of the neighbouring packs. the great secret of their success was that the hounds were _let alone_; they never looked for halloas or lifting, and if they did they very seldom got it. they were great lumbering, throaty, slack-loined, flat-sided animals; but they could hunt if let alone, and often carried a good head, and went along at a pretty good bat too; and as they had but few men who rode up to them, they were not as a rule pressed or over-ridden. the sternum gentlemen were great at roads, though now and then they would take it into their heads to ride like mad, especially when there was anyone from a neighbouring hunt to watch their proceedings. then there were riderless horses in all directions, for the country was a stiff one, and took a deal of doing. "ah, gentlemen," slowman would exclaim, as the field came thundering up ten minutes after a fox had been broken up, "you should have been here a little sooner; you should indeed. mag--nificent from find to finish. don't talk to me of the dook's, or the belvoir, or the pytchley either, nor none of them hunts as have three packs to keep 'em agoing. give me two days a week, and such a lot of dogs as these. i dessay the markis will make a huntsman in time. frank gillard ain't a bad man, and captain anstruther is pretty tidy; but there's too much hollerin', too much horn, too much lifting and flashing over the line. they mobs their foxes to death; i kills mine." slowman was magnificent at these times, and felt more than gratified when compliments were showered on him on all sides. "right you are, slowman." "you know how to do the trick, old fellow." "best huntsman in europe." "there's half-a-sovereign to drink my health." then slowman would collect his hounds, nod to the whips, and return home a proud and happy man. the sternum hounds hunted a week later than their neighbours, and at the two meets that took place during that period they generally had large fields, and always on the last day of the season, because messrs. head and over gave a grand breakfast. on the occasion i am about to speak of, the last day of the season, a breakfast was to be given of more than usual magnificence. the hounds had had a good season, and the masters determined that they would be even more lavish than usual. great were the preparations made when it was known that the neighbouring hunts were coming in force to see them, and have one more gallop before they put their beloved pinks away in lavender. slowman, the huntsman, the evening before the eventful day, had gone through the kennels, made his draft for the following morning, looked to the stables, and given orders about the horses and other little matters pertaining to his craft. he was seated by his cosy fire, and in a cosy arm-chair, puffing meditatively at a churchwarden, and now and then taking a sip from a glass of hot gin-and-water that stood at his elbow. "bell's life" was at his feet, and before the fire lay a couple of varmint-looking fox-terriers. slowman was thoroughly enjoying himself, and wondering if the six-acred oak spinny which they were to draw first the next morning would hold a good stout fox. "john," said his wife, bustling into the room, "captain martaingail wishes to know if he can see you an instant: he is on his horse at the door." "lord bless me, mary! surely," sticking his feet into his slippers and rushing to the front door. the captain was a favourite of his. the gin he was drinking was a present to him from the captain; the "bell's life" was the captain's. the captain always came of a sunday for a chat and look through the kennels; and the captain was one of the very few of the hunt who could ride. he always gave slowman a fiver at the end of the season, and many good tips besides; so he was a prime favourite with the huntsman. "good evening, good evening, captain," said slowman, going to the door. "come in, sir. here, thumas--bill--jim--some of you come here and take the captain's horse. throw a couple of rugs over him and put him in the four-stall stable, take his bridle off, and give him a feed of corn." "now, sir, come in," as the captain descended from his hack and gave it to one of the lads. "i was just having a smoke, sir, and a glass of gin-and-water--your gin, sir; and good it is, too." "that's right, slowman. and i don't care if i take one with you. it's devilish cold, but no frost. i want to have a talk with you about to-morrow." taking the arm-chair, he mixed himself a glass of liquor, and lit a cigar. "slowman," he commenced, "there's the devil's own lot of people coming to-morrow. there's jack spraggon, from lord scamperdale's hunt. he's sent on daddy longlegs, his lordship's best horse, and another; so _he_ means going. jealous devil he is, too. soapy sponge will be here with hercules and multum in parvo; old jawleyford, and a host of others of that lot. then there's lord wildrace, sir harry clearall, and god knows who besides. there's more than forty horses in craneford now--every stall and stable engaged; and there will be twice as many in the morning. "ah! sir, it's the breakfast as brings 'em--at least, a great many of 'em." "well, i daresay that has something to do with it," replied the captain; "but a great many come to have a laugh at us. the fact is, most of our men can't ride a d----. then look at head and over, they are always coming to grief and falling off. no wonder they get laughed at. and most of the others, too. there will be no end of ladies out, too, and all to have a grin at us. oh! by-the-way, slowman, here is your tip. i may just as well give it to you to-night as later. i've made it ten instead of five this year, because you've shewn us such prime sport." "very much obliged to you, captain, indeed," thrusting the note into his pocket; "and for your kind opinion too. i try to show what sport i can, and always will. so they're coming to have a laugh at us, are they! i wish we may find a good stout fox, and choke all the jealous beggars off. i'd give this ten-pound note to do it," slapping his pocket. "it may be done, slowman," replied the captain cautiously; "in fact, i may say i have done it. but you must back me up; and, mind, never a word." "i'm mum, sir. mum as a gravestone." "well, you see, slowman, having found out what they are coming for, i've a pill for them. you draw the six-acre oak spinny first. well, there will be a _drag_ from that over the stiffest country to bolton mill. that's eight miles as the crow flies. there, under the lee of a hedge, will be old towler with a fresh-caught fox from their own country. as he hears the hounds coming up he will let him loose. he's not one of your three-legged ones, but a fresh one, caught only this afternoon. i've seen him--such a trimmer! he'll lead them straight away for their own country. and if the strangers, and old spraggon, and jawleyford, and all the rest of them can see it through, they are better men than i take them to be. i shall have my second horse ready for me at the mill. and so had you better. i'll take the conceit out of the beggars." "by the living harry!" exclaimed the huntsman, "a grand idea. i must draft conqueror, madcap, and rasselas. they are dead on drags. but, captain, if the governors twig it?" "not a bit, slowman. they, as you know, won't go four miles." "yes, sir, yes. i know all that. but if they should twig? they have the coin, you know." the huntsman had his eye to the main chance. "but they will not, slowman. now, i will tell you a secret; but, mind, it's between ourselves. honour, you know." "honour bright, captain," replied the huntsman, laying his hand on his heart. "well, then, to-morrow at breakfast, head and over will announce their intention of resigning." "no, sir; you don't mean it?" said the huntsman hastily. "i do," replied the captain, "and i am going to take them on, and you too. i am to be your m.f.h. it's all cut and dried. so you see you should run no risk. but not a word of this." the huntsman sat with his mouth open, and at last uttered, "dash my boots and tops, captain, but you are a trimmer! but," he continued, "if we find a fox before we come on the drag?" "but you will not, slowman. the cover is mine, and has been well hunted through to-day, and will be to-morrow morning again. no fox will be found there." the two sat for an hour and more talking and arranging matters, so that there might be no failure on the morrow. and all having been satisfactorily arranged, the captain mounted his horse and rode home. the following morning--the last of the season--was all that could be desired. a grey day with a southerly breeze. it was mild for the time of year. great were the preparations at mr head's house. he gave the breakfast one year, over the next. it was turn and turn about. as it was the last breakfast he was to give as an m.f.h., head determined it should be a good one. mrs head was great before her massive silver tea set; and she had her daughter on her right to assist her. at the time appointed lord wildrace, who had driven over in his mail phaeton, put in an appearance in his no. pink, closely followed by spraggon, who determined to have ample time for his breakfast. then old jawleyford entered, and rushing up to the lady, declared it was too bad of her not to have come over and seen them. at any rate, they would come and spend a week with them soon at jawleyford court, would they not? then soapy sponge turned up, looking as smart and spruce as ever. we cannot go through the breakfast--or the speech of mr head, and the other by mr over, or the regrets of the company on their resigning the joint mastership, or the cheers on the announcement that captain martaingail had consented to keep them on. "devilish good feed," growled jack spraggon to sponge, who was drawing on his buckskin gloves. jack was a little elevated; for he had not spared the cherry-brandy or the milk punch. "it was that," replied his friend. "feel as if you could ride this morning, don't you?" "yes, i can--always do; but no chance of it with such dogs as these." "don't know about that," returned sponge. "they generally find, and kill too." such a field had been rarely seen with the sternum hounds--horsemen, carriages, mounted ladies, all eager. "let the whips be with you, or rather at the outside of the cover, to keep the people back," whispered captain martaingail to the huntsman. "i will go to the top of the cover when i give the view halloa. you know what to do." "certain of a fox, i suppose, martaingail?" asked lord wildrace, as they were smoking their cigars close to the hounds, who were drawn up on a bit of greensward, giving the ten minutes' law for the late comers. "it has never yet been drawn blank," returned the captain. "ah! there goes slowman with the hounds. time's up." cigar ends were now thrown away, girths tightened, stirrup-leathers shortened or let down. the captain stole into cover, and then galloped away to the far end. presently a ringing tally-ho was heard. "found quickly," growled jack spraggon, as he bustled along on daddy longlegs to get a good place. "that's your sort, old cock!" ejaculated sponge, as he dashed past him on hercules, throwing a lot of mud on jack's spectacles from his horse's hoofs. "oh, you unrighteous snob!--you rusty-booted cockney!" exclaimed spraggon, rubbing at his spectacles with the back of his gloved hand, thereby daubing the mud all over the glasses, and making it worse. "just like you, you docked-tail humbug!" too-too went slowman's horn. "give 'em time, gentlemen--give 'em time!" he screamed, as he took the wattled fence from the spinny into the fallow beyond. the hounds took up the drag at once, and raced away. "yonder he goes!" exclaimed the captain, pointing with his whip to some imaginary object, and, digging the latchfords into his horse, was away. the first fence was a flight of sheep-hurdles, stretching the whole way across a large turnip field. here jawleyford on his old cob came to grief, being sent flying right through his ears. "sarve you right!" muttered spraggon, as daddy longlegs took it in his stride. "you would not do a bit of paper for me last week. may you lie there for a month!" "pick up the bits," roared sponge to him as he galloped past, "and lay in a fresh stock of that famous port of yours." but the hounds were carrying too good a head for much chaff. the gentlemen of the sternum hunt were riding like mad. already horses began to sob; for the pace was a rattler, and the country heavy. the celebrated rushpool brook was before them--that brook that so many have plumbed the depth of. it wants a deal of doing. lord wildrace charged it, so did spraggon; but both were in. sponge, on hercules flew over. slowman and the captain did it a little lower down. head, over, and a host of others galloped for a ford half a mile away. out of a large field only eight or ten cleared the rushpool brook. his lordship and spraggon were soon out and going; and their horses having a fine turn of speed enabled them to come up with the hounds again; and their checking for a few minutes, in consequence of some sheep having stained the ground, let up the rest of the field on their now nearly beaten horses. "fastish thing, my lord, is it not?" said over to lord wildrace, who was mopping his head with a scarlet silk pocket-handkerchief. "yes," said the nobleman, turning his horse's head to the wind, "devilish sharp. i'm cold, too. i wish i could see my second horse. i'm pumped out." "have a nip of brandy, wildrace," said captain martaingail, offering his silver flask. "been in the water, i see--and a good many more, too," casting his eyes on half a score of dripping objects. "it's a very distressing jump to a horse, is that rushpool brook. by gad, they have hit off again!" slowman knew well the line to cast his hounds, and they soon hit it off, and went racing away again, heads up and sterns down. at last bolton mill was in sight, and here many got their second horses, the head grooms from the other hunt having followed the captain's, and the joint masters' servants were there already. spraggon was quickly on the back of the dandy; but he was hardly up before a view halloa was given in a field below them, and a hat held up proclaimed their fox was ahead of them. "it's all right, slowman," said captain martaingail, as the hounds feathered on the line and took it up. "he's right away across the tornops," shouted a keeper-looking man (this was towler, who had shaken the fox out) as the field came up, "an' a-going like blue murder." the hunting was now not quite so fast, but they got on better terms with their fox after a little, and settled well to him. a good stout fox he was too, and deserved a better fate. he led them right into his own country, but before he could reach a friendly earth, seven or eight miles from where he was shook out, the hounds ran into him in the open. some eight or ten of the field were in at the finish, and others came up at intervals. "here, gentlemen," exclaimed slowman triumphantly, to the strangers from a distance, "this is one of your foxes. i guess we sent him back to you faster a precious deal than ever you sent him to us. sorry we've killed him, though, your dogs want blood, poor things. you've seen what the sternum hounds can do now! we're not to be laughed at, are we?" this impudent speech had not much effect generally, but several gentlemen turned away disgusted. the run was quoted in every sporting paper; and it was years and years before people forgot the great rushpool brook run, the last of the season. the hounds had achieved a reputation, and captain martaingail took care they should not lose it. he carried the horn himself after he took to them, slowman acting as first whip; he drafted most of the hounds, and got together a fresh pack, that were not only good-looking, but could go too. but the dogs never lost the name of the "_sternum-super-caput_" hounds. whilst i am on the subject of hunting, i may as well tell you a funny story which happened to a friend of mine; this took place near london, and although i did not come so badly off as my friend, yet i was nowhere at the finish. it is of a thorough cockney that i am about to write; of one who made the city his home; did a little in stocks and on 'change: he had done so well on it that he had four hunters standing not a hundred miles from the angel at islington. thither he used to go of an evening on the 'bus to his snug little chambers, to which was attached a capital stable with four loose boxes, and in these four boxes stood four decentish nags. i don't know that they were reliable fencers, but they could gallop; they were bang up to the mark--well done, well groomed, and well clothed. frank cropper was proud of his horses, and his stud-groom, dick, was his right hand in all matters. dick, though he professed to have a profound knowledge of horses, in reality knew nothing about them, and had to thank his strappers for the condition and fettle they were in. but dick was great at getting up leathers and top boots, was extremely fond of dress, turned out well, and though he could not ride a yard, led every one to believe he was invincible in the saddle. he was grand when he used to dodge about in the lanes after the puddleton currant-jelly dogs, riding his master's second horse. cropper thought it the correct thing to have out a second horse with the harriers. no one ever saw cropper or his man take a fence; they used to gallop through places or fences that had been smashed by some one before them, or creep through gaps made in hedges. occasionally he used to honour the queen's with his presence; there he did it in grand style, sent his horses down by rail, or drove down in his cart, with his brown-holland overalls on, covering his boots and spotless buckskins from the smallest particle of dust or dirt; the overalls he would have taken off with a grand flourish just before the hounds moved away, and mounted his horse with the grandest possible air, telling dick to ride to points, and to be sure to be handy with his second horse; but, somehow or other, he never got his second horse; dick always mistook the line of country. once or twice cropper had been known to grace the epping forest hunt on an easter monday; but, somehow or other, frank did not speak much of this: why, i know not. "dick," said his master one morning as he sat at breakfast, "the day after to-morrow is the last of the season--at least, the last day of any hounds i can get to; so i mean to have a turn with the ---- staghounds." "do you, sir? i wouldn't if i were you, sir; hate that calf-hunting. the queen's ain't up to my ideas of huntin'; no staghounds are; but these hounds are duffers; the master's a duffer, the huntsman is a duffer, the whips are duffers, and so are the hounds. no, sir, be cardinal wiseman, and go with the ---- pack." "no, dick, i have made up my mind to see these hounds; it's a certain find; open the door of the cart and out pops your stag. it's the last day of the season, and i mean to have a good gallop." "very well, sir. you will go down by rail, i suppose?" "yes, dick, yes; by rail. you will go on by the eight o'clock train. i shall follow by the ten." "all right, sir." and they separated, the man to look to his stable and things, the master to do a little on 'change. frank cropper went in for a good breakfast on the morning of the last of the season, took plenty of jumping powder in the shape of kentish cherry brandy, and topped it up with some curaçoa. "i feel," says cropper, as he got into the train, and was talking to some city friends who were bound on the same errand as myself; "i feel, my boys, that i shall take the lead to-day, and keep it, too. ha, ha! what do you think of that? a church would not stop me. temple bar i should take in my stride, if my horse could jump it. i'm chockful of go this morning; i shall distinguish myself." "or extinguish yourself," remarked one. cigars and an occasional nip at their pocket pistols whiled away the time till the train arrived at its destination; there, cropper and another took a fly, and drove the three miles they had to go. they were quite determined they would not dirt their boots or spotless leathers by a three miles' ride; they would appear at the meet as bright as their no. pinks, day & martin, and probert's paste could make them. "there they are!" exclaimed cropper's friend, as he caught sight of the hounds drawn up on a small common. "by jupiter, but there's a lot out! it's the last day of the season." cropper descended from the fly in all the glories of his ulster coat and overalls; his horses were there under the charge of spicy-looking master dick. the overalls were slipped off, and, with the ulster, consigned to the driver to leave at the station; and our hero mounted his horse and was ready for the fray. now, this meet not being far from town, and a large number of the london division being present, the worthy master, having a proper regard for his hounds, thought a few jumps might choke off a good many who would press upon the hounds. so he had the deer uncarted some three-quarters of a mile from where they were, the van containing him was backed not very far from a flight of sheep-hurdles, and a double line of foot people being formed, the door of the cart opened and out leapt the stag. looking around him for an instant, he started away at a quick trot, and then, as the shouting became louder, commenced to canter, cleared the hurdles, and was away. "lot of these london cads down here to-day," remarked young lord reckless to his friend sir henry careful. "don't know, 'pon my soul, what they come here for." "for about the same reason you do--to see the hounds, and get a fall or two." "ah, that's all very fine," retorted his lordship, "for you to say so. you never ride at anything, therefore you are pretty safe. i ride at everything." "but never by any chance get over," interrupted the baronet, "except through your horse's ears." what more they said was cut short by the hounds coming up on the line of the stag, and racing away. i got over the hurdles all right, and so did most of the field; but at the second fence i was down. and i saw cropper unseated at the same instant, and his horse galloping wildly away at the third fence. dick was shot through his horse's ears into the next field. i was rushing about for mine, over my ankles in mud, when i encountered frank cropper and his man dick in the middle of the slough. "where the deuce is my second horse?" roared cropper to his servant. "i thought i told you to ride him to the points." "so i was going to, sir; but he stumbled, and unshipped me." "good heavens! what is to be done?" exclaimed cropper. "i shall lose the run. here, you fellows," to a lot of countrymen about, "catch the horses--half-a-crown each for them." but the nags were not so easily caught, and it was half an hour before they were secured. both i and cropper were wet and cold; so, leaving dick to go on with the horses by train to london, and get the coats at the station, cropper and i started on foot to walk there. he was too bruised and cold to ride; so was i. you may suppose that the remarks we heard going along were not complimentary: "two gents in scarlet as has been throwed from their 'orses, and a-stumping of it home," etc. at last i was getting nearly beat, and so was my friend, when we espied a fly coming along the road. in it was seated warner of the welsh harp at hendon. taking pity on us, he gave us a lift, and drove us to the nearest station, and we reached london in due time. this was the last of my hunting experiences. i got disgusted with it, and sold my horses. having read flaming accounts from cook's tourists, some of whom had been round the world in ninety days, i packed up my guns and some clothes, and started for america. i did not remain long in new york, as i was anxious to commence shooting. so i was not long in getting to the small town of ----, and, putting up at the best hotel the place afforded, which was not a very good one, sent for the landlord. "wall, britisher, i'm glad to see yeu," commenced the american boniface, coolly seating himself on the table, and commencing spitting at a bluebottle fly on the floor. "so yeu've come here to see our glorious american constitootion. wall, i guess yeu'll be pretty considerable surprised--tarnation surprised, doggoned if you won't. we're an almighty nation, we air. going a-shooting, air yeu? wall, i calkerlate we've got more game hereabouts than would fill all london, and enough ships in our little river the mississi-pi to tow your little island across the broad atlantic--we hev, indeed, stranger. there's lots of grouse; but nary a buffeler, bar, nor alligater about here. but i s'pose yeu means to take up yer fixins here in this feather-bed bully hotel afore yeu makes tracks?" i assured him such was my intention. "wall, then, stranger, what will yeu like?--cocktail, mint julip, brandy smash, or cobbler? i've a few festive cusses in the bar as will tell yeu all about the shooting. let's hev a licker-up with them." to this i assented, and walked into another room with him, where there were yankees of all descriptions. i determined to make myself popular, and stood drinks to any amount. "bust my gizzard, but yeu air a ripper!" exclaimed my tall friend. "he air, ain't he, bully boys?" what more they said was drowned in a terrific row which took place at the other end of the apartment. "hillo!" shouted my tall friend. "come on, stranger, if yeu want to see our pertikelur customs of this hemisphere. bet my boots it's bully larkins and that old 'oss from calerforney. go it, my cockeys!" he screamed out as he mounted on a table, "go it, old coon!" alluding to one of the combatants; "go it! billy's a-gaining on yeu, and if yeu don't look out he'll riz yer har with his bowie knife, gouge yer eye, and fetch yeu out of yer boots--he will, by----!" such a fearful row i never heard. all were in a state of frenzied excitement--knives glittered in the hands of many. whilst all this was going on i made my way out of the apartment, and locked and bolted myself in my own. in half an hour my landlord came to the door, and knocked for admission. "it's all over, stranger," he said as he entered. "old calerforney carved two of bully larkins' fingers off with his bowie, and larkins bit off half t'other's nose. i guess he ain't beautiful. they're festive cusses here, and air always at it. nary a day passes without a free fight." i need hardly say the next day i took my departure for new york, and was off to england by the first boat. i had had quite enough of my american friends and their notions. i have given up sporting, as i found i could make no hand at it. i shoot occasionally for amusement, and fish occasionally, but never lay down the law as an authority. my first day's fox-hunting but that was six or seven years ago, and i frankly admit that then i was a very indifferent horseman, although i was in happy ignorance of the fact--in its integrity. i was quite conscious that i did not ride very gracefully or over-comfortably, but i always discovered that the fault was my horse's and not mine. my cousins used to think otherwise, and i have spent hours at a time in trying to induce them to give up their opinions on the subject and to adopt mine. i should explain that my cousins being orphans, and my father being their guardian, they lived with us as part of our family, and that whenever they rode out they seemed to think they had a right to insist upon my accompanying them. i at length got tired of riding out with my fair cousins, and of hearing them titter as, at their suggestion, we went down steep hills at full trot (i confess i was never great at trotting down hill), and so i resolved to take to _hunting_. i had heard that some horses, though the worst of hacks, made the best of hunters; and i thought that something of that kind might apply to horsemen also, and that i myself might shine more in the field than i did on the road. it was the end of february, and the coverbury pack were meeting three times a week at places within easy reach of the stonington station. that was jolly! i could buy a hunter, keep him at philley's livery-stables, and on hunting-days send him by train to stonington, meet him, have a day's hunting unknown to my cousins, and thus enjoy myself with perfect freedom. i at once drew a cheque for £ , with which i determined to buy the best hunter in all blankshire! i called at philley's and told him of my intention, and asked him how much a week he would require to "board and lodge" my steed when purchased. the man smiled--he seemed to have a habit of smiling; but seeing from the seriousness of my manner that i was in earnest, he replied that his charge for keeping the horse would be thirty shillings a week; and he added that if i wished to buy a "slapping" hunter he'd got just the horse for my money. "of course," said he, "you don't want a pony, but a good tall horse as'll keep you out of the dirt; and," he added, scanning my figure from top to toe, "you don't want no cart-horse to carry your weight neither." i admitted that my ideas on the subject coincided with his exactly, and he at once called to a stable-boy to bring out iron duke. "there," said philley, as the horse was trotted into the yard, "you might go a day's march and not come across such a hunter as that--extraordinary animal, i assure you, sir." not understanding the points of a horse, i deemed it prudent to indorse all that iron duke's owner chose to say in his praise; and i was thus compelled to acknowledge that his superior height (over sixteen hands), long legs, and slender build, gave him an advantage over every other horse i had seen in my life, as regards carrying a light-weight over a high-stone-wall country. as we stood discussing the merits of the horse i happened to turn round, and there i saw the stable-boy grinning and "tipping the wink" to a companion. this aroused my suspicions that all mightn't be right; so instead of at once buying and paying for the horse, i mustered up courage to say, "well, mr philley, i like the horse's appearance, but are his paces as good as his looks? will you let me try him with the coverbury pack to-morrow?" mr philley paused, thought a few moments, and then observed somewhat solemnly, "iron duke, you see, sir, is a very valuable horse, dirt cheap at fifty pounds; in fact, it's giving him away, it is really, and i shouldn't like anything to happen to a horse like that whilst he's mine. we don't generally let him out for hunting; he's too good for most of our customers. but i'll tell yer what we'll do; we'll let you have him to-morrow for two guineas, and then (if you have no accident with him, as of course a gentleman like you won't) you can please yourself whether you have him or not. but if you _should_ have an accident--of course accidents _will_ happen sometimes--why, then the horse will be yours and the fifty pounds mine." these terms seemed fair, and i accepted them, though not before they had banished my suspicions, and almost induced me to buy and pay for the horse there and then. in the morning i called at philley's for my hunter, and the boy brought him out bridled and saddled. as he stood straight in front of me his tall slim-built figure looked as sharp as a knife. i ventured to express this idea, but being doubtful as to whether sharpness was a good point or a bad one, i did so in a manner which might be taken as in earnest or in jest. the dealer chose to take it in the latter sense, and after laughing heartily at my "good joke," assured me that i should find my horse "as clever as a cat." i then attempted to mount, and after some time (during which the ostler gave me a "leg up" _and over the other side_) i was successful. the stirrup-straps having been adjusted, i set out for the station; and in my journey thither i was conscious that the commanding presence of my horse and the easy graceful attitude of his rider were fully appreciated by the numerous passers-by who stopped to stare at us--doubtless in admiration. one thing, though, nettled me a bit. just as i got opposite the club, and was waving my whip to fitz-jones, de brown, and some other fellows who were standing in the portico, my horse shied at a wheelbarrow, and i had some difficulty in getting comfortable in the saddle again. i gently remonstrated with the boy who was wheeling the barrow for not getting out of my way, when the impudent little scoundrel turned round and shouted, "oh, crikey! yer ain't very safe up there! get inside; safer inside!" whereupon the whole of the bystanders, including my friends of the club, burst out laughing. i, of course, could not descend from my high horse to chastise the young urchin, and as i couldn't think of anything smart to say to him, i treated him with the silent contempt he deserved, and rode on. but still, as i said before, this nettled me. with the exception of this trifling _contretemps_, i arrived safely at stonington wood, the place appointed for the meet. there was a good muster of ladies and gentlemen on horseback (some ten or fourteen of the gentlemen in scarlet coats), and a condescending old gentleman with grey hair, neatly trimmed whiskers, and rosy cheeks, remarked that there was a "good field," but i couldn't see it. all that i could see in the shape of a field was a small patch of turnips enclosed with a stone wall, the remainder of the surrounding country being common and wood, or, as i afterwards learned to call it, "cover." i soon began to appreciate my iron duke, for i found that he was the tallest horse there, and his legs seemed as light as an antelope's in comparison with the legs of the other animals, some of which seemed almost as heavy as cart-horses'. the clock of the village church struck eleven, and three or four of the men in scarlet began to whip the dogs to make them go into the wood. i thought it was the proper thing to imitate their example, and seeing one of the dogs scrambling up the wall i instantly rode up and gave him what i thought a "lift up behind" with my whip. to my astonishment the animal, instead of going over into the wood, tumbled down at my feet and yelped most piteously. iron duke, not liking the noise, turned round suddenly and kicked out, and the hound had an almost miraculous escape of having his skull cracked. all this happened in less than a minute, and seemed to cause a "great sensation," for two or three of the roughest of the men in scarlet were instantly attacked with a fit of cursing and swearing, of which i took no notice, believing it to be lavished on the head of the unfortunate hound. but i soon had my doubts; for one of the gentlemen in scarlet rode up to me, and with much severity informed me that he could not have his hounds "served in that way." i protested that it was an accident, and that i thought "there could be no harm in doing what the others did." with this explanation he seemed quite satisfied, for he at once left me, and even smiled as he did so. the dog must have been a young one, for as i passed two gentlemen who were doubtless discussing puppies in general, and i suppose him in particular, i overheard one of them say, "he's evidently green." the dogs having got safely into cover, the ladies and gentlemen began to ride along the outside of the wood--cover, i mean--and i did the same, taking care, though, to keep well in the rear, that i might see what the others did. i kept clear of every one i could possibly avoid, as i found that the people who hunted at stonington indulged in a peculiar kind of slang which i could not well understand. i had not gone far before i heard a loud laughing in my rear. i seemed to be familiar with the sound. i turned "about" in the saddle, and who should i see but my cousins, not twenty yards behind me! i was inclined to go home, and i should have done so only i saw that my cousins, besides being attended by evans in livery, were accompanied by their old schoolfellow, miss trafford, a young lady to whom i had been introduced at our last county ball. to enjoy her presence i determined to brave all. i turned my horse round and raised my hat as much as the tight guard would let me, and in another moment i was at the mercy of my tormentors. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed my cousin emily; "we saw you stealing out of the garden gate at six o'clock this morning." "yes," chimed in julia, "and with those splendid top-boots on! you thought to avoid us, did you?" "i say, adolphus," continued emily, "when you hire a horse-box again, and don't want anyone to know, don't let your name and destination be labelled on it like an advertisement! ha! ha! ha!" i was completely sold, and i was obliged to acknowledge it; and when i heard that my cousins had actually ridden ten miles to the meet, whilst i had come by train, i felt that i must do something to retrieve my reputation in the eyes of miss trafford. the cover was a very large one, and whilst we had been talking all the people had disappeared. i told the ladies where the dogs were; and emily at once came to the conclusion that, if we went round the other way, which was shorter, we should meet the "field" at "keeper's clump." acting on this suggestion, we turned back and cantered round to the other side of the cover. as we did so i felt that field-riding was my _forte_; it was so much more comfortable than hard road-riding, and i at once resolved to make hunting my study and only amusement. my cousins continued to tease me as we went along; but to my delight miss trafford sided with me, thus giving me confirmation of the hope i had cherished at the ball, that she was not indifferent to the attentions i then paid her, slight as those attentions necessarily were. our passage of arms was suspended by our arrival at the far end of the cover, where the field were awaiting, as i was informed, the decision of the master as to what cover to "draw" next. i wondered whether they had any artists with them, and what good could come of _drawing_ a cover with which nearly every one seemed familiar. but this is parenthetical. a stone wall, about four feet high, separated us from the rest of the field. "what have you lost?" said emily to me, as my eyes wandered up and down the wall. "nothing," i replied; "i am looking for the gate." "then you are looking for something you won't find this side a mile and a half; that's the road--over the wall. come! give us a lead." here was a pretty state of things! i, who had never in my life been over anything higher than a mushroom or wider than a gutter, and who had in my charge three ladies, suddenly required to give them a lead over a four-feet wall, in presence of the whole field! the perspiration stood in great drops on my brow, and i would have given any amount if i could but have sunk into my boots. but i couldn't; and all eyes being on me (including _her's_) i had no time to say my prayers. i had to choose at once between disgrace and the chance of being "sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head." one glance at miss trafford decided me; and i put my horse's head towards the wall and then my spurs into his sides. when i was within three feet my courage failed me, and i pulled up; but it was _too late_. iron duke had already risen; and in doing so had nearly rolled me off, first over the cantle and then the pommel. ten thousand years rolled over my devoted head in these few moments, and then all was still--_i.e._, as regards motion; but my ears were assailed by a deafening cheer--mixed, i must candidly admit, with some laughter. when i "came to," i discovered that i was still alive, and still in the saddle, and that my horse was, in the most matter-of-fact way possible, spanning the wall like a bridge, fore-legs on one side, hind-legs on the other. i hastily congratulated myself that things were no worse, and then began to consider what was the proper step to be taken by a man in my situation. "pull him back!" "job him over!" "stick to him!" "get off!" and similar advice came to me from every quarter. i resolved to act on the "get off" principle; and with some difficulty i _did_ get off, taking care to be on the right side. i then endeavoured to pull the horse over with the reins; but he resisted with all the obstinacy of a costermonger's donkey--which circumstance seemed to add to the amusement of the field, for their laughter increased. growing desperate, i slashed my whip several times over the animal's neck; at which treatment he kicked and plunged until, to my great delight, he kicked the wall down! "thank you for your easy lead, my dear cousin adolphus!" said emily, as she and the two other ladies came through the breach in the wall. "you're quite welcome," i was about to reply, when i was interrupted by a coarse-looking lad, whose spindle-like legs were covered with breeches and gaiters. "i say, guv'nur," said he, "you rode your horse over that there wall about as well as i'd a-rode my mother's clothes-horse over!--do it again, do!" the ladies could not refrain from laughter, in which i made a miserable attempt at joining them; and then i tried to remount. but this was a difficult task; for my legs were short, my horse's were long, and his recent adventure had made him fidgety, and i was at last reduced to the necessity of accepting an offer from the lad with the spindle legs to give me a "leg-up." with his assistance (for which i gave him sixpence, and i have no doubt he threw his bad joke into the bargain) i managed to scramble into the saddle again. as we rode to the next cover i felt exceedingly sheepish, and the unfeeling laughter of my cousins, added to the now cool manner of miss trafford, and the quiet grimaces of old evans, the groom (who of course kept pretty close to us), made me desperate, and i was determined to do something to recover my lost prestige, even if the next day's _times_ had to record a "fatal accident in the hunting-field at stonington." emily asked me tauntingly whether i had "done leaping for to-day?" "not exactly," i replied; "i intend----" "will you take a lead from me?" she interrupted. "i'll take any lead that _you_ dare give me," i replied haughtily. "done!" and she had no sooner said the word than the fox broke from the cover, about two hundred yards in front of us, followed in a few moments by the hounds, so close together that (as i afterwards heard one gentleman remark to another) you might have covered them with a blanket. away they went, and away went we after them. my enthusiasm was raised to the utmost pitch, and i was determined to stop at nothing. emily and julia kept on my left, a few yards in advance, whilst miss trafford, on my right, kept about the same distance in my rear. the fox, luckily, had taken the open, and the ladies prophesied a half-hour's run with no checks. but before ten minutes of it were over, i perceived, about a hundred yards in front of us, a thick, well-laid quickset hedge, about four feet high, and as we neared it i thought i saw water glistening on the other side. there was no escape; my time had come; i was led in front, and driven in rear; and leap i must. "now for your lead!" cried emily, waving her whip in the air as she cleared the fence and the brook beyond it. my horse followed bravely--and so should i, if i hadn't, by some unfortunate mishap or other, rolled out of the saddle, and in the midst of my victory fallen into the brook! as i lay sprawling on my back, and before i had time to think where i was, i saw the belly of miss trafford's horse as he carried her over the fence, the brook, and me! "stop my horse! stop my horse!" i roared, as i came dripping wet out of the brook. "stop my horse!" but i earnestly hoped that no one would stop him, for this last _contretemps_ had considerably damped my ardour and cooled my courage; and i thought that if nobody _did_ "stop my horse," he would eventually find his way to the pound; and his absence would afford me a decent pretext for going home. to my horror, though, iron duke was brought back by the wretched lad of the spindle legs. "be the saddle greased, sir?" said he, wiping it with his nasty dirty pocket handkerchief. i could have kicked him, and should have done so, only i thought he might have kicked back, and so i swallowed his affront, and actually gave him another sixpence. having learned from him the road to the station, i was just stealing off when i heard in my rear the cry of "tally-ho back!" the fox had come back--doubled, i mean--and i was forced to join the others and run after him again. but, fortunately for me, he did not run far before the dogs caught him and killed him, and then one of the men in scarlet cut off his nice long tail and gave it to emily. she actually accepted it, although i am nearly sure she had never seen the man before in her life! i thought young ladies ought to accept presents from no gentlemen but their relatives and accepted suitors; and, besides, i don't believe that this man _was_ a gentleman, for when i whipped the hound to make him get over the wall (which, as i have before stated, he most unreasonably declined to do), this fellow was the loudest in his oaths and curses, which he showered broadcast on the hound, or my horse, or something--i have never ascertained what--and in the presence of ladies! emily said something about making a hair-brush of the fox's tail (what an absurd idea! but she always was queer); and as the man cut off the fox's head, she gave me to understand that that would be mine if i asked for it. i _did_ ask for it; but for some unaccountable reason or other, i _didn't get it_. the remainder of the poor fox was thrown to the dogs, who soon tore him to pieces and ate him. it occurred to my philosophic mind, as i witnessed this spectacle, that the fox, like me, was a hero; but, also like me, an unsuccessful one. what a number of men, women, horses, and dogs to conquer one little fox! these and similar reflections were soon cut short, for the dogs having finished their lunch, the men and women began to think about theirs; in fact, sir john hausie had invited them all, including me, to lunch with him at the manor house, about half a mile distant. as we journeyed thither i began to feel very uncomfortable, for my coat, waistcoat, and shirt, although not dirty (for the water in the brook was clean), were wet through, and, the warmth of exercise and enthusiasm having subsided, i felt very cold. when we arrived at sir john's, i was so stiff with cold that i could scarcely dismount, which sir john observing, he came and very kindly accosted me. he also inquired as to the cause of my fall--spill, he called it--and offered me the loan of a coat whilst mine was hastily dried at the kitchen fire. sir john was an exceedingly pleasant man, and had a jolly, cheerful, laughing face, and we soon understood each other. i accepted his proferred loan with many thanks, and then took miss trafford in to lunch. as i sat by her side in the baronet's coat, and gracefully helped her to sherry, the frost of her manner gradually thawed; and when we returned to remount we were as jolly as topers--sand-boys, i mean. i of course assisted her to get into the saddle; but i was so stiff and so giddy (from the excitement of the morning) that i very nearly let her down. we were some time without finding another fox; and as my cousins had gone off with old evans and captain de la grace, and as miss trafford seemed so amiable, i determined to improve the occasion. we were on the common just outside sir john's park, the beauties of which i was very particular in admiring; and having thus got miss trafford to lag behind, i took the opportunity of unbosoming my heart to her. i got very excited, and my voice trembled with emotion (or something of that sort), as i made her a pathetic offer of my heart and hand. i paused (as well as my excitement would allow me, for it had brought on the hiccups), and she replied. i can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something about sparing me the pain of a refusal, and about not marrying a man who couldn't take a fence. i offered to jump the park wall if she would only listen to my suit. she agreed; and bracing up all my spirits, i rode full tilt at the wall; and over i went, leaving my horse on the wrong side! and as i turned an involuntary somersault i thought i heard sounds like "the receding foot-steps of a cantering horse." (_note._--this is a quotation from some lines i afterwards wrote to miss trafford.) there was then a slight break in the thread of my thoughts, and after that i found myself lying in the midst of some young fir-trees, whilst iron duke was quietly browsing on the leafless twigs of a tree on the other side of the wall. gentle reader! i am sure you must feel for my unfortunate position. i will not torture you further by relating the painful particulars of how i scrambled over the wall; how i got on iron duke, only to tumble off again; how i nearly broke my neck before i got home; how philley declared i had broken the horse's knees; how he made me pay £ for the animal; how i sold him the next week for £ (less £ for carriage); and, worst of all, how miss trafford jilted me, and my cousins--cruel girls--laughed at my misfortunes and made sport of my troubles. indeed, with all these we have nothing to do, for they happened after "my first day's fox-hunting." my first and last steeple-chase in the year , the irish militia regiment in which i had the honour to hold a commission was disembodied; but, as a reward for our distinguished services at portsmouth, where we mounted guard daily on the dockyards for more than twelve months, each subaltern was presented with a gratuity of six months' pay--a boon that must have been highly appreciated at the time by our much-enduring and long-suffering tailors, into whose pockets most of the money, in the end, found its way. dick maunsel, the senior lieutenant, and myself were cousins, and (as the old chief never lost a chance of telling us when we got into trouble) "always hunted in couples." our fathers' allowance had been liberal. we were free from debt--that "old man of the sea," which too often hangs like a millstone about the british subaltern's neck--and, finding ourselves at liberty, as a matter of course determined to go off somewhere and get rid of our pay together. much beer and tobacco were consumed in the various "corobberys" held to talk the matter over; and at length it was decided that we should take a lodge at a small watering-place, well known to both, on the south-west coast of ireland, and there abide until something better turned up. i don't think, under the circumstances, we could have made a much better choice. the salmon and sea-fishing were excellent; when the shooting season came round, most of the moors in the neighbourhood were free to us. the summer had been unusually hot; we were tired of town life, and longing to divest ourselves of the "war paint," "bury the hatchet," and get away to some quiet bay by the atlantic, where we could do what seemed right in our own eyes, free from the eternal pipeclay and conventionalities with which we had been hampered. "last, not least," at a ball given before the regiment left ireland, we had met two girls, sisters, who usually spent the season there, and, if the truth must be told, i believe they had hit us so hard we were "crippled" from flying very far. so, after an impartial distribution of the regimental plate, and a rather severe night at mess, to finish the remains of the cellar, we bade farewell to our companions in arms, and found ourselves once more in "dear old dirty dublin," _en route_ for the south. one evening, about six weeks after our arrival at aunaghmore, we were lying on the cliffs, watching the trawlers as they drifted slowly up with the tide. the day had been dark and misty, with some thunder far out at sea; but it cleared up as the sun went down, and i was pointing out to dick, who had been unusually silent, the remarkable likeness between the scene before us and one of turner's best-known pictures, when he interrupted me suddenly, saying-- "i'll tell you a story, frank. when a boy, i remember starting one morning with poor ferguson (the owner of harkaway) to ride one of his horses in a private match. we took a short cut across an old mountain road, and coming out on the brow of the hill which commanded one of the finest views in ireland, i pulled up my horse to call ferguson's attention to it. 'for heaven's sake, sir,' he said impatiently, 'think on something that will do you good.' and just at this moment, old man, i feel half inclined to agree with him. how much money have you left?" without speaking, i handed him my purse, the contents of which he counted slowly over, saying, "i think we shall have enough." "enough for what?" i asked. "for a ball," he replied coolly. "the people here have been very civil to us, and we owe them some return. there are plenty of girls in the neighbourhood to make a very good one; men are scarce; but we can ask the "plungers" over from ---- barracks. besides, i promised emily last night, and there's no getting out of it." i ventured mildly to suggest that the regiment didn't get out of the last under a couple of hundred, and that we had not half that between us. "my dear fellow," he replied, "this is quite another affair altogether. we can borrow the club archery tent for a ballroom. there are many things, game, &c., to be had for nothing here. my sisters are coming over on a visit; they will look after the details. it will be a great success, and we shall only have wine and lights to pay for." "and how far," i asked, with a slight sneer, "will the money left go in getting those, not to speak of other essentials that must be provided?" "i have arranged all that as well," answered dick, with the air of a man who had thoroughly mastered the subject. "the races here come off the end of august. there is a £ plate to be run for on the flat, and a steeple-chase as well. i know all the horses likely to start. with one exception (father b.'s) ours can give them a stone for either event. the priest can't run his horse; the new bishop has been down on him. we can send for ours: plenty of time for a rough preparation. thanks to the hot weather, and that confounded drill, you can still ride eleven stone. there now, what more do you want? come along to the lodge, and we will talk the matter over comfortably." i certainly had my misgivings as to the practicability of dick's scheme, but knew him too long and well to doubt his attempting it at all events. i could, of course, refuse to join, and leave him to his own devices; but we had pulled through too many scrapes together for that. to do him justice, he generally succeeded in whatever he undertook; and whether it was owing to his eloquence, some of his father's old claret, or both combined, before we separated that night i had entered heart and soul into his plans. we lost no time in commencing our preparations. within a week the horses had arrived; then dick's sisters--two fine light-hearted girls, full of fun and mischief--came over. after that there was no rest for me. no unhappy adjutant of a newly-embodied militia or volunteer regiment ever had more or a greater variety of work on hand. sunrise generally found me in the saddle, giving the horses a gallop on the sands--a performance which had to be repeated twice during the day, dick's weight, some sixteen stone, preventing him from giving me any assistance. i was overhead in love, besides, and four hours at least had to be devoted to the object of my affections. we kept open house; game and fish had to be provided for the larder, and the girls were always wanting something or other from the neighbouring town, which they declared only i could get; so between all, my time was fully occupied, and seemed to fly. if mr mill's bill for giving ladies the franchise had been in force then, i think dick and myself would have had a fair chance of representing the county. so soon as our intention to give a race ball was known, we became the most popular men in it. offers of supplies and assistance came pouring in from all quarters. plate, china, and glass arrived so fast, and in such quantities, the lodge could not contain them, and we were obliged to pitch the tent. as the time drew near, the preparation and bustle increased tenfold. our life was one continual picnic. from early morning until late at night, the house was crowded with girls laughing, flirting, trying on ball-dresses, and assisting in the decorating of the tent. we never thought of sitting down to dinner, but took it where, when, and how we could. _ay de mi!_ i have been in some hospitable houses since, where the owners kept _chefs_, and prided themselves, not unjustly, on the quality of their cellars; but i never enjoyed myself so much, and, i fear, never shall, as those scrambling dinners, though the bill of fare often consisted of cold grouse, washed down by a tankard of beer--taken, too, standing in the corner of a pantry, surrounded by a host of pretty girls, all of them engaged in teasing and administering to my wants. early one morning, about a week before the races were to come off, i was engaged as usual, exercising dick's hunter on the course, when, at a little distance, i saw a horse in body-clothes cantering along with that easy stride peculiar to thorough-breds. for some time the rider appeared anxious to avoid me, increasing the pace as i came near, until the animal i rode, always headstrong, broke away and soon ranged alongside. "whose horse is that?" i inquired of the groom. "my master's, yer honour," he replied, without a smile, slackening his pace at the same time, as mine raced past. when i succeeded in pulling up again, the fellow was galloping away in another direction. i had seen enough, however: there was no mistaking those flat sinewy legs. so, setting the horse's head straight for the lodge, i went up to dick's room. he was in bed, but awake; and though his face slightly lengthened when i told him i was certain the priest's horse had arrived, he answered coolly enough-- "you need not look so serious, frank; at the worst, it is only a case of selling madman, and i have had a good offer for him. it is too bad of the priest, though, to spoil our little game. they told me the bishop had sat on him; but of course he will run in another name. i should have known an old fox like that would have more than one earth. he won't be able to go in for the double event, that is certain. his horse can't jump. the steeplechase is ours; so come and have a swim. after breakfast we will see what can be done." unfortunately there was no help for it. the priest's horse had carried off a queen's plate at the curragh, and, safe and well at the post, could win as he pleased. it was too late for us to draw back, however, even if we were disposed that way. the invitations for the ball (which was to come off the night of the races) were out. so, consoling ourselves as well as it was possible under the circumstances, we continued our preparations, looking well after the horses, determined not to throw away a chance. misfortunes seldom come alone. the day before the race, so ardently looked forward to, arrived at last. i had been engaged in unpacking the flowers that were arriving all the afternoon from the neighbouring conservatories, while dick was amusing himself brewing cold punch in the lodge. the girls were out walking; and, when my work was over, i took a stroll along the beach to meet them. up to this time the weather had been glorious; such a summer and autumn as few could remember: but now i saw, with some anxiety, there was every appearance of an unfavourable change. although not a breath of wind stirred, the ground-swell broke heavily on the bar, and there was a greenish look in the sky where the sun was setting, that boded no good. the curlews were unusually noisy, their clear, shrill whistle resounding on all sides, and large flocks of sea-birds were flying in towards the land. a fishing-boat had just made fast to the pier, and the owner came forward to meet me. "what luck this evening, barney?" i inquired. "just middlin', yer honour. there's a dozen of lobsters, a john dory, and a turbot. i'll send them to the lodge. the oysters went up this morning--iligant ones, they wor; raal jewels." "all right, barney--what do you think of the weather?" "sorra one of me likes it, at all. them thieves of seals are rollin' about like _purposes_, and it isn't for nothin' they do that same. it'll be a ballintogher wind, too, before long, i'm thinkin'." "a what?" i exclaimed. "the very question the captain axed my brother. it was the first time iver he went to say, and they wor lyin' somewhere off afrikay. the captin was walkin' the quarter-deck when my brother comes up to him, and says, 'captain leslie, you had better shorten sail.' "'why so?' ses the captin, very sharp. "'bekase it's a ballintogher wind.' "'and what the d----l wind may that be?' "'oh murther!' ses my brother. 'there you are, wandherin' about the world all yer life, and didn't hear of a ballintogher wind, when there isn't a gossoon in my counthry doesn't know the village it comes from, and that it niver brought anything but cowld storm and misforthin' along with it.' "well, with that, they all tuk to laughin' like to split their sides at my brother, an' the captin, he towld him to go forrid and mind his work; but faith, they worn't laughin' two hours afther, when the ship rowled the masts out of her, and they wor wracked among the haythens. but wind or no wind, yer honour, i suppose the races will come off?" "so i hear, barney." "i'm towld there's to be a fight between the flahertys and the o'donnells; but shure av the priest's there it's no use for them to try." "why not, barney?" "he's mighty handy with a hunting-whip, an' has got a bad curse besides. he hot mickey devine over the head, for trying to rise a row at the fair of dingle, and left a hole in it you might put your fist in. it was no great things of a head at the best of times, but faith, he's quare in it at the full of the moon iver since. he cursed paddy keolaghan, too, last easter, an' the luck left him. his nets wor carried away, the boat stove in, and the pig died. i don't give in to the pig myself, for they let him get at the long lines afther they wor baited; and sure enough when the craythur died, there was fifteen hooks in his inside, enough to kill any baste. besides, his reverence is very partikler, an' wouldn't curse a christian out of his own parish; but it's not lucky to cross him anyhow; an' if he's there to-morrow, sorra bit of fun we'll have. they say yer honours are for givin' a ball afther the races." "so we are, barney; and that reminds me--tell the girls to come up the next night, and we'll give them a dance before the tent is taken down." "long life to yer honour! it's proud and happy they will be to go. here's the young ladies comin'. good evenin', sir! we'll be on the coorse to-morrow, an' see you get fair play, anyhow." the tent-ropes flapped ominously that night as we turned in, and before morning a storm came on which increased to a hurricane, when our party assembled for breakfast, and looked out disconsolately enough at the boiling sea, dimly visible through the driving rain and spray that dashed in sheets of water against the glass. already numbers of the peasantry, on their way to the course, were staggering along the road, vainly trying to shelter themselves from the furious blast which made the very walls of the lodge shake. taking advantage of a slight lull, we managed to get a young fir-tree propped up against the pole of the tent, and had just returned to the house when a well-appointed four-in-hand came at a sharp trot up the avenue. "here come the plungers," said dick. "plucky fellows to drive over fourteen miles such a morning." while he was speaking, a dozen bearded men got down and stalked solemnly into the room. in a few minutes the ladies of our party made their appearance, and before long the new comers were busily engaged in some fashion or another. i have often admired the way in which irish ladies contrive to make the "lords of the creation" useful, but never saw it more strongly exemplified than on the present occasion. here you might see a grave colonel employed in the composition of a lobster salad; there a v.c. opening oysters as industriously as an old woman at a stall; while in a snug corner, a couple of cornets were filling custard cups and arranging flowers. to do the gallant fellows justice they accepted the situation frankly, and set to work like men, while at every fresh blast the girls' spirits seemed to rise higher; and before long a merrier party could hardly be found anywhere. twelve o'clock had now come round, at which time, it was unanimously agreed, the day must clear up; and a slight gleam of watery sunshine appearing, we all started to carry the things over to the supper-room of the tent. as we mustered a tolerably strong party, in less than an hour this was effected, not, however, without sundry mishaps; one poor cornet being blown right over a fence, into a wet ditch, with his burden. we were all so much engaged laying out the tables, that the increasing darkness of the day was scarcely remarked until a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a loud peal of thunder which broke directly overhead, made the boldest pause for a moment in his occupation. the storm, which had gone down considerably, burst forth again worse than ever, the tent-pole swayed to and fro like a fishing-rod, and the fir-tree we had lashed alongside for additional security threatened every moment to come down by the run. matters were beginning to look serious, when dick, snatching a carving-knife from the table, cut an opening in the wall of the tent, through which we all bolted into the open air. hardly had we got clear of the ropes, when the tent-pole snapped, the pegs gave way, the roof flew off down the wind, and with a crash of broken glass, heard distinctly above the howling of the wind and sea, the whole fabric came to the ground, burying all our materials and the greater part of the supper in the ruins. all was over now,--"the stars in their courses" had fought against us. there was no use in contending against fate and the elements; so, after seeing the girls safe in shelter, and leaving the dragoons to test the merits of dick's cold punch, i filled my largest pipe with the strongest cavendish, and had walked round to the lee of the house, to blow a cloud in peace, and think over what was best to be done, when a window opened above, and looking up, i saw a bright sunny face framed against the dark scowling sky, and heard a voice call out, "wait there one moment, frank; i am coming down." without giving me time to reply, the face disappeared, but immediately afterwards a small slight figure, closely muffled up, glided round the corner, and put its arm in mine, while a pair of blue eyes looked up appealingly in my face. "don't look so down-hearted, frank, or you will make me cry. i could hardly keep from it, when i saw the tent in ruins, and heard that dreadful crash. all lady ----'s old china, i promised to take such care of, and the flowers, and mrs ----'s dinner service, that has been in the family for four generations. it is a downright calamity; but we are determined, happen what will, to have the ball, and i want you to come to look at a barn we saw the other day." "but you cannot think of going out in such weather!" "not by the road--the sea is all across it. but we can go by the fields. come now, and take great care of me." we did reach the barn, though with great difficulty; and, at first sight, a more unlikely or unpromising place could hardly be found. in one corner stood a heap of straw and a winnowing machine, under which half a dozen rats scampered as we came in. the roof was thatched, and in several places we could see the sky through it. long strings of floating cobwebs hung from the rafters, and the rough walls were thickly coated with dust. there were two storeys to it, however; the floor of the upper one was boarded and seemed sound. taking out a note-book, my companion seated herself on an old garden-roller, saying-- "go down-stairs, frank, and finish your smoke; i want to think for five minutes; or you may stay here, if you promise not to speak until i give you leave." i gave the required pledge, and, lighting my pipe, lay down in a corner, watching the rats peering out with their sharp, black, beady eyes at the strange visitors, and rather enjoying the confusion of the spiders, who, not relishing the smoke, were making off out of reach as fast as they could. before long my companion called me over, to give her directions, which were, to go back to the lodge, and bring all the volunteers i could get, as well as some materials, of which she gave me a list. on my way i met one of the stewards, who told me the races had been postponed until four o'clock in the afternoon, and on reaching the lodge found dick and the officers engaged in recovering "salvage" from the tent. getting out a wagonette, i soon had it filled with volunteers, and drove them over to the barn, where we once more set to work, and for the next few hours the rats and spiders had a bad time of it. i was hard at work converting some rough deal boards into a supper-table, when a little boy handed me a note, saying-- "they are clearin' the coorse, yer honour; you haven't a minit to lose; i brought down a 'baste' for you." the note was from dick, telling me the first race would be run off at once. there was a dressing-room provided on the ground, so, jumping on the horse, i rode down. the storm, after doing all the harm it well could to us, had now cleared off, and the scene on the course was lively and animated enough. a dozen frieze-coated farmers, headed by an old huntsman in scarlet, were galloping wildly about to clear the ground, the usual "dog" being represented, on this occasion, by a legion of curs, barking at the heels of stray donkeys, sheep, cows, and goats, as they doubled in and out, to avoid the merciless whips of their pursuers; and when at last they were driven off, the people broke in on the line, and the whole place appeared one mass of inextricable confusion, until the priest, accompanied by the stewards, was found. the fisherman certainly had not belied his reverence. more than once i saw his whip descend with a vigour that made itself felt even through the thick greatcoats worn by the peasantry, causing the recipient to shrink back, shaking his shoulders, and never feeling himself safe until he had put the nearest fence between him and the giver. soon his stalwart figure, mounted on a stout cob, was the signal for a general _suave qui peut_, and the mob gradually settled into something like order, leaving the course tolerably free. six horses came to the post for the first race, which was about three miles on the flat, the priest's of course being the favourite, and with reason. it was a magnificent dark chestnut, with great power and symmetry, showing the "ishmael" blood in every part of its beautiful frame, dick's hunter, although thorough-bred, and with a fair turn of speed, looking like a coach-horse beside it. the only other competitor entered worth notice was a light bay, high-bred, but a great, staring, weedy-looking brute, evidently a cast-off from some racing stable. at the word "off!" a fair start was effected. the bay, however, had hardly taken a dozen strides, when it came down, giving the rider an ugly fall. after rolling over, it sat up like a dog, and stared wildly about; then, jumping up suddenly, galloped into the sea, where it lay down, apparently with the intention of committing suicide. before we had gone a mile, all the other horses were shaken off, and the priest's jockey and myself had it all to ourselves. he was a knowing old fellow, and evidently did not wish to distress his horse, keeping only a few lengths ahead, until within the distance-post, when he let him go, cantering in a winner by about twenty yards, and receiving a perfect ovation from the people. in half an hour the bugle sounded for the horses to fall in for _the_ race. a steeple-chase being always the great event on an irish course, we were about to take our places, when dick came up with rather a long face, and whispered-- "i am afraid the luck is against us still, frank. look at that gray. he has been kept dark until now. before seeing him i backed you rather heavily with the priest. it was our only chance to get out." the more i looked the less i liked the appearance of either horse or man. to a casual observer the first was a plain animal, cross-built, rough in the coat, and with remarkably drooping quarters; but, on closer inspection, a hunter all over, if not a steeple-chaser, although an attempt had evidently been made to disguise his real character. the saddle was old and patched; the bridle had a rusty bit, with a piece of string hung rather ostentatiously from it; the rider might once have been a gentleman, but drink and dissipation had left their mark on what was originally a handsome face. his dress was slovenly and careless to a degree, but he sat his horse splendidly, and his hand was as light and fair as a woman's. he returned my look with a defiant stare. "that fellow looks dangerous," said dick; "but i suspect he is more than half drunk. make a waiting race until you see what he is made of. above all things keep cool, and don't lose your temper." i had perfect confidence in the mare i rode. she had been broken by myself, and many a long day we had hunted together over the big pastures of roscommon and meath. there was a thorough understanding between us. my only anxiety was as to how she would face the crowd, who were collected in thousands about every jump, barely leaving room for the horses to pass, and yelling like a set of bedlamites let loose. with the exception of the last fence, there were no very formidable obstacles. it was a stone wall, fully five feet high, built up loose, but strong, and rather a severe trial at the end of a race, if the pace was a stiff one throughout. there was no time for thinking now, however. the word was given, and we were away. about a dozen horses started--all fair animals, with that cat-like activity in negotiating a fence so remarkable in irish hunting. we had hardly gone a mile, however, when the want of condition began to tell, and they fell hopelessly to the rear, leaving the race to the gray, my mare, and a game little thorough-bred, ridden and owned by one of the dragoon officers. up to this time i had followed dick's directions to wait on the gray, a proceeding evidently not approved of by the rider, for, turning round in his saddle as he came down to a water jump, he said, with a sneer-- "you want a lead over, i suppose." i made no reply, and he went at the river; but whether by accident or design, when within a few yards of the brink his horse bolted, dashing in among the crowd. the dragoon's swerved slightly to follow; the rider, however, would not be denied, and sent him through it; while my mare, cocking her ears, and turning her head half round, as an old pointer might do at seeing a young one break fence, flew over like a bird, and settled steadily to her work on the other side. for some distance the dragoon and myself rode neck and neck, though the pace was beginning to tell on his horse, who was slightly overweighted. our friend on the gray now raced alongside, and galloping recklessly at an awkward ditch, which he cleared, took a lead of a dozen lengths, and kept it until within a short distance of the last fence, when he fell back, allowing us to get to the front once more. i think fear was the last thing uppermost in my mind as i rode at it. my blood was fairly roused, and passing a carriage a minute before, i got a glance from a pair of blue eyes that would have made a coward brave. still, with all that, i could not avoid a slight feeling of anxiety as it loomed across, looking about as dangerous an obstacle as the most reckless rider could desire at the end of a race. if stone walls "grew," i could have sworn it had done so since i crossed it on dick's hunter the evening before. the people had closed in on both sides until there was scarcely twenty feet of clear space in the middle, and evidently a row of some sort was going on. sticks were waving wildly about, and a dozen voices shouted for me to stop, while hundreds called to go on. the gray was creeping up, however. i had faced as bad before, when there was less occasion; so pulled the mare up to a trot until within a few yards, when i let her go with a shout she well knew, and in a second we were safe on the other side. the dragoon's horse refusing, the gray, who came up at full speed, chested it heavily, and horse, rider, and wall came rolling over to the ground together, while i cantered in alone. i had hardly received the congratulations of the stewards, when dick came up, looking flushed and excited. as he grasped my hand, he said hurriedly-- "why didn't you stop when i shouted?" "it was too late. but what is wrong?" "that scoundrel on the gray bribed a couple of fellows to add six inches to the height of the wall during the storm this morning. they raised it nearly a foot. some one told the priest, but not until you were in the field. he has caught one of them, the other got away. as for the fellow himself, his collar-bone is smashed, and the horse all cut to pieces. he couldn't expect better luck. it was a near thing, though. i don't know how the mare got over it. she must have known," he added, patting her neck, "what a scrape we were in." the usual hack races for saddles and bridles followed, and the day's sport came to an end without a fight, thanks to the priest, whose exertions to keep the peace would have satisfied a community of quakers, although they might not approve of the mode by which the object was effected. we had hardly finished dinner at the lodge, when the carriages with our guests for the ball began to arrive, those from a distance looking with dismay at the wreck of the tent, that still lay strewed on the lawn. they were all directed forward to the barn, however, whither we were soon prepared to follow. although my confidence in the ability and resources of the ladies of our party was nearly unlimited, i could hardly avoid feeling some slight misgivings on entering the barn, knowing the short time they had to work in, and how heavily the mishap of the morning must have told against them. all, however, agreed that they had seldom seen a prettier room. the walls and roof were completely covered with fishing-nets, filled in and concealed by purple and white heath. the effect was remarkably good; and if the storm had deprived the supper-table of many of the light dishes, quite enough was left to satisfy guests who were not disposed to be critical. i shall not detain the reader by giving a description of the ball, which proved a complete success, more than compensating us for the trouble and anxiety we had undergone. it was seldom the girls in the neighbourhood had a chance of enjoying themselves in that way, and they seemed resolved to make the most of it. human endurance, however, has its limits. towards morning the band, whose "staying powers" were sorely tried, began to show symptoms of mutiny. threats and bribes (the latter too often administered in the shape of champagne) were tried, and they were induced to continue for another hour. the result may easily be anticipated: they broke down hopelessly, at last, in the middle of "sir roger." a sudden change in the music made us all stop, and to our dismay we found one half of the performers playing "god save the queen." the others had just commenced "partant pour la syrie," while the "big drum" was furiously beating the "tattoo" in a corner. turning them all out, we threw open the windows. a flood of sunshine poured into the room, and the cool fresh sea breeze swept joyously round, extinguishing the lights. this was the signal for a general departure. one by one our fair guests drove away, leaving "the banquet-hall deserted." the last man to go was the priest. as he mounted his horse i saw him hand dick a sheaf of dingy-looking bank-notes, and they parted, hoping to meet again the following season, when the latter pledged himself to bring something out of his own stable to race against the mare. but we only appeared there once since in public, and that was at a wedding. before the next autumn came round we had settled down into steady married men. i still hunt, but have grown stouter, and the old mare has given place to a weight-carrier. the mare draws my wife and children to church regularly, however, and though rather matronly-looking, is as full of life and spirit as when she started with her master to win his first and "last" steeple-chase. salmon-spearing _hei mihi præteritum tempus!_ that is, the past time when new fishery laws did not forbid, and we young sportsmen might combat the salmon in his own element, armed, like the retiarius, with a trident, but, unlike him, without a net. ill-omened word! is it not to thee that the interdict is owing?--blockading the mouth of every river with thy cowardly meshes, only withdrawn for the barest minimum of hours out of the twenty-four to give free passage to the home-sick fish and lusty grilse to re-seek the dear old pools of his birth. for the grace now extended, and the check put upon the rapacious suppliers of billingsgate and leadenhall, we shall ever be grateful to the commissioners, even though the same powers that have removed the stake-nets have prohibited the use of the spear, whose operation, as numbered amongst the things past, we purpose to record. and first for the science of the sport. salmon-spearing, as we used to perform it, was of two kinds. first, that by day; second, that by night. for the first, we choose that day when the more noble art of the rod and fly would be exercised in vain--a clear sunny day, with as little ripple as possible, and the water low, the field of operation being generally the upper pools, or, in preference, the larger "burn" or mountain stream whence the river took its source. the implements, a spear, or rather iron trident of three prongs, barbed like a fish-hook, the prongs being about two inches apart, with a shaft some ten feet in length; two or three long poles, whose uses will be seen presently, and either a "gaff" or a landing-net. the essentials, a hawk-like keenness of eye sharpened by long practice, a goat-like agility amongst rocks and stones, and a philosophical indifference to all such minor discomforts as a complete wetting and a frequent fall or bruise. the night-work differed in the change of locality, the favourite spot being the long shallow "reach" at the river's mouth, and in the substitution of fir-torches for the poles of the day's programme. thus much for the nature of the sport; for a description of it let the reader lend a kindly ear while we suppose the scene by the banks of the river arkail, in the northern highlands of scotland (a name which, by the way, he will in vain try to establish in the best of educational atlases or tourists' guides). "what a baking day! no use taking out the dogs; there's not a breath of scent along the whole hill-side; and one might as well try to fish in a tub as throw a line over the looking-glass-like pools to-day. what's to be the order of the day, frank? i think i shall take a walk up to the top of ben voil and 'spy' if there are any deer lying near the ground." "i don't think you can do better. we have already planned a foray with the spear in the upper pools; but you don't care about that sort of work; so good luck to you, and adieu for the present. i suppose you'll take stuart with you?" even as he spoke a cheery voice outside had summoned frank, warning him that his set were waiting; so, with a parting remembrance from charles marston, the eldest of our party, and the tacitly-acknowledged head, to "mind and 'crimp' your fish directly you get him out of the water," frank gordon hastened to the gravelled square in front of the lodge, and found his brother amongst a group of keepers and "gillies," who, by the arms they bore, gave sufficient evidence of their intended occupation. with the exception of a "forester," hugh ross, who, by virtue of his position and his long gaelic descent, persevered in the traditions of his ancestors, and robed his limbs in a kilt of home-spun tartan, the rest of the sportsmen were clad in knickerbockers, master and man alike. and now they were off, and making down the "brae" with the long dropping action which marks the practical mountaineer, being greeted as they passed the kennels by the most dismal howling from the dogs, who evidently did not comprehend that spears were not guns, and that there were occasions, such as salmon-spearing, on which their services might be dispensed with, and who further interpreted the volley of mingled gaelic and sassenach ejaculations hurled at them as a command to increase their note from _forte_ to _fortissimo_, a proceeding accordingly executed with the most painful exactness which the canine intellect could suggest. a short half-hour's walk, and the hollow moaning of a waterfall told of the journey's end. brushing through a small birch-wood that clothed the high banks of the stream, our party stood on the edge of a sheer rock about thirty feet high, and, looking down on the scene of their intended operations, assigned to each his post and duty. a long, narrow, black pool, shallowing towards the tail into a rushing stream, dashing madly against the boulders scattered at random in its course; the rocks rising steep and bare on either side, but fringed on their summits with the drooping birch-trees and overhanging heather nestling round the delicate little ferns and rock-plants that peeped timidly out here and there; and away at the head of the pool, the finishing charm of the lovely spot, the tumbling waterfall, which ever filled the air with its clamorous voice, and beat the red waters below into a mad whirl of eddies and bubbles and leaping foam. truly as sweet a picture as nature ever limned, which, had it been a few degrees farther south, might have been an unfailing trap for excursionists to expend their savings on a "pack" in a covered carriage, and a cheap ride _uninsured_, or might have had its heath-covered banks dotted with picnic parties, and its waters sweetened with the chicken-bones so deftly thrown by the playful miss holiday; but being, alas, poor monar--only one of many such scenes in the bosom of the highland hills, _all_ inaccessible by steam or jaunting-car--it must e'en remain unknown, save to the privileged few, who now looked at it with the less noble view of how they might draw a fish from its black depths. "ah, wunna ye look at him? hech, doon he comes; ye maun e'en try again, my bonny mon." this address was called forth from honest sandy macgregor, one of the gillies of the party, by the sight of a salmon leaping at the falls, but who, having failed to clear them, hit with a heavy whack against the rock, and, with a vain wriggle and struggle, fell back into the pool beneath. "you may see more of him yet, sandy," said alick gordon, the elder of the brothers, "if meanwhile you will try and get me a little gravel." a few minutes, and sandy returned, bringing his cap full of sand and small stones, which alick, taking, threw in handfuls down the pool, close by the edge of the rock. the result of this mysterious proceeding, being closely watched by the group, was announced by a general murmur of satisfaction as, almost straight beneath them, a string of bubbles rose to the surface of the stream and floated idly away. (for the benefit of those who have never seen this piece of fishing-craft, we may explain that, as a fish is lying at the bottom with his head up-stream, allowing the water to run into his mouth and out through his gills--his mode of breathing--some of the gravel as it sinks down enters his mouth, and as the fish ejects it, he sends up a few bubbles, which mark the spot he is lying in.) "is that your friend, sandy?" cried alick, on seeing the success of his device. "you ought to know him if you saw him again, so come along down here with me." away went the speaker to the farther end of the pool, where, by scrambling and swinging, he managed to let himself down the rock, and plunged knee deep into the rapids. closely followed by sandy, he made his way towards the deep water, keeping close beneath the high bank, where he knew that, at about the depth of his waist, a small ledge ran along the rock which would afford him a footing. quietly and carefully he arrived at the spot where the bubbles had been seen to rise; and telling sandy to hold him round the waist, as he stood beside him on their precarious footing, he took off his cap, and holding it over the water so as to throw a shade in which the smallest objects at the bottom of the stream were visible to his practised eye, he bent down, and began a long and wary search. one unaccustomed to the work might have looked till nightfall without seeing more than the changing lights and shadows playing over the deep-sunk stones; but alick's experience soon showed him a long black object, like a shade, lying close by the rock, and in about nine feet of water. having satisfied himself as to the exact position of his treasure-trove, he shouted a warning to the group above, and told sandy to take a look. "ah, the big blackguard!" whispered the gillie, as he lifted his dripping face after his subaqueous search. "have a care, mister alick, and give him the point well over the shouther." "hold up tight then, sandy, and give a shade with your cap as i tell you. that's right; no, a little further out--now then, steady!" as he spoke, gordon was slowly letting down the spear a little behind the salmon, till, when it was about a foot above the fish, he paused, and braced himself for the stroke, his left hand grasping the spear about halfway down, to guide the aim, and the right hand holding it near the top to give the blow, while his face was nearly buried in the water, as he kept his eye on his prey. "further out yet with the cap, sandy. now, hold on!" down shot the spear: for one instant the shaft shook violently as the struck salmon struggled beneath the weight which was pinning it to the bottom, and the next, with a loud splash and flurry, the strong fish bore to the surface, and shaking himself off the barbs, dragged gordon, still holding on to the spear, headlong into the pool. a loud shout from the watchers on the top of the precipice greeted this "coup," and on the gillie, who had been posted near the bottom of the pool, announcing that "the fish had ne'er come his way," all those who had, up to this time, been mere passive spectators, made the best of their way down the rocks, to take their part in the coming struggle. with a few strokes alick gained the shallows at the tail of the pool, and as the stream divided into two chief courses, himself commanded one with his spear, and deputed the other to hugh ross. meanwhile, frank was directing the gillies, who were "poking" the fall and deep water with the long poles we mentioned, a proceeding intended to drive any fish that might be lying about there down to the lower end of the pool, where they would meet the spearmen, or else to take refuge behind the big rocks and boulders, where they might be discovered afterwards. all was noise and eagerness, save with the two spearmen, who, silent as statues, were keenly watching the few yards of clear water in front of them, ready to spring into life the moment they detected the approach of a fish. and as hugh ross looked, a black shadow of a sudden swept down with the current before him, and as he moved a step to meet it, whisked away, and shot past him with the arrow-like speed which a salmon, better than any fish that swims, can command; but the active highlander was a match for the occasion, and with a dexterity which must be seen to be appreciated, gave a backward spring, and struck sharp down with his spear a good two feet in front of his mark; and as he held the struggling fish down by bearing with his whole weight on his weapon, the shaking shaft told of the good quarry he had secured. with a wild shout of triumph alick rushed to the rescue, and throwing himself down in the water, seized the salmon under the gills, and quickly bore him to land, where marston's injunction was acted upon, and the crimping-knife brought into play. "ye took a good shot, too, mister alick," said hugh ross, looking at the wound behind the head which gordon had given; "but he was a clean-run fish, and as full of life as a stag in august; and i'm thinking he will not have joost right justice at fifteen pounds' weight." "i'd be sorry to carry him at that weight, hugh," answered his master. "but all the merit belongs to you, for little should we ever have seen of him again but for that flying shot of yours. however, there he is, and a beautifully-shaped fish too; so tie him up, and let's carry him off to the house, where you'll get glory enough from both mr marston and the cook. come along frank." so saying, alick marched away, followed by the rest of the party. on arriving at the lodge, they found that marston had not yet returned; so it being still early in the day, they debated as to the best method of employing the time yet left them; and as the bright still weather effectually negatived all propositions of going after grouse or taking a cast with a fly in any of the upper pools, the suggestion of hugh ross who had become unusually keen after his triumph of the morning, to rest till the evening and then make a night of it with the spear at the mouth of the river arkail, was unanimously adopted. there was a good thirteen miles' walk over the hill between the lodge and the intended scene of the night's operation, but our hardy young sportsmen regarded that only so far as to order their dinner at an earlier hour than usual, so as to start in time in the evening, and employed the intervening period in tying up bundles of fir-splinters to make torches, and in providing themselves with dry suits of clothing, after the wetting they had just received. shortly before seven o'clock they were ready to start, and having left a note for marston, who had not yet returned from the hill, they set out, following hugh ross in single file, as he led the way over the darkening moor. all were too well accustomed to the work to come to much grief over the broken ground, beyond an occasional stumble or sudden fall as the foot slipped into an unseen hole in the moss; and before long the autumn moon rose full and bright to light their way, promising an idle time of it to the torches, which some of the gillies bore patiently on. it was not yet eleven o'clock when the sportsmen stood on the banks of the arkail, looking happily across the broad river, which flowed musically over its shallow bed, showing almost clearer in the silver radiance of the moon than in the dazzling splendour which lit it up during the day; but across on the opposite bank the trees which fringed its sides stood out black and heavy as a wall of rock. "what a glorious night!" exclaimed alick, as the scene first burst upon him. "look, frank, away over there where the river runs into the firth; that bit of it you see by the farthest corner gleams like a sheet of pure silver, and the inch-na-coul hills look as if they were touched with hoar-frost. isn't it pretty? and what a night for us! come on, hugh and sandy there, let's be getting to work, but warm the cockles of your heart first with a drop of whisky. here, try my flask, hugh. that's right--the same to you, thanks, and good luck to us both," as the forester drank his young master's health; "and i think i shall stay about here with mr frank, if you will go a little lower down and post the boys, and tell them to keep a sharp look-out, and mind and 'holloa' in time; and i say, donald there, don't you be giving us any stones for fish to-night, you rascal." (this was in reference to a false alarm raised on a previous occasion by the unhappy donald, who had mistaken the ripple caused by a stone lying in the way of the stream for the wake made by a travelling salmon, and had given notice accordingly: and while here, we may explain that the _modus operandi_ in salmon-spearing by night is to post watchers down the bank at regular intervals, who on seeing the wake of a fish going steadily up stream--and remember that salmon only travel or run up a river at night--shout to the spearmen above to give notice, who, being put on the alert, wait till they also see the little wave which marks their prey, and then walk into the river to meet it.) away went hugh and his subordinates, leaving the brothers to choose their own positions; and as alick walked off announcing his intention of crossing the river and taking one of the gillies with him to command the opposite side, frank remained alone gazing at the running stream before him, and taking stock of all the ripples and eddies caused by the larger stones in the bed of the river, so that in the heat of the moment, when instantly expecting the salmon of which notice might have been given, he might not fall into donald's error, and confound the inanimate with the living agent. the witching stillness of the night, broken only by the monotonous gurgling of the running waters and the soft whispering of the trees, before long lulled the young watcher into a state of semi-consciousness, in which he sat with open eyes staring forward into the space before him, with a dim remembrance that he was looking out for salmon, and that the white flood beneath him was a river and the appointed subject of his closest observation; but a whole shoal of salmon might have passed and dubbed him wisest of men for the blissful ignorance he would have manifested of their presence, had not a sudden shout of "mark!" roused him from his somnolence and recalled his wits to full life and activity. with ear and eye painfully alert, he heard the shout taken up by the next gillie, and the sound of his feet over the gravel as he ran along the river's side to keep his prey in view; then the noise of some one cautiously wading out in the water, a sudden rush and splashing, and the next minute a clamour of voices, amongst which he could discern that of hugh ross calling for a light; and as he looked far down the stream he saw a torch coming down the bank and borne into the river, and the flare of the smoking pine-wood showed him a dark group standing in the water, and for one moment he fancied he saw the gleam of a fish being lifted out! and then, as the group retreated to the bank, he again distinguished hugh's voice good-humouredly depreciating his own prowess, by proclaiming the unimportance of his capture, which was "joost a sma' grilse, and no worth the mentionin', an' it were not for makin' up the number." the commotion created by this incident had barely subsided, when again a sharp cry through the stillness of the night announced the approach of another fish, and again frank heard the warning taken up by one watcher after another, when, as he stayed expecting each instant to hear hugh anticipate him in the encounter, his eye caught a moving ripple in the water, a small advancing wave tailing into a broad wake, and with a wild feeling of excitement he dropped into the river and waded carefully in to meet it: he was yet six or seven yards above it, as he stood nervously grasping his spear, and still he stood motionless as a statue, till the wave washed up close beside him, when sharp and sudden he launched out his spear--swish!--and the iron rattled on the pebbles in the river, as the salmon dived down beneath the blow which had grazed its back, and shot away up the stream. "alick, alick, come here, i'm sure i struck it!" shouted the eager boy, as he rushed headlong after his prey, ever and anon tripping over a stone and falling with a loud splash into the shallow water, which for more than a mile from the mouth of the arkail was rarely more than three feet deep; but though he every now and then fancied he saw the salmon's wake still bearing on before him, he ran to little purpose but to cover himself with wounds and bruises from head to foot, and was on the very point of giving up his fruitless chase, from sheer exhaustion, when a cry from his brother, sounding ahead of him, urged him on, and as he turned a corner round which the river swept in a sharp curve, he came upon alick standing near the bank and pinning something down with his spear to the bottom of the water. "go down and get him under the gills, old boy," was his brother's greeting, as frank stumbled breathlessly up; "he's a regular monster, and will take you all you know to carry him in; but i think he's your friend, and he will count as yours, if we find your mark on him." "first spear" always counted in the sunderbunds' (a precedent advanced by the speaker from his reminiscences of pig-sticking in lower bengal). "there it is then, alick," said frank, as he laid the fish down on the river's bank and pointed to a jagged cut a little behind the dorsal fin. "i did not allow enough in front, and should never have seen him again but for you; but isn't he a thick fellow, and i can answer for his weight already. i shouldn't care about carrying him to the lodge, i know; but i suppose we had better take him back to the others, so we may tie him up, if you have a bit of string with you. thanks,--that will do capitally." reader, i hope we have not failed by this time to give you an insight into the mysteries of a sport which, though now defended by stringent penalties, was no unworthy one in its time, requiring, as it did, the utmost dexterity, training, and endurance: three objects which in themselves are sufficient to elevate any pursuit which can promote them, and which many seek to acquire amongst the mountains of switzerland or the hills of scotland. in a lesser way, after the fatigues of the london season, the gentler sex strive to attain the same end by walking, riding, sailing, or otherwise recruiting with fresh country air. carpe diem when one gets ever such a little older, one gets very much more disinclined to take much trouble, much physical trouble that is, about hobbies which once were ridden to death. a few years ago it was a pleasure to get up at two o'clock in the morning, and have six hours' fishing before it became necessary to get to work at blackstone and chitty, and the endless writing of "common forms"; now i prefer keeping within the sheets until breakfast-time, and leaving fishing expeditions for legitimate holidays. so that, as holidays are not very frequent, and often necessarily taken up in other ways, and as fishing stations are distant, and not easily accessible, my hand is in danger of forgetting its cunning in wielding a fishing-rod. i do not so much miss my favourite sport, until, in an unfortunate hour, i get hold of a book of angling reminiscences, of which there are plenty, and reading in its pages vivid descriptions of days by the riverside, such as i used to experience myself, my fancy sets to work, and, aided by memory, conjures up such delightful visions that at last i cannot sit still; the room, ay, and the town, seem to stifle me, and i long for a glorious ramble, rod in hand, as much as i ever did. following close upon the perusal of such a book, and the feelings awakened by it, i was pleased beyond measure to find myself possessed of a few days of leisure, and once more in the bonny border land of wales. i took care to make the most of my time, and seize the opportunity of renewing my acquaintance with some of those charming spots with which, as an angler and a writer, i had in times past identified myself. one day i spent in tracing the wanderings of the burn whence a lusty trout had been transferred to my pannier. another afternoon i set out for a carp pool, not _the_ carp pool _par excellence_ of our boyish days, but one nearly as good, where i had caught some six-pounders years ago. i walked to the place--it was two miles and a half away--burdened with three rods and a huge bagful of worms, intent upon slaughter. i neared the field, i crossed the hedge. i stood still and gazed in astonishment. i rubbed my eyes and looked again. _there was no pool there._ i walked round the field and across the field, which was strewn with clumps of rushes. a peewit had laid four eggs on the very spot, as i calculated, where i had hooked my biggest carp. a small boy hove in sight. i seized him, and asked him where the pool had gone. he answered, "whoy, mun, it ha' been drained dry these three years." i sat upon a gate and smoked four cigarettes, then walked home, my rods feeling twice as heavy as when i came that way. i was to be recompensed, however, for my disappointment by a day at the carp pool on the hill at craigyrhiw, coed-y-gar, or penycoed, for it goes by all three names, the first being the most proper. by accident i met an old friend from a distance, who, when he heard where i was bound to, offered to accompany me. i was glad of his companionship for more than one reason. he had affected to disbelieve my accounts of the big fish to be caught there, and this was an opportunity of vindicating myself from the charge of exaggeration. he got his rods and we started, pausing on the way to get a couple of small melton mowbray pies for lunch. my friend, whom i shall call a., left the commissariat department to me, and i, having just had a good breakfast, did not contemplate the possibility of becoming very hungry during the day, so considered we should have quite sufficient to recruit ourselves with. leaving the town, we passed under the beautiful avenue of limes in the churchyard, musical with rooks and sweet with the spring fragrance, and so on to oswald's well. under a tree at this spot king oswald fell in battle, and out of the ground afterward sprang water, said to be endowed with healing power. the well is neatly arched over with stone, and has an effigy of king oswald at the back; but the latter offered too good a mark for the stones of the grammar-school lads to remain undefaced. oswaldestree is now corrupted into oswestry, or more commonly among the country people, hogestry or osistry. just above the well is the present battle-ground, where affairs of honour among the schoolboys are, or used to be, settled by an appeal to fisticuffs. crossing llanvorda park we enter craigvorda woods, at once the most beautiful and picturesque of the many similar woods on the borders. the ground is mossy underfoot, the trees meet overhead, glossy green ferns pave the noble corridors, which have for pillars straight and sturdy firs and larch, and for a roof the heavy foliage of interwoven sycamore and oak. at intervals the chestnut too lifts its gigantic nosegay of pink and white and yellow flower-spikes, and near it, out of some craggy knoll, the "lady of the forest," the silver birch, bends tenderly over the masses of blue hyacinths below. "the shade is silent and dark and green, and the boughs so thickly are twined across, that little of the blue sky is seen between;" but there is no lack of blue underfoot, for the hyacinths seem to have claimed the wood as their own property, and shine like a shimmering sea of blue between the tree-stems, quite putting out of countenance with their blaze of colour the modest violet, growing by the side of the runnels leaping downward to join the noisy brook. we crossed the morda, a purling trout stream, out of which you may easily basket a score of trout in the spring; up a lane, the banks of which were crowded so thickly with spring flowers, starwort, and other snow-white flowers, deep-blue germander speedwells, red ragged robins, and wild geraniums, monkshood, daisies, dandelions, and buttercups, that the green of the leaves and grasses was quite absorbed and lost in the brighter hues; up and up, until our legs began to ache, and at last we came to the crest of the hill, in the hollow a few feet below which lay the tarn, gloomy enough, but weirdly beautiful. the water itself looked green from the prevailing colour of the rushes and flags, and the deep belt of green alders, which grew half in and half out of it all round. "look," i said, "there are two herons, a couple of wild-ducks, with their young brood just hatched, twenty or thirty coots and waterhens, and some black leaves sticking up out of the water, which are the things we are after." "what do you mean?" asked a. "they are the back fins of carp." a.'s rods--he had two, as i had--were put together with remarkable quickness. i took it more leisurely, and watched him searching about for a place to cast his line in, with some amusement. "i say, how are we to get at the water?" he cried. "wade." but this he was averse to doing. he found a log of wood, and pushing it out beyond the bushes, where it was very shallow, he took his stand upon it in a very wobbley state, with a rod in either hand. i took up a position a short distance from him, and we waited patiently for half an hour without a bite. suddenly i heard a splash, and looking round, saw that a. had slipped off his perch, and was halfway up to his knees in water, with a broken rod and a most rueful expression on his face. "i have lost such a beauty." "serves you right. you can't pitch a big carp out like you could a trout. this is the way--see." i struck at a decided bite, and found that i was fast in a good fish, which, after a lively bit of splashing and dashing about (the water was only knee-deep, though so muddy the fish could not see us), i led into a little haven or pond, where the inmates of a cottage in the wood came to get their water, and lifted him out with my hands--a tidy fish of three pounds in weight. in about a quarter of an hour a.'s float moved slightly. he was all excitement directly. he had never caught anything larger than a half-pound trout. some minutes elapsed before another movement took place. "he has left it," said a. "no, he has not. don't move; you will get him presently." then the float or quill gave a couple of dips; then in a few seconds more moved off with increasing rapidity. "now strike." a. did so, and soon landed a carp of two pounds. from that time we had steady sport throughout the day. every quarter of an hour one of us had a bite; and although we missed a good many through striking too soon, our respective heaps of golden-brown fish (very few of the carp there are at all white) grew rapidly in size. as we were coming back from a small larch-tree where we had found a beautifully constructed golden-crested wren's nest, suspended from the under side of a branch, a. suddenly clasped me round the middle, and gave me a very neat back throw. "hullo! what's that for?" i exclaimed, considerably astonished as i sat on the ground. "your foot was just poised over that beggar," he said, pointing to a big brown adder, which was gliding away like an animated ash-stick. "ah, thanks; there are too many of those fellows here." we had eaten the two pies, and as four o'clock drew near we got mighty hungry again. "just hand me over another pie, old fellow, nature abhors a vacuum," said a. "i haven't got any more," i answered. "not got any more? o dear!" after a pause, "i _am_ hungry." in a little while longer a. started off, saying, "you mind my rod while i am away. i am going foraging for food. i'll try and catch a rabbit, and eat him alive, oh! i've been meditating upon those fish, but i don't like the look of them." he was gone for about half an hour, during which time i had landed three fish. when he came back he had the countenance of a man who had dined well. he said to me, "go as straight as you can through the wood in that direction, and you will come to a cottage where there is plenty of hot tea, a loaf of bread, and some butter awaiting you. i never dined better in all my life, and i forgive you for only bringing two pies." i obeyed his directions, and the tea certainly was refreshing, although i could not get any sugar with it. it was time to be going. we counted our fish. i had eleven (my usual number at that pool, by the way), and a. had ten, most from two to three pounds each, but one or two heavier. we selected the best, and as many as we could conveniently carry, and gave the rest to some cottagers. from the shooting-box, which is at the top of the hill, and is, by the way, in a state of dilapidation, we had a most magnificent view, one well worth the walk to see. it was a view which embraced shropshire, cheshire, montgomeryshire, denbighshire, and merionethshire. in the vividly green valley below us the little village of llansilin slumbered, scarcely noticeable were it not for the dark and massy yew-trees in its churchyard. from the rocks farther on we saw a pretty sight. a fox was standing on a stone, and on a sloping slab beneath her five cubs were sprawling and gambolling about like a lot of newfoundland puppies. presently the vixen trotted off a little way and lay down; and while we were watching her a rabbit popped out of his burrow, and came several yards towards reynard without seeing her. with one bound fox was upon bunny, and the pair rolled over and over down the hill. the captor then slunk off with her captive, not to her young ones, but to a quiet hole in the cliff, to have a gorge all by her greedy self. in a hollow tree in the cliff we found three jackdaws' nests, each with four eggs in; and we were amused at watching a woodpecker tapping away at a tree. the noise produced was like that made by drawing a stick very rapidly over some wooden palings, and quite as loud, or even more like a watchman's rattle worked rather slowly. a curious spectacle was presented in the lane on going home. it was a warm damp night, and every dozen yards or so a glowworm exhibited its eerie light, and each successive one seemed to shine more whitely and brightly than the last. the day was done, its pleasure seized, and--no, not gone, for a pleasant memory remains wherewith to delight myself, and perchance please my friends, among whom i would fain number all angling readers. newmarket by captain r. bird thompson newmarket is termed, and justly so, the metropolis of racing, but a greater contrast than newmarket presents during the race-weeks and the rest of the year can scarcely be imagined. any one who stood on the top of the hill on the cambridge road, and looked down the main street, in one of the off-weeks, would think that he had hardly ever seen such a desolate forsaken-looking sort of place; the only living things to be seen being a few old women standing at the corners of the streets scratching their elbows, and two or three lads lounging about. occasionally a tradesman will come out of his shop, and, after looking disconsolately up and down the street, will go and look into his own shop-window; his idea being, i suppose, either to see if he can dress his window more attractively, or that he would rather stare into his own shop-window than that nobody at all should; and the only way you would discover you were in a great racing district would be that you might see a string of sheeted racers passing through the street on their way from their training-grounds to their stables; or if you listened to the old women's or lads' conversation you would hear nothing but about some of the numerous trainers' "lots." the number of empty houses, too, and the bills of auction sales you see posted up everywhere with "in re" so-and-so in the corner, or "by order of the sheriff," add to the desolateness of the scene. but during the race-weeks all this is altered, and the scene is as exciting and enlivening as it was dull before; the pavements crowded with men, two huge masses on each side, at the rooms and white hart, reminding one strongly of the way bees hang out of their hives previous to swarming. the inhabitants, too, erect stalls down both sides of the street, where all sorts of things are exposed for sale--fruit and vegetables of every kind, and amongst these hampers of a curious vegetable believed by the aborigines to be cucumbers, but to an uninstructed eye looking like a cross between a pumpkin and a hedgehog, so yellow and prickly are they; large baskets of mushrooms, those esculents which once cost the late lord george bentinck so dearly, and which he ever after cursed so heartily. there are stalls also where clothes and boots are sold, besides others where very dubious-looking confectionery is dealt in, and one i saw which had plates of yellow snail-looking things for sale. i do not know whether racegoers are supposed to eat these things, but if they do they must have uncommonly strong stomachs. vehicles of every sort and shape are plying for hire in the street, all of that wonderful kind that seem peculiar to race-meetings, regattas, &c., and which fill a person with wonder to think where they could have been made, and what they were originally intended for. newmarket is, indeed, worth seeing on the morning of one of the big days, like the cambridgeshire, to form any idea of the enormous multitude of people attending. it is well worth while to get into the stand at the end of the rowley mile as soon as you can, and a most wonderful sight it is to see the huge and incessant mass of people pouring down the side of the course from the old stand; one unbroken stream, many yards wide, and apparently never ending, yet perfectly quiet and orderly; no rough horseplay or rowdyism; composed of men who come for racing, and nothing else. an almost equally large string of vehicles pours down the road, the full ones getting along as fast as they can manage, and those that have discharged their loads galloping back in hopes of fresh fares. the natural idea of anyone attending for the first time is that there will be an awful crush; but such is the excellence of newmarket as a racecourse that there is none whatever, and every one, either on foot or in the stand, can see every race from start to finish, with the exception of those run on the cesarewitch course, and then no one can see the horses until they come into the straight, with the exception of a bare sight of the start, and a glimpse of them as they pass the gap, which may be caught by keen-eyed people in the stand. it is really extraordinary to see how the immense crowd that you behold coming seems to dissipate, so that there does not appear to be any very great multitude of people until the races are over, and you turn home; then you see how enormous the numbers have been, there being a complete block of people from the course right through the town, and even up to the station. the stand is, as usual, divided into three portions--one for members of the jockey club, the second tattersall's, and the third for the general public; the two last named are generally full, as all the principal bookmakers assemble here. there is comparative quiet until the numbers for the first race are put up--the only noise to be remarked is the voice of some bookmaker offering to bet on some big race to come; but suddenly a peculiar creaking is heard, and a frame rises above the building next to the trainers' stand, with the numbers of the horses starting, and the names of jockeys. there is then a dead silence for a minute or so, whilst people are marking their cards, and next a perfect storm of "four to one, bar one!" or whatever the odds may be, rises from the ring, deafening and utterly bewildering the novice. this storm lasts, if it is not a heavy betting race, not only until the horses are at the post, but even as they are running, and some insane individuals actually offer to bet as to what horse has won after they have passed the post. but if there has been heavy betting a dead silence is maintained in the ring from the time the horses get to the starter until they have passed the post; this was most remarkably illustrated on the last cambridgeshire day. from the time the horses got to the starting-post until the race was finished, though there was a delay of three-quarters of an hour, owing to some of the horses repeatedly breaking away, not a sound was heard in the ring; the silence was almost oppressive. sometimes when a complete outsider wins, whose name has never been written down by the book-makers, the more excitable of them throw up their hats and cheer loudly; but as a body they are a most impassive set of men, and you could never tell by their faces whether they had lost or won. very curious are they in another way: they never seem to, and i suppose really do not, care a bit about the horses themselves; many of them not even looking at them when they are running, merely glancing at the winning numbers when put up. they do not appear to be guided in their bets by any regard to the condition of the horses, state or length of the course, or their previous performances, but on what they imagine to be the intentions of the stable to which they belong; and sometimes they seem to suppose that certain horses take it in turns to win, and back them accordingly, quite independently of the condition of the horse itself. a remarkable instance of this occurred at one houghton meeting, in the all-aged stakes: only two horses were left in for them, ecossais and trappist, the former with three pounds the best of the weights. it is true they had run in and out in a very curious way, and this time the bookmakers declared "it was trappist's turn," and backed him accordingly, giving odds against the other. when they passed the stand on their way to the starting-post, trappist was going along with his head in the air, fighting with his bit, and with the stiltiest stiffest action possible; ecossais cantering by his side as pleasantly as a lady's hack. but in spite of this, though it must have been evident to anyone that trappist did not intend to try, and was thoroughly sulky, yet the bookmakers gave him all their support because "it was his day." as was to be expected, ecossais came right away from him, winning easily; and great was their wrath. the principal bookmakers have their regular stations in the ring, where they can be readily found by their customers; and as they stand there with a pleasant smile on their faces, the old nursery rhyme, "ducky, ducky, ducky, come and be killed," always comes forcibly into my mind. a very clever-looking set of men they are, and some of them have really intellectual faces. most wonderful calculators they are too; the power they have to tell at a glance how much they have got in their books, and the way in which they can subdivide the odds at a moment's notice, is most extraordinary. a marked contrast to these great bookmakers are the small would-be bookmakers, who rush all about the ring, bothering anyone they see who has been betting or they think likely to bet, offering the most absurd odds as an inducement. the first day of any race-meeting these gentry abound; but by the end of the week most of them have disappeared, having retired, i suspect, into the outer ring, and here rascality does flourish. strangely enough, in passing through it, you seem to be familiar with most of the betting men's faces, but you cannot at first remember where you have seen them previously; when suddenly it flashes across you that you saw most of these faces, or their own brothers', in the dock at the last criminal assizes; or if you have been over portland or dartmoor prisons, or any of those sort of places, that you have seen them there. how so many of them exist seems hard to discover; but i suspect whenever they have drawn their victims sufficiently, as they consider, they bolt before the race comes off. another kind of swindling has arisen lately. you are perhaps standing somewhere in the ring, when you discover a person is talking to you, and saying that "of course you have been backing our stable." you look at him with some surprise, as he is a complete stranger to you; whereupon the man, who is usually tolerably well dressed, and tries to look like a gentleman, apologises for his mistake, "thought you were so-and-so." but, however, he keeps on talking, and you cannot shake him off. at length he declares he knows a _certainty_ for the next race, which you must back, and bothers you so that, to get rid of him for the time, you give him some money to invest, which he does; and the tip turning out correct, as it very often does, you get your money--for the man has no intention of bolting, it would not answer his purpose. but you shortly find out what has occurred, and how you have been done. after the race you compare notes with your friends, feeling rather proud of winning. they ask the price you got, and you say, "o, to ." " to ?" say they; "why, his price was to ." and then the murder comes out; the scamp got to safe enough, so that he comfortably pocketed the three extra points, and in this way, until detected, doubtless makes a very nice thing of it. but he does not often succeed in drawing the same man twice; and if you take his "tip," and then insist on getting the odds yourself, his blank face of disgust is very amusing; but he takes care not to let you do this a second time. at the spring and houghton meetings great amusement is derived from the strong "'varsity" contingent; these youths appearing in great force, got up in the correctest of sporting costumes; some even going so far as breeches and boots, though they do not as a rule trust themselves astride a horse at the races, and certainly they get all the excitement they can require in the short drive from the turn-pike, just off the cambridge road, down to the stand. up to this point, as the road has been wide and the vehicles not numerous, their erratic mode of driving has not been of much importance; but here, when they get into the stream of cabs, &c., going down to the stand, nothing but a 'varsity hack in a 'varsity dog-cart could save them from total and irremediable grief. but it _is_ a sight to see the knowing old hack seize the bit between his teeth, and getting his head well down, so as to neutralise any well-meaning but ill-directed attempt at guidance, tear down full speed, close in rear of some galloping cab, and land his passengers, in spite of their exertions, all safe, but rather scared, at the stand. then the reckless way these youths bet! to hear them talk, you would think they were more up in racing matters than the oldest member of the jockey club, instead of being utterly ignorant of the respective horses, owners, jockeys, or performances; their actual knowledge never extending to more than the horses' names, and very often not so far as that even. the amount of "tips" they have is something wonderful, supplied by their "gyps," i should imagine; and the best thing one can hope for is, that these gentry may be paid by a percentage on their master's winnings, for in this case i think the perennial fountain of tips would soon dry up. it is very curious to look down from the stand on to the outer ring just previously to the starting of the race. you see nothing but a dense mass of closely-packed hats, and little puffs of smoke rising all over the mass, making it look just as if it was smouldering, and might be expected to break out into flames at any moment. one thing that makes newmarket so enjoyable is that there is no need of dressing to within an inch of your life, as you have to do at ascot and goodwood. you see men in comfortable morning and shooting-coats, norfolk shirts, or any other kind of loose and easy attire; any one almost who appeared in a frock-coat and topper would be looked on with the greatest suspicion. however, there are exceptions to this rule. many ladies do not appear here--about a dozen or so in the jockey club stand, and a very few in carriages, are all who attend; but those who are present seem to enjoy the racing thoroughly, as they too are dressed reasonably, and are not in continual misery through fear of a shower, or that the splendour of their costume may be eclipsed by the superior elegance of a rival, as is too often the case on other racecourses. it is, indeed, a curious thing to notice how very few ladies or women at all attend; even the wives and daughters of the neighbouring farmers are not present, though there are a very sporting lot of them in the district. in the morning, before racing commences, you do not see any women at all about in the streets, with the exception of the few who keep the fruit and vegetable stalls in the main street. i have mentioned previously the wonderful edibles offered for sale in the town; but those brought on to the heath are stranger still, the chief of them consisting of acid-drops and butter-scotch. you meet vendors of these everywhere; and, stranger still, actually see grown men buying them. whether they think they will bring them "luck"--and there is scarcely anything a regular "turfite" would not do if he thought it would bring him luck--or whether they imagine the taste of juvenile luxuries will restore the innocence of their youth, i do not know; but that they buy them and actually eat them is an undoubted fact. apples, too, are sold; and once i saw a man selling prawns in the stand itself. now fresh prawns for breakfast are very nice, and so is prawn-curry; but wind- and sun-dried prawns offered for consumption by themselves in the middle of the day are not very inviting, and i did not see anyone buy them. at the railway station also, when you are returning, you find a lot of women hawking ducks and chickens about, but i never saw anybody buy them. indeed, it would be rather puzzling to know what to do with one if you did purchase it. you could not open your trunk and put it in; and if you did, i do not think it would travel well with your shirts, &c.; and to sit with a dead duck in your lap the whole way back to down would be trying. most interesting it is to go in the early morning to the training-grounds, and look at the racers at exercise. here you see them in every stage, from the yearling just being led about quietly with a lunging rein on to the adult racer taking his final spin, previously to competing for some stake, and a finer spectacle than this last cannot be seen: the magnificent animal in perfect condition, his satin coat, showing the play of the muscles underneath, striding along at his top speed, untouched by whip or spur, is a perfect picture of beauty. you see many people out watching the horses, some merely through fondness for horseflesh, but many of the genus "tout." how people can be found weak enough to believe in their "tips" it is hard to conceive; for if a "trial" is properly managed, and the stable secrets well kept, not even the lads themselves know the weights the horses are run at, or even the exact distance, so the "tips" of these gentry must be the veriest guesses possible. they adopt wonderful disguises, under the fallacious idea that they shall not be detected. there is one constantly to be seen got up as a clergyman of the church; and really, if you judged him by a passing glance, you would think he was some indefatigable pastor going to visit some sick member of his flock; but if you looked closely at him, you would see that if he had a flock it would be uncommonly closely shorn. he might more correctly be termed "a baptist," so often has he received the rite by total immersion in a horse-pond, stable-lads being the officiating ministers, and the frogs at the bottom his sponsors. but there is "a thorn in every rose," and there is a very large one at newmarket in the shape of a church, with a squat square tower containing a peal of the most abominable bells in england, i should think; they are all about a semitone out of tune, and the effect is aggravating past description--far worse than the ding-dong-spat of the three bells you so often hear in old-fashioned village churches, where two of the bells have no relation in tone to one another, and the third is cracked. these wretched things jangle and clash for, i should think, half an hour every day about eleven; and i find the idea among the aborigines is that they are playing a tune, but the effect of the performance on a musical ear is excruciating. but, apart from this, few pleasanter places can be found at which to pass some days than newmarket during a fine autumn meeting. one word in conclusion. if anyone intends to bet at newmarket, never take a newmarket "tip" unless it is very strongly corroborated elsewhere; for the true newmarket man firmly believes, in spite of all facts to the contrary, that no horse can win unless it has been trained there, and would rather back the veriest rip in existence hailing from headquarters than the best possible racer trained elsewhere. kate's day with the old horse "yes, kate, we are as nearly as possible 'stone broke,' as your brother would say. the time seems to have come, my girl, when 'honour may be deemed dishonour, loyalty be called a crime,' at any rate in ireland; and as we can't make our tenants pay rent, we must go." the speaker was a massive-looking old gentleman with clean-cut, weather-beaten features, and a heavy white moustache. he had drawn his chair away from the breakfast table, and was still knitting his brows over his morning letters. poor old lowry, like his fathers before him, had lived out of doors amongst his own tenantry all his life, with a joke and a half-crown for anyone who wanted them. almost all the harm he had ever done was to win a heart or two which he did not want, or drink a glass or two more than was good for him. for forty years he had paid rates and taxes, acted conscientiously as a magistrate, and filled several other onerous but unpaid offices for his queen and such as are put in authority under her; he had drunk her health loyally every night since he first learnt to drink strong drink, and would have "knocked sparks out of" anyone who had spoken disrespectfully of her before him; and now the property which his fathers had honestly earned was left at the mercy of a league of avowed rebels, and he himself was branded as an enemy of the people. had he and such as he been left to defend themselves, they would long ago have put an end to these enemies of honest men and of the state, but their hands were tied. they were bidden to wait for help, but no help came. lowry was still too loyal to murmur openly against the government which had ruined him, but he had just realized that their name and their loyalty were almost the only things left to him and kate, his daughter, who sat playing nervously with an empty envelope and gazing out blankly and sadly upon the old park she loved until her deep blue eyes filled unconsciously with tears. but kate was not the girl to indulge in tears when a difficulty had to be met, and in ten minutes she had mastered her emotion and was walking with her father to the stables, gravely discussing affairs with the stalwart old man, more like one man with another than like a young girl with her father. "so the horses are to go up next week, dad, are they? it is a bit of a wrench to say good-bye to you, val," said the girl, as she laid her hand lovingly on the neck of a great up-standing chestnut, "but you are good enough to find yourself a situation, my boy. father, though, what about joe? we could not let him go into a cab, and he is too old for anything better." "true, kate, and i can't bear to shoot the old fellow, and yet what are _we_ to do with a pensioner now?" "shoot him! no, father, we'll keep the bullets for other billets. a loyal servant and friend like joe has as much claim on you as your daughter has; and whilst we have bread and cheese we can find joe in fodder. poor old fellow, i believe he would rather eat his litter with us than old oats in a strange stable." it was a pretty picture, let latter day æsthetes deny it if they will--the tall, strong girl, natural and unaffected, not a bit angelic, but very womanly, caressing the old horse, who lowered his head to meet her caresses, and shoved his honest old nose against her cheek. and kate was right. it _is_ a hard thing that a horse who has risked his neck a thousand times for his master, who has never known fear or spared himself in that master's service, should be thought only fit for a bullet when his limbs and wind begin to fail. we pension the half-hearted human servants, we destroy the whole-hearted beasts who have worn out their youth and strength prematurely in our employ. "how are you going to keep joe, if i let you try, kate?" "well, father, i ought to be able to make a pound a month by needlework, christmas cards, and so forth; there is a bit of land at the cottage, so that turned out on that in summer and not much worked in winter, joe need not cost much to keep, and i'll groom him myself." "and what would the london aunts say to that, kate?" laughed the squire. kate put a hand trustingly on the old man's shoulder as she answered smiling, "the london aunts say a good many things, dad, which i don't agree with, and you only pretend to, you know. aunt dorothy prefers her carpets to sunshine, at least she keeps her rooms dark all day for fear the sun should spoil their colours." "i thought it was her colour which the sun spoilt, kate?" kate laughed, and with a squeeze of her father's arm and a saucy nod, flitted off to see to some member of her animal kingdom. luckily for the irish, they take trouble well, and though skinning is an unpleasant process, they soon get used to it. * * * * * three months after the events recorded in the preceding paragraphs, kate and her father were living at what had been their agent's cottage, a tiny house with stabling for one horse. the lowry's agent was now colonel lowry himself, and his daughter (the best and straightest lady rider in gonaway) had laid aside her habit as a souvenir of happier days. at the hall a rich londoner had replaced the old squire (as his tenant), and a london young lady inflicted agony on the mouths of such horses as she rode, and never disgraced her sex by an after-breakfast visit to the stables. instead of the laughter of that tom-boy kate, highly finished performances on the piano frightened the blackbirds off the lawn, and instead of jokes and half-crowns from a poor but warm-hearted native, the peasantry now received pamphlets on market gardening and threepenny pieces from an alien millionaire. * * * * * "molly says they have just shot 'the laurels' for the seventh time this year, and there's not a hen pheasant left on the estate." "never mind, father, it won't matter to us. mr preece will have some more down from leadenhall market or some such place next year; and, after all, they pay our rent for us, and we couldn't live without them." "pay the rent," grumbled the squire; "i could have done that myself, if i'd sold all the game, and never given a head to man or woman on the place." "then why didn't you, dad?" "why didn't i, girl? well then, it's just because i suppose i've always belonged to 'the stupid party,' thank god for it." poor old lowry was a red-hot tory, without any liberal instincts whatever, a fact which sufficiently accounted for the mess he had made of his life. and yet, somehow, the men who dared still to touch their hats to this reprehensible old robber of the public lands, did so with a smile in their eyes more hearty than the smirk they gave to his successor, mr preece. since the first day we met her, a change has come over kate. the grey-blue eyes are just as beautiful, but there is less sparkle in them; the lips are just as sweet, sweeter it may be, but the dimple has gone. in the last few months she has seen more of the seamy and shabby side of life than she had even guessed at in the twenty sunny years which went before. i don't think the squire has any suspicion of it, and kate has neither mother nor sister to tell it to, but her poor little heart has had its stoutness tried a good deal of late. when kate was queen at the hall, gallant george vernon, somewhile captain of hussars, and at present master of the hounds and kate's very distant cousin, had remembered the tie of kinship to the bright young beauty quite as often as duty required. now his visits were like angel's visits in number and, to the proud kate, far less welcome. george vernon was no snob, but then kate, the hostess at the hall, the reigning queen in the hunting-field, and kate without a horse to her name, in a cottage and out of the world altogether, were very different persons, and george unconsciously showed that he felt the change. though man is fickle, perhaps george would not have allowed his admiration for his cousin to cool so suddenly had there not been attractions elsewhere. miss preece (the daughter of the new tenant at the hall) would have passed as a pretty woman anywhere. if lemon-coloured locks, an abundant fringe, bright colour, and the full, tempting figure of a young juno, make beauty, then polly preece was a belle. if reckless riding and a smart habit make a horsewoman, polly preece was a very amazon. true she had never had a fall; true her horses cost three hundred guineas apiece, and were clever enough to jump through hoops at a circus, even though they had ten stone of fair humanity hung on to their tortured mouths; and true, too, that though polly laughed often (and showed in doing so as dazzling a set of teeth as ever disappointed a dentist), few people owed even a smile to any wit of hers. but the bruisers (as the men of the gonaway hounds were called) voted her a right good sort, if only she would give them a little more time at their fences and not always pick the tenderest part of a man to jump upon. george vernon did the civil at first as master. in a week's time he was her pilot, and in a month half a dozen of the bruisers were sadly afraid that he would ere long be her husband, thereby robbing them of the greatest prize in the local market of matrimony and of the merriest bachelor in the hunt. as for george himself, he thought honestly enough that the preece girl was "very good fun," but if he could have had her dollars without her he would have been a happy man. unfortunately, circumstances, especially the bills connected with the maintenance of a crack pack of fox-hounds, were beginning to impress upon him more and more the necessity for converting miss preece into a connecting link between himself and her papa's money bags. this was, roughly, the state of affairs on monday, november nd, , the first regular meet of the bruisers for the season. it was a time-honoured custom that the first meet should be held at the hall, and though the master of the house who had entertained them so often was there no longer, still the house stood and the custom remained. * * * * * "i suppose you would hardly care to go to the meet to-day, dad?" queried kate at breakfast. "not go to the meet, girl, after keeping the old tryst so many years, why not?" "oh, i don't know, only i thought you might not." "what, because another fellow provides the sherry and is master at the hall? of course i don't like it, but providing he does not give the men hamburg stuff, i'll go and be thankful to him for doing what i can no longer afford to do. put on a leather petticoat, little woman, and we'll run with them since we can't ride." i think the old man struck the match to light his pipe a shade more viciously than was necessary, but he never winced, though he was perhaps remembering another nd of november when the little woman was yet unborn, and he himself on the best horse in the country was as good a man "as ever holloaed to a hound," and in one fair woman's eyes the best. suddenly he put down his pipe and called, "kate." "yes, father." "come down again for a minute." "all right, in half a second;" and almost as soon as she had promised kate was in the room again. "what is your will, sir?" said she with a little mocking courtesy. "why, child, i was thinking that you at any rate might ride to the meet. your habit is packed away somewhere; joe looked yesterday as fit as paint, and, as tim expressed it, 'is brimful of consate.' i declare he has waxed fat and kicks, to the serious detriment of his old tumble-down box." "no, father, if you don't ride, i shan't. if you run, so shall i." "do as you are bid, kate, or rather, since you never do that, ride if it is only half-a-dozen fences, just to please your old father, and to show that young woman at the hall the difference between riding and being carried, between hands and paws." those who loved kate best would always have been the first to admit that she had just "the laste bit of the divvle in her, god bless her," and hence it was perhaps that her father's diplomatic suggestion as to the eclipse of her rival brought the colour to her cheek and the light to her eyes. "do you really want me to, father?" "really, really, kate, and now let us go and have a look at joe." * * * * * i am ashamed to say how old joe was. like ladies, horses don't care to have their ages published on every house-top, and though they cannot lie for themselves on this important point, they have no difficulty in finding many to lie for them. joe was said to have been eight when the lowrys bought him, and they had ridden the gallant brown for seven years. but eight is a queer age in a horse, as expansive and uncertain as the adjective "young" when applied to spinsters. at the lowest computation joe was not less than fifteen, and a "vet." who wanted to buy him once pledged his professional credit that he was twenty-six at least. be this as it may, when an hour later he walked out of his loose box, he looked the very type and _beau idéal_ of a twelve-stone hunter. from the carriage of his lean game head and trimly-docked tail, from the cheery snort with which he welcomed the fresh air, from the muscle on his square and massive quarters, from his hard, clean legs and full, bold eye, you might have fancied he was a six-year-old. a veteran strapper who had followed the squire from the hall to the cottage, had spent an hour in dressing the old horse, and the squire's own hands had put the finishing touches to his toilette. proud and gay the old rascal looked before his mistress mounted, but when she was in the saddle he gave one wild kick from mere exuberance of spirits and then trotted out of the yard, as old tim expressed it, "for all the world as if he was tridding on eggs." * * * * * "ye gods! she is a dazzler! quite takes my breath away," said a shiny-hatted, faultlessly-breeched stranger from dublin to a young local nimrod; "why, there are not half-a-dozen girls, even with the meath, who have ventured out yet in busvine's scarlet array, and here is a young lady in the wilds of gonaway with a seat like a sack of potatoes and raiment more magnificent than solomon in all his glory." "fits her well for all that, and suits her style, milk and roses and that sort of thing, you know," replied the local, himself rather a captive to the fair equestrienne. "milk and roses! milk and fiddlestick! lemon and white i should describe her if she was in the setter class; but tell me, who is she, and has she any money?" needless, perhaps, to explain that poor polly preece was the subject of this irreverent banter, which in a measure perhaps she had deserved, for though a pretty woman in "the lady's pink" is a fair picture in a showy frame, she must not be hurt if she is a little stared at on her first appearance. and, indeed, polly was not hurt. on the contrary she was flattered and in high spirits. her new jacket fitted her to perfection; her horse was well-mannered and easy to ride; she had drawn the attention of every one to her sweet self, and she felt for the moment that "blues" or fear had for her neither existence nor meaning. a large group of late comers was still standing in the doorway and on the broad steps of the hall, chaffing each other or pledging their host in a last stirrup cup. "what is that madcap daughter of mine about now?" exclaimed old preece, as polly broke from the throng and sent her horse along over the turf at a rattling gallop, followed by two or three of her admirers. from the steps to the line of elms no fence was visible to the spectators, and yet before reaching the avenue, three of the horses rose at something, and the fourth and his rider seemed to be swallowed up. "good heavens! young voyle is down in the park fence," cried preece; and sure enough the exquisite from dublin shortly after emerged from the abyss, his hat crushed, his breeches smirched, and his temper somewhat soured by the loss of a good horse. "really, mr preece, you must curb that young lady's pluck; she will break her neck some day if you don't take care," suggested an elderly friend. "break her neck," growled old preece; "it isn't pluck, it is folly; wait until she has had a fall; you'll see she will learn better." kate had been sitting a quiet spectator of this little episode, though the old horse had backed and fidgetted with impatient desire to join in the fun. as polly rode back from the fence she caught sight of kate, and with that sweetness which women show to rivals they detest, wreathed her face in smiles and laid a caressing hand on joe's mane. "oh, kate, how glad i am to see you out! i wish, dear, you had let me know that you meant to come. you might have ridden dennis or my bay. i am afraid your dear old horse is almost past work now!" "doesn't look like it, does he, miss preece?" retorted kate, as joe champed his bit and pawed the velvet turf. polly hated to be called miss preece by kate, and would fain have passed for her bosom friend; but kate unfortunately chose her own friends for herself, and polly was not of them. "cousin kate is a rare believer in the old horse," remarked george vernon as he joined the two girls. "yes," assented polly, "your cousin is a very antiquary; she likes everything that is old, and only what is old. she has even spoken slightingly of this miracle of mr busvine's. from politics to petticoats, miss lowry is a tory, like her father!" "i admit all you say, miss preece, and glory in it. i do prefer old habits, sartorial and otherwise, to any others." there was a deepening in the blue of kate's eyes as this word-play went on, which looked as if she was more than half in earnest. "well, i don't agree with you, and for the sake of example i will back my young chestnut against your veteran in the field to-day," quoth polly. "oh, come, miss preece, that's hardly fair," broke in george; six against twenty-six, isn't it, kate?" "it may be, cousin george, but the old horse can quite take care of himself, thank you. yes, i'll match my old one against your chestnut, owners up; who is to be judge?" "would you mind, captain vernon?" pleaded polly. "no, certainly. what are the stakes?" "oh, say a pair of gloves; i am too much of a pauper to make the bet in dozens," replied kate, and so the bet was made. * * * * * the morning was a bright one, with a touch of hoar frost on the grass, which none but the early risers saw. at . the rime had all gone, and the air was as "balmy as may," the sun shone brightly, and men's spirits were as brilliant as the weather. but the first draw was a long one, and a blank. the second was like it, and again no noisy note replied to what captain pennell elmhirst calls "the huntsman's tuneful pleading." faces began to lengthen. a blank at tod hall had never been heard of in the memory of man. the gentlemen in velveteen who had taken a somewhat prominent part in the morning's proceedings had disappeared by noon, and men spoke disparagingly of the race which some sportsmen aver is a compound of policeman and poacher. it was easy by two o'clock to tell the men who rode horses from those who only "talked horse." the "customers" were all looking grim and silent; the men of the road were brightly conversational, and sat in groups discussing their cigars and whisky flasks at every point from which they could not possibly see, should the hounds slip quietly and suddenly away. the little group near the corner of the covert had grown weary of waiting. the glow which follows a sharp trot to covert on your favourite hack, and the consumption of "just one glass" of orange brandy, had worn off, and the damp chill of a november afternoon had begun to pierce through the stoutest of pinks and to chill the gayest of hearts. the horses had fretted themselves into a white lather with impatience, or stood with drooping heads and staring coats, mute witnesses to the chill which had come with afternoon and hope deferred. everything suggested that fox-hunting was an overrated amusement. little by little the hounds had drawn away from the hall and its overstocked coverts, until now, at p.m., they were thrown into a small outlying wood, where pheasants were never reared and rarely shot. at last there was a doubtful whimper; then a hard-looking man in mufti (a local horse dealer) stood up in his stirrups and held his hat high above his head. a dozen keen pair of eyes saw the signal, and though no foolish halloa imperilled their chance of a run, the light and colour came back into the men's faces, and they forgot in a moment the miseries of the morning as they marked the lithe red form of reynard steal out of covert, and with a whisk of his grey-tagged brush, make off leisurely, with his head set straight for the stiffest line in the county. by this time the first doubtful whimper had been caught up and repeated in fuller and more certain tones, and there was little need of the horn to call loiterers from covert. one after another the beauties tumbled out in hot haste, hackles up. for one moment each seemed to dwell as he cleared the brakes, and then with a rush they gathered to where old monitor had the line under the lee of a grey stone wall, along which the whole pack glanced, swift and close packed as wild fowl on the wing, while the keen november air thrilled with the maddest, merriest music that ever made a sportsman's blood tingle in his veins. the wild freshness of the morning, with its bright sunshine, had given place to frost, and men settled grimly down to their work with the conviction that with such a burning scent and an afternoon fox few would live with hounds to the finish. the field was never a large one from the start. none but those who got away at once had a chance of seeing the run, for the first mile was ridden at racing pace over a lovely grass country, with nothing to stop hounds or men save low stone walls, over which they slipped without a rattle like the phantoms of a dream. amongst those still with hounds at the end of the first mile were the two ladies and the master. polly's red jacket had followed george vernon as the needle follows the magnet--a little too closely, perhaps, for the comfort of the magnet. kate had been in trouble on the right, her old horse, fresh and mad with excitement and out of temper with the long restraint of the morning, had got his ears laid flat back and the bit in his teeth. for the moment the temperate habits of past years were forgotten, and poor kate, with arms aching and powerless, felt herself flashing over stout stone walls at a pace which would have been dangerous over sheep hurdles. polly's chestnut, on the contrary, was behaving in a manner which would have done credit to the best horse in galway or with the heythrop, steadying himself at every wall and popping over with the least possible exertion to himself or risk to his rider. and now five of the "pursuers" were in one field, grass beneath their feet and a fair stone wall without a gap in it in front. all except polly probably noticed the rushes which grew in tiny bunches beneath the wall, and guessed from them and from the sudden dip of the land that the take-off would be a boggy one. in vain kate tried to get a pull at her horse. on the left vernon and polly had got over with a scramble. one man was down, and a second felt that the roan was worth another fifty at least for the way he kicked himself clear of the dirt. with a rush which would have landed him well on the other side of twenty feet of water, the brown went at the highest place he could find in the wall. kate knew what must come, but hardened her heart and faced it. as the old horse tried to rise, he stuck in the heavy bog. there was a crash; for a moment everything spun round, and kate was down with a stunning fall. had anyone seen her, of course even the run of the season would have been given up to render her assistance, but her only companions in this particular field had the lead of her, and the side walls hid her from other people's view, besides which kate lowry was one who had long since established her right to look after herself in the hunting-field. for a minute or two the slim girl's figure lay prone and motionless on the damp turf, while her horse stood by, hanging his wise old head regretfully over the ruin he had made. then the girl raised herself on her elbow, pushed the fair hair out of her eyes, and sitting up, looked into the old horse's wistful face with a half smile. "you old fool, joe!" she said; "you ought to have known better at your time of life." rising to her feet, she leaned her head for a moment on her saddle, pressing her hand to her side as if in pain, and then backing her horse so that he stood close alongside the wall, she climbed slowly and with difficulty back into the saddle. "i wonder how long we lay under that wall, joe?" soliloquized kate, as she walked him through a gap in the next wall; "and i wonder, too, where the hounds are, and if i must give it up and let that preece girl beat me?" listening intently, she sat for a moment by the roadside, the old horse's ears pricked keenly forward. at last she thought she heard hounds running, it seemed, to her right. without a moment's hesitation she turned joe round, and, sobered by his fall, that mud-besmeared veteran popped over the wall as cleverly as a cat, only to be reined up short as he lit, for there, streaming over another wall, were the whole pack, going as keenly and as fiercely now as in the first three fields. with them were only two horsemen, the master and the man in mufti. as the three joined forces, george noticed for the first time his cousin's white face and muddy garments. "why, kate, where have you been? not hurt, i hope?" and though the words were curt and simple, the expression in his face was less careless than it might have been. "no, thanks; more mud than bruises, i think. where is miss preece?" "rolled off in the only piece of plough in the county, and seems to have taken root there," laughed the ungallant m.f.h. "no damage done, i hope?" said kate. "hurt? no. her clever chestnut put his feet into a furrow and stumbled, _la belle_ polly rolled off, and though we put her up again, she seemed to have had enough, especially as she believed that you had given up the chase some time since." "oh, indeed," laughed kate, a little grimly. "you see hers was her _first_ fall; it makes a difference." and now the conversation dropped. each of those three riders had his or her hands full for the time. the fox in front of them was, indeed, a straight-necked one. save for the one turn which had given kate a second chance, he had gone straight as the crow flies since the find. save for a check of a short five minutes, the hounds had run almost as if they were coursing him, and it was already a full half-hour since the find, and the spire of kempford church was now visible on the right. at the back of kempford village was a well-known drain, in which more than one stout fox had found safety. for this reynard seemed to be making, and to judge of the frequency with which each of the three horses rattled their walls as they skimmed over them, his pursuers were hardly likely to get there even if he was. but between the kempford drain and him there ran the deep and broad stream of the cheln, unfordable, and rarely, if ever, crossed (save by a bridge) in the annals of fox-hunting. as the three neared the river, they were (thanks to a lucky turn) in the same field with the hounds. "by jove, there he is," cried the "dealer," breaking silence for the first time, and there, sure enough, dragging his gallant but draggled person up the bank opposite was poor "pug," in full view of the pack. no otter hounds ever took water more savagely than did old monitor and his comrades, almost whining with impatience to close with their gallant foe. "kate, for god's sake, don't try it," cried vernon. it was too late; the old horse had already been driven in, and the first woman who ever swam a horse across the cheln was already battling with the stream, her lips hard set, her grey-blue eyes full of fire, and her whole face recalling vividly for the moment, in spite of its natural softness, the stern outlines of those ancestors whose war-worn profiles adorned the long galleries of the hall. it was a difficult swim, but old joe's limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, and it was not till long after the dripping habit had been dried that it occurred to kate that, like lord cardigan, she had forgotten that she could not swim. the m.f.h. and his cousin were now the only two left with the hounds, and in front of them rose, perhaps, the worst fence in the gonaway country, a stiff stone wall, the stones all firmly morticed, and on the top a row of rough-edged slabs set on end like the teeth of a saw. under the take-off side ran a deep, little stream, nowhere less than six feet wide, and even at that the banks were undermined and unsafe. the cousins were alongside in the field which this mantrap bounded. every atom of colour had left her cheeks now, and her lips were white with pain. had george's whole heart and mind not been in the chase, he must have seen, and insisted on her returning home. as it was, he only said, "they've killed him, kate; i must have it and save a bit of the best fox i ever hunted." and if hounds' tongues could be believed, they had indeed at last pulled the gallant old fox down, though the rugged piece of masonry before alluded to hid the pack from view. "is there no other way, george?" "no, don't you follow me; go back by the lane and i'll bring you the brush if i can save it." so saying, the master turned his horse and set himself at the place where the wall looked lowest. kate had been bred in a hunting country, but truth to tell, her heart hung on that leap. "one thrust to his hat and two to the sides of his brown," and then he shot to the front, seat steady and hands well down. right bravely the horse rose at the leap, but the bank broke as he rose, his knees caught the coping stone with a jarring thud, and man and horse lay stunned on the other side. to the wild cry of "george, george!" no answer came back, and then it was for the first time that poor kate knew how irretrievably her heart had been lost to her dashing cousin. to gallop to the gate was useless, though she essayed it. the gate was six barred and locked, moreover, the wall and its guarding stream still ran on beyond the gate. kate had lost her head and her heart, but not her pluck. "just one more try, joe," she whispered, and with a rush that seemed born of the last energies of a gallant heart the brave old horse faced and cleared the coping stone. many fresh horses might have cleared that wall; but they talk of that leap still in gonaway. nearly five feet of hard stone and a biggish brook in front was no small feat, they say, for a tired horse, even with bonny kate lowry on his back. under the wall lay the grey, stone dead, and under him george vernon, his white face looking up at the sky now darkly bright with the frost of a november evening. how kate got her cousin from under his horse and watched the colour creep back to his bronzed cheek, no one knows, for she kept these things in her own sweet heart, but it was late in the evening that a party sent out to search met an old woman leading along a donkey cart, on which lay poor vernon, his leg and collar bone broken, while beside him sat a lady, her face white with pain, which her colour alone betrayed, and after them came a yokel leading old joe, and followed by the best pack in ireland. the day had one more event in store for the villagers of kempford. arrived at the inn, kate lowry did what no lowry had ever been known to do before--she fainted. on recovering, she shame-facedly exclaimed, "i think i must have broken something when i fell at the beginning of the run, and it has hurt me rather ever since." she had broken something. no more nor less than three ribs; but if she had refused a humble prayer made to her three weeks later she would have broken something more important--"the heart" of the m.f.h. for gonaway, who to this day may be heard to declare "that there is no pluck like a woman's, and i ought to know, for i married the pluckiest girl in old ireland." some curious horses by captain r. bird thompson i fancy that i must have possessed as curious a lot of horses as has fallen to the lot of most men--occasioned partly by the fact that friends who, whenever they had a particularly queer-tempered or vicious brute, were in the habit of either presenting it to me as a gift, or offering it for a mere song; partly through my having bought several with peculiar reputations; and, lastly, i think that it must have been predestined that i was to be the owner of these sort of animals. my first pony, which my father bought for me when i was six years old, was purchased from a gentleman who parted with it because it always ran away with his children and kicked them off. the pony, however, never did this with me, although playing the same trick with almost everyone else. one thing, i petted it very much, and it really was fond of me. it was a wonderful pony. what its age was i do not know, but it was in my possession for twenty-two years, and was said to be an old one when my father bought it. its death at last was brought on by eating a quantity of half-ripe apples. having been turned out into an orchard, a sudden gale in the night knocked down a great many of them, and the old fellow ate such a lot that they brought on an attack in his stomach, which killed him in a few hours. i had one very queer-tempered horse given to me. a friend, a great hunting man, wrote and asked me to come up and lunch with him and talk over some intended "meets." i accepted the invitation, and went up to his house. after lunch he proposed a stroll over his stables. as we were going over them we came to a horse in a stall quite away from the rest of the stud. my friend asked me if i did not know it. i, however, did not recognise the horse, as it had a longish coat on, and he then told me that it was one that a mr goldsmidt had given guineas for about a year previously, and, finding it too much for him, had presented it to my friend. "now," said he, "i will give it to you, and if you will not have the animal i shall send it to the kennel to-morrow." i, as may be imagined, was greatly surprised, as the horse was considered to be one of the best hunters in england. its legs seemed quite fresh and generally all right, so far as i could see. thinking that i could send it to the kennel as well as he could, if it turned out useless, i accepted the gift with thanks. just as we were leaving the stables, my friend dropped back, and i overheard him say to a groom, "take that horse down to captain t----'s stables _at once_." well, thought i, there is some screw loose--and a pretty big one i fancy. on reaching home, late in the afternoon, my groom met me and said, "the new horse has come, sir; but he seems a pretty queer one." i went round to the stables at once, and there i found the horse looking very wild, his eyes almost standing out of his head, and he himself as far back out of his stall as his halter-rein would allow, though not hanging on it. i went up and began to talk to him, and at length he seemed quieter, and his eye did not look so wild; at last he let me hold his head-stall. i then patted and coaxed him as much as possible, and gradually got him up into his stall. just as i had succeeded in this, the groom came with the evening feed. directly the horse saw him, he began to make a roaring noise, more like a bull than anything else. fortunately i had hold of his head-stall, or i think he would have damaged the man. on loosening his head, thinking he would feed quietly, he snapped at the corn just as a terrier does at a rat, catching up a mouthful and then dropping it. i at last managed to slide slowly out of his stall, and left him for the night. the next day i sent for some men to clip him. they did their work very well, but i subsequently heard that they declared they would never touch him again; they would as soon clip a bengal tiger. soon after this i had him out for a ride and discovered another of his amiable peculiarities. whenever he met or passed a conveyance of any sort, he kicked out at it most furiously; i suppose that some time or other he had been struck when passing something. it was a most dangerous trick, and took a very long time and great patience to overcome. however, at last i cured him. another peculiarity that he had was his great objection to my mounting him when in uniform. he did not mind it in the least when i was once in the saddle, and took not the slightest notice of my sword rattling against his ribs; but he could not bear the act of mounting. i used to have him blindfolded at first, but afterwards, by always petting him, giving him sugar, &c., he lost his dislike to being mounted. one morning, sometime after i had had him, my groom sent in word that the new horse had kicked his stall all to pieces, and, on going into the stable, i found he had done it and no mistake. there was scarcely a piece of the strong oak partitions bigger than one's hand; they were literally smashed. what made him do it i cannot imagine; he never tried it again. strangely enough, after all this violent kicking, the only place where he had marked himself was a little bit not bigger than a florin on his near fetlock, where he had knocked off the hair. one trick he had of which i never cured him. this was when out hunting. when taking the first fence, on landing he invariably kicked up as high as he could. often and often when he seemed particularly quiet i thought, "well, old fellow, you surely won't kick to-day": but, as certainly as the fence came, so surely did he kick--but never except at the first fence. as a hunter he was perfection, and never, with one exception, refused a fence with me. on that occasion i felt that i was not certain about taking it. i was late at the meet, and the hounds had slipped off down-wind, so my only chance of getting the run was by a lucky nick in. i was riding to a point that i thought they would make to, and had just jumped over into a lane and was riding at the fence on the opposite side, when i caught sight of a man in pink riding down the lane. i turned my head quickly to look at him, and the horse feeling the slight motion i suppose, and thinking that i was going to join the man swerved round, but, on my turning his head to the fence again, he took it at once. this was the only time he ever swerved at or refused a fence. i lost him in a very curious way. i was out hunting one day when the going was very deep and bad, and we were galloping through a piece of plough. at the top of the field was a cut quickset hedge and a gate. i rode at the latter, thinking that the ground would be sounder there, and the jump would not take so much out of my horse. when i got to the gate, he rose at it, and then made a tremendous effort to draw his hind-legs out of the deep mud. not meeting the resistance he expected, his hind-legs flew up so that he landed on the other side almost in a perpendicular position, his tail brushing my hat, and for a moment i really thought he would fall over on me. however he came down apparently all right and cantered a few yards into the next field, when he made a most extraordinary flounder and stopped. i jumped off at once, and found him sitting up, just as you often see a dog, with his fore-legs straight out and his hind ones at right angles to his body. in a minute or so he rolled over on his side. i tried to get him up, but he did not move. a veterinary surgeon who was out, seeing that something was wrong, came up, and, on examining him, declared that his back was broken. and so it proved to be: the violent jerk of his hind-legs had done it. of course i had to have him shot at once. i was very sorry to lose him, as he was such a perfect hunter. another of my horses i bought from the farmer who bred him; he was a black, nearly thoroughbred, and a very fine-looking animal. i had often seen his owner riding him to market and other places, nearly always at a hand-gallop, and the horse never appeared heated or even blown. i had also seen him in the hunting field. after purchasing him, i tried him over some fences that had been made for the purpose in one of my fields, and he jumped fairly for a young one, so i took him out with the hounds when they met in an easy country. the first thing i put him at was a small gate; but this he would not have, so i set him at a low, dry stone wall, which he cleared well. so he did also the next two or three fences; but on coming to another he did not make the slightest effort to jump--simply ran at it, and blundered through it somehow. the next fence, in spite of my shaking him up and letting him have the spurs pretty smartly, he did in the same way, then cleared one fairly; but on my putting him at a bar-way he never rose at all, but went full tilt at it and smashed it to bits. i was a good deal disgusted at these performances, but tried him another day, a friend saying i did not rouse him sufficiently. anyhow, this next time i did so, but it had no effect. he scrambled his fences in just the same way, never, however, coming down. after this i lent him to my friend (who thought i did not ride him with sufficient resolution) for a day's hunting by way of a trial; and the horse signalised himself so that i determined to part with him. he had gone on in his usual way until we came to a brook about twelve feet wide, but deep. i jumped it all right, and looked back to see how my friend fared. the brute of a horse did not attempt to clear it, but actually galloped into it, turning a complete somersault, so that he actually scrambled out on the same bank he came from. fortunately my friend got his feet out of the stirrups, feeling that the animal would not clear it, and was flung on the opposite bank, merely getting his legs wet. after this i sent the brute to tattersall's, and got a very good price for him on account of his make and shape; in fact, you could not see a finer-looking hunter nor ride a greater impostor. another curious animal i had i bought quite accidentally. it was at newmarket during a july meeting, and one morning i strolled up to the paddocks where the sales were going on, expecting to see there a friend i wished to meet. on walking up to the ring, a very fine horse was being led slowly round; it was evidently quite quiet, went round the ring like any old sheep; but scarcely any bids and those very low ones, were being made for it. catching the auctioneer's eye, i gave a bid, and, not seeing my friend, walked off. just as i had got to the gate one of the auctioneer's clerks ran after me and asked where they should take my horse to. i denied having bought one; but the man persisted, so i went back and found the horse had actually been knocked down to me, the auctioneer telling me it was really cheap for dogs'-meat at the price i had given. the horse was sent down to my trainer's, and, meeting him later on in the day on the course, he said, "well, sir, so you bought vulcan?" i told him how it occurred, at which he was much amused, and, on my asking him some questions, told me he was a splendid horse--wonderfully bred and looking all over like galloping, but that he never would try. he had no pride, he said, and would lob along in the ruck as happily as possible. he had been in lots of stakes, but no one could do anything with him; he would make a waiting race with a mule they said. it was a most curious case. the horse seemed to have every requisite of make, shape, and action, and yet could not be induced to try to race. it appeared to make no difference whether the rest of the things were in front of him or if they came up and passed him; he kept on about the same pace, and would not try to race. if punishment was attempted, the horse showed such evident symptoms of temper that it was not safe to continue it. at last he was used by the trainer as a hack, and, in his absence, taken out by the head lad, when out to superintend the gallops. i had almost forgotten his existence, when one day i received a letter from my trainer asking me to come down to newmarket the next day by a mid-day train, when i should find a hack waiting for me at the station, and that he would be at the new stand, on the race-course side, to meet me, as he wished me to see a trial. i of course went down and met my trainer at the stand. after a little conversation, we cantered off to the place where the trial was to come off, and stationed ourselves at the spot fixed for the winning-post. he then gave a signal, and shortly i saw four horses galloping towards us and keeping pretty fairly together until perhaps about two lengths off, when one of them came away from the others, leaving them almost as if they were standing still. "well," i said, "of course i don't know what the weights are, but that is as hollow a thing as i ever saw. what horse is that?" i asked. to my intense surprise, he said, "vulcan." "how in the world did you get him to gallop?" said i. "that's rather a curious story," replied the man. "we found it out quite by accident. i was away last week for a day or two looking at some very promising yearlings in dorsetshire, and jackson (the head lad) took out the string, riding vulcan as hack. they were exercising on the bury side, and a boy who was going rook-tending passed by. boy-like, when he saw the horses cantering, he blew his horn--to try to give them a start, i suppose. none of them minded it except vulcan, and he clapped his legs under him and bolted off with jackson as hard as he could go. when i came back next day he told me about it, but did not seem to think anything of it. however, it struck me differently, so i went and found the boy and told him to come to me the next day with his horn--which he did. i took the string out, and told the boy to blow as we passed him. he did so, and vulcan again bolted clear away, past all the other horses. so i felt sure i had found out how to make him go, and to-day if you noticed (which i had not) a boy blew a horn as they passed him and the horse again came away, though the others did their best, and he was giving them from lb. to lb." "you certainly have found out how to make him gallop," i said; "but i don't see how you are always to have a trumpeter about after him." "i think it can be managed," he replied. "i want you to enter him for the handicap steeple stakes at the next meeting. he will only have a feather to carry, and at the time of the race, if you could be with the boy about the t.y.c. winning-post, and, as the horses come by, tell him to blow, it won't be noticed in the least." the horse was duly entered and i performed my part, and he won with consummate ease. the scene afterwards in the birdcage when i went in to see him weighed was most amusing. everybody was rushing up to me to find out how he had been treated; the most wonderful stories were set about as to the quantity of whisky and port wine that had been administered to the horse, but the facts were as i have stated. he won in the same way and with the same ease in july behind the ditch. after this we tried him without the horn, and he went fairly, so i put him into a selling race, which he won, and i sold him for a very fair price. i did not hear much of him afterwards, but believe he got back to his old tricks. another horse that i bought i knew to be a reprobate when i purchased him. he was a very fine racehorse, and had run well in the derby--fourth or fifth, i think--and afterwards won several very valuable stakes; but in some of his last races he was severely punished, and this quite upset his temper. he became savage; then he was operated on and turned sulky, and at last developed a curious trick (no one seemed to know exactly how he managed it) of getting rid of his jockeys, nearly causing the death of his rider on two or three occasions. he was sent to tattersall's to be sold, with various other "weed-outs" from his owner's stable. i bought him thinking that he might make a steeplechaser, as rogues on the flat often develop into good "'chasers." being anxious to find out how he got rid of his riders, a day or so after i had him i ordered him to be saddled, and, mounting him myself, i took him into a thirty-acre field of light plough, thinking, if i got a fall, it would not hurt there. i wanted to find out what he could do, telling my groom to watch carefully and see what his manoeuvre was. well, i just walked him round the field several times, and he went as quietly as possible; then i trotted him, and still everything was pleasant, and i began to think that the change of scene and course had produced its effect. next i put him into a canter. at this pace he did not go quite so well, and evidently was looking out for something; but at last he appeared to have settled fairly into his canter. then, catching hold of his head, i just touched with the spur to make him gallop, when, without a moment's notice, i was sent out of the saddle like a stone from a catapult. when i got up, the brute was trotting away in the opposite direction to that in which i had been riding. i very soon caught him, and going down to my groom, asked him what on earth the horse had done. i need hardly say the man had not seen him. of course, he said he fancied he heard someone calling just then and looked round; the fact being that, seeing the horse go quietly at first, he thought it was all right, and never took the trouble to watch. as i was determined to find out the trick, i made my groom mount him. the man rather funked it, and said he had no spurs on; so i gave him mine, and he mounted and went off. however, his reign was not long. starting in a canter, he tried to gallop the horse, and touched him with the spurs, whereupon the brute shot out a fore-leg and spun round on it just as if he had been a teetotum. of course, the man flew off, just as i had done. however i saw clearly that he would not bear the spur, and this seemed to be the secret. i mounted him again, without spurs, and rode him round and round for a considerable time, and got him to gallop by degrees, but in a very sulky way. if i attempted to rise in my stirrups, or even move my heel towards his side, i felt he was preparing for his dodge; however, i did not give him a second chance. after this i rode him regularly every day for an hour or more in the plough, and, finding he was not touched with the spur the horse went fairly freely. next i took him out with my groom, riding a steady old hunter, and tried him over some small plain fences on a ground i had for schooling horses. he took to the work at once, and became very clever, and, as it was quite clear that his temper would hinder him from being a 'chaser, i rode him with the hounds, and a finer hunter never existed; but i never rode him with spurs, and always had to remember not to touch him with my heels. if i moved them towards him i felt him begin to screw up; but he never required pressing--he was so very free and fast. he never, however, forgot his old tricks, and a very favourite amusement of the youngsters in the district was when they met anyone who was bumptious about his riding to offer to bet him that he would not gallop a certain horse round a paddock three times. then they got me to lend them my old friend. it is quite needless to say that no one ever did succeed in sitting him three times round, as they were sure to rise in their stirrups and touch him with the spur, with the invariable consequences. i sold him at last to a man who had often seen me ride him, and who envied him for his great speed, having warned him that he would not bear spurs. however, he would have the horse, and took him into leicestershire, where he went very well i believe. the best horse i ever had must have been predestined to become my property, so singularly did i meet it and ultimately purchase it. i went one day to st pancras terminus to meet a friend who was coming up by one of the midland trains. getting there before the train had arrived, i was wandering about the station, to pass away the time, when i saw a string of horses being unloaded, and amongst them there was one that had been unboxed and was standing as quietly as possible by itself not the least startled by all the noise and clatter. i glanced at it, and thought it a fine-looking animal; but just then, my friend's train coming in, i joined him, and we went off together. in the afternoon i was going down by a train from london bridge, and when i walked out on to the platform, curiously enough there was the same string of horses being boxed to go down to a large firm of dealers in the south; there too was the same horse that i had seen at st pancras, standing as quietly as possible waiting her turn to be boxed. i went up to look at her, and admired her very much. she was a dark-brown, and seemed to have very good legs and feet, though i could not see much of her, as she was all clothed up and legs bandaged; but i had not much time to look over her, as my train was ready, so i got in, and, for the moment, never thought anything more about her. some short time after this i had a letter from a large firm of horse-dealers, telling me that their "show day" was to come off next week, and asking me to come and look through their stables. i did not want another horse, but thought i should like to go, and, on the fixed day, went. on getting to their place, after a very good lunch, they asked me to come out and go over the stud. when they opened the door of the first stable, strangely enough there stood, just opposite the door, the identical brown mare i had so admired on her journey through town. the dealer, seeing i was struck with her, insisted on her being stripped and brought out, in spite of my telling them that i did not want a horse, and that it was no use taking the trouble to bring her out. however, out she came, and i certainly admired her very much. to my surprise, she stood h. in., though until you went close to her you would not have thought her more than hands; had four splendid flat black legs, well ribbed up, with a very nice head and well-laid shoulders and neck; her paces and action were excellent, and the dealers said if i could find a fault in her they would give her to me. i told them i did not want her, but as they were taking her in, thought i would just ask her price. now, horses were very dear that season, and, as she was warranted a good hunter, excellent in harness and to carry a lady, and only four years old, i expected that at least £ would be asked. to my great surprise, they said £ . this, of course, choked me off at once, as i felt sure that at that price there must be some _very_ "loose screw." refusing all offers of her, i drove home. in a few days after this i had a letter from the dealers begging me to have her, saying they would distinctly warrant her in every way, and that she would (of course) exactly suit me. i, however, again declined her. a week or so after this i was told that a man was at my stables and wanted to see me, and, on going out, found that these dealers had actually sent the mare over for me to try. well, they gave me a written warranty of the strongest kind, engaging, amongst other things, either to give me another horse or return the price if she did not suit me; and the end was i bought her. well, i had her out the next day and tried her, and found her as good as they said her to be--rather too high action for a hack, but very showy and perfect in harness; did not seem to know what shying meant; a most beautiful light hunter, and a very free goer. i thought i had found perfection, and everything went on well for more than a week, until one day, when i had come back from a drive, my groom sent in word to say that he wanted to see me at the stables. on getting there, he told me that the mare would not go into the stable, and, sure enough, whenever he tried to lead her in she placed herself flat against the wall, and refused to move. we got her to the door at last, and she stood with her head just inside; and, though i tried to tempt her with corn, green-meat, sugar, &c., she absolutely refused to go farther. at length, without any warning, she suddenly rushed in and round into her stall, with such violence that she nearly slipped up against her manger, and only recovered herself after a great struggle; and on the next day, when they tried to bring her out, she rushed out just in the same violent way. here was the "loose screw" with a vengeance! but as i did not wish to part with her (for she was perfection with the exception of this trick), i set to work to try how to cure her of it. after some time we found that we could get her in and out of the stable by backing her, and this, though a rather awkward plan, was quite successful. i may say that after some years we got her to walk in quietly. the dealers had evidently kept an eye on her, for when they found out that i had hit on a plan by which i could get her into and out of a stable without danger they had the impudence to write and offer me £ and _another horse_ if i would let them have her back; and, on my taking no notice of this, actually wrote again and offered me £ . curiously enough, the mare would go into and out of a _strange_ stable quite quietly, but directly she got accustomed to it began the rushing game. this mare was perfect with that one exception, and did not know what fear was. if a gun was fired close to her, she would not take the least notice, and would allow a rifle to be fired under her nose, with the reins on her neck, and not even move her head. i always believe that shying and all that kind of trick in a horse is the fault, in nearly every case, of the rider. of course there are differences of temperament in horses as in men, but as a rule, what i have stated is the case, and i once had what i consider a remarkable illustration of it. i was on the staff at the first autumn manoeuvres in the aldershot district in , and one day i was riding back to camp after a heavy day, when i met a friend--a cavalry officer. we stopped to talk over the day, and just as we were parting he said to me, "oh, i have a lot of horses eating their heads off; if you would take one and ride it, it would save yours and do mine good." i of course accepted the offer with thanks, saying at the same time, "i suppose it is a charger," and received (as i thought) an answer in the affirmative. the horse was sent over to my stables that evening, and the next morning at a.m., on going out of my tent, i found a very fine bright chestnut horse, evidently nearly thoroughbred, being led about by my groom. well, i mounted him and rode off, and after duly inspecting the pickets and outposts, rode on to join the general staff. as i was going along i suddenly found myself on one of those dangerous pieces of ground that are to be often met with in the aldershot district--all seamed with cart-ruts worn into the sand, varying from to feet in depth, and overgrown with heather, so that you cannot detect them until you are actually amongst them. finally, finding where i was, i took my legs out of the stirrups, and put the reins on the horse's neck, knowing that i could not help him, and let him pick his way as best he could. he was doing this very cleverly, when suddenly a gun from a battery, concealed in a hollow close by, was fired (it was, in fact, the gun to tell the troops to be ready to move). my horse did not take the slightest notice of it, not even pricking his ears. of course i thought that as he took no sort of notice of big guns he must be thoroughly broken, and used him as if he was--riding him with cavalry, artillery, and infantry, taking points, and doing everything that pertains to a staff officer's duties; and no horse could have done better or been more thoroughly steady. at the end of the manoeuvres i returned him to my friend with many thanks, and he very soon sold him as a broke charger for a long price. shortly after this i was dining with my friend at the mess of his regiment, and, after dinner, in the ante-room, i happened to remark to an officer, "what a very good riding-master and staff they must have to break in so young a horse so thoroughly." he looked rather amused, and replied, "i suppose you refer to red rover?" (the name of the horse). i said, "yes." "well," he answered, "you broke him!" i was, of course, greatly surprised, but found it was actually the case. the horse had never been ridden with troops until he was lent to me, and i feel not the slightest doubt that it was the fact of his being on that dangerous piece of ground, and my having my feet and hands both loose when the gun was fired so unexpectedly, that gave him confidence. i could not have influenced him in the slightest degree. of course, if i had been on ordinary ground, and had seen that a gun was going to be fired, i should, naturally enough, have slightly tightened the reins and felt his mouth and pressed my legs to his side, and thus have drawn his attention to the fact that something was going to take place. as i did not, he took the noise as a matter of course, and did not notice it; and so, through mutual ignorance, we had perfect confidence in one another. but there is a sequel to this. some months later i had a letter from my friend, telling me that if i wished to buy the horse i might get him for almost nothing, as the man he sold him to gave an awful character of him as a charger. as the horse was in the same district i happened to be in, i went to see him, and certainly the groom gave him a bad character. i got leave to try him, and very soon found that his present owner must be a very irritable, nervous man. the horse had had his mouth so jagged about with the bit that he never kept his head still for a minute, and, if you told him to mark a flank, directly it approached began to switch his tail and tried to kick, having evidently had frequent digs with the spur to make him steady. altogether the horse was quite spoiled for a charger through his rider's fidgets; and, as i did not care to take the trouble to try and break him again, i did not have anything more to do with him. but i think this was a striking proof of how a horse can be made and unmade. sporting for men of moderate means for your wealthy noblemen, or large landed proprietors, it matters little what sport of any kind costs them, whether in horses, hounds, shooting, fishing, yachting, racing, or coursing. yet very many rich men are the greatest screws possible--carrying out the old adage of "the more you have, the more you want." love of sport is one of the boasted and general characteristics of an englishman; but i am inclined to think that, after all, young england is not such an ardent sportsman or such a hard man as his father and grandfathers were. as a rule, they are more of the feather-bed and hearth-rug sort; but this by no means applies to all, for i know many good and indefatigable men, and there are hundreds i do not. our forefathers were, no doubt, earlier than we are--that is, they did not, in spite of their hard drinking at times, turn night into morning as we do. they went early to bed, and got up early; began hunting before daylight, and managed to kill their fox as twilight fell. their soul was in sport, and we love to talk and hear about the grand, generous, though illiterate old squires of a hundred and fifty years ago. men who always stirred their ale with a sprig of rosemary, and drank posset before going to bed; dined at one o'clock when they were at home; smoked their "yard of clay," wore topboots, buckskins, and a blue coat with brass buttons--regular squire westerns, but perhaps a little more refined than that worthy was. but education--and that wonderful thing, "steam," which enables us to travel from one end of the kingdom to another in the course of a few hours--soon stamped the old country gentleman out. what should we think if we now saw the queer-fashioned coach, with its four long-tailed black horses, doing about five miles an hour? some of our london swells, who cannot stoop to pick an umbrella up, would fall down in a fit, especially if the inmates of the said coach were any friends or relations of theirs. yes, the good old days are gone by--passed for ever. men now smoke their cigars, hunt and shoot for a couple of hours, and look with horror on the portraits of their ancestors with a pigtail, and whisp of white cambric round their necks. many, very many country gentlemen of a century ago never saw london; they might have heard of it, but it was the work of a week to get up, and another to get back, and a visit to london about once or twice in their lives was as much as many could boast of, and gave them food for gossip for years and years after. shootings in those days were not of much value, and a man might have had a great deal of sport for a very little money; but now all is changed, though it is only within the last thirty or forty years that scotch shootings have risen in value; some moors that were rented then for fifty pounds per annum are now nearer five hundred. directly people found out they could get down to scotland at comparatively little cost and trouble, the prices of shootings went up--and they will continue to rise. england is much wealthier than she was. commerce is much more extended; money is easier; speculation is more rife; more gold discovered, which i cannot see makes one iota difference; yet in spite of all this, and the heavy taxes we groan under--many raised and "thrust upon us" for the purpose of maintaining a lot of hungry foreigners, who, by the way, have the pick of all the good things. well, well! that game will be played out before very many years are gone by; there will be a most signal "check-mate," a "right-about," and the usual "who'd have thought it?" "knew it was coming," "always said so," and so on. but to my mutton. despite of the heavy price of things, heavy taxes, heavy rents, the englishman is still a sportsman to his heart's core. if he does not make such a labour of it as his forefathers, he loves it just as well; his hounds and his horses are faster--he is faster, in many senses of the word; his guns do not take half an hour to load, and his pointers or setters can beat a twenty-acre field of turnips in something less than four hours; in fact, in many places dogs are going out of fashion, and the detestable system of "driving" coming in. i hate a battue, and call it sport i cannot, and never will. it is true i go to them occasionally, get into a hot corner, and have the "bouquet"--but still i cannot call it legitimate sport. the man with moderate means must give up all idea of scotch shooting, unless he goes very far north and gets some of the islands that are difficult of access; then it may still be done. wild shooting, in many parts of wiltshire, dorsetshire, devonshire, and cornwall may be had at reasonable prices: thirty years ago ground--and good ground--could be got at sixpence an acre; now it is eighteenpence and two shillings. very fair rough shooting may be rented in north or south wales for about threepence an acre, and it is here, or in ireland--which i shall presently touch upon--that the man of moderate means may have both shooting and fishing. in the first place, house-rent is cheap in wales; in fashionable spots, of course, it is not; but those are the very places a sportsman must avoid: he must leave fashion, youth, and beauty behind him, and go in for sport, and sport only. having found a house and ground, he must then get a good keeper and dog-breaker. here he exclaims, "ah! a keeper! here's the commencement of expenses!" patience, my friend, and i'll tell you how your keeper shall pay himself, and put money into your pocket as well. of course, with wild shooting or any other you will want dogs; and for this purpose i recommend setters. of course i presume you are a sportsman, and know all about it, for it would never do if you did not. you must also, if you possibly can, get ground where there are plenty of rabbits--these are what pay; they cost nothing to keep, and are no trouble--every good rabbit is worth nearly a shilling to you to sell. your setters must be of a fashionable and first-class strain; you must have three or four breeding bitches; and the produce of these setters will not only pay your keeper, but your rent as well. you must advertise your puppies to be sold, and keep yourself before the public by constant advertisements. your keeper will break at least four brace of setters for you to sell each year; and these dogs, according to their goodness and beauty, will be worth from fifty to a hundred guineas a brace, and even more. so you will not only be able to pay your man, but a good part of your rent and expenses as well: but you must go systematically to work, and make it a business combined with pleasure. you must understand that good and trustworthy keepers are like angels' visits, few and far between--but still they are to be had; and when you have one, regard him as the very apple of your eye, and never let a few pounds stand in the way. if you have a large extent of ground, a man who understands his business well will break more than four brace of dogs a year--aye, double the quantity, but it is better to have fewer done--and done well; get a good name for having the correct article, and you will always be able to dispose of more dogs than you can breed or break. destroy all the crooked and weakly pups, keeping only those that will make braces, or any others that are really handsome. you can also break a couple of brace yourself--that is, if you have temper and patience. february is the time to commence with your young dogs. you can keep them at work for six weeks or two months; by that time good fishing will be in. i care not to commence fishing too early. one of the first things you must do is to put up a good serviceable kennel, where your dogs can lie dry and warm. it must be well drained--if possible, with a stream of water running through it. you need not go to any great expense, but it must be _well paved_, and constantly hot-lime washed, to keep it sweet and wholesome, and the ticks and vermin under. i will not here give any directions how they are to be made, because that depends a great deal on the place you have--the space, convenience, and so forth--but wherever you build them, let there be a good large yard for the dogs to run about in. let the benches they lie on fold back against the wall, so that you may wash under them; and made with a flap in front, that the dogs, when tired, cannot crawl under them, which they will very often do. benches are generally made in bars three inches wide, with an inch space between each, to let all the dust, small bits of straw, &c., through. your dogs must always be _well bedded_--if straw is expensive and difficult to get, good dry fern will do very well. in wales and ireland i always had a lot of this cut every year at the proper time, stacked and thatched. your _kennel must be kept scrupulously clean and washed out every morning_. feeding is a very important thing, and must be judiciously and regularly done, and always at the same hour; but as every one has his own ideas on this point, i will say no more about it. the place, of all others, for good wild shooting and fishing is ireland. here a man with moderate means may have all he wants--cheap house-rent; taxes few; living at much less cost than in england, and sport to his heart's content. it is, i admit, a wild life; but then it is a very pleasant, happy one. the sea-voyage is nothing: those splendid steamers which run from holyhead to kingstown cross in a few hours, and you hardly, unless there is heavy weather, know you are at sea. for the man whose heart is in sport, i know of no place so well adapted as ireland. wild ducks, snipe, grouse, and capital woodcock shooting; hares, rabbits, partridges and pheasants; all that you want is the ground properly looked after. wherever you go, if economy is your object, you must never attempt hand-reared pheasants; the cost of feeding is very great, and, as i have often and often said before, a hand-reared pheasant, killed in december, costs little less than half a sovereign. near a covert, if there is rough ground, it may be broken up, and barley or buck-wheat sown; this must not be cut, but left standing for the birds to go to whenever they are so inclined. this is a very inexpensive way of feeding. they are very fond of small potatoes, but these will do for your pigs. what you require in ireland is plenty of poultry of all sorts; a couple of kerry cows, which may be had for little money, and a good sort of pig--some of peter eden's breed; fellows that are fattened at comparatively little cost. you must have cows--or be able to get buttermilk somewhere--for your puppies will not do without it. there is no great sale for dogs in ireland, but they may always be taken over to england, and sold at the proper time--in june or july. numbers now go to america. but there are many other spots, if you choose to go farther afield. there is very decent shooting to be got in france, and there are always government forests to let. were i a young man, the place of all others i should go to again would be to hungary. sport of all kinds is to be had there; but this even has been found out, and many english reside there now for boar and stag-hunting and shooting. but in england, if you watch your chance and have agents on the look out, you may occasionally come across a good bit of shooting at a moderate figure; or you may take a good manor, and do as a great many do--that is, have so many guns to join you. if you hire on your own account, either in england or scotland, you can charge the guns anything you like for shooting and board--that is, anything in reason, and that they are likely to pay. you may then get your own shooting at little or no cost; for there are many men who will pay a hundred for a month's good sport. they are in business, or in some profession, and cannot spare more time. a man who has time, is really fond of sport, knows something about it, and goes the right way to work, can get both his shooting and fishing at a very moderate rate. many imagine it is necessary to have their brace of breech-loaders, and a lot of useless and expensive paraphernalia. one gun is all that is needed, except you have wild-fowl shooting. you must have a gun for that, either for punt or shoulder, according to the shooting. a large quantity of dogs that are not wanted, and are utterly useless, are often kept. for a moderate scope of ground, two brace of setters are quite sufficient, unless you are breeding dogs. then you must, of course, have your brood bitches as well. i should have mentioned, it will be a great saving to you if you keep a first-rate stud dog. you will not only have his services, but you can advertise him as a stud dog; and he can form one of your working team likewise. i must impress on my readers that puppies can hardly be kept too well. they must have little or no meat during their puppyhood, but plenty of milk and oatmeal, the latter always to be well boiled. feed them three times a day for the first three or four months, and twice a day till nine months old. after that one good meal a day is sufficient. a large volume might be written how to keep and feed dogs, on kennels, &c. this has often been done before; but things are now altered, and we must keep pace with the times. i have never been able to afford an expensive shooting, and being abroad from the time i was twenty-one till i was middle-aged, i never had the chance; but, coming over to england every year, as i did, and shooting in all parts, it enabled me to know the localities, and where shooting at a reasonable price was to be had. it is a large house and servants that swallow up one's income. a bachelor sportsman only requires a sitting-room and a bed-room, with his tub in some corner or outhouse close at hand. there is nothing i like more than a real sportsman's den. there he has his guns, his rods, his different sporting paraphernalia, his pipes, his cigars, his powder and ammunition, and everything handy. as i am writing this i can see all my traps around me. i am rather proud of my sanctum. i have a place for everything, and everything in its place. my books--of which i have some hundreds of volumes--are before me. on one side of the wall are all my fishing things; over the mantelpiece, on racks, are my guns, and a goodly collection of pipes; in a three-cornered cupboard all my ammunition, and some hundreds of cartridges; in another cupboard are cigars, and odds and ends; in another a lot of nets, and a sort of fixed washing-stand; two luxurious old-fashioned arm-chairs on either side of my fire-place, into which i can pop and take a smoke when i am tired of writing. and at this present moment there are three setters and a couple of dandie dinmonts curled up on the hearth-rug before my fire; but my dogs are always clean in their habits; if not, they would not find a place in my room. the rain is pattering against my windows, and it is a wild wet night; but still i am contented, and looking out for to-morrow, when i am going to have a day's rabbit-shooting, and beat a favourite snipe marsh. i like to have my dogs about me, although i am not a single man, and have boys as tall as myself. yet my dumb animals are companions to me--shooting alone for so many years in vast forests and thinly-inhabited countries, and often far away from friends and civilised life, has made me somewhat lonely in habits. it sometimes makes me laugh to hear some men talk on sporting matters. i have often been trudging home late at night, wet through, or in a heavy snow-storm, with my tired dogs "at heel," when others have had a good dinner, a skinful of wine, finished their third glass of toddy, are beginning to talk rather thick, and find their cigars won't draw. i was obliged to content myself with a cup of sour cider, black rye-bread and eggs, and up and away before daylight again. certainly i need not have done so; and sitting here, before my comfortable fire, i think how soft i was. but young men will be young men; and it was my love of sport that made me lead the wild and solitary life i did. but there is no occasion for any one to do as i did. i have gained experience with years. i do not think i should ever have given it up but for one reason. one night i left quimper in lower brittany, and walked down the river (it was a tidal one) to a favourite spot for ducks. i had on my mud boots, and was well wrapped up. i got to the spot i intended, and there i lay waiting, lying down on a bit of board, with my famous black retriever di beside me. it was bitterly cold, and i took a nip every now and then from my flask. if it had been full, which it was not, there would not have been more than a small wine-glassful in it, for it went into my waistcoat pocket; but, little as it was, that and the cold made me drowsy, and i fell asleep. i was awakened by an icy feeling under me, and my retriever tearing at my coat. i found the tide was coming up, and i was in six or eight inches of water. my poor dog was in a terrible state. i made my way to land, which was not more than fifty yards from me; but i was in such agony i could hardly get on, and, to make matters worse, it began to snow heavily. however, i managed to get to the road, and into quimper; but i was laid up four months with ague, fever, and rheumatism, and never left my room during that time. luckily, it was at the fag end of the season. on another occasion after this attack--the next year--i was woodcock shooting with a friend of mine--an englishman, now dead and gone. a better sportsman did not exist. we had got into a flight of woodcocks, and we had killed nine couples and a half, and were just on the point of returning home, when i was seized with ague again. we were about eight miles from quimper at the time. my poor friend carried me three miles on his back before we could get a cart to take me home; but i soon recovered from this attack. i once in a day killed forty-four woodcocks, and on another occasion twenty-five. i had many narrow escapes and adventures. in my book of "over turf and stubble," there is a full and exhaustive account of sporting in france, and how you are to go to work, with a list of places where sport is to be had, and what you require. woodcock and snipe shooting is not so good as it was, in consequence of the eggs of the former being taken and eaten, as our plover eggs are, and also from the ground being more drained. still there are spots and haunts where they are to be found and killed in numbers. i once killed sixty couples of snipe in some paddy fields abroad. as regards fishing, the man of moderate means must not think of a river in norway or scotland. he must be contented with trout and general fishing; and the place for this is, no doubt, ireland. there is very fair fishing in many parts of england, but for real sport go to ireland. the white trout fishing is superlatively good there; so is the pike fishing. i know of a place now in ireland to let--about five thousand acres of mountain, with eight or nine lakes, a beautiful river, with good pools, in which there are salmon, and white and brown trout. the fishing on the lakes is very good. in some of them the trout are small, but there are any quantity. it is in a very wild, lonely spot--four _irish_ miles over the mountains, and nothing but a herd's hut to go to when there. the shooting, grouse, hare, snipe, and cock, and a few partridges, was very fair. all this was to be had on lease, or by the season, for £ per annum, and is now, i believe. had i remained in ireland i should have taken it, and put up a little place of two rooms, or added a bit on to the herd's cabin. but i think i should have made a little crib on one of the islands of the lake; there is a beautiful site for one. here no keeper would be required; merely a jack-of-all-trades. no lady, unless she were a good walker, could get up to this place, for the mountain is difficult and in places boggy; but could ride it on a pony. i used to enjoy my visits there. sitting on a three-legged stool before the bright turf-fire of a night, with my pipe and whisky and water, talking of my day's work, i was thoroughly happy. a small boat would be requisite on all the lakes, and a larger one for the big lake, by which i proposed to build a cottage. i could have done all this at very little expense, as there was plenty of stone. there is no necessity for the fisherman to be bothered with a lot of expensive and useless tackle; and as to flies, if i do not make them myself, i always buy them of local men, who know what are required. they tie them beautifully in ireland, and know the required colours. there is capital fishing in lough corrib, galway. i had a small yacht there of ten tons, and many a fishing expedition i have had in her of a bright, warm summer's day. i sometimes had great sport with the perch, which run to three pounds. i have hauled them in, when we have come across them, _sculling_, as fast as i could let out line and pull it in. there is a great deal of shooting and fishing to be had in this way. there is also great fun with the lake trout, which run very large; so do the pike and eels. i always used to set night lines for the latter. great quantities of ducks, too, are to be got on lough corrib. there is capital fishing and shooting to be got at killaloe, county clare. i have had rare sport there. it is by going about and making inquiries that i have always been able to have good sport, and find out favoured spots for woodcock and snipe. hundreds of men are taken in by answering advertisements, which set forth the fishing or shooting in glowing colours--how miserably have they been deceived! you may depend the only way is to go over the ground yourself with a brace of good dogs, always taking the _contrary_ direction which you are told to go. if you cannot spare the time, let some one do it for you that you can thoroughly trust. i remember once a gentleman taking a salmon river in norway, paying, of course, in advance; when he got there the river was dry, or nearly so. on expostulating with the agent, and demanding his money back, he was told that the proprietor really could not be answerable for the water, and that he had better stop till rain came, and that, probably, the fish would come with it. a man in these days cannot be too sharp in taking either shooting or fishing; how many are "done" in hiring scotch moors! they answer a flowing advertisement, take it haphazard, pay their money, and when they get there find there are no grouse or deer either. this happens year after year, and yet, with these facts before them, many will not take warning. hunting i will not touch on, because that is an expensive amusement; but i can say this, my hunting never cost me a farthing. i used to buy young horses, make them, and sell them at good prices. but a man must not be only a good rider, he must be a good judge of a horse as well. i know many men who hunt, shoot, and fish, and their amusement costs them little or nothing. now a few words as to yachting. that we all know is a very expensive amusement too; but even this is to be managed--of course not in the style of very many of our noblemen. i knew a man who bought a schooner of one hundred and twenty tons, and laid out some money on her besides; this yacht he let for three months during the season, and did so well by her, that, in two years, he had his purchase-money back and something more to boot. the remainder of the season he used her himself. still, a vessel of this size requires a number of hands, and it is a risk. he kept a small yacht for his own amusement as well. a man with moderate means may have a great deal of pleasure out of a boat of fifteen or twenty tons, or even less; and if he chooses to make it his home, it will cost no more than if he hired lodgings and dined at home, or at his club. supposing he does not like knocking about in winter time, which is not agreeable, he can always lay her up in some nice harbour, and still live on board. if he is fond of his gun, he can take her to many places and lay her up--where he can get shooting as well, always living on board--south wales, ireland, france, and many parts of england and scotland. and besides sea-fishing, he may get other fishing in the same way. at the end of the yachting season there are hundreds of boats to be bought at a very moderate figure, sometimes almost for nothing. for the purpose i have named, you want no wedge-like racing craft, but a boat with a good floor, good beam, and light draft of water, with summer and winter sails, in fact, a nice roomy seaworthy boat. but in buying you must be cautious, and have some one with you who thoroughly understands the business, otherwise you may invest in a craft whose timbers are rotten, and the planking no stronger than brown paper; there is nothing that one who does not thoroughly understand the matter is easier taken in with than boats. having now told you how shooting, &c., may be got on moderate means, perhaps a short account of my little yacht i had on lough corrib, galway, and what i did, may not be uninteresting. after i had been a short time in galway--that is, a couple of miles from the town--i found a very nice boat of about ten tons that was to be sold. i made enquiries, and discovered she was nearly new, and that more than a hundred pounds had been spent on her in making a cabin and fitting her out. i bought her for _eight pounds_, spent twenty more on her, and had the most complete little fishing and shooting craft i ever saw. i had a rack for my guns and rods, and lockers for all my things; there were places to put away game, provisions, and liquor, and a good stove, of modern contrivance, for cooking. this last was in my cabin, for she was too small to have a forecastle. in summer we cooked on shore, on the stones or what not. she was only partly decked--what is called a welled boat. over this well at night there was a perfectly water-tight tarpaulin, which was fastened down by rings. in this well, which was a large one, my captain slept, and the other man nestled in the sail-room, which was right astern. i bought a brand-new dingy for thirty shillings, and was all complete; the whole affair costing me thirty pounds. as i was living on the banks of lough corrib, the boat was moored close to my house, and from my window i could see her. in this boat i used to go to all parts of the lake, which is forty-eight miles long, and ten wide in one place. there were several rivers i could get up, and innumerable little bays, and places where one could anchor for the night. on lough corrib, there are no end of islands, some of them large; it is said there is an island for every day in the year, viz., . there was capital shooting on some of these islands, and on many parts of the marshes, on the banks of the lake, i had leave to shoot. one marsh or bog was seventeen miles long, and three or four wide. most of this country was undrained, and snipe were in thousands. it makes my mouth water to think of the snipe and duck shooting i sometimes had there, as well as wild geese; but i got ague and rheumatism again; lost one of my children, and the life was too lonely for my better half. we were away from home and friends, and as i was some three or four years over forty, i gave it up, reluctantly, i must say, and returned to the old land. lough corrib is difficult to navigate, and you must have a man with you who knows it thoroughly, otherwise you will come to grief. my captain knew it well, and was a good sportsman into the bargain. my old sailor, who had been all his life about those wild, desolate, and god-forgotten islands, "the arran," was a rare fisherman. he always managed the night lines, and when we have been anchored at the mouth of the clare galway river for the night, of a morning the lines have been loaded with eels, some of four and even five pounds in weight. if we baited for them, sometimes we had large catches of pike and trout. i think cross-line fishing, or an otter, is still allowed on the lake; but i never went in for this, you require a licence for it. of a night, at flight time in july, the young ducks--they were more than "flappers"--used to come up from the lake and marshy grounds in numbers to the cornfields, and we generally gave it to them hot, morning and evening; and in parts of the lake we used to get "flapper" shooting. it was endless amusement to me, roaming about on the different islands knocking over a few rabbits, or sometimes a duck or snipe. i always carried a ten-bore gun with me, shooting four drachms of powder and two ounces of shot. i never knew what was going to get up; occasionally i had a crack at an otter asleep on the stones. sometimes a duck would spring when i least expected it; there was no knowing. in winter we were obliged to be very careful, for the wind comes off the mountains in gusts and is very treacherous, and accidents soon happen unless you have your weather eye open. there is some capital snipe and duck shooting on lord clanmorris's property, on the banks of the clare galway river. i do not know if it is yet let, or leave now given; but i think it is not let. the white trout fishing is first rate in connemara, but what a wild desolate place it is! the salmon fishing is said to be very good in the clare galway river, but though i have seen plenty of fishermen on it, and there are no end of fish, i never saw very much done; it is a sluggish river, and wants a good _curl_ on the water to get a rise. as i have said, i have had some of the best duck and snipe shooting at killaloe i ever enjoyed; but snipe and woodcock shooting depend a great deal on the season. some years there are any quantity, another season comparatively few; it is the same everywhere. the golden plover shooting is very good all round galway, and if you know the "_stands_," that is, where they roost of an evening, you can always get two or three shots. i have seen killed on one of the little islands on lough corrib, at one shot, twenty-one, which were picked up, and i believe there were one or two more that were not found. there is good shooting and fishing about cork, and limerick as well; in fact, all over ireland it is to be had; but remember, the nearer you are to dublin, or any large town, the dearer things are. it is to the wild, desolate spots you must go for real sport, and if a man can manage to put up with such a life, all well and good. several englishmen bought estates round galway, but i suppose they got tired of it, or were afraid of the little pot shooting that an irishman occasionally takes at one, just "_pour passer le temps_," as they are, or were, to let. i had capital sport in lower brittany, france; there are plenty of woodcock and snipe in parts, and the living at the time i speak of was very cheap; but, alas! there is a railway now, so, of course, like all other places, it has gone up in price. in these days, it has become a somewhat difficult matter to particularise which are the best places to go to for sport. if you do not mind distance, hungary is the place. if you want to be near home, ireland or france. take my advice, as an old sportsman who has been at it all his life, and has now seen nearly half a century; if you are a man of moderate means take your time in hiring a place, and when you have found one to suit you, rent on a long lease, if you can; if you wish to give it up, it will not remain on your hands any time. do not be inveigled into buying a lot of useless guns, rods, or sporting paraphernalia; a _real_ sportsman does not require them. i think i have now pretty well exhausted the subject, and told you how to go to work. partridge manors and rough shooting bright, beautiful, glorious june! i have often been asked which of the four seasons i like the best; my answer has ever been the same: "the hunting, shooting, fishing, and racing." one season i detest (the very name of it gives me the cold shivers)--the _london one_; defend me from that; for if there is a particular time which is calculated to make "paterfamilias" miserable and more out of humour than another, it is that abominable period of shopping, dinners, evening parties, operas, theatres, concerts, flirtations, flower-shows, and the dusty row, with its dangerous holes. i hate the formality--the snobbism of the "little village." i begin to think napoleon i. was right when he said we were "a nation of shop-keepers." i do not mind a good dinner, when i can get one; but there is the rub, i never do get a good dinner; the english do not know how to dine. after twenty years' residence on the continent, i have come to the conclusion that john bull is miserably, hopelessly behindhand with our french neighbours on all matters pertaining to eating and drinking; but then i balance the account in this way--mossoo is not a sportsman; and although he will tell you he is a "_chasseur intrépide_," "_un cavalier de première force_," he does not shine either in the hunting or shooting field. but the french ladies? ah, they can dress; they beat us there again into smithereens. i am not like a bear in the hollow of a tree, who has been sucking his paws all the winter to keep him alive; i have been enjoying most of our country amusements, and i may say the winter has passed pleasantly. of late years a deaf ear has been turned to hints thrown out "for a change of air, things wanted," &c. busily engaged in building, draining, planting, and so on, little time could be given by me to london festivities. the last attack was made in a somewhat ingenious manner. "frederick, poor alice wants her teeth looking at. i think she had better go up to town for three weeks or a month, and be put under the care of a good dentist." this was as much as to say, "we are all to go;" but i was equal to the occasion. "by all means, my dear, let her go. my sister is there for the season, and will only be too delighted to have her; but as for my leaving the place at present, with all i have to do, it is an utter impossibility." this was a settler. somehow or other i begin to feel more lively as spring comes on. as a rule, about the middle of may i require a little spring medicine and a change of air. i find that the breezes of epsom downs agree famously with me, although my better-half always declares i "look vilely" on my return. absurd nonsense! but i love my own quiet country life; its wild unfettered freedom. away from the smoke, dust, and tumult of over-crowded cities--away from late hours and the unwholesome glare of gas, and i am happy. a trip to ascot and goodwood with my family keeps matters all straight. a break now and then, and the quiet monotony of country life is not felt. june, bright, beautiful, glorious june, has peculiar attractions for me. i am a shooter. i have not a grouse moor, for the simple reason that i cannot afford one; as my old keeper says, "it is master's terrible long family and expenses that prevents his going into shooting as he would like." i am obliged to content myself with a partridge manor; and, after all, i believe i like partridge and snipe shooting better than any other. as i remark in my notes on "november shooting," a friend of mine once said he considered snipe-shooting "_the fox-hunting of shooting_," and i am disposed to agree with him. but, to return to june, from the th to about the th of the month, most of the forward hatches come off, and are seen basking and bathering round their mother. but there are other hatches much later, for cheepers are often found in september quite unfit to shoot at. i can only account for this, that the old birds have had their eggs destroyed in some way or other. a partridge manor is not one quarter the expense of pheasants and coverts. the latter birds not only require constant attention, night and day, but feeding forms a very serious item. pheasants are very costly, and only within reach of the rich man. a partridge manor, to have a good head on it, though, must be well looked after, the vermin kept down, and your keeper with a sharp eye to all poachers and suspicious characters. with a net at night they often sweep off the birds wholesale; but there is a very easy way of baffling them. put sticks, about eighteen inches high, fifteen, twenty, or thirty yards apart, over the ground the partridges generally roost on; these, as the net is drawn along, lift it up, and the birds easily escape. it is a good plan to walk the fields of an evening with a brace of dogs, where you know they roost, and disturb them; they may probably then take to the gorse, if any, potatoes, seed clover, and other safe ground. in may and june i wage war with the crows, magpies, jays and hawks, shooting or trapping the old hen birds. always kill the male bird first; this is easily done by waiting patiently within shot, under cover of some tree or hedge where the nest is, which is generally built in some pretty high tree; the hen will not desert if sitting hard, which you should allow her to do; her death is then easily accomplished. i never allow poison to be used, for i hold that a keeper who cannot destroy all vermin by means of his gun and traps is not worth his wages. to have any quantity of game, it is better that you and your keepers should be on good terms with your neighbours; they will do as much good as half a dozen watchers. in may and june i always keep a lot of light broody hens ready to sit, for during the mowing season many partridge nests are cut out. the eggs are brought warm to me, and are instantly set under one of the hens. the people who bring me in the eggs i invariably reward, but they are never encouraged or allowed to look for nests. now, if these men were not paid a trifle, and a horn of ale given to them, they would not trouble themselves or lose their time. it would be very easy to put their foot on the eggs and crush them. i am not an advocate for hand-reared birds, as there is some trouble and expense feeding them, and they do not grow strong and vigorous nearly so quickly as wild ones. in one year alone, some four or five seasons back, i had six hundred eggs cut out, and over five hundred birds were reared. chamberland's food is the best for them, as well as for pheasants. of course the hens should be cooped. there is one thing you must be most particular about, and that is never to place the coops near an old bank, or where there are rabbit-burrows, for these spots are not only the haunts of stoats and weasels, but there is an animal quite as dangerous, who loves a young partridge--the hedgehog. many are of opinion that the hedgehog is harmless, but this idea i have proved to be erroneous (see "over turf and stubble"--"the hedgehog a game-eater"). my life has been spent following up the sports of the field and observing the habits of different animals. the better way is, when your birds are young, to have them on your lawn, or in a field close to the house. the coops must be closed at night, to keep vermin and cats (deadly poachers) from getting at them. it is a mistake to let them out too early of a morning. the drier the ground the better partridges do when young. as they get stronger, remove them with their coops to a potato or clover field, cutting a swath through the latter to put the coops on and feed them. place the coops twenty or thirty yards apart, or the birds, when young, will be straying into the wrong coops, and the hens will kill them, for they well know their own family. i like a clover-field the best, because there is lots of cover, and they escape the sharp eye of hawks and other vermin. in taking a partridge manor, ascertain first, by going over it _yourself_, if there is a fair head of breeding stock on the ground. a wise "old saw" informs us that, "if you want anything done well, do it yourself;" and this i certainly advise in this case, unless you have a keeper you can really trust. do not take a manor that has too much grass land. there ought to be plenty of cover--turnips, clover, potatoes, rape, stubble, heath, &c., to insure good sport; for, if your ground is bare, although you may have plenty of birds, it will soon be impossible to get at them, for, as you enter a field, they will be away at the other end, and not having any cover to drive them to, you may follow them for hours and never get a shot. a manor, too, should not be all low ground, or the enclosures too small. in such a country, good, fast and free-going dogs soon become cramped in their range and potterers. it is, in an enclosed country, impossible to mark the birds; and constantly getting over stiff fences not only tires you, but it unsteadies your hand, which will lose its cunning. a partridge country should be as open as possible; then you can see your dogs work, which, in my humble opinion, constitutes the greatest charm of shooting. farms are often let at eighteenpence an acre, which is an absurd price--a shilling is quite enough; but in many counties you can get as much good ground as you like at sixpence, but not near london. i hired, some two years ago, some capital rough shooting in north wales at less than threepence an acre, but it was too cold for my better half to reside in during the winter months. whatever county you may fix on, avoid the red-legs; though a very handsome bird, and much larger than ours, they are not nearly so good for the table as the grey ones, being dry and tasteless; and they will spoil any dog, as they never take wing unless hardly pressed, but will run field after field. i destroy their eggs wherever i meet them. in norfolk, suffolk, and particularly essex, there are large quantities of them; they not only ruin your dogs, but they drive the grey birds away. i would not have a manor where there were any quantity of red-legs at a gift. having now told you how to go to work, i will, in the garb of narrative, which, nevertheless is true, show you how shooting, with other sport, may be had at little cost by those who love it and prefer a country life. i give it you as related to me by a very dear old friend of mine. "lenox and myself were boys at school, and afterwards at college together. a fine handsome fellow he was too, and doatingly attached to all field sports; he was not a rich man, quite the contrary, £ a year at his father's death was all he had left to him, yet he managed to keep up a tolerable appearance even in london, and was engaged to one of the most beautiful girls i ever saw, and with a nice little fortune of her own. "lenox was very fond and very proud of her, as well he might be; everything was arranged, the day fixed, trousseau bought, and his pretty little cottage in hampshire newly and tastefully furnished to receive its new mistress. but, lo! a week before their wedding the young lady eloped with a nobleman, and they were married before lenox knew anything about it. "he said little, but felt it deeply; all were sorry for him, for he was a great favourite. "shortly after his pretty little cottage was sold, and with his effects lenox vanished mysteriously no one knew whither. "i went abroad, and was away many years, and, therefore, had no means of finding out where he had betaken himself to, or what he was doing. "after more than twenty years' absence i returned to the old land; i had been satiated with sport of all kinds in different parts of the globe, and did not feel inclined to give the high prices asked for shootings. "my wife was somewhat delicate, and required a mild climate, so i took 'the galloper,' ran down to plymouth, and from thence to cornwall, determined, if i could, to buy a place there. i roamed about the country looking at different estates, and at last hit on a beautiful spot, with a nice house on it, convenient to the rail, and not too far from a good country town or schools. "one day during my peregrinations with the agent who had the selling of the property, i came on one of the most lovely little cottages i ever saw, placed on a slope, well sheltered from the winds, myrtles and fuchsias growing luxuriously and abundantly about, with its jessamine and honeysuckle covered porch, thatched roof, well-kept grounds, gardens, and brawling stream at the end of the lawn. i thought it one of the most fairy-looking little spots i had ever seen. "'whose cottage is that?' i asked. 'it is not on this property, is it?' "'oh, no, sir, just off this land; it belongs to mr lenox.' "'lenox,' i breathlessly asked, 'horace lenox'? "'that's it, sir--one of the nicest gentlemen in these parts, and a rare sportsman: it is not his own property, only hired on long lease, but he has done a deal to it; three thousand acres of good mixed shooting and capital fishing, with that cottage, is not dear at fifty pounds a year, is it, sir?' "'i should think not, indeed. mr lenox is one of my oldest friends. i must go and call on him,' which i did. "i was told, on asking at the door, that he was out fishing, but would be home to dinner at six o'clock. "'give him this card,' i said to the respectable old servant who had answered the ring, 'and tell him, i shall be here at six to dine with him. is he married?' "'oh dear no, sir, master is a single gentleman. i don't think he cares much about the women folk,' she added, in her quaint cornish way. "the time hung heavily on my hands that day, so impatient was i to see my dear, valued old friend, and half past five saw me walking up the well-kept walk towards his house. "as i approached, a figure issued from the porch, surrounded by four or five beautiful setters. "a fine, handsome-looking man of three or four and forty advanced towards me, but quite grey; there was no mistaking, though, his honest, beaming, well-known face. "'frederick, old fellow,' said he, grasping me by the hand, 'this is indeed kind of you; hundreds of times have i wondered what had become of you, and if you were still in the land of the living.' "'and i the same, lenox; by mere chance have i found you out. i inquired at all the old haunts when i returned to england, and could never learn where you were.' "'then you are the gentleman, i suppose, that has been looking at the estate next to me, with a view to purchase?' "'just so, horace, _ecce homo_.' "'you could not do better, old fellow; i will put you in the way. i know every inch of the ground--rare shooting--but come in, and i will tell you all about it after dinner. margaret, my servant, is in the devil's own way, for it is rarely i ever have any one to dine with me.' "the inside of the cottage was just as pretty as the outside; his dining-room was a study for a sportsman: guns, rods, sporting pictures, &c., here hung all round the walls in endless profusion; it was the very essence of comfort and taste. "'now, horace,' said i, as i threw myself into one of the comfortable arm-chairs beside the open window, and he into another, 'tell me all that has happened since we last met.' "'that is easily done,' he returned, drawing up a small table between us, with a bottle of claret on it, that sent its aroma all over the apartment as he drew the cork. "'you know how i was served in london?' and his face assumed a hard, stern expression as he asked the question. "'well, yes,' i replied; 'but you have forgotten all that, horace?' "'i have not forgotten it. i never can forget it; it was a dreadful blow to me; but i have forgiven it years ago, and am content with my lot. i left london in disgust, wandered about, and at last found this little spot. i have the shooting of three thousand acres of land--ten acres for my two cows--i am as happy as possible. i breed lots of those,' pointing to his setters, who were lying about; 'and they pay me well. i have poultry, pigs, shooting--the woodcock and snipe shooting is particularly good in the season--and fishing in abundance; as good a cob as any man need possess; deny myself nothing in reason, and never know what a dull hour is. but you will sleep here, for i have already found out where you were, and sent for your things.' "i never passed a happier evening than i did with my long-lost friend; we smoked our cigars and talked of old times and old things that had happened years ago, passed never to return again. "'so your eldest boy is sixteen,' he remarked, after one of the pauses. 'well, you must buy this place, frederick, it is as cheap as dirt, and will pay you well. i will make your lads sportsmen--but i suppose you have done that yourself. i want companions now--no female ones,' he added, laughingly, 'your wife excepted; but some one to fish and shoot with me--the partridge-shooting is capital.' "i was delighted with all i saw the next day; the place was lovely, and i was induced to spend a week with him. at the end of that time i was the purchaser of the property, and left to bring down my family and all my belongings. "i have never regretted the step; though far away from the busy hum of the world, we are as happy as may be. horace and i fish and shoot away; there is a calm quietness which i love. i, like my friend, have had some ups and downs in life, but the memory of them, in my country retreat, is gradually 'fading away.'" it is all very well for men who have long purses and large possessions to take expensive shootings; they can afford it and why should they not? what might i not be tempted to do if i had the chance? i cannot say, and, therefore, i will not speculate. to my young readers who are not _au fait_ at all these matters, i would urge them never to be too hasty in deciding on taking any shooting. if they are not in easy circumstances, they must go very cautiously to work; but that fair partridge and general shooting is to be had at a moderate figure i can prove. it is not generally known, but there are many parts of scotland where there is first-rate partridge-shooting, and arrangements can be made to have it after the grouse-shooters have done and returned to england. i know several men who have made this arrangement, and get their sport at a very moderate cost. but gadding about to places is not my form. i prefer to remain on the spot, and then i can always see how matters are going on. in taking a rough bit of shooting, only one keeper is necessary; one good man will do the work far better than half a dozen bad ones. it is, i admit, a difficult thing to get such a man, but they are to be had. i have written this paper solely for the guidance of those whose means are limited; the rich can do as they like; money is often no object to them; but this i have known to be a fact, that the man who has only spent two or three hundreds, and often very much less, on his shooting has had far better sport than many of those who have spent thousands. who is to ride him? in a remote and lonely part of dorsetshire stood, in a beautifully-wooded park, a fine old mansion, bradon hall, belonging to george bradon, esq., who at the time i speak of was about eight-and-twenty. he was one of the old school, as his father had been before him. early in life he had been placed in a crack regiment of dragoons, so he was not without a pretty good knowledge of the world for his age. allowed a liberal sum by his father, he had never exceeded it; on the contrary, there was generally a fair balance at the end of the year in the hands of his agent. he was a remarkably handsome young fellow. bred up in the country, and left to do pretty nearly as he liked, it was not wonderful he turned out an adept at all sorts of sports. a good cricketer, a still better fisherman, a magnificent shot, and not only the straightest but the best rider in the country; indeed riding was his forte. not so with our late friend artemus ward at "playing 'oss." with all these sporting accomplishments he was much looked up to in his regiment, and it was said that the man who could live with george bradon in any country for twenty minutes was a in the pigskin. two years previous to the time i am speaking of, he found himself master of bradon hall; his mother had gone many years before. the first thing he did was to sell out and come home, where he had ever since resided. all the men in his regiment had the blues when he left. "it was an infernal bore," captain swagger remarked, "to lose such a vewey fine fellaw as bwadon; he should like to know who the devil could bwoo such a cwawat-cup as bwadon?" at any rate george left, taking with him a magnificent gold snuff-box, a present from his fellow-officers, "which would be," as the lieutenant-colonel said, "a doocid nice thing to push about the dinner-table when he and his old friends of the regiment came down to hunt and shoot with him." some of them had been true to their word, and paid him a visit now and then in the sporting season. george was delighted to see them; it put him in mind of old times, and he was always glad to know how matters were going on in his old corps. his father had been a great breeder of horses, and as george was just as enthusiastically fond of them, the old blood had been kept up; and with the exception of a fine specimen of an old english gentleman, who used to be daily seen walking about in a blue coat with gilt buttons, buckskins and tops, looking over his brood mares and colts, everything was the same as before. all the servants had been retained; they loved "master george" too well to quit, nor had they been asked to. bradon, when with his regiment, had been the crack rider in it, and many a good stake had he won for that gallant corps. his services had always been most anxiously sought after, and mounts given him in most of the great steeple-chases of the day. he was so cool and collected, no bustle or flurrying with him. a fine eye, a fine hand, a famous judge of pace, and strong at the finish, with a knowledge, that must almost have been born in him, when to ease his horse, force the running, or take advantage of any mistake. "on the whole," lord plunger, who was no mean judge, used to say--"on the whole i consider george bradon the finest cross-country rider in europe." bradon, though uncommonly lucky in his mounts, bore his honours meekly, and when he sold out and came down to the old place to live, gave up steeple-chasing altogether. "he had so much to do, so much to attend to; after a bit he would have another squeeze at the lemon, but really he must attend to his affairs first." repeated refusals damped the ardour of his friends, so at last they gave up asking him to ride, and he was left in quiet to pursue his own way. time went on, and such a person as george bradon had almost been forgotten by the sporting public. one morning, some eighteen months after he had come home, going into the harness-room, he carelessly seated himself in the weighing-chair, and exclaimed to the old stud-groom, an heirloom his father had left him: "the same weight, tim, i suppose--eleven three?" the person thus appealed to, standing on tiptoe, looked up at the dial as well as he was able; for, in addition to being short and stout, he had a very tight pair of trousers, which seemed to have been made on him, and was moreover incommoded by a stiff white neckcloth, which threatened to strangle him. after having studied the dial for a few seconds, he started back, and blurted out in a voice of horror and amazement: "can i believe my haged heyes, master george? you're twelve five, as i'm a miserable sinner!" "what!" exclaimed george, jumping out of the chair considerably quicker than he had got into it, and throwing away the cigar which he had been indolently puffing--"what! twelve five? it cannot be; weigh me again, tim." the old man did so with the same result. "oh, hang it!" said george, "the scale is wrong; it cannot be. i am not a bit heavier than i was; the same clothes fit me i wore two years ago. it's all bosh." "i don't know, master george, if it's all bosh or no," replied his old servant, "but the scale is right. now lookee, sir, i've been fourteen stun nine for the last eleven years--not a hounce more or less. see my weight, sir." george cast his eyes up at the dial as tim wriggled himself into the chair. "yes," he said, "you are right--fourteen nine to a fraction, tim. how the deuce i came to be this weight i have no idea; but i cannot shut my eyes to the fact that, instead of eleven three, my old walking weight, i am twelve five--sixteen pounds in less than two years," he muttered, as he sauntered away. "by george, i'll knock off that sixteen pounds pretty quickly, though. i detest fat people. an idle life will not suit me. i'll do banting or something." tim looked after his young master as he walked away. "well," he exclaimed at length, "master george"--he was always master george with the old servants--"twelve five; i'd never have thought it. there's something in his heye, though, that tells me he won't be that weight long. although he is so cool he'll hunt every day the coming season, i'll bet my life; walk like blazes, and take physic enough to float a jolly-boat. i'll lay a sov," he remarked, as he slowly drew one out of a bag which he extracted from the depths of his capacious breeches-pocket, "that he is in his old form this day six months; dashed if i don't bet a fiver, or any part of it." but as no one was there to take him, he put back the coin, gave the neck of the bag a twist, and after a struggle managed to convey it to his breeches pocket again. "what will my old woman say," he continued, "when i tells her o' this? she as nussed him as a foal, and said he'd never get fat like me. it's heart-breaking to think on. and there's guardsman, the finest and fastest hunter in england, just coming six; how will he be able to carry him if he goes sticking mountains of flesh on like that?--he can't do it. he'll have to ride in a seven-pound saddle; but i don't let him do that, not if i knows it--he'd break his precious neck, and then i should like to be told where tim mason would be, the old woman, and all the kids. no seven-pound saddle for me. i ain't a-going to have my boy a-smashing of hisself, and all because he will put flesh on. he's the only one left of the old stock; it's time he married, and i hope he will. i'm almost afraid to tell the old woman. twelve stun five!" he ejaculated, as he wended his way thoughtfully across the yard; "it seems almost impossible." "tim," said his master the next morning, "this idle life won't do for me. i'm going over to france for three or four months. would you like a trip?" "me, sir?" said the old man. "why in course i should like to see them mounseer fellows eat frogs, and taste their brandy, too." "well, tim, so you shall," replied george; "and look here, we will take guardsman and the gray with us. i will run them both at some of the meetings. young harry shall go with us; he is a good rider, a light weight, and can keep his mouth shut." "yes, sir," said tim. "he and i can do the horses as they ought to be done, and a little work now will do them good." "well," continued his master, "i'm off to london this afternoon to make some arrangements. travel the horses down to southampton, and meet me at the 'dolphin,' in high street, you know. be there on monday morning; take saddles, clothing, and all you want. however, i need not tell you all this, or of the necessity of keeping our movements a profound secret." "no occasion--no occasion, sir; i'll be there. huzza!" he exclaimed, as soon as his master was out of hearing. "my words are coming true--racing again, by all that's jolly! this is a proud day for me. my boy will get into form again, i know he will. i should like to give him a leg up once more, and see him set a field." so saying he waddled off to inform his old woman, as he irreverently called her, of the change about to take place. some few days after this bradon, his servants and horses, were located in a quiet little village in lower brittany. "well, tim," said his master one morning, as the old stud-groom came in to say the horses were well, and ask what exercise they were to take. "what exercise?" said george; "why, i'll tell you. they are to go into regular training; they are in pretty good fettle now, but they must be better. we can do it in quiet here, without those confounded touts and fellows watching us, as they would have done at home. i should have had a scoundrel perched up in nearly every tree in the park if they knew the game i was flying at. i have found out good ground here, and have permission to use it. now, tim, i am going to astonish your weak nerves. i need not caution you of the necessity of being silent. all the races, i find, are over in france for the year; but, tim, what do you think? i have entered both the horses for the grand silverpool steeple-chase. i did it when i was in town the other day." "what!" said the astonished old man, "the grand silverpool?--my horses going to run for the grand silverpool? oh, master george, this is a joyful day. guardsman will win it; he has never run, and if there is any justice he must be put in light. but who is to ride him?" "who?" returned his master. "for your life, tim, not a word." and pulling him closer by the arm, whispered: "myself!" "you, sir?--but your weight, sir? twelve stun five and your saddle. oh, no, master george, that won't do." "now, tim, you are a clever fellow, but others are as knowing as you. look here. you see this weighing-chair; well, i bought that in london. now weigh me." the old man did as he was bid. "why, sir," he exclaimed, after looking at it, "only twelve stun one; four pounds lighter in less than a week, and without exercise." "or physic," continued bradon. "banting, tim, banting. no bread, no butter, no sugar, no beer, no saccharine matter of any sort; plenty of meat, biscuits, toast, claret, and seltzer-water. that is my diet, and i never felt so well. if wanted i shall be able to ride eleven stone with the greatest ease." * * * * * in a luxuriously-furnished dining-room, some three months after the events which we have described, five or six gentlemen were discussing their wine. "i cannot make it out," said a heavy-built man of five-and-forty or so; "i have tried everything i know, and am not a bit the wiser than when i began. this bradon is a most extraordinary fellow. i took the trouble of going down to dorsetshire myself, and all i could arrive at was that bradon was travelling. the servants knew nothing, or would know nothing. they were aware the stud-groom had gone and taken two horses and a lad with him; that was all i could get out of them. well, i went to the groom's house and saw his wife. she looked at me, and received me as if i had been a thief. it was a regular mull. that bradon has got two horses with him i am certain; but what they are, and where they are, hang me if i can find out. i have tried every tout and stable in the kingdom, but to no purpose, so i have given it up as a bad job." "ah!" replied a fashionably-dressed and bewhiskered young man, "with all your cleverness and knowing dodges, you are bowled out, old boy. i know a little more than you. in my opinion george bradon is training his horses quietly somewhere for the silverpool. both are well in, and the handicap has been accepted by him. he is a knowing hand, is bradon. now, i got hold of a letter written to a friend of his just before he left england. no matter how or where i got it, this is what he says." and opening his pocket and taking out a letter he read the following:-- bradon hall, nov. st. "dear jack, "in answer to yours of this morning i am sorry i cannot accept your kind invitation. i'm off on a bit of travelling, for i am not at all in form. fancy my disgust on weighing myself yesterday morning to find i was considerably over twelve stone--so you see an idle life will not do for me. i shall go to france first; i may probably remain there for some time. i have entered two nags for the silverpool. i must engage some one to ride one; it matters little who will get the second mount, as he will merely be wanted to make running for the one i declare to win with. "yours, ever, "george bradon." "there!" he exclaimed, "you see i know more than all of you. as for bradon's riding, that is an utter impossibility, for both horses are in at ten twelve, and it is equally impossible to get any good hand to ride them now, as all are engaged." "by george, fred!" exclaimed the first that had spoken, "you have done wonders, but still i can make nothing of it. no end of odds have been offered against his nags for win or a place, and all have been eagerly taken up by the fellows of his old regiment. why, plunger alone stands to win over ten thousand. however, the horses are really coming into the betting, which they must not do. i must go down to the rooms to-morrow and give them such a tickler that will knock them out at once. it will not suit my book their taking prominent places in the market. by heaven! if either of them was to pull through i should be a ruined man, and others are in for double as much as i am." "my dear fellow," put in a quiet, sly-looking little man, who had not yet spoken, "you should not do such rash things. flukes do happen--not that it is likely in this case. i always wait till the last moment, and then come with a rush when i know things are pretty safe." "come with a rush," replied a tall, delicate-looking stripling; "a pretty rush you made of it last year. you prevented my getting on, and not only put me in the hole, but every one else who attended to you." "i could not help it, my dear boy," returned the other, with a crafty smile. "there is no occasion for you to ruin yourself too quickly, which you will do if you go on in such a reckless manner." "reckless manner!" passionately exclaimed the young fellow; "why, you have had more of my money than any one else. where others have had pounds you have had thousands, and now you talk to me of 'recklessness.' that is rather hard lines." "i meant no harm," replied the other. "i only think it is dangerous to lay against bradon's horses at present." "no doubt you do," said the youth, a little pacified; "but i do not mean to take your advice in this case, and to-morrow, if i do not knock them out of the betting it shall not be my fault." so it was settled between them all over their wine and cigars that bradon's horses should be set at on the morrow and sent out of market. they were attacked, and such extravagant sums laid against them that astonished every one, many of which odds were booked by lord plunger and a few others. how this came about we will now explain. lord plunger, as before stated, thought george bradon "the finest cross-country rider in europe," and from a letter which bradon sent in confidence to his lordship, he started for france. here bradon put him up to what was going on, and asked him to take some of the heavy odds offered against guardsman "to win and a place." "i won't have anything to do with it myself," remarked george. "you are a betting-man, plunger, which i am not; but i will have one more shy, hit or miss. this will be my last appearance in public in the pigskin. i don't admire the way in which matters are carried on in the racing world now; and i am not going to risk my fortune and reputation in having any more to do with it. of course there are honest people connected with it, but they--like angels' visits--are few and far between; and besides, i know nothing of betting, but this i feel sure of, that such a horse as mine has not been out for years." "that," said his lordship, "i am quite certain of, or you would not run him, and you are too good a judge to be deceived. you may depend on my doing all you wish. i shall be as silent as death on the subject, and not a word shall escape me. let me see"--consulting his note-book--"i am to go as far as five hundred for you; that ought to win you a handsome sum. i shall go as far for myself. you are to come to me four days before the silverpool, and i am to take you there in the drag. that is the order of march, is it not?" "exactly," said george. "now let's have a cigar--you have plenty of time before you start. if you have any luck you will be sitting _chez vous_ to-morrow evening." it turned out as his friend predicted. the following evening lord plunger was comfortably lolling in his arm chair, thinking what a clever fellow bradon was, and how secretly his own journey to france had been managed. this then was the reason lord plunger had taken some of the extravagant long odds that had been laid against bradon's horse. the morning of the grand silverpool broke bright and beautiful; though there had been a good deal of rain during the night, it had cleared off, and the day promised to be all that could be desired. bradon and lord plunger sat at breakfast in a quiet little country hotel some ten miles from the course. "well, george," said his lordship, "so far, i think we have managed things admirably, not a soul knows of your being in england. they fondly imagine you are roaming about the continent, and, to crown all, a rumour has got about that your horses will not start, and will be scratched at the last minute. it was a capital idea our coming down here last night." "yes," replied bradon, "it was a famous dodge; so they think the horses will be scratched, do they? well, it strikes me they will be slightly deceived about three o'clock to-day. nothing can be in more beautiful fettle than the nags are, and if man ever had a certainty i have one in guardsman; although i have had no trial with him against anything else, he is, i know, a flyer, and a sticker. it will be heavy to-day, and no horse i ever rode goes better through dirt than he does. bar accidents, i look on the silverpool as landed." "bravo, bravo, george!" said his friend; "your heart is in the right place, and if we should pull it off, it will be one of the grandest _coups_ that has been made on the turf for many a day. we will go in half an hour, if you like, to look at your nags. they are only three miles from this, at a quiet farmhouse; then we will return here, dress, and start at twelve in the drag." the horses were inspected, and nothing could look more beautiful. tim was in his glory. "yes, my lord," said he, in answer to a question put to him by that gentleman. "i am glad to be back in the old land, not but what the moossoos was very jolly and haffable. still, france ain't up to my notions of a sporting country; but we was in quiet there--no touts, no interlopers, or anything. now, if i'd a-brought the horses down here by rail, every one would have knowed it; so they came in a van. it's a little more expensive, but by far the best and safest way. not a soul knows they are here, and no one will be aware of it till i takes them to the saddling-post. i'm just going to start with them now. i've got a couple of boxes close by the course, so you must excuse me, my lord." and, touching his hat, the old man disappeared. * * * * * "whose yellow drag and grays is that coming up the course?" said one of the occupants of the lawn in front of the grand stand. "i do not know it." a dozen glasses were at once levelled at the object. "whose drag?" said the sly-looking little man we have alluded to before. "why, lord plunger's. george bradon is sitting on the box seat with him, and the rest are officers of his old regiment--i know their faces." "by jingo!" burst out a score of voices: "then he is in england, and come to see his horses run, or scratch them. now we shall know something." "i wonder if he will be flattered when he hears the price his nags are at now?" said another. "he will not care a rap," said the sly-looking little man. "look out, my boys, there's something up, you may depend. bradon, if his horses do go, has something pretty good, you may rely. i warned you all before. now, i have not laid a penny against his nags. i have let them alone--till the last minute. but here they come." "hallo, bradon!" burst out fifty voices. "what, in england! come to see the nags beaten?" "well, i do not know," said george, shaking hands with some of them. "i hope they will be there, or thereabouts; pretty heavy the ground to-day. my horses can stand it, which a good many of the others cannot." "are your horses here?" said the sly-looking little man. "not yet," returned bradon, "but they will be by-and-by. old mason has got them stowed away somewhere; but upon my soul i don't know where they are myself at present." "which shall you declare to win with?" asked the sly-looking little man continuing his interrogations. "oh, with guardsman," said george. "and your jocks?" put in another. "all the talent is engaged. a pity you are so heavy--why, you've grown immense. you will want a dray-horse to carry you soon." "think i have?" said george. "it's my coats, man. every fellow looks large with a couple of top-coats on, and a huge-wrapper round his throat. i know all the talent is engaged. one of my lads will ride the gray." "i say, bradon," put in another, "i heard you weighed twelve stone five; is that a fact?" "yes," said george; "i put on sixteen pounds in less than two years--an idle life at home did for me." "but, bradon," persisted the sly-looking little man, "you say one of your lads is going to ride the gray. but guardsman--_who is to ride him_?" "oh," said george, "who is to ride him?--why, i will tell you in one word, it's a fellow you all know pretty well--myself." had a thunderbolt fallen amongst them they could not have been more astonished. "what!" they one and all exclaimed, "you? why you told us not an instant ago that you weighed twelve stone five." "no, my friends, i did not. i said, in answer to a question, that i _had_ weighed twelve stone five. i told you i had put sixteen pounds on, but i did not tell you i had not taken it off. i walk ten stone ten now--banting, my boys, banting. and, listen to me, i shall win if i can, and i have a good chance; but, win or lose, this is my last appearance in public. i've grown immense, have i not, old fellow?" addressing himself to the one who had made the remark. "i shall want a dray-horse soon, shall i not?" "by g--," said the sly-looking little man, "i thought there was something up. the very best hand in england going to ride his own horse. i'll be off to back him." the tall youth before alluded to turned deadly pale, but not a word did he utter as he walked away. in less than five minutes it became known in the ring and the stands that george bradon was to ride his own horse. the utmost consternation ensued and many tried to hedge off their bets--but little or nothing could be done. in the meantime our friend was quietly getting himself ready in the dressing-room. the time at last came, the horses were saddled, and cantered. "here comes guardsman," cried the crowd, as the gallant horse came sweeping up the course in magnificent style, with the gray beside him. "by heaven!" muttered a well-known betting-man, and one of the best judges in europe, "a truly splendid horse--far better in appearance and style than anything here. bar accidents, he will win in a canter, and if he does, i'm ruined." the betting and other men were positively paralyzed as bradon and his horse came sweeping by, and it was allowed on all hands that no such animal as guardsman had been seen for years. "there, my boys," said lord plunger, dashing into the ring, "there's a man and horse for you. if he does not do the trick to-day i shall be very much astonished; and if he does, we shall both land a handsome sum, which you will drop." the anxious moment is at last come, the horses are in line--the old stud-groom, tim mason, stands close by, with wipers, sponge, and bottle in hand. there is a curious nervous twitching at the corners of his mouth, the lips are dry and parched, and two small red spots adorn each cheek. not so with our friend. he sits his noble animal with confidence, ease, and grace, and as cool as a cucumber. spying out his faithful old servant, he said, "what do you think of him, tim?" "why, sir," he called out, "he's the best horse as was ever foaled; and if he don't beat that lot"--pointing with extreme contempt towards the line of horses--"tim mason knows nothing about it, and is jolly well d----d." the word is at last given, and at the first attempt the lot are off. "they're off!" shouted the hoarse voices of thousands, and streaming along were some thirty gallant animals striving for the pride of place--thousands, nay hundreds and hundreds of thousands, depending on the lucky animal that first caught the judge's eye. the conspicuous colours of george bradon--scarlet and white hoops--were in the extreme rear, but suddenly as they got into the grass land his gray took first place and made the pace a cracker. "the gray in to pump the field," muttered the sly-looking little man to his neighbour. "the fastest thing i have ever seen," said another. "by jingo, one, two, three down, and look, bradon is taking quite a line of his own. by george, how well his horse jumps; it's a dead certainty." "so i think," returned the other. there is an awful tailing off now, the pace has told its tale; only eighteen or twenty are really in it. the dangerous brook and the double bank are passed, and the gallant gray who has set the field has shot his bolt. "well done, harry," cried george, as he passed him. "well done, pull him up." the great water jump in front of the grand stand is approached again. "here they come!" roared the multitude. "who's first? scarlet and white hoops," cried the excited thousands--"scarlet and white over the water first for money!" george knowing the danger of a lot of horses, which he thought would be down at this, resolved to lead over it. dropping his hands a bit the gallant animal rushed to the front, a length or so, and there he was kept. the water is approached, the excitement of the multitude is something fearful as they sway to and fro to catch a glimpse. "magnificent!" burst from thousands of throats, as guardsman hopped over the formidable eighteen feet like a bird. george turned slightly in his saddle to take stock. "all safe but three," he uttered; "well, that is more than i thought would get over. now, old man, i must take a pull at you. you have only done part of the journey. i can't afford to pump you yet." "guardsman has cut it," shouted a hundred voices as the gallant horse was pulled back. "the cowardly brute!" bawled another. "don't you believe it," cried the sly-looking little man, in a shrill voice that was heard all over the place. "i'll take three to one in thous, and do it twice, that guardsman wins, or is placed." "done," said the pale delicate youth; "i'm on for twice." and the pencils went to work. there was but one opinion amongst the countless thousands that guardsman was the best horse in the race, and that, bar accidents, he must win. the field has become very select now; still what do remain in the chase go well. the excitement is intense; men are gnawing their lips and nails; ladies are quivering with emotion and biting the tips of their delicate-coloured gloves. wild and staring eyes are everywhere. men eagerly grasp each other by the arm with a wild convulsive clutch as the horses clear each obstacle. some stand stony and immovable, without the slightest appearance of interest. little is known of the fearful beatings of their hearts under that cold, calm exterior. "here they come!" said the crowd, as some eight or ten horses make the turn for home. "guardsman baked!" shouts the ring, as the horse is seen nearly last. "the irish horse wins for a thousand," shouts an over-excited speculator. "done," says the sly-looking little man, and again the metallics are at work. lord plunger looks on with a calm indifferent demeanour. "by g--, plunger," said one of george's old messmates, with a scared countenance, "bradon is done. we shall all drop finely." "wait!" was the quiet answer. the last hurdle but one is taken, which the irish horse jumps first; but what a change has taken place in the field! scarlet and white hoops, instead of being nearly last, is hanging on the leading horse's quarters, and it is very patent to all those skilled in racing matters that from the manner guardsman skimmed over the hurdle the other horse was only permitted to lead on sufferance. turn where you will, the same look of intense excitement is discernible on every countenance; the vast mass surges to and fro, the hoarse murmur of the frenzied multitude has something unearthly in it. "the irish horse wins,--guardsman wins!" is shouted on all sides. the horses come up closely locked together; never moving on his horse bradon sits as quiet as a statue, but the heels of the other horseman are at work; the whip arm is raised, but just as it is the strain on guardsman's jaws is relaxed, and the noble horse, without the slightest effort, quits the other, and is landed an easy winner by some half-dozen lengths. "there," said lord plunger, heaving a vast sigh, which seemed to relieve him immensely; "did you ever see such a horse, and such a bit of riding?" his lordship is not calm now; there is a wild feverish light in his eyes; he trembles, too, slightly; a bright hectic spot is on either cheek, and the veins in his temples are swollen, and seem ready to burst as he takes off his hat to draw his hand across his clammy brow. "thank god!" he muttered, as he turned to meet his friend, who was returning to the weighing-stand, amidst such shouts as are seldom heard. cheer after cheer rent the air. "god bless you, old fellow!" said his lordship, as his friend passed him in the enclosure; "there never was, and never will be, such a silverpool again. i will never bet another farthing! i'm square again." george is now dismounted. taking the saddle off his noble favourite, as he has it on one arm, he fondly and proudly pats his neck. tim is standing at the horse's head, with a rein in each hand; tears are coursing down the old man's cheek. "god spare you many years, sir!" said he to his master, who looked kindly at him; "but never ride another race whilst i am alive; i can't bear it; one more day such as this would be my last." george entered the weighing-room. "guardsman, ten twelve," said he, seating himself in the chair. the clerk of the scales approached with book in hand and pencil in mouth, looking up to the dial for an instant said, "right!" cheer after cheer rent the air again as he came out in his top-coat. "for god's sake, george, come to the drag and have some champagne; i'm ready to faint," said lord plunger, as he seized his arm. "come on, then," returned bradon; "i'm thirsty too; but just let me look to the horse and tim first." but tim had clothed the horses up, as he said the boxes were only a few paces off, and they would be better dressed there. as he turned to follow lord plunger, he was seized by a host of his old companions-in-arms, hoisted up, and carried to the drag on their shoulders. "bradon," said lord plunger, after he had drained off a silver goblet of the sparkling wine, "we have pulled out of this well, right well; for myself, i have now done with betting and the turf. i have been hit, and hard hit, but this _coup_ more than squares me. i'll tempt the fickle goddess no more." "my decision you knew long ago," returned his friend. "this is my last appearance in public. i shall only hunt, and i think with such a horse as guardsman i may be a first-flight man." his lordship and bradon were ever afterwards only lookers-on at the few race-meetings they attended, and here we must take leave of them. in a snug little cottage close by bradon hall lives tim mason, now rather an infirm old man; still he looks after the stud as usual. in his pretty little parlour, on a side table, stand two glass cases. under one is a saddle, bridle, &c., in the other a satin racing jacket and cap--scarlet and white hoops. it may easily be divined whose they were. "they were only used once," he would say, pointing them out to some friend who had dropped in to see him, "only once; but they won a pot of money for my boy. lord, you should have seen him ride and win that silverpool--it was a sight for sore eyes, i can tell you. never were two better horses than guardsman and my gray. it's rather the ticket to see them in the field now; they're the best hunters as ever was foaled." [this story was first published in _baily's magazine_ ( ).--ed.] a cub-hunting invitation _monday._--received letter from pownceby. "come down to my little place and we'll do a morning's cubbing. can mount you. say tuesday night by . , and i'll meet you at chickenham station." deuced good of pownceby. hardly known him a week. will wire at once to accept. _tuesday._--go down by . train. pouring all the way. wonder how far chickenham is. inquire, and am told next station. pownceby receives me on platform. awfully dark and still raining. hope he has brought closed carriage of some sort. hate open carts this weather. pownceby greets me heartily. seems a deuced good chap this. so thoroughly pleased to see me. "my little place only a short step from here, so hope you won't mind walking? porter will take your bag. yes, the roads _are_ a bit muddy, but that's nothing. ready? we'll start, then." don't think walking is quite in my line, especially on pouring wet night. we trudge along dark lane, splashing into deep puddles at every other step. "don't mind going a little out of our way, do you?" says pownceby, "must just run into the butcher's and the grocer's to take a few things home with me." we diverge into dimly-lit street. pownceby disappears into shop, leaving me standing outside. seems to be at least an hour in grocer's; another ten minutes in butcher's. my teeth chattering now. start again, and walk on and on. ask, "where's your place, are we anywhere near it?" "oh, close by," says pownceby, cheerily. trudge on again; wet through by this time. am seriously marshalling supply of cuss-words into their places for use in the near future, when pownceby suddenly grips my arm, dropping pound of sausages from under his own at same moment. they fall into puddle. "there's my little place, old chap." wish he wouldn't "old chap" me. hardly know the fellow, and begin to hate him now. he picks up sausages, and repeats, "there's my little place; jolly little crib, ain't it?" fear pownceby is vulgar, never noticed it before. can just see feeble light in cottage window, apparently miles off. murmur, faintly, "oh, i see," and struggle along again. my boots like wet paper, now, and trying to imitate suction pump. do rest of journey silently. cottage at last. pownceby lifts latch, and we enter. smell of lamp-oil overpowering. pownceby's "little place" is labourer's four-roomed cottage, and singularly dirty at that. met by aggressive elderly female, even dirtier than cottage. pownceby silently hands her mud-stained sausages and two chops, wrapped in newspaper. i don't exactly dine, says pownceby to me, "i have supper, you know; same thing, only different name. being a bachelor, i make no fuss with anyone." rather wish he would. "come upstairs and put yourself straight. mind that loose board. not 'up to weight,' as we say, eh?" avoid loose plank and stumble upstairs into sloping-roofed attic. painted wooden bedstead; ditto washstand. smells musty. paper peeling off walls, and ceiling coming down in patches. i shudder, and ask when i may expect portmanteau. "oh, in about an hour, i daresay. got all you want? sure that you're _quite_ comfortable?" _mem._ this man evidently an unconscious humorist. have to borrow (greatly against my will) some dry clothes of pownceby's in absence of my own. wash, and descend ricketty stairs to sitting room. fire smokes. "like me," says pownceby, facetiously, and laughs uproariously. must have _very_ keen sense of humour, this man. aggressive female enters with two chops (fried) and ditto sausages; small jug of table beer and tinned loaf complete picture. "let's fall to," says pownceby; "you see your meal before you. none of your french dishes for me!" (_mem._ nor for me either, unfortunately,) "but, good, plain, english food, eh?" do not reply, but attack sausage. decline fried chop. beer turgid; leave it untasted; thank goodness, my portmanteau arrives during repast. pay porter half-a-crown--looks as if he had earned it. pownceby finishes off my chop and his own too, smacks his lips, and produces bottle of "cooking" brandy. i light cigar, and take one sip of the brandy. find one sip more than satisfying and do not try another. "got a nice horse for you, to-morrow," says pownceby; "he ain't a beauty, but a real good 'un. useful horse, too. does all the chain-harrowing and carting work. must start at a.m. sharp and get breakfast afterwards." i nod. am past the speaking stage now. retire to bed, damp and shivering, and very hungry. find mouse seated on dressing table, regarding me contemptuously. shy boot at him. miss mouse, but smash mirror. feel glow of unholy satisfaction at this. toss about all night. _wednesday._--rise . , dress by candle-light, and crawl down stairs. ask pownceby where are horses? "oh, we'll walk round to the stable for 'em," says pownceby. plod through many puddles, and enter evil smelling shed. labourer saddling melancholy grey, elaborately stained on both quarters. "there you are, and as good as they make 'em." don't know who "they" are, but wish "they" would "make 'em" a little cleaner. mount, and am joined by pownceby on equine framework. beginning to rain again. "this is jolly, eh?" he says. "oh, awfully," i reply, feebly, as my wreck nearly blunders down on to his fiddle head. arrive at meet . . "oh, the 'ounds 'as bin gorn this 'arf hour or more. the meet was at six," says a yokel. pownceby borrows fiver on road home. caught . back to town, and if ever----! told after mess "you want to hear the story, eh?" loud chorus of subalterns: "no!" "all right, then, that settles your fate, and you shall!" and i lit a cigar preliminary to starting the yarn. "well do i remember the episode. it was a cut-throat country that we had to ride over. many of my soldier comrades, brave and true, fell that day thickly around me--but as they all got up again, it did not really so much matter." having deftly dodged a sofa-cushion shied at my head by way of a gentle hint to "get forrard," i dropped from airy heights to the sober realms of fact, and proceeded to tell my plain unvarnished tale. "after hunting for ten years with a pack belonging to a cavalry regiment--let us call it the 'heavyshot drag'--the fates (and taylor & co.) removed me into a far country, and but for the kindness of some members of the hunt, who often asked me up and gave me a mount, i should have known the heavyshot no more, as it was too far to bring any of my own select stud--consisting of a musical one, with three legs and a swinger, a bolter with a blind eye, and a . pony!--up for the gallop. and what jolly gallops they always were, too! "one day i got a wire from my excellent friend major laughton, who was then master of the heavyshot, 'come up, friday. lunch mess. hounds meet pickles common.' to which, in the degenerate language of the times, i wired reply, 'you bet,' and one p.m. on the day named found my breeched and booted legs beneath the mahogany of the hospitable mess room. "major laughton, in greeting me, said, 'so sorry, my dear boy, i can't give you my second horse, as he's all wrong to-day--a severe "pain under the pinafore" has floored him. but i've got you a gee from--well, never mind where from, i know he can jump.' and with these words the conversation dropped. as to where my mount came from--well, it was no concern of mine, was it? i thought i noticed a slight deflection of the gallant major's left eyelid when he was speaking, but that, after all, might have been my fancy. "after putting in some strong work over the luncheon course, we lit cigars, and in a few minutes both horses and hounds appeared on the parade ground. my horse with the mysterious origin was a good-looking bay, who carried his head in the 'cocky' fashion beloved of riding-masters, and proved a very pleasant hack. we jogged along and soon reached the meet. "the usual scene of eagerness and excitement, hounds supplying the latter element, whilst the superior animal, man, jostled his fellows consumedly, in his natural desire to 'get off the mark' as soon as decency and the master permitted. the last-named held forth vigorously to us, as with a 'tow-yow-yow!' hounds dashed across the first field, and jumped, scrambled, or squeezed through the first fence. "'let 'em get over before you start, bless you all! come back there, you man on the grey! what the saintly st ursula are you doing? all right, now you can go, and be past-participled to you all!' "and away we went as if his satanic majesty had assisted us with the toe of his boot! swish! and the first fence, long looked at and much disliked, is a thing of the past; horses pull and bore to get their heads as we sail down a stiffish hill and over a broad ditch at the bottom. my horse drops one hind leg in, and loses a couple of lengths by the performance. up a slight slope we stand in our stirrups--to ease our horses, _bien entendu_--not to look at the forbidding obstacle in front of us, oh dear no! a post and rails, with no top bar broken anywhere, and what i hear a groom behind me calling a 'narsetty' great ditch on the landing side. our gallant first whip crams his horse at it, and but for the animal's forgetfulness in leaving both hind legs the wrong side, would have led over in great style; but 'tis an ill wind which blows nobody any good, and those legs break the top rail for us. did i follow the whip over a bit close? well, i hope not; verdict, 'not guilty, but don't do it again.' two flights of hurdles and a ploughed field bring us to the main road. we jump into, and out of, this, leaving two of our number as 'bookmakers'--_i.e._, 'laying on the field.' on we go again over about three miles of pretty hunting country, with nice, plain-sailing fences; then comes a stile, at which one refusal and two 'downers' still further reduces the field; and, with another flight of hurdles surmounted, we come to a check. oh, the shaking of tails and blowing of nostrils! the 'soaping' of reins and the sweat on the foam-flecked bodies of the poor gees! "'horses seem to have had about enough of it, don't you think so?' said a man who had pulled up just alongside of me. "i turned in my saddle to answer, when, without the slightest warning, and giving vent to a groan which i seem to hear still, my horse suddenly fell to the ground. a dozen men slipped off their horses to lend a hand. we quickly unbuckled the girths and pulled the saddle off, but, even as we did so, i saw the glazing eye, which told unmistakably that the poor old chap had done his last gallop and jumped his last fence. he was as dead as julius cæsar! "'by jove, and it's one of the queen's, too!' exclaimed an impetuous subaltern. "'shut up, you young ass!' quickly rejoined his major in low tones, and the good youth incontinently closed the floodgates of his eloquence just as an enormous man, colonel de boots, in command of the cavalry depôt, who had driven out to see the fun, pushed his way through the little crowd assembled round the 'stiff un' in order to tender his advice. "it was a tight place for those concerned, but the tension was quickly relaxed when, instead of looking at the horse, he turned to me and said, 'deuced sorry _for your loss_, really--most annoying. my wife will be delighted to give you a seat in her carriage. my servant shall look after your horse until----' "'not for worlds, sir,' i replied hastily, 'that is all arranged for. but if you will really be so good as to take me to mrs de boots' carriage, and if she would not mind my entering it in this very muddy condition----?' "'delighted; come along with me!' we walked off, and the situation was saved. "only temporarily, though. i blandly received colonel and mrs de boots' condolences on the loss of _my_ horse all the way home to barracks, and i heard afterwards that they thought i 'took it in very good part.' the moment i was released from their carriage, after thanking them warmly for picking me up as they had done, i took to my heels and ran down to major laughton's quarters. "'here's a pretty mess, my boy!' he exclaimed; 'there'll have to be a board to "sit on" the departed, to-morrow, and report in what way he came to his "frightful end," as the newspaper johnnies call it. which _is_ his "frightful end," by the way?' he added in meditative tones. "'give it up; ask me another,' i rejoined, with a grin. 'but, seriously, will there be an awful row when it comes out that we were hunting one of her majesty's?' "'well, naturally, a paternal government doesn't provide hunters for "all and sundry." come along with me: we'll see the vet., and find out what can be done.' "away we went to the vet.'s office, and fortunately found him in. laughton related the whole affair to him, and wound up by saying, 'i don't want you to do anything that isn't strictly right, you know; but if you can see a way of helping us out of the difficulty, i shall be awfully obliged. the worst of it is that it's a young horse--bradford.' "'bradford? oh, no; i saw bradford in his stall not ten minutes ago.' "'are you sure of that?' "'oh, perfectly.' "'how strange! i sent a man down to the stables this morning to tell them to send bradford up--but i'll ask him at once: he's just in the yard there,' and the next minute we were eagerly questioning the 'tommy' as he stood rigidly at attention. "'did you tell them i wanted bradford?' "'yessir.' "'what did they say?' "'said there was no such 'orse as radford.' "'bradford, i said.' "'beg pardon, sir. understood the name was radford, and the sergeant----' "'yes, the sergeant, what did he say then?' "'said i was a hass, sir----' "'quite right, go on,' said the major, encouragingly. "'and that i must mean radnor, and radnor was the 'orse as was sent up, sir.' "the major turned on his heel without a word, and walked again into the vet.'s office, followed by me. the 'tommy' remained at 'attention,' and may be in the same attitude now, as far as i know. "'this is a relief, anyhow,' said laughton, 'radnor would have been "cast" very soon, and so his sudden death won't be so surprising to the board.' "up to this point the vet. had been silent; now a smile hovered over his face as he said, 'leave the whole business to me, major. where's the defunct?' "the major described the place, and the interview ended, and we walked back to laughton's quarters." * * * * * "the board assembled, and briefly, the result of their deliberations was to find that the bay gelding radnor was discovered dead in his stall, the certified cause of death being fatty degeneration of the heart." * * * * * "yes, that's all very fine and large, but how the----? what the----? when the----!!!" broke in a babel of voices. "hold on, boys, and you shall know one or two things which the board didn't know. picture a scene in the barrack yard like this: a dark night, moon only showing in fitful gleams now and then; a trolly with a couple of horses; four stalwart tommies and a sergeant-major seated on the trolly; it rattles out of the barrack square and over some five miles or so of road to the heath where the hero of the day breathed his last. the trolly is drawn up on to the grass, and after a few minutes' search the sergeant-major discovers the _corpus delicti_; with much exertion it is hauled up on to the trolly, and the return journey commences. "just before the witching hour of midnight 'when sentries yawn and colonels go to bed'--shakespeare freely transposed, boys, this--enter the trolly to the stable yard again. the dead horse is hoisted out, put in its stall, and the head-collar most carefully adjusted ('in case he should get loose,' observed one tommy to another, with an unholy grin). "all the actors in the little drama retire to imbibe liquid sustenance 'stood' by an invisible donor--peace reigns again all around the barrack square, and----and that's the end. waiter, bring me a whiskey and soda, and some matches." turnbull and spears, printers, edinburgh. satanella [illustration: "his next stride brought him on his head." (page .) _satanella._ _frontispiece_] satanella a story of punchestown by g.j. whyte-melville author of "holmby house," "the gladiators," "kate coventry," &c., &c. illustrated by lucy e. kemp-welch london ward, lock & co., limited new york and melbourne contents chap. page i. the black mare ii. miss douglas iii. daisy iv. mrs. lushington v. through the mill vi. cutting for partners vii. getting on viii. insatiable ix. off and on x. at sea xi. cormac's-town xii. one too many xiii. punchestown xiv. "a good thing" xv. winners and losers xvi. a garden of eden xvii. "soldier bill" xviii. delilah xix. "the river's brim" xx. taking the collar xxi. a snake in the grass xxii. an expert xxiii. the debt of honour xxiv. a pertinent question xxv. a satisfactory answer xxvi. afternoon tea xxvii. a hard morsel xxviii. "seeking rest and finding none" xxix. undivided xxx. the bitter end satanella chapter i the black mare "she'll make a chaser annyhow!" the speaker was a rough-looking man in a frieze coat, with wide mouth, short nose, and grey, honest irish eyes, that twinkled with humour on occasion, though clouded for the present by disappointment, not to say disgust, and with some reason. in his hand he held a broken strap, with broad and dingy buckle; at his feet, detached from shafts and wheels, lay the body of an ungainly vehicle, neither gig, dog-cart, nor outside car, but something of each, battered and splintered in a dozen places: while "foreaninst" him, as he called it, winced and fretted a young black mare, snorting, trembling, fractious, and terrified, with ears laid back, tail tucked down to her strong cowering quarters, and an obvious determination on the slightest alarm to kick herself clear of everything once more. at her head stood a ragged urchin of fourteen; although her eyes showed wild and red above the shabby blinkers, she rubbed her nose against the lad's waistcoat, and seemed to consider him the only friend she had left in the world. "get on her back, patsy," said the man. "faix, she's a well-lepped wan, an' we'll take a hate out of her at punchestown, with the blessin'!--augh! see now, here's the young captain! ye're welcome, captain! it's meself was proud when i see how ye cleaned them out last week on 'garryowen.' ye'll come in, and welcome, captain. go on in front now, and i'll show you the way!" so, while a slim, blue-eyed, young gentleman, with curled moustache, accompanied his entertainer into the house, patsy took the mare to the stable, where he accoutred her in an ancient saddle, pulpy, weather-stained, with stirrups of most unequal length; proceeding thereafter to force a rusty snaffle into her mouth, with the tightest possible nose-band and a faded green and white front. these arrangements completed, he surveyed the whole, grinning and well-pleased. that the newcomer could only be a subaltern of light dragoons, was obvious from his trim equestrian appearance, his sleek, well-cropped head, the easy sit of his garments, also, perhaps, from an air of imperturbable good-humour and self-confidence, equal to any occasion that might present itself, social, moral, or physical. [illustration: "these arrangements completed, he surveyed the whole, grinning, and well pleased." _satanella._ _page _] proof against "dandies of punch" and such hospitable provocatives, he soon deserted the parlour for the stable. "and how is the mare coming on?" said he standing in the doorway of that animal's dwelling, which she shared with a little cropped jackass, a kerry cow, and a litter of pigs. "i always said she could gallop a bit, and they're the right sort to stay. but can she jump?" "the beautifullest ever ye see!" replied her enthusiastic owner. "she'll go whereiver a cat would follow a rat. if there's a harse in connemara that 'ud charge on the sharp edge of a razor, there's the wan that can do't! kick--stick _and_ plasther! it's in their breed; and like th'ould mare before her, so long as you'd hould her, it's my belief she'd stay in the air!" the object of these praises had now emerged from her stall, and a very likely animal she looked; poor and angular indeed, with a loose neck and somewhat long ears, but in her lengthy frame, and large clean limbs, affording promise for the future of great beauty, no less than extraordinary power and speed. her head was exceedingly characteristic, lean and taper, showing every vein and articulation beneath the glossy skin, with a wide scarlet nostril and flashing eye, suggestive of courage and resolution, not without a considerable leavening of temper. there are horses, and women too, that stick at nothing. to a bold rider, the former are invaluable, because with these it is possible to keep their mettle under control. "hurry now, patsy!" said the owner, as that little personage, diving for the stirrup, which he missed, looked imploringly to his full-grown companions for a "leg up." but it was not in the nature of our young officer, by name john walters, known in his regiment as "daisy," to behold an empty saddle at any time without longing to fill it. he had altered the stirrups, cocked up his left leg for a lift, and lit fairly in his seat, before the astonished filly could make any more vigorous protest than a lurch of her great strong back and whisk of her long tail. "begorra! ye'll get it now!" said her owner, half to himself, half to the kerry cow, on which discreet animal he thought it prudent to rivet his attention, distrusting alike the docility of his own filly, and the english man's equestrian skill. over the rough paved yard, through the stone gap by the peat-stack, not the little cropped jackass himself could have behaved more soberly. but where the spring flowers were peeping in the turf enclosure beyond, and the upright bank blazed in its golden glory of gorse-bloom, the devilry of many ancestors seemed to pass with the keen mountain-air into the filly's mettle. her first plunge of hilarity and insubordination would have unseated half the rough-riders that ever mishandled a charger in the school. once--twice, she reached forward, with long, powerful plunges, shaking her ears, and dashing wildly at her bridle, till she got rein enough to stick her nose in the air, and break away at speed. a snaffle, with or without a nose-band, is scarcely the instrument by which a violent animal can be brought on its haunches at short notice; but daisy was a consummate horseman, firm of seat and cool of temper, with a head that never failed him, even when debarred from the proper use of his hands. he could guide the mare, though incapable of controlling her. so he sent her at the highest place in the fence before him, and, fast as she was going, the active filly changed her stride on the bank with the accuracy of a goat, landing lightly beyond, to scour away once more like a frightened deer. "you _can_ jump!" said he, as she threw up the head that had been in its right place hardly an instant, while she steadied herself for the leap; "and i believe you're a flyer. but, by jove! you're a rum one to steer!" she was quite out of his hand again, and laid herself down to her work with the vigour of a steam-engine. the daisy-sprinkled turf fleeted like falling water beneath those long, smooth, sweeping strides. they were careering over an open upland country, always slightly on the rise, till it grew to a bleak brown mountain far away under the western sky. the enclosures were small; but notwithstanding the many formidable banks and ditches with which it was intersected, the whole landscape wore that appearance of space and freedom so peculiar to irish scenery, so pleasing to the sportsman's eye. "it looked like galloping," as they say, though no horse, without great jumping powers, could have gone two fields. it took a long irish mile, at racing pace, to bring the mare to her bridle, and nothing but her unusual activity saved the rider from half-a-dozen rattling falls during his perilous experiment. she bent her neck at last, and gave to her bit in a potato-ground; nor, if he had resolved to buy her for the sake of her speed and stamina while she was running away with him, did he like her less, we may be sure, when they arrived at that mutual understanding, which links together so mysteriously the intelligences of the horse and its rider. turning homewards, the pair seemed equally pleased with each other. she played gaily with the snaffle now, answering hand and heel cheerfully, desirous only of being ridden at the largest fences, a fancy in which he indulged her, nothing loth. trotting up to four feet and a half of stone wall, round her own stable-yard, she slipped over it without an effort, and her owner, a discerning person enough, added fifty to her price on the spot. "she's a good sort," said the soldier, patting her reeking neck, as he slid to the ground; "but she's uncommon bad to steer when her monkey's up! sound, you say, and rising four year old? i wonder how she's bred?" such a question could not but entail a voluminous reply. never, it appeared, in one strain, had been united the qualities of so many illustrious ancestors. her pedigree seemed enriched with "all the blood of all the howards," and her great-great-great-grandam was "camilla by trentham, out of phantom, sister to magistrate!" "an' now ye've bought her, captain," said our friend in frieze, "ye've taken the best iver i bred, an' the best iver i seen. av' i'd let her out o'my sight wanst at ballinasloe, the lord-liftinint 'ud have been acrass her back, while i'm tellin' ye, an' him leadin' the hunt, up in meath, or about the fairy house and kilrue. the spade wasn't soldered yet that would dig a ditch to hould her; and when them sort's tired, captain, begorra! the very breeches 'ud be wore to rags betwixt your knees! you trust _her_, and you trust _me_! wait till i tell ye now. there's only wan thing on this mortial earth she won't do for ye!" "and what's that?" asked the other, well pleased. "she'll not back a bill!" was the answer; "but if iver she schames with ye, renaging[ ] or such like, by this book, i'll be ashamed to look a harse, or so much as a jackass in the face again!" so the mare was sent for; and patsy, with a stud reduced to the donkey and the kerry cow, shed bitter tears when she went away. footnotes: [footnote : refusing.] chapter ii miss douglas it is time to explain how the young black mare became linked with the fate of certain persons, whose fortunes and doings, good or bad, are related in this story. to that end the scene must be shifted, and laid in london--london, on a mild february morning, when even south audley street and its tributaries seemed to exhale a balmy fragrance from the breath of spring. in one of these, a window stood open on the drawing-room floor--so wide open that the baker, resting his burden on the area railings below, sniffed the perfume of hyacinths bursting their bulbs, and beat time with floury shoes to the notes of a wild and plaintive melody, wailing from the pianoforte within. though a delicate little breakfast-service had not yet been removed from its spider-legged table, the performer at the instrument was already hatted and habited for a ride. her whole heart, nevertheless, seemed to be in the tips of her fingers while she played, drawing from the keys such sighs of piteous plaint, such sobs of sweet seductive sorrow, as ravished the soul of the baker below, creating a strong desire to scale the window-sill, and peep into the room. could he have executed such a feat, this is what he would have seen. a woman of twenty-five, tall, slim-waisted, with a wealth of blue-black hair, all made fast and coiled away beneath her riding-hat in shining folds, massive as a three-inch cable. a woman of graceful gestures, undulating like the serpent; of a shapely figure, denoting rather the graces of action, than the beauty of repose; lithe, self-reliant, full of latent energy, betraying in every movement an inborn pride, tameless though kept down, and incurable as lucifer's before his fall. the white hands moving so deftly over the keys were strong and nervous, with large blue veins and taper fingers; such hands as denote a vigorous nature and a resolute will--such hands as strike without pity, and hold with tenacious grasp--such hands as many a lofty head has bowed its pride to kiss, and thought no shame. lower and lower, she bent over them while she played--softer and softer sank and swelled, and died away, the sad suggestive notes, bursting at last into a peal and crash of harmony, through which there came a short quick gasp for breath like a sob. then she shut the pianoforte with a bang, and walked to the glass over the fire-place. it reflected a strangely-fascinating face, so irregular of features that women sometimes called it "positively plain;" but on which the other sex felt neither better nor wiser men when they looked. the cheek-bones, chin, and jaws were prominent; the eyebrows, though arched, too thick; and for feminine beauty, the mouth too firm, in spite of its broad white teeth, and dark shade pencilled on the upper lip, in spite even of its saucy curl and bright bewildering smile. but when she lifted her flashing eyes fringed in their long black lashes, there was no more to be said. they seemed to blaze and soften, shine and swim, all in one glance that went straight to a man's heart and made him wince with a thrill akin to pain. pale women protested she had too much colour, and vowed she painted: but no cosmetics ever yet concocted could have imitated her deep rich tints, glowing like those of the black-browed beauties one sees in southern europe, as if the blood ran crimson beneath her skin--as if she, too, had caught warmth and vitality from their generous climate and their sunny, smiling skies. when she blushed, it was like the glory of noonday; and she blushed now, while there came a trampling of hoofs in the street, a ring at the door-bell. the colour faded from her brow, nevertheless, before a man's step dwelt heavily on the staircase, and her visitor was ushered into the room as "general st. josephs." "you are early, general," said she, giving him her hand with royal condescension; "early, but welcome, and--and--the horses will be round in five minutes--have you had any breakfast? i am afraid my coffee is quite cold." general st. josephs knew what it was to starve in the crimea and broil in the mutiny; had been shot at very often by guns of various calibres; had brought into discipline one of the worst-drilled regiments in the service, and was a distinguished officer, past forty years of age. what made his heart beat, and his hands turn cold? why did the blood rush to his temples, while she gave him greeting? "don't hurry, pray!" said he; "i can wait as long as you like. i'd wait the whole day for you, if that was all!" he spoke in a husky voice, as if his lips were dry. perhaps that was the reason she seemed not to hear. throwing the window wide open, she looked down the street. taking more of that thoroughfare than was convenient by advancing lengthways, with many plunges and lashings out, and whiskings of her long square tail, a black mare with a side-saddle was gradually approaching the door. the groom who led her seemed not a little relieved when he got her to stand by the kerb-stone, patting her nose and whispering many expletives suggestive of composure and docility. this attendant, though gloved, booted, and belted for a ride, felt obviously that one such charge as he had taken in hand was enough. he meant to fetch his own horse from the stable as soon as his mistress was in the saddle. a staid person, out of livery, came to the door, looking up and down the street with the weary air of a man who resides chiefly in his pantry. he condescended to remark, however, that "miss douglas was a-comin' down, and the mare's coat had a polish on her same as if she'd been varnished." while the groom winked in reply, miss douglas appeared on the pavement; and the baker, delivering loaves three doors off, turned round to wonder and approve. "may i put you up?" said the general meekly, almost timidly. how different the tone, and yet it was the same voice that had heretofore rung out so firm and clear in stress of mortal danger, with its stirring order-- "the light brigade will advance!" "no, thank you," said miss douglas coldly; "tiger tim does the heavy business. now, tim--one--two--three!" "three" landed her lightly in the saddle, and the black mare stood like a sheep. one turn of her foot, one kick of her habit--miss douglas was established where she looked her best, felt her best, and liked best to be in the world. so she patted the black mare's neck, a caress her favourite acknowledged with such a bound as might have unseated bellerophon; and followed by tim, on a good-looking chestnut, rode off with her admiring general to the park. who _is_ miss douglas? this was the question everybody asked, and answered too, for that matter, but not satisfactorily. blanche douglas--such was the misnomer of this black-browed lady--had been in london for two years, yet given no account of her antecedents, shown no vouchers for her identity. to cross-question her was not a pleasant undertaking, as certain venturous ladies found to their cost. they called her "the black douglas," indeed, out of spite, till a feminine wit and genius gave her the nickname of "satanella;" and as satanella she was henceforth known in all societies. after that people seemed more reassured, and discovered, or possibly invented for her, such histories as they considered satisfactory to themselves. she was the orphan, some said, of a speculative naval officer, who had married the cousin of a peer. her father was drowned off teneriffe; her mother died of a broken heart. the girl was brought up in a west-country school till she came of age; she had a thousand a year, and lived near south audley street with her aunt, a person of weak intellect, like many old women of both sexes. she was oddish herself, and rather bad style; but there was no harm in her! this was the good-natured version. the ill-natured one was the above travestied. the father had cut his throat; the mother ran away from him, and went mad; and the west-country school was a french convent. the aunt and the thousand a year were equally fabulous. she was loud, bold, horsy, more than queer, and where the money came from that kept the little house near south audley street and enabled her to carry on, goodness only knew! still she held her own, and the old men fell in love with her. "my admirers," she told mrs. cullender, who told _me_, "are romantic--very, and rheumatic also, _à faire pleurer_. the combination, my dear, is touching, but exceedingly inconvenient." mrs. cullender further affirms that old buxton would have married and made her a peeress, had she but held up her finger; and declares she saw counsellor cramp go down on his knees to her, falling forward on his hands, however, before he could get up again, and thus finishing his declaration, as it were, on all-fours! but she would have none of these, inclining rather to men of firmer mould, and captivating especially the gallant defenders of their country by sea and land. admirals are all susceptible more or less, and fickle as the winds they record in their log-books. so she scarcely allowed them to count in her score; but at one time she had seven general-officers on the list, with colonels and majors in proportion. her last conquest was st. josephs--a handsome man, and a proud, cold, reserved, deep-hearted, veiling under an icy demeanour a temper sensitive as a girl's. how many women would have delighted to lead such a captive up and down the ride, and show him off as the keeper shows off his bear in its chain! how many would have paraded their sovereignty over this stern and quiet veteran, till their own hearts were gone, and they longed to change places with their victim, to serve where they had thought only to command! in february london begins to awake out of its winter sleep. some of the great houses have already got their blinds up, and their doorsteps cleaned. well-known faces are hurrying about the streets, and a few equestrians spot the ride, like early flies crawling over a window-pane. the black mare lashed out at one of these with a violence that brought his heart into the soldier's mouth, executing thereafter some half-dozen long and dangerous plunges. miss douglas sat perfectly still, giving the animal plenty of rein; then administered one severe cut with a stiff riding-whip, that left its mark on the smooth shining skin; and, having thus asserted herself, made much of her favourite, as if she loved it all the better for its wilfulness. "i wish you wouldn't ride that brute!" said the general tenderly. "she'll get out of your hand some of these days, and then there'll be a smash!" "not ride her!" answered miss douglas, opening her black eyes wide. "not ride my own beautiful pet! general, i should deserve never to get into a side-saddle again!" "for the sake of your friends," urged the other, drawing very close with a pressure of the leg to his own horse's side; "for the sake of those who care for you; for--for--_my_ sake--miss douglas!" his hand was almost on the mare's neck, his head bent towards its rider. if a man of his age can look "spoony," the general was at that moment a fit subject for ridicule to every cornet in the service. laughing rather scornfully, with a turn of her wrist she put a couple of yards between them. "not even for _your_ sake, general, will i give up my darling. do you think i have no heart?" his brow clouded. he looked very stern and sad, but gulped down whatever he was going to say, and asked instead, "why are you so fond of that mare? she's handsome enough, no doubt, and she can go fast; but still, she is not the least what i call a lady's horse." "that's my secret," answered miss douglas playfully; "wouldn't you give the world to know?" she had a very winning way, when she chose, all the more taking from its contrast to her ordinary manner. he felt its influence now. "i believe i would give _you_ the world if i had it, and not even ask for your secret in exchange," was his reply. "one more turn, miss douglas, i entreat you!" (for she was edging away as if for home.) "it is not near luncheon-time, and i was going to say--miss douglas--i was going to say--" "don't say it now!" she exclaimed, with a shake of her bridle that brought the mare in two bounds close to the footway. "i _must_ go and speak to him! i declare she knows him again. he's got a new umbrella. there he is!" "who?" "why! daisy!" "d--n daisy!" said the general, and rode moodily out of the park. chapter iii daisy mr. walters piqued himself on his _sang-froid_. if the _fractus orbis_ had gone, as he would have expressed it, "to blue smash," "_impavidum ferient ruinæ_," he would have contemplated the predicament from a ludicrous rather than a perplexing point of view. nevertheless, his eye grew brighter, and the colour deepened on his cheek, when miss douglas halted to lean over the rails and shake hands with him. he was very fond of the black mare, you see, and believed firmly in her superiority to her kind. "oh! daisy! i'm so glad to see you!" said miss douglas. "i never thought you'd be in london this open weather. i'm so much obliged to you, and you're the kindest person in the world; and--and--isn't she looking well?" "you're _both_ looking well," answered daisy gallantly; "i thought i couldn't miss you if i walked up this side of the row and down the other." "oh! daisy! you didn't come on purpose!" exclaimed the lady, with rather a forced laugh, and symptoms of a blush. for answer, i am sorry to say, this young gentleman executed a solemn wink. the age of chivalry may or may not be on the wane, but woman-worshippers of to-day adopt a free-and-easy manner in expressing their adoration, little flattering to the shrines at which they bow. "did you really want to see me?" continued miss douglas; "and why couldn't you call? i'd have ridden with you this morning if i'd known you were in town." "got no quad.," answered the laconic daisy. "and yet you lent me your mare!" said she. "indeed, i can't think of keeping her; i'll return her at once. oh! daisy! you unselfish--" "unselfish what?" "goose!" replied the lady. "now, when will you have her back? she's as quiet again as she used to be, and i do believe there isn't such another beauty in the world." "that's why i gave her to _you_," answered daisy. "it's no question of lending; she's yours, just as much as this umbrella's mine. beauty! i should think she _was_ a beauty. i don't pay compliments, or i'd say--there's a pair of you! now, look here, miss douglas, i might ask you to lend her to me for a month, perhaps, if i saw my way into a real good thing. i don't think i ever told you how i came to buy that mare, or what a clipper she is!" "tell me _now_!" said miss douglas eagerly. "let's move on; people stare so if one stops. you can speak the truth walking, i suppose, as well as standing still!" "it's truth i'm telling ye!" he answered, with a laugh. "i heard of that mare up in roscommon when she was two years old. i was a year and a half trying to buy her; but i got her at last, for i'm not an impatient fellow, you know, and i never lose sight of a thing i fancy i should like." "watch and wait!" said the lady. "yes, i watched and i waited," he continued, "till at last they gave me a ride. she'd had a good deal of fun with a sort of go-cart they tried to put her in; and when i saw her i think her owner was a little out of conceit with his venture. she was very poor and starved-looking,--not half the mare she is now; but she ran away with me for nearly two miles, and i found she _could_--_just_! so i bargained, and jawed, and bothered, though i gave a hatful of money for her all the same. when i got her home to barracks, i had her regularly broke and bitted; but she never was easy to ride, and she never will be!" for all comment, miss douglas drew the curb-rein through her fingers, while the mare bent willingly and gently to her hand. "oh! i know they all go pleasant with _you_!" said daisy. "men and horses, you've the knack of bringing them to their bridles in a day! well, i hunted her that season in meath and kildare; but somehow we never dropped into a run. at last one morning, late in the spring, we turned out a deer in the dublin country, and took him in exactly twenty-seven minutes. _then_ this child knew what its plaything was made of. didn't i, old girl?" he patted the mare's neck, and her rider, whose eyes brightened with interest, laid hers on exactly the same spot when his hand was withdrawn. "you found her as good as she looks," said miss douglas. "oh! daisy! in that grass country it must have felt like being in heaven!" "i don't know about that," said the light dragoon; "but we were not very far off, sometimes, on the tops of those banks. however, i found nothing could touch her in jumping, or come near her for pace. not a horse was within a mile of us for the last ten minutes; so i took her down to the curragh--and--miss douglas, can you--_can_ you keep a secret?" "of course, i can," replied the lady. "what a question, daisy, as if i wasn't much more like a man than a woman!" his face assumed an expression of solemnity befitting the communication he had to impart. his voice sank to a whisper, and he looked stealthily around, as if fearful of being overheard. "we tried her at seven pound against robber-chief, four irish miles over a steeple-chase course. she gave the chief seven pound, her year, and a beating. why, it makes her as good as the lamb!" notwithstanding the gravity of such a topic, miss douglas laughed outright. "how _like_ you, daisy, to run away with an idea. it does _not_ make her as good as the lamb, because you once told me yourself that robber-chief never runs kindly in a trial. you see i don't forget things. but all the same, i daresay she's as good again, the darling, and i'm sure she's twice as good-looking!" "now, don't you see, miss douglas?" proceeded daisy, "i've been thinking you and i might do a good stroke of business if we stood in together. my idea is this. i enter her at punchestown for the great united service handicap. i send her down to be trained on the quiet at a place i know of, not fifteen miles from where we're standing now. nobody can guess how she's bred, nor what she is. they mean to put crushing weights on all the public runners. she'll be very well in, i should say, at about eleven stone ten. i'll ride her myself, for i know the course, and i'm used to that country. if we win, you must have half the stakes, and you can back her, besides, for as much as you please. what do you say to it?" "i like the idea _immensely_!" answered miss douglas. "only i don't quite understand about the weights and that-- but, daisy, are you _sure_ it isn't dangerous? i mean for _you_. i've heard of such horrible accidents at those irish steeple-chases." "i tell you she _can't_ fall," answered this sanguine young sportsman; "and i hope i'm not likely to tumble off _her_!" miss douglas hesitated. "couldn't i--" she said shyly; "couldn't i ride her in her gallops myself?" he laughed; but his face clouded over the next moment. "i ought not to have asked you," said he; "it seems so selfish to take away your favourite; but the truth is, miss douglas, i'm so awfully hard up that, unless i can land a good stake, it's all u--p with me!" "why didn't you tell me?" exclaimed miss douglas; "why didn't you--" here she checked herself, and continued in rather a hard voice, "of course, if you're in a fix, it must be got out of, with as little delay as possible. so take the mare, by all means; and another time, daisy-- well, another time don't be so shy of asking your friend's advice. if i'd been your brother-officer, for instance, should i have seemed such a bad person to consult?" "by jove, you're a trump!" he exclaimed impulsively, adding, in qualification of this outspoken sentiment, "i mean, you've so good a heart, you ought to have been a man!" she coloured with pleasure; but her face turned very grave and sad, while she replied, "i wish i had been! don't you know what tennyson says? never mind, you don't read tennyson very often, i dare say!" "i can't make out what fellows _mean_ in poetry," answered daisy. "but i like a good song if it's in english; and i like best of all to hear _you_ play!" "now, what on earth has that to do with it?" she asked impatiently. "we are talking about the mare. send round for her to-morrow morning, and you can enter her at once. has she got a name?" "it used to be the dark ladye," he answered, smiling rather mischievously, "out of compliment to _you_. but i've changed it now." "i ought to be very much flattered. and to what?" "to satanella." she bit her lip, and tried to look vexed; but she couldn't be angry with daisy, so laughed heartily as she waved him a good-bye, and cantered home. chapter iv mrs. lushington with all her independence of spirit, it cannot be supposed that miss douglas went to and fro in the world of london without a chaperon. on women, an immunity from supervision, and what we may call the freedom of the city, is conferred by matrimony alone. this franchise seems irrespective of age. a virgin of fifty gathers confidence under the wing of a bride nineteen years old, shooting her arrows with the more precision that she feels so safe behind the shield of that tender, inexperienced matron. why are these things so? why do we dine at nightfall, go to bed at sunrise, and get up at noon? why do we herd together in narrow staircases and inconvenient rooms at the hottest season of the year? if people bore us, why do we ask them to dinner? and suffer fools gladly, without ourselves being wise? i wonder if we shall ever know. blanche douglas accordingly, with more courage, resolution, and _savoir faire_, than nine _men_ out of every ten, had placed herself under the tutelage of mrs. francis lushington, a lady with a convenient husband, who, like the celebrated courtier, was never _in_ the way nor _out of_ the way. she talked about "frank," as she called him, every ten minutes; but somehow they were seldom seen together, except once a week at afternoon church. that gentleman himself must either have been the steadiest of mortals, or the most cunning; his wife inclined to think him the latter. mrs. lushington knew everybody, and went everywhere. there was no particular reason why she should have attained popularity; but society had taken her up, and seemed in no hurry to set her down again. she was a little fair person, with pretty features and a soft pleading voice, very much dressed, very much painted; as good a foil as could be imagined to such a woman as blanche douglas. they were sitting together in the dining-room of the latter about half past two p.m. there never was such a lady for going out to luncheon as mrs. lushington. if you were asked to that pleasant meal at any house within a mile of hyde park corner, it would have been a bad bet to take five to one about not meeting her. she was like a nice little luncheon herself. not much of her; but what there was light, delicate, palatable, with a good deal of garnish. "and which is it to be, dear?" asked this lady of her hostess, finishing a glass of sherry with considerable enjoyment. "i know i shall have to congratulate one of them soon, and to send you a wedding-present; but it's no use talking about it, till i know which----" "do you think it a wise thing to marry, clara?" said the other in reply, fixing her black eyes solemnly on her friend's face. mrs. lushington pondered. "there's a good deal to be said on both sides," she answered; "and i haven't quite made up my mind what i should do if i were you. with me, you know, it was different. if i hadn't made a convenience of frank, i should have been nursing my dreadful old aunt still. you are very independent as you are, and do no end of mischief. but, my dear, you won't last for ever. that's where we fair women have the pull. and then you've so many to choose from. yes; i think if i were _you_, i _would_!" "and--you'll laugh at me, clara, i feel," said miss douglas. "do you think it's a good plan to marry a man one don't care for; i mean, who rather bores one than otherwise?" "i did, dear," was the reply; "but i don't know that i've found it answer." "it must be dreadful to see him all day long, and have to study his fancies. breakfast with him, perhaps, every morning at nine o'clock." "frank would go without breakfast often enough, if he couldn't make his own tea, and insisted on such early hours. no, dear, there are worse things than that. we have to be in the country when they want to shoot, and in the spring too sometimes, if they're fond of hunting. but, on the other hand, we married women have certain advantages. we can keep more flirtations going at once than you. though, to be sure, i don't fancy the general would stand much of _that_! if ever i saw a white othello, it's st. josephs." "st. josephs! do you think i want to marry st. josephs?" could the general have overheard the tone in which his name was spoken, surely his honest heart would have felt very sore and sad. "well, he wants to marry _you_!" was the reply; "and, upon my word, dear, the more i think of it, the more i am convinced you couldn't do better. he is rich enough, rather good-looking, and seems to know his own mind. what would you have?" "my dear, i _couldn't_!" "state your objections." "well, in the first place, he's _very_ fond of me." "that shows good taste; but it needn't stand in the way, for you may be sure it won't last." "but it _will_ last, clara, because i cannot care for _him_ in return. my dear, if you knew what a brute i feel sometimes, when he goes away, looking so proud and unhappy, without ever saying an impatient word. then i'm sorry for him, i own; but it's no use, and i only wish he would take up with somebody else. don't you think you could help me? clara, _would_ you mind? it's uphill work, i know; but you've plenty of others, and it wouldn't tire you, as it does _me_!" miss douglas looked so pitiful, and so much in earnest, that her friend laughed outright. "i think i should like it very much," replied the latter, "though i've hardly room for another on the list. but if it's not to be the general, blanche, we return to the previous question. who is it?" "i don't think i shall ever marry at all," answered the younger lady, with a smothered sigh. "if i were a man, i certainly wouldn't; and why wasn't i a man? why can't we be independent? go where we like, do what we like, and for that matter, choose the people we like?" "then you _would_ choose somebody?" "i didn't say so. no, clara; the sort of person i should fancy would be sure never to care for me. his character must be so entirely different from mine, and though they say, contrasts generally agree, black and white, after all, only make a feeble kind of grey." "whatever you do, dear," expostulated mrs. lushington, "don't go and fall in love with a boy! of all follies on earth, that pays the worst. they are never the same two days together, and not one of them but thinks more of the horse he bought last monday at tattersalls, than the woman he 'spooned,' as they call it, last saturday night at the opera." miss douglas winced. "i cannot agree with you," said she, stooping to pick up her handkerchief; "i think men grow worse rather than better, the more they live in the world. i like people to be fresh, and earnest, and hopeful. perhaps it is because i am none of these myself, that i rather appreciate boys." mrs. lushington clapped her hands. "the very thing!" she exclaimed. "he's made on purpose for you. you ought to know daisy!" miss douglas drew herself up. "i _do_ know mr. walters," she answered coldly; "if you mean _him_. i believe he is called daisy in his regiment and by his very particular friends." "you know him! and you didn't tell _me_!" replied the other gaily. "never mind. then, of course you're devoted to him. i am; we all are. he's so cheery, so imperturbable, and what i like him best for, is, that he has no more heart than--than--well, than i have myself. there!" miss douglas was on her guard now. the appropriative faculty, strong in feminine nature as the maternal instinct, and somewhat akin to it, was fully aroused. only in london, no doubt, would it have been possible for two such intimates to be ignorant of each other's predilections; but even here it struck blanche there was something suspicious in her friend's astonishment, something not quite sincere in her enthusiasm and her praise. so she became exceedingly polite and affectionate, as a fencer goes through a series of courteous salutes, while proposing to himself the honour of running his adversary through the brisket. "you make yourself out worse than you are, clara," said she; "it's lucky i know you so well. indeed, you mustn't go yet. you always run away before i've said half my say. you'll be sure to come again very soon though. promise, dear. what a love of a carriage!" it was, indeed, a very pretty victoria that stopped at the door--fragile, costly, delicate, like a piece of porcelain on wheels--and very pretty mrs. lushington looked therein, as she drove away. she had turned the corner of the street some minutes before miss douglas left the window. passing a mirror, that lady caught the reflection of her own face, and stopped, smiling, but not in mirth. "they may well call you satanella," she said; "and yet i could have been so good--so good!" chapter v through the mill "she was iron-sinewed and satin-skinned, ribbed like a drum, and limbed like a deer, fierce as the fire, and fleet as the wind, there was nothing she couldn't climb or clear; rich lords had vexed me in vain to part, for their gold and silver, with britomart."[ ] "it describes your mare exactly, and how the gifted, ill-fated author would have liked a ride on such a flyer as satanella." the speaker's voice shook, and the cigar quivered between his lips while they pronounced that ill-omened name. "she's better than common, general," was the reply. "just look at _her crest_. they're the right sort, when they train on like that!" general st. josephs and daisy walters were standing on a breezy upland common, commanding one of the fairest landscapes in england, backed by a curtain of dusky smoke from the great metropolis, skirting two-thirds of the horizon. there was heather at their feet; and a sportsman set down in that spot from the skies might have expected to flush a black-cock rather than to hail a hansom cab at only two hours' distance from its regular stand in pall mall. the black mare, stripped for a gallop, stood ten yards off in the glow of a morning sun. that daisy meant to give her "a spin," was obvious from the texture of his nether garments, and the stiff silver-mounted whip in his hand. he had met st. josephs the night before in the smoking-room of a military club, and, entertaining a profound respect for that veteran, had taken him into his counsels concerning the preparations and performances of the black mare. daisy was prudent, but not cunning. the elder man's experience, he considered, might be useful, and so asked frankly for his advice. the general cared as little for steeple-chasing as for marbles or prisoners'-base, but in the present instance felt a morbid attraction towards the young officer and his venture, because he associated the black mare with certain rides, that dwelt strangely on his memory, and of which he treasured every incident with painful accuracy, sometimes almost wishing they had never been. there is a disease, from which, like small-pox, immunity can only be purchased by taking it as often as possible in its mildest form. to contract it sooner or later, seems the lot of humanity, and st. josephs had been no exception to the general rule that ordains men and women shall inflict on each other certain injuries and annoyances, none the less vexatious because flagrantly imaginary and unreal. the general had loved in his youth, more than once it may be, with the ardour and tenacity of his character; but these follies were now things of the past. in some out-of-the-way corner, perhaps, he preserved a knot of ribbon, a scrap of writing, or a photograph with its hair dressed as before the flood. he could lay his hand on such memorials, no doubt; but he never looked at them now, just as he ignored certain sights and sounds, voices, tones, perfumes, that made him wince like a finger on a raw wound. to save his life, he would not have admitted that the breath of a fresh spring morning depressed his spirits more than a sirocco, that he would rather listen to the pipes of a highland regiment in a mess-room than to a certain strain of donizetti, the softest, the saddest, the sweetest of that gifted composer--softer, sweeter, sadder to him, that it was an echo from the past. among the advantages of growing old, of which there are more than people usually imagine, none is greater than the repose of mind which comes with advancing years--from fatigue, indeed, rather than satisfaction, but still repose. it is not for the young to bask in the sun, to sit over the fire, to look forward to dinner as the pleasantest part of the day. these must be always in action, even in their dreams; but at and after middle age comes the pleasure of the ruminating animals, the quiet comfort of content. an elderly gentleman, whose liver has outlasted his heart, is not so much to be pitied after all. yet must he take exceeding care not to leave go of the rock he clings to, like an oyster, that he may drift back into the fatal flood of sentiment he ought to have baffled, once for all. if he does, assuredly his last state will be worse than his first. very sweet will be the taste of the well-remembered dram, not so intoxicating as of yore to the seasoned brain; but none the less a stimulant of the senses, a restorative for the frame. clutching the cup to drain perennial youth, he will empty it to the dregs, till the old sot reels, and the grey hairs fall dishonoured in the dust. if follies perpetrated for women could be counted like runs in a cricket match, i do believe the men above forty would get the score. "let me see her gallop," said the general, with a wistful look at the mare, "and i will tell you what i think." he too was a fine horseman; but he sighed to reflect he could no longer vault on horseback like daisy, nor embody himself at once with the animal he bestrode, as did that young and supple light dragoon. "i never saw a better," said the old officer to himself, as the young one, sitting close into his saddle, set the mare going at three-quarter speed. "and if she's only half as good as her rider, the irishmen will have a job to keep the stakes on their side of the channel this time! ah, well. it's no use, we can't hold our own with the young ones, and i suppose we ought not to wish we could!" the general fell into a very common mistake. we are apt to think women set a high price on the qualities we value in each other, forgetting that as their opinions are chiefly reflected from our own, it is to be talked about, no matter why, that constitutes merit in their eyes. what do they care for a light hand, a firm seat, a vigorous frame, or a keen intellect except in so far as these confer notoriety on their possessor? to be celebrated is enough. if for his virtues, well. if for his vices, better. even the meekest of them have a strong notion of improving a sinner, and incline to the black sheep rather than all the white innocents of the fold. in the meantime, daisy felt thoroughly in his element, enjoying it as a duck enjoys immersion in the gutter. free goer as she was, the mare possessed also an elasticity rare even amongst animals of the highest class; but which, when he has once felt it, no horseman can mistrust or mistake. as daisy tightened his hold on her head, and increased her speed, he experienced in all its force that exquisite sense of motion which, i imagine, is the peculiar pleasure enjoyed by the birds of the air. round the common they came, and past the general once more, diverging from their previous direction so as to bring into the track such a fence as they would have to encounter in their irish contest. it was a high and perpendicular bank, narrow at the top, with a grip on the taking off, and a wide ditch on the landing side. anything but a tempting obstacle to face at great speed. though she had gone three miles very fast, the mare seemed fresh and full of vigour, pulling, indeed, so hard that daisy needed all his skill to control and keep her in his hand. approaching the leap, he urged her with voice and limbs. they came at it, racing pace. "oh, you tailor!" muttered the general, holding his breath, in fear of a hideous fall. "i'm wrong!" he added, the next moment. "beautifully done, and beautifully ridden!" even at her utmost speed, the mare sprang upright into the air, like a deer, kicked the farther face of the bank with such lightning quickness that the stroke was almost imperceptible; and, flying far beyond the ditch, seemed rather to have gained than lost ground in this interruption to her stride. away she went again! over two more fences, done at the same head-long pace, round the corner of a high black hedge, down into the hollow, up the opposite rise, and so back into the straight, where daisy, smiling pleasantly, and much heightened in colour, executed an imaginary finish, with his hands down. "i've not seen such a goer for years," observed the general, as her jockey dismounted, and two stable lads scraped a little lather from the mare. "but she seems to take a deal of riding: and i think she is almost _too_ free at her fences, even for a steeple-chaser." "i'm delighted to hear you say so," was the answer. "_that's_ where we shall win. when i had her first she was rather cautious; but i hurried and bustled her till i got her temper up, and she puts on the steam now as if she was going to jump into next week. i believe she'd do the great double at punchestown in her stride!" the older man shook his head. "she has capital forelegs," said he; "but i saw just such another break its neck last year at lincoln. when they're so free you must catch hold like grim death; for, by jove, if they overjump themselves at that pace, they're not much use when they get up again!" "that _would_ be hard lines," said daisy, lighting a cigar. "it's the only good thing i ever had in my life, and it must _not_ boil over. if you come to _that_, i'd rather she broke _my_ neck than hers. if anything went wrong with satanella i could never face blanche douglas again!" "blanche douglas!" the general winced. it was not his habit to call young ladies by their christian names; and to talk familiarly of this one seemed a desecration indeed. "i should hope miss douglas will never ride that animal now," said he, looking very stiff and haughty--"throaty," daisy called it, in describing the scene afterwards. "not ride her?" replied the young gentleman. "you can't know much of satanella, general, if you suppose she wouldn't ride anything--ah, or do anything, if you only told her _not_! she's a trump of a girl, i admit; but, my eyes, she's a rum one! why, if there wasn't a law or something against it, i'm blessed if i don't think she'd ride at punchestown herself--boots and breeches--silk jacket--make all the running, and win as she liked! that's her form, general, you may take my word for it!" st. josephs positively stood aghast. could he believe his ears? silk jacket! boots and breeches! and this was the woman he delighted to honour. to have annihilated his flippant young acquaintance on the spot would have given him intense satisfaction, but he was obliged to content himself with contemptuous silence and sundry glances of scorn. his displeasure, however, seemed quite lost on daisy, who conversed freely all the way back to town, and took leave of his indignant senior with unimpaired affability when they arrived. footnotes: [footnote : from "the romance of britomart," not the least stirring of those spirited verses called "bush ballads and galloping rhymes," composed by the late a. lindsey gordon, and published at melbourne, australia, .] chapter vi cutting for partners "then you'll--ask a man?" "i'll ask a man." the first speaker was miss douglas, the second mrs. lushington. these ladies, having agreed to go to the play together, the former at once secured adjoining stalls, for herself, her admirer, her friend, and her friend's admirer. only in such little parties of four can the modern drama be appreciated or enjoyed. miss douglas had long promised general st. josephs that she would accompany him to the performance of a popular farce called _uncle jack_, whereof the humour consisted in an abstraction by "boots" of a certain traveller's garments at his hotel, and consequent engagement of this denuded wayfarer to the lady of his affections. the general would have walked barefoot to canterbury for the delight of taking miss douglas to the play; and, after many misfires, a night was at length fixed for that treat, of course under the supervision of a chaperon. like others who follow "will-o'-the-wisps," st. josephs was getting deeper into the mire at every step. day by day this dark bewitching woman occupied more of his thoughts, wound herself tighter round his weary heart. now for the first time since she died he could bear to recall the memory of the blue-eyed girl he was to have married long ago. now he felt truly thankful to have baffled the widow at simla, and behaved like "a monster," as she said, to the foreign countess who used to ride with him in the park. hitherto he was persuaded his best affections had been thrown away, all the nobility of his character wasted and misunderstood. at last he had found the four-leaved shamrock. he cared not how low he stooped to pluck it, so he might wear it in his breast. for one of his age and standing, such an attachment has its ridiculous as well as its pitiful side. he laughed grimly in his grizzled moustache to find how particular he was growing about the freshness of his gloves and the fit of his coat. when he rode he lengthened his stirrups, and brought his horse more on its haunches. he even adopted the indispensable flower in his button-hole; but could never keep it there, because of his large circle of child-friends, to whom he denied nothing, and who regularly despoiled him of any possession that took their fancy. there was one little gipsy, a flirt, three years of age, who could and would, have coaxed him out of a keepsake even from miss douglas herself. nobody, i suppose, is insane enough to imagine a man feels happier for being in love. there were moments when st. josephs positively hated himself, and everybody else. moments of vexation, longing, and a bitter sense of ill-usage, akin to rage, but for the leavening of sadness, that toned it down to grief. he knew from theory and practice how to manage a woman, just as he knew how to bridle and ride a horse. alas! that each bends only to the careless ease of conscious mastery. he could have controlled the satanella on four legs almost as well as reckless daisy. he had no influence whatever over her namesake on two. most of us possess the faculty of looking on those affairs in which we are deeply interested, from the outside, as it were, and with the eyes of an unbiassed spectator. such impartial perception, however, while it increases our self-reproach, seems in no way to affect our conduct. general st. josephs cursed himself for an old fool twenty times a day, but none the more for that did he strive or wish to put from him the folly he deplored. it was provoking, degrading, to know that, in presence of miss douglas he appeared at his very worst; that when he rode out with her, he was either idiotically simple, or morosely preoccupied; that when he called at her house, he could neither find topics for conversation, nor excuses to go away; that in every society, others, whom he rated as his inferiors, must have seemed infinitely pleasanter, wiser, better informed, and more agreeable: and that he, professedly a man of experience, and a man of the world, lost his head, like a raw boy, at the first word she addressed him, without succeeding in convincing her that he had lost his heart. then he vowed to rebel--to wean himself by degrees--to break the whole thing off at once--to go out of town, leaving no address--to assert his independence, show he could live without her, and never see her again! but when she asked him to take her to the play, he said he should be delighted, and _was_! among the many strange functions of society, few seem more unaccountable than its tendency to select a theatre as the _rendezvous_ of sincere affection. of all places, there is none, i should imagine, where people are more _en evidence_--particularly in the stalls, a part of the house specially affected, it would seem, as affording no protection to front or rear. every gesture is marked, every whisper overheard, and even if you might speak aloud, which you mustn't, during the performances, you could hardly impart to a lady tender truths or falsehoods, as the case may be, while surrounded by a mob of people who have paid money with the view of keeping eyes and ears wide open till they obtain its worth. nevertheless, and notwithstanding all these drawbacks to confidential communication, no sooner does a fair angler of the present day feel that, in fisherman's language, she "has got a bite," than straightway she carries her prey off to a minor theatre, where by some inexplicable method of her own, she proceeds to secure the gudgeon on its hook. st. josephs got himself up with extreme care on the evening in question. he was no faded _petit maître_, no wrinkled dandy, curled, padded, girthed, and tottering in polished boots towards his grave. on the contrary, he had the wisdom to grow old gracefully, as far as dress and deportment were concerned, rather advancing than putting back the hand of time. yet to-night he _did_ regret the lines on his worn face, the bald place at the crown of his head. ten years, he thought, rather bitterly, only give him back ten years, and he could have held his own with the best of them! she might have cared for him ten years ago. could she care for him now? yes, surely she must, he loved her so! "your brougham is at the door, sir," said his servant, once a soldier, like himself, a person of calm temperament and a certain grim humour, whose private opinion it was that his master had of late been conducting himself like an old fool. the general got into his carriage with an abstracted air, and was driven off to dine nervously and without appetite at the senior united. how flabby seemed the fish, how tasteless the cutlets, how insufferably prosy the conversation of an old comrade at the next table--a jovial veteran, who loved highly-seasoned stories, and could still drink the _quantum_ he was pleased to call his "whack of port." never before had this worthy's discourse seemed so idiotic, his stomach so obtrusive, his chuckles so fatuous and inane. what did he mean by talking about "fellows of _our_ age" to st. josephs, who was seven years his junior in the army list, and five in his baptismal register? why couldn't he eat without wheezing, laugh without coughing; and why, oh! why could he not give a comrade greeting, without slapping him on the back? st. josephs, drinking scalding coffee before the other arrived at cheese, felt his sense of approaching relief damped by remorse for the reserve and coldness with which he treated his old, tried friend. something whispered to him, even then, how the jolly gormandising red face would turn to him, true and hearty, when all the love of all the women in london had faded and grown cold. nevertheless, at the doors of the theatre his pulses leapt with delight. so well timed was his arrival, that mrs. lushington and miss douglas were getting out of their carriage when his own stopped. pleased, eager as a boy, he entered the house with satanella on his arm, placing himself between that lady and her friend, while he arranged shawls, foot-stools, scent-bottles, and procured for them programmes of the entertainment; chary, indeed, of information, but smelling strong of musk. need i say that he addressed himself at first to mrs. lushington? or that, perceiving a vacant stall on the other side of miss douglas, his spirit sank within him while he wondered when and how it would be filled? satanella seemed tired and abstracted. "uncle jack's" jokes fell pointless on her ear. when st. josephs could at last think of something to say, she bent her head kindly enough, but persistently refused to accept or understand his tender allusions, interesting herself, then, and then only, in the business of the stage. in sheer self-defence, the general felt obliged to do the same. the house roared with laughter. a celebrated low comedian was running up and down before the foot-lights in shirt and drawers. the scene represented a bedroom at an inn. the actor rang his bell, tripped over his coal-scuttle, finally upset his water-jug. everybody went into convulsions, and st. josephs found himself thinking of the immortal pickwick, who "envied the facility with which the friends of mr. peter magnus were amused." turning to his tormentor, he observed the place by her side no longer vacant, and its occupant was--daisy! mischievous mrs. lushington had "asked a man," you see, and this was the man she asked. captious, jealous, sensitive, because he really cared for her, st. josephs' vexation seemed out of all proportion to its cause. he felt it would have relieved him intensely to "have it out" with miss douglas--to scold her, take her to task, reproach her roundly--and for what? _she_ had never asked daisy to come; _she_ had not kept a seat for him at her elbow. from her flushed cheek, her bright smile, it could not but be inferred that this was an unexpected meeting--a delightful surprise. calm and imperturbable, daisy settled himself as if he were sitting by his grandmother. not till he had smoothed his moustache, buttoned his gloves, and adjusted his glasses, did he find time to inform miss douglas "that he knew she would be here, but did not think she could have got away from dinner so soon; that the house was hot, the stalls were uncomfortable, and this thing was not half bad fun if you'd never seen it before." the general, cursing him for "a cub," wondered she could find anything in such conversation to provoke a smile on that proud beautiful face. what was it she whispered behind her fan?--the fan he loved to hold because of the fragrance it seemed to breathe from _her_. he scarcely knew whether to be relieved or irritated when he overheard certain questions as to the progress of the black mare. it vexed him to think these two should have a common interest, should find it so engrossing, should talk about it so low. why couldn't they attend to the farce they had come on purpose to see? mrs. lushington, although she must have been surfeited with that unmeaning and rather tiresome admiration which such ladies find floating in abundance on the surface of london society, was yet ready at all times to accept fresh homage, add another captive to the net she dragged so diligently through smooth and troubled waters alike. till the suggestion came from her friend, it had never occurred to her that the general was worth capturing. she began now in the usual way. "what a number of pretty women!" she whispered, "don't you think so, general? i haven't seen as much beauty under one roof since lady scavenger's ball." abstracted though he was, her companion had those habits of society which of all others seem to be second nature, so he answered:-- "there are only _two_ pretty women in the house as far as i can see; and they asked me to come to the play with them to-night." she had a fascinating way of looking down and up again, very quick, with a glance, half shy, half funny, but altogether deadly. even her preoccupied neighbour felt its influence, while she replied:-- "you say so because you think all women are vain, and like to be flattered, and have no heart. it only shows how little you know us. do you mean to tell me," she added, in a lighter tone, "_that's_ not a pretty girl, in the second row there, with a _mauve_ ribbon through her hair?" she _was_ pretty, and he thought so; but st. josephs, being an old soldier in more senses than one, observed sententiously:-- "wants colouring--too pale--too sandy, and i should say freckled by daylight." "we all know you admire dark beauties," retorted the lady, "or you wouldn't be here now." "_you're_ not a dark beauty," returned the ready general; "and i knew you were coming too." "that '_too_' spoils it all," said she, with another of her killing glances. "hush! you needn't say any more. if you won't talk to _her_, at least attend to the stage." satanella meanwhile was perusing daisy's profile as he sat beside her, and wondering whether anybody was ever half so good-looking and so unconscious of his personal advantages. not in the slightest degree embarrassed by this examination, mr. walters expressed his entire approval of the farce as it proceeded, laughing heartily at its "situations" and even nudging miss douglas with his elbow, that she might not miss the broadest of the fun. was there another man in the house who could have accepted so calmly such an enviable situation? and did she like him more or less for this strange insensibility to her charms? the question must be answered by ladies who are weary of slaughter, and satiated with victory. "will she win, daisy?" hazarded miss douglas at last, in a low whisper, such as would have vibrated through the general's whole frame, but only caused daisy to request she would "speak up." repeating her question, she added a tender hope that "it was all right, and that her darling (meaning the black mare) would pull him through." "if she don't," replied daisy, "there's no more to be said. i must leave the regiment. 'soldier bill' gets the troop; and i am simply chawed up." "oh, daisy," she exclaimed earnestly, "how much would it take to set you straight?" mr. walters worked an imaginary sum on the gloved fingers of his right hand, carried over a balance of liabilities to his left, looked as grave as he could and replied, briefly, "two thou--would tide me over. it would take _three_ to pull me through." her face fell, and the rich colour faded in her cheek. he did not notice her vexation; for the crisis of the farce had now arrived, and the stage was crowded with all its _dramatis personæ_, tumbling each other about in the intensely humorous dilemma of a hunt for the traveller's clothes; but he _did_ remark how grave and sorrowful was her "good-night," while she took the general's proffered arm with an alacrity extremely gratifying to that love-stricken veteran. she had never before seemed so womanly, so tender, so confiding. st. josephs, pressing her elbow very cautiously against his beating heart, almost fancied the pressure returned. he was sure her hand clung longer than usual in his clasp when the time came to say "good-bye." in spite of a headache and certain angry twinges of rheumatism, this gallant officer had never felt so happy in his life. chapter vii getting on outside the theatre the pavement was dry, the air seemed frosty, and the moon shone bright and cold. with head down, hands in pockets, and a large cigar in his mouth, daisy meditated gravely enough on the untoward changes a lowered temperature might produce in his own fortunes. hard ground would put a stop to satanella's gallops, and the horses trained in ireland--where it seldom freezes--would have an unspeakable advantage. thinking of the black mare somehow reminded him of miss douglas, and pacing thoughtfully along pall mall, he recalled their first meeting, tracing through many an hour of sunshine and lamplight the links that had riveted their intimacy and made them fast friends. it was almost two years ago--though it seemed like yesterday--that, driving the regimental coach to ascot, he had stopped his team with considerable risk at an awkward turn on the heath, to make room for her pony-carriage; a courtesy soon followed by an introduction in the enclosure, not without many thanks and acknowledgments from the fair charioteer and her companion. he could remember how she kept him talking till it was too late to back judæus for the cup, and recalled his own vexation when that gallant animal galloped freely in, to the delight of the chosen people. he had not forgotten how she asked him to call on her in london, nor how he went riding with her in the morning, meeting her at balls and parties by night, inaugurating a pic-nic at hampton court for her especial benefit, while always esteeming her the nicest girl out, and the best horse-woman in the world. he would have liked her to be his sister, or his sister-in-law; but of marrying her himself, the idea never entered daisy's head. thinking of her now, with her rich beauty, and her bright black hair, he neither sighed nor smiled. he was calculating how he could "put her on" for a good stake, and send her back their mutual favourite none the worse in limbs or temper for the great race he hoped to win! all light dragoons are not equally susceptible, and mr. walters was a difficult subject, partly from his active habits of mind and body, partly from the energy with which he threw himself into the business of the moment whatever it might be. satanella's work, her shoeing, her food, her water, were such engrossing topics now, that, but for her connection with the mare, the lady from whom that animal took its name would have had no chance of occupying a place in his thoughts. he had got back to the probability of frost, and the possibility of making a tan-gallop, when he turned out of st. james's street into one of those pleasant haunts where men congregate after nightfall to smoke and talk, accosting each other with the easy good-fellowship that springs from community of tastes, and generous dinners washed down with rosy wine. notwithstanding the time of year, a member in his shirt-sleeves was sprawling over the billiard-table; a dozen more were sprinkled about the room. acclamations, less loud than earnest, greeted daisy's entrance, and tumblers of cunning drinks were raised to bearded lips, in mute but hearty welcome. "you young beggar, you've made me miss my stroke!" exclaimed the billiard-player, failing egregiously to score an obvious and easy hazard. "daisy, you're always in the way, and you're always welcome. but what are you doing out of the shires in such weather as this?" "daisy never cared a hang for _hunting_," said a tall, stout man on the sofa. "he's only one of your galloping brummagem sportsmen, always amongst the hounds. how many couples have you scored now, this season--tell the truth, my boy--off your own bat?" "more than _you_ have of foxes, counting those that were fairly killed," answered daisy calmly. "and that is not saying much. seriously, jack, something must be done about those hounds of yours. i'm told they've got so slow you have to meet at half-past ten, and never get home till after dark. i suppose if once you began to draft there would be nothing left in the kennel but the terrier!" "you be hanged!" answered the big man, laughing. "you conceited young devil, you think you're entitled to give an opinion because you're not afraid to ride. and, after all, you can't half do that, unless the places are flagged out for you in the fences! if you cared two straws about the _real_ sport, you wouldn't be in london now." "how can i hunt without horses?" replied daisy, burying his fair young face in an enormous beaker. "_all_ hounds are not like yours, you know. thick shoes and gaiters make a capital mount in some countries; but if i _am_ to put on boots and breeches i want to go faster than a paddy driving a pig. that's why i've never been to pay _you_ a visit." "d--n your impudence!" was all the other could find breath to retort, adding, after a pause of admiration, "what a beggar it is to chaff! but i won't let you off all the same. come to me directly after northampton. it's right in your way home." "nothing i should like better," answered daisy. "but it can't be done. i'm due at punchestown on the seventeenth, and i ought to be in ireland at least a fortnight before the races." "at punchestown!" exclaimed half-a-dozen voices. "there's something up! you've got a good thing, cut and dried. it's no use, daisy! tell us all about it!" walters turned from one to another with an expression of innocent surprise. he looked as if he had never heard of a steeple-chase in his life. "i don't know what you fellows call 'a good thing,'" said he. "when i drop into one i'll put you all on, you may be sure. no. i must be at punchestown simply because i've got to ride there." "i'm sorry for the nag," observed the billiard-player, who had finished (and lost) his game. "what is it?" "she's a mare none of you ever heard of," answered daisy. "they call her satanella. she can gallop a little, i think." "is she going for this new handicap?" asked a shrill voice out of a cloud of tobacco smoke in the corner. "it's her best chance, if she ever comes to the post," replied daisy. "they're crushing weights, though, and the course is over four miles." "back her, me boy! and i'll stand in with ye!" exclaimed an irish peer, handsome in spite of years, jovial in spite of gout, good-hearted in spite of fashion, and good-humoured in spite of everything. "is she an irish-bred one? roscommon did ye say? ah, now, back for a monkey, and i'll go ye halves! we'll let them see how we do't in kildare!" daisy would have liked nothing better; but people do not lay "monkeys" on steeple-chases at one o'clock in the morning. nevertheless curiosity had been excited about satanella, and his cross-examination continued. "is she thorough-bred?" asked a cornet of the household cavalry, whose simple creed for man and beast, or rather horse and woman, was summed up in these two articles--blood and good looks. "thoroughbred?" repeated daisy thoughtfully. "her sire is i'm sure, and she's out of a 'connemara mare,' as they say in ireland, whatever that may be." "_i know_," observed the peer, with a wink. "ah, ye divil, ye've got your lesson perfect annyhow." "do you want to back her?" asked a tall, thin man, who had hitherto kept silence, drawing at the same time a very business-like betting-book from his breast-pocket. "you ought to lay long odds," answered daisy. "the race will fill well. there are sure to be a lot of starters, and no end of falls. hang it! i suppose i am bound to have something on. i'll tell you what. i'll take twelve to one in hundreds--there!" "i'll lay you ten," said the other. "done!" replied daisy. "a thousand to a hundred." and he entered it methodically in his book, looking round, pencil in mouth, to know "if anybody would do it again?" "i'll lay you eight to one in ponies." daisy nodded, and put down the name of the billiard-player. "and i in tens!" exclaimed another. "and i don't mind laying you seven!" screamed a shrill voice from the corner, "if you'll have it in fifties." whereat daisy shook his head, but accepted the offer nevertheless ere he shut up his book, observing calmly that "he was full now, and must have something more to drink." "and who does this mare belong to?" asked a man who had just come in. "it's a queer game, steeple-chasing, even with gentlemen up. i like to know something about owners before i back my little fancy, for or against." "well, she's more mine than anybody else's," answered daisy, buttoning his overcoat to depart. "there's only one thing certain about her, and that is--she'll start if she's alive, and she'll win if she _can_!" with these words he disappeared through the swing-doors into the empty street, walking leisurely homeward, with the contented step of one who has done a good day's work, and earned his repose. in piccadilly he met a drunken woman; in curzon street, a single policeman; by audley square a libertine cat darted swiftly and noiselessly across his path. working steadily northward, he perceived another passenger on the opposite side of the way. passing under a lamp, this figure, in spite of hat pushed down and collar pulled up, proved to be none other than st. josephs, wrapped in a brown study, and proceeding as slowly as if it was the hottest night in june. "now what can _he_ be up to?" thought daisy, deeming it unnecessary to cross over at so late an hour for polite salutation. "ought to have had his nose under the blankets long ago. it must be something _very_ good to take an old duffer like that out in an east wind at two in the morning. might have sown his wild oats by this time, one would think! well, it's no business of mine, only i hope he wears flannel next his skin, and won't catch cold. it would almost serve him right, too, if he did!" sticking his hands in his pockets, daisy shook his head in virtuous disapproval of his senior, never dreaming that a man of the general's age could be fool enough to pace a wind-swept street under a lady's window for an hour after she had retired to bed. chapter viii insatiable "my dear general, "as i know it is impossible to catch you for luncheon, come and see me at three, before i go out. "yours most sincerely, "clara lushington." no date, of course. the general, nevertheless, ordered his hack at half-past two, in confident expectation of finding his correspondent at home. he was ushered into, perhaps, the prettiest _boudoir_ in london--a nest of muslin, fillagree, porcelain, and exotics, with a miniature aviary in one window, a miniature aquarium in the other, a curtain over the door, and a fountain opposite the fire-place. here he had an opportunity of admiring her taste before the fair owner appeared, examining in turn all the ornaments on her chimney-piece and writing-table, amongst which, with pardonable ostentation, a beautifully-mounted photograph of her husband was put in the most conspicuous place. he was considering what on earth could have induced her to marry its original, when the door opened for the lady in person, who appeared, fresh, smiling, and exceedingly well-dressed. though she had kept her visitor waiting, he could not grudge the time thus spent when he observed how successfully it had been turned to account. "you got my note," said she, pulling a low chair for him close to the sofa on which she seated herself. "i wonder, if _you_ wondered why i wanted to see you!" the experience of st. josephs had taught him it is well to let these lively fish run out plenty of line before they are checked, so he bowed, and said, "he hoped she had found something in which he could be of use." "use!" repeated the lady. "then you want me to think you consider yourself more useful than ornamental. general, i should like to know if you are the least bit vain?" "a little, perhaps, of your taking me up," he replied, laughing; "of nothing else, i think, in the world." she stole a glance at him from under her eyelashes, none the less effective that these had been darkened before she came down. "and yet, i am sure, you might be," she said softly, with something of a sigh. the process, he thought, was by no means unpleasant; a man could undergo it a long time without being tired. "do you know i'm interested about you?" she continued, looking frankly in his face. "for your own sake--a little; for somebody else's--a great deal. have you never heard of flowers that waste their 'sweetness on the desert air?'" "and blush unseen?" he replied. "i'm blushing now. don't you think it's becoming?" "do be serious!" she interposed, laying a slim white hand on his sleeve. "i tell you i have your welfare at heart. that's the reason you are here now. if i cannot be happy myself, at least i like to help others. everybody ought to marry the right person. don't you think so? you've got a right person. why don't you marry her?" watching him narrowly, she perceived, by the catch of his breath, the quiver of his eyelid, that for all his self-command her thrust had gone straight home. his was too manly a nature to deny its allegiance. "do you think she would have me," said he simply and frankly, "if i was to ask her?" mrs. lushington never liked him better than now. to this worldly, weary, manoeuvring woman, there was something inexpressibly refreshing in his unaffected self-depreciation. "what a fool the girl is!" she thought; "why, she ought to _jump_ at him!" but what she said, was--"_qui cherche trouve._ if you don't put the question, how can you expect to have an answer? are you so spoilt, my dear general, that you expect women to drop into your mouth like over-ripe fruit? what we enjoy is, to be worried and teased over and over again, till at last we are bored into saying "yes" in sheer weariness, and to get rid of the subject. how can you be _refused_, much more _accepted_, if you won't even make an offer?" "do you know what it is to care for somebody very much?" said he, smoothing his hat with his elbow, as a village-maiden on the stage plaits the hem of her apron. "what you suggest, seems the boldest game, no doubt; but it is like putting all one's fortune on a single throw. suppose the dice come up against me--can you wonder i am a little afraid to lift the box?" "i cannot fancy _you_ afraid of anything," she answered with an admiring glance; "not even of failure, though it would probably be a new sensation. you know what mr. walters says--(he winced, and she saw it)--'when you go to a fighting-house, you should take a fighting man.' so i say, 'when you are in a tangle about women, ask a woman to get you out of it.' put yourself in my hands, and when you dress for dinner, you shall be a proud and a happy general!" his face brightened. "i _should_ be very happy," said he, "i honestly confess, if miss douglas would consent to be my wife. do you advise me to ask her at once?" "this very day, without losing a minute!" was the answer. "let me have to congratulate her, when i call to drive her out at half-past five." the general looked at the clock, smoothing his hat more vigorously than ever. "it's nearly four now," said he, in a faltering voice. "mrs. lushington, i am really most grateful. it's too kind of you to take such an interest in my affairs. would you mind telling me? women understand these things much better than men. if you were in my place, do you think i ought? i mean what is the best plan? in short, would you advise me to call, and ask her point-blank, or to--write a line, you know--very explicit and respectful, of course, and tell the servant to wait for an answer?" she was very near laughing in his face, but mastered her gravity, after a moment's reflection, and observed sententiously-- "perhaps in your case a few lines would be best. you can write them here if you like, or at your club. the shorter the better. and," she added, shaking hands with him very kindly, while he rose to take leave, "whichever way it goes, you will let me know the result." as the street-door closed, she opened her blotting-book, and scribbled off the following dispatch-- "dearest blanche, "alarms! a skirmish! i write to put you on your guard. the general, _your_ general, has been here for an hour. he seems to have made up his mind, so prepare yourself for it at any moment. i think you _ought_ to accept him. he would relapse into a quiet, kind, and respectable husband. your own position, too, would be improved and what i call established. don't be obstinate, there's a dear. in haste. ever your own loving "clara l----. "you mustn't forget you dine here. nobody but ourselves, uncle john, the two gordon girls (bessie has grown so pretty), and daisy walters, who starts for ireland to-morrow. as soon after eight as you can." * * * * * then she rang the bell, and sent off her note with directions for its immediate transmission. henry must take it at once. if miss douglas was not at home, let him find out where she had gone, and follow her. there was no answer. only he must be quite sure she got it;--and pretty mrs. lushington sank back on her sofa, with the pleasing reflection that she had done what she called "a neat stroke of business, vigorous, conclusive, and compromising nobody if it was ever found out!" she saw her way now clearly enough. on satanella's refusal of her veteran admirer, she calculated as surely as on her acceptance of an invitation to meet daisy at dinner, particularly with so dangerous a competitor as bessie gordon in the field. that last touch she considered worthy of her diplomacy. but, judging by herself, she was of opinion that miss douglas would so modify her negative as to retain the general in the vicinity of her charms, contemplating from day to day the fair prospect that was never to be his own. in such an ignominious state men are to be caught on the rebound, and he must ere long prove an easy victim to her kinder fascinations, take his place, submissively enough, with the other captives in the train of his conqueror. it would be very nice, she thought, to secure him, and after that she could turn her attention to daisy, for mrs. lushington was never so happy as when she had succeeded in detaching a gentleman from the lady of his affections, if, in so doing, she inflicted on the latter the sorrow of a wounded spirit and the pain of a vexed heart. therefore had she many enemies of her own sex, ever on the watch to catch her tripping, and once down must have expected no quarter from these gentle combatants. a generous, masculine-minded woman, who is above these pretty vanities and rivalries, enjoys considerable immunity in that society, of which the laws are made by her sisters-in-arms, but they will _not_ forgive the greedy, unreasonable spoiler, who eyes, covets, and abstracts the property of others--who, to use their own expressive words, "takes their men from them, while all the time she has got enough and to spare of her own!" chapter ix off and on but even a woman cannot calculate with certainty on what another woman will or will not do under given circumstances. the greatest generals have been defeated by unforeseen obstacles. a night's rain or a sandy road may foil the wisest strategy, destroy the nicest combinations. miss douglas never came to dinner after all, and daisy, too, was absent. mrs. lushington, outwardly deploring the want of a "young man" for the "gordon girls," inwardly puzzled her brains to account for the joint desertion of her principal performers, a frightful suspicion crossing her mind that she might have been too vigorous in her measures, and so frightened satanella into carrying daisy off with her, _nolens volens_, once for all. she had short notes of excuse, indeed, from both; but with these she was by no means satisfied: the lady pleading headache, the gentleman a pre-engagement, since called to mind--this might mean anything. but if they _had_ gone away together, she thought, never would she meddle in such matters again! not till dinner was over, and bessie gordon had sat down to sing plaintive ballads in the drawing-room, did she feel reassured; but the last post brought a few lines from the general in fulfilment of his pledge to let her know how his wooing had sped. "congratulate me," he wrote, "my dear mrs. lushington, on having taken your advice. you were right about procrastination" (the general loved a long word, and was indeed somewhat pompous when he put pen to paper). "i am convinced that but for your kind counsels i should hardly have done justice to myself or the lady for whom i entertain so deep and lasting a regard. i feel i may now venture to hope time will do much--constant devotion more. at some future period, not far distant, it may be my pride to present to you your beautiful young charge in a new character, as the wife of your obliged and sincere friend--v. st. josephs." "v. st. josephs?" repeated mrs. lushington. "i wonder what v. stands for. valentine, if i remember right. and i wonder what on earth he means _me_ to gather from his letter! i cannot make head or tail of it. if she has accepted him, what makes him talk about time and devotion? if she has refused him, surely he never can intend to persevere! blanche, blanche! if you're playing a double game, it will be the worse for you, and i'll never trust a woman with dark eyes again!" the gordon girls, going home in their hired brougham, voted that "dear mrs. lushington had one of her headaches; that mr. l. was delightful; that after all, it seemed very selfish of clara not to have secured them a couple of men; finally, that they had spent a stupid evening, and would be too glad to go to bed!" all details of love-making are probably much alike, nor is there great room for variety in the putting of that direct question, to which the path of courtship necessarily conducts its dupe. general st. josephs kept no copy of the letter in which he solicited miss douglas to become his wife. that lady tore it immediately into shreds, that went fluttering up the chimney. doubtless it was sincere and dignified, even if diffuse; worthy, too, of a more elaborate answer than the single line she scribbled in reply:-- "come and talk it over. i am at home till seven." his courage rose, however, now he had got fairly into action, and never had he felt less nervous while dismounting at the well-known door, than on this supreme occasion, when he was to learn his fate, as he believed, once for all, from the lips of the woman he loved. like most men trained in the school of danger, strong excitement strung his nerves and cleared his vision, he no longer averted his eyes from the face that heretofore so dazzled them; on the contrary, entering the presence of miss douglas, he took in her form and features at a glance, as a man scans the figure of an adversary, while he prepares for attack. it did not escape him that she looked flurried and depressed, that her hand trembled, and her colour went and came. arguing favourably from these symptoms, he was somewhat disappointed with the first sentence she addressed to him. "you wrote me a letter, general," said she, forcing a nervous little laugh. "such a funny letter! i didn't quite know what to make of it!" a funny letter! and his heart had beat, his eyes had filled, his highest, noblest feelings had been stirred with every line! he was conscious that his bow seemed stern, even pompous, while he answered with exceeding gravity-- "surely i made my meaning clear enough. surely, miss douglas--blanche; may i not call you _blanche_?" "yes; if you like," said she impatiently. "it's a hateful name, i think. that's not my fault. well, general, what were you going to say?" he looked and indeed felt perplexed. "i was going to observe," said he, "that as my question was very straightforward, and very much in earnest, so all my future happiness depends on your reply." "i wonder what there is you can see in me to like!" she retorted, with an impatient movement of her whole body, as if she was in fetters, and felt the restraint. "i'm not good enough for anybody to care for, that's the truth, general. there's hardly a girl in london who wouldn't suit you better than me." he was looking in her face with sincere admiration. "that is not the question," he replied. "surely i am old enough to know my own mind. besides, you do not seem conscious of your power. you could make a bishop fall in love with you in ten minutes, if you chose!" there came a depth of tenderness in her eyes, a smile, half sad, half sweet, about her lips, which he interpreted in his own way. "do you think so?" said she. "i wish i could believe you. i've not had a happy youth, and i've not been brought up in a very good school. i often tell myself i could, and ought to have been better, but somehow one's whole life seems to be a mistake!" "a mistake i could rectify, if you would give me the right," answered st. josephs, disheartened, but not despairing. "i only ask you to judge me fairly, to trust me honestly, and to love me some day, if you _can_!" she gave him her hand. he drew her towards him, and pressed his lips to her cold, smooth brow. no more, and yet he fancied she was his own at last. already half pledged, already half an affianced wife. she released herself quickly, and sat down on the farther side of her work-table. "you are very generous," she said, "and very good. i still maintain you deserve somebody far superior to me. how odd these sort of things are, and why do they never turn out as one--expects?" she was going to say "wishes," but stopped herself in time. he would _not_ understand. "life is made up of hopes and disappointments," he observed. "you do not seem to hope much, blanche. i trust, therefore, you will have less cause for disappointment. i will do all in _my_ power. and now, dearest, do not call me impatient, fidgetty; but, when do you think i may look forward to--to making arrangements in which we are to be equally interested?" "oh! i don't know!" she exclaimed, with considerable emphasis. "not yet, of course: there's plenty of time. and i'm so hurried and worried, i can hardly speak! besides, it's very late. i promised to dine with mrs. lushington, and it's nearly eight o'clock now." even from a future help-meet, so broad a hint could not be disregarded. the general was forced to put on his gloves and prepare for departure. "but i shall see you again soon," he pleaded. "shall you be at the opera--at mrs. cramwell's--at belgrave house?" "certainly not at belgrave house!" she answered impatiently. "i hate a crush; and that woman asks all the casuals in london. it's a regular refuge for the destitute. i'm not going there _yet_. i may, perhaps, when i'm destitute!" there was a hard ring in her voice that distressed him, and she perceived it. "don't look so wretched," she added kindly. "there are places in the world besides belgrave square and covent garden. what do you say to punchestown? it's next week, and i'm sure to be _there_!" he turned pale, seeming no whit reassured. "punchestown," he repeated. "what on earth takes you to punchestown?" "don't you know i've got a horse to run?" she said lightly. "i should like to see it win, and i do _not_ believe they have anything in ireland half as good as my beautiful satanella!" "is that all?" he asked in a disturbed voice. "it seems such an odd reason for a lady; and it's a long journey, you know, with a horrible crossing at this time of year! blanche, miss douglas, can you not stay away, as--as a favour to _me_?" there was an angry flush on her cheek, an angry glitter in her eyes, but she kept her temper bravely, and only said in mocking accents-- "already, general! no; if you mean to be a tyrant you must wait till you come to the throne. i intend to show at punchestown the first day of the races. i have made an assignation with _you_. if you like to keep it, well and good; if you like to let it alone, do! i shall not break my heart!" he felt at a disadvantage. she seemed so cool, so unimpressionable, so devoid of the sentiment and sensibility he longed to kindle in her nature. for a moment, he could almost have wished to draw back, to resume his freedom, while there was yet time; but no, she looked so handsome, so queenly--he had rather be wretched with _her_ than happy with any other woman in the world! "of course, i will not fail," he answered. "i would go a deal further than punchestown, only to be within hearing of your voice. when do you start? if mrs. lushington, or anybody you knew well, would accompany you, why should we not cross over together?" "now, you're too exacting," she replied. "haven't i told you we shall meet on the course, when the saddling-bell rings for the first race. not a moment sooner, and my wish is the law of the medes and persians--as yet!" the two last words carried a powerful charm. had he been mature in wisdom as in years, he ought never to have thought of marrying a woman who could influence him so easily. "i shall count the days till then," he replied gallantly. "they will pass very slowly, but, as the turnspit says in the spanish proverb, 'the largest leg of mutton must get done in time!' good-bye, miss douglas. good luck to you; and i hope satanella will win!" he bowed over the hand she gave him, but did not attempt to kiss it, taking his leave with a mingled deference and interest she could not but appreciate and admire. "_why_ can't i care for him?" she murmured passionately, as the street-door closed with a bang. "he's good, he's generous, he's a _gentleman_! poor fellow, he loves me devotedly; he's by no means ugly, and he's not so _very_ old! yet i can't, i can't! and i've promised him, _almost_ promised him! well, come what may, i've got a clear week of freedom still. but what a fool i've been, and oh! what a fool i _am_!" then she sent her excuse to mrs. lushington, declined dinner at home, ordered tea, didn't drink any, and so crept sorrowful and supperless to bed. chapter x at sea in the british army, notwithstanding the phases and vicissitudes to which it is subjected, discipline still remains a paramount consideration--the keystone of its whole fabric. come what may, the duty must be done. this is the great principle of action; and, in obedience to its law, young officers, who combine pleasure with military avocations, are continually on the move to and from head-quarters, by road, railway, or steam-boat--here to-day, gone to-morrow; proposing for themselves, indeed, many schemes of sport and pastime, but disposed of, morally and physically, by the regimental orders and the colonel's will. daisy, buried in kildare, rising at day-break, going to bed at nine, looking sharply after the preparation of satanella, could not avoid crossing the channel for "muster," to re-cross it within twenty-four hours, that he might take part in the great race on which his fortunes now depended--to use his own expression, which was to "make him a man or a mouse." thus it fell out that he found himself embarking at holyhead amongst a stream of passengers in the mid-day boat for dublin, having caught the mail-train at chester by a series of intricate combinations, and an implicit reliance on the veracity of bradshaw. it rained a little, of course--it always does rain at holyhead--and was blowing fresh from the south-west. the sea "danced," as the french say; ladies expressed a fear "it would be very rough;" their maids prepared for the worst; and a nautical-looking personage in a pea-coat with anchor buttons, who disappeared at once, to be seen no more till he landed, pale and dishevelled, in kingstown harbour, opined first that "there was a capful of wind," secondly, that "it was a ten-knot breeze, and would hold till they made the land." with loud throbs and pantings of her mighty heart, with a plunge, a hiss, a shower of heavy spray-drops, the magnificent steamer got under way, lurching and rolling but little, considering the weather, yet enough to render landsmen somewhat unsteady on their legs, and to exhibit the skill with which a curly-haired steward balanced himself, basin in hand, on his errands of benevolence and consolation. two ladies, who had travelled together in a through carriage from euston square, might have been seen to part company the moment they set foot on board. one of these established herself on deck, with a multiplicity of cushions, cloaks, and wrappings, to the manifest admiration of a raw youth in drab trowsers and highlows, smoking a damp cigar against the wind; while the other vanished into the ladies'-cabin, there to lay her head on a horse-hair pillow, to sigh, and moan, and shut her eyes, and long for land, perhaps to gulp, with watering mouth, short sips of brandy and water, perhaps to find the hateful mixture only made her worse. what a situation for blanche douglas! how she loathed and despised the lassitude she could not fight against, the sufferings she could not keep down! how she envied mrs. lushington the open air, the sea-breeze, the leaping, following waves, her brightened eyes, her freshened cheeks, her keen enjoyment of a trip that according to different organisations, seems either a purgatory or a paradise! could she have known how her livelier friend was engaged, she would have envied her even more. that lady, like many other delicate, fragile women of fair complexion, was unassailable by sea-sickness, and never looked nor felt so well as when on board ship in a stiff breeze. thoroughly mistress of the position, she yet thought it worth while, as she was the only other passenger on deck, to favour the raw youth before-mentioned with an occasional beam from her charms, and accorded him a very gracious bow in acknowledgment of the awkwardness with which he re-arranged a cushion that slid to leeward from under her feet. she was even disappointed when the roll of a cross-sea, combined with the effect of bad tobacco, necessitated his withdrawal from her presence, to return no more, and was beginning to wonder if the captain would never descend from his bridge between the paddle-boxes, when a fresh, smiling face peeped up from the cabin-door, and daisy, as little affected by sea-sickness as herself, looking the picture of health and spirits, staggered across the deck to take his place by her side. "_you_ here, mr. walters!" said she. "well, this is a surprise! where have you been? where are you going? and how did you get on board without our seeing you?" "i've been back for 'muster,'" answered daisy; "i'm going to punchestown; and i didn't know you were here, because i stayed below to have some luncheon in the cabin. how's lushington? have you brought him with you, or are you quite alone, on your own hook?" "what a question!" she laughed. "i suppose you think i'm old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself! no, i'm _not_ absolutely 'on my own hook,' as you call it. i've given frank a holiday--goodness knows what mischief he won't get into!--but i've got a companion, and a very nice one, though perhaps not quite so nice as usual just at this moment." "then it's a lady," said daisy, apparently but little interested in the intelligence. "a lady," she repeated, with a searching look in his face; "and a very charming lady, too, though a bad sailor. do you mean to say you can't guess who it is?" "miss douglas, for a pony!" was his answer; and the loud, frank tones, the joyous smile, the utter absence of self-consciousness or after-thought, seemed to afford mrs. lushington no slight gratification. "you would win your pony," she replied gently. "yes, blanche and i are going over to ireland, partly to stay with some very pleasant people near dublin, partly--now, i don't want to make you conceited--partly because she has set her heart on seeing you ride; and so have i." practice, no doubt, makes perfect. with this flattering acknowledgment, she put just the right amount of interest into her glance, let it dwell on him the right time, and averted it at the right moment. "she's a deuced pretty woman!" thought daisy. "how well she looks with her hair blown all about her face, and her cloak gathered up under her dear little chin!" he felt quite sorry that the wicklow range was already looming through its rain-charged atmosphere as they neared the irish coast. "i should like to win," said he, after a pause, "particularly if _you're_ looking on!" "don't say _me_," she murmured, adding in a louder and merrier voice, "you cannot deny you're devoted to blanche, and i dare say, if the truth were known, she has made you a jacket and cap of her own colours, worked with her own hands." "i like her very much," he answered frankly. "it's partly on her account i want to land this race. she's so fond of the mare, you know. not but what i've gone a cracker on it myself; and if it don't come off, there'll be a general break-up! but i beg your pardon, i don't see why that should interest _you_." "_don't_ you?" said she earnestly. "then you're as blind as a bat. everything interests me that concerns people i like." "does that mean you like _me_?" asked daisy with a saucy smile, enhanced by a prolonged lurch of the steamer, and the blow of a wave on her quarter, that drenched them both in a shower of spray. she was silent while he wrung the wet from her cloak and hood, but when he had wrapped her up once more, and readjusted her cushions, she looked gravely in his face. "it's an odd question, mr. walters," said she, "but i'm not afraid to answer it, and i always speak the truth. yes, i _do_ like you--on blanche's account. i think you've a pretty good head, and a very good heart, with many other qualities i admire, all of which seem rather thrown away." daisy was the least conceited of men, but who could resist such subtle flattery as this? for a moment he wished the emerald isle sunk in the sea, and no nearer termination to their voyage than the coast of anticosti, or newfoundland. alas! the hill of howth stood high on the starboard quarter, the wicklow mountains had risen in all their beauty of colour and majesty of outline, grand, soft, seductive, robed in russet and purple, here veiled in mist, there golden in sunshine, and streaked at intervals with faint white lines of smoke. "i'm glad you like me," said he simply. "but how do you mean you think i'm thrown away?" "by your leave!" growled a hoarse voice at his elbow, for at this interesting juncture the conversation was interrupted by three or four able seamen coiling a gigantic cable about the lady's feet. she was forced to abandon her position, and leave to her companion's fancy the nature of her reply. no doubt it would have been guarded, appropriate, and to the point. daisy had nothing for it, however, but to collect her different effects, and strap them together in proper order for landing, before he ran down to fetch certain articles of his own personal property out of the cabin. they were in smooth water now. pale faces appeared from the different recesses opening on the saloon. people who had been sick tried to look as if they had been sleeping and the sleepers as if they had been wide-awake all the way from holyhead. a child who cried incessantly during the passage, now ran laughing in and out of the steward's pantry; and two sporting gentlemen from the west--one with a bright blue coat, the other with a bright red face--finished their punch at a gulp, without concluding a deal that had lasted through six tumblers, for a certain "bay brown harse by elvas--an illigant lepped wan," to use the red-faced gentleman's own words, "an' the bouldest ever ye see. wait till i tell ye now. he's fit to carry the lord-liftinint himself. show him his fence, and howld him if ye can!" as the possible purchaser for whom blue-coat acted, was a timid rider hunting in a blind country, it seemed doubtful whether so resolute an animal was likely to convey him as temperately as he might wish. "ah! it's the captain," exclaimed both these sitters in a breath, as daisy slid behind them in search of his dressing-case and his tall hat. "see now, captain, will the mare win? faith, she's clean-bred, i know well, for i trained her dam meself, whan she cleaned out the whole south of ireland at limerick for the ladies' plate!" exclaimed one. "_you_ ride her, captain," added the other. "it's herself that can do't! they've a taste of temper, have all that breed; but you sit still, an' ride aisy, captain. keep her back till they come to race and loose her off then like shot from a gun. whew! she'll come out in wan blaze, and lave thim all behind, as i'd lave that tumbler there, more by token it's been empty this ten minutes. ye'll take a taste of punch now, captain, for good luck, and to drink to the black mare's chance?" but daisy excused himself, shaking hands repeatedly with his cordial well-wishers ere he hurried on deck to disembark. moving listlessly and languidly into upper air, the figure of a lady preceded him by a few steps. all he saw was the corner of a shawl, the skirt of a dress, and a foot and ankle; but that foot and ankle could only belong to blanche douglas, and in three bounds he was at her side. a moment before, she had been pale, languid, dejected. now, she brightened up into all the flush and brilliancy of her usual beauty, like a fair landscape when the sun shines out from behind a cloud. mrs. lushington, standing opposite the companion-way, noted the change. daisy, in happy ignorance, expressed the pleasure, which no doubt he felt, at a meeting with his handsome friend on the irish shore. no woman, probably, likes anything she _does_ like one whit the worse because deprived of it by force of circumstances. the fox in the fable that protested the grapes were sour, depend upon it, was not a vixen. satanella thoroughly appreciated her friend's kindness and consideration, when mrs. lushington condoled with her on her past sufferings, and rejoiced in her recovery, informing her at the same time that daisy was a capital travelling companion. "he takes such care of one, my dear." (she spoke in a very audible _aside_.) "so gentle and thoughtful; it's like having one's own maid. i enjoyed the crossing thoroughly. poor dear! i wish you could have been on deck to enjoy it too!" done into plain english, the above really meant--"i have been having great fun flirting with your admirer. he's very nice, and perhaps i shall take him away from you some day when i have a chance." by certain twinges that shot through every nerve and fibre, blanche douglas knew she had let her foolish heart go out of her own keeping. if she doubted previously whether or not she had fallen in love with daisy, she was sure of it now, while wrung by these pangs of an unreasoning jealousy, that grudged his society for an hour, even to her dearest friend. there was but little time, however, for indulgence of the emotions. mrs. lushington's footman, imposing, broad-breasted, and buttoned to the chin, touched his hat as a signal that he had all _his_ paraphernalia ready for departure. two ladies'-maids, limp and draggled, trotted helplessly in his footsteps. the steward, who knew everybody, had taken a respectful farewell of his most distinguished passengers, the captain had done shouting from his perch behind the funnel, and the raw youth in highlows, casting one despairing look at mrs. lushington, had disappeared in the embrace of a voluminous matron the moment he set foot on shore. there was nothing left but to say good-bye. satanella's voice faltered, and her hand shook. how she had wasted the preceding three hours that she might have spent on deck with daisy! and how _mean_ of clara to take advantage of her friend's indisposition by making up to him, as she did to every man she came near! "i hadn't an idea you were going to cross with us," said she, in mournful accents, while he took his leave. "why didn't you tell me? and when shall i see you again?" "at punchestown," replied daisy cheerfully. "wish me good luck!" "not till _then_!" said miss douglas. and having so said in mrs. lushington's hearing, wished she had held her tongue. chapter xi cormac's-town if a _man_ has reason to feel aggrieved with the conduct of his dearest friend, he avoids him persistently and sulks by himself. should circumstances compel the unwilling pair to be together, they smoke and sulk in company. at all events, each lets the other see pretty plainly that he is disgusted and bored. women are not so sincere. to use a naval metaphor, they hoist friendly colours when they run their guns out for action, and are never so dangerous or so determined, as while manoeuvring under a flag of truce. mrs. lushington and miss douglas could no more part company than they could smoke. till they should arrive at their joint destination, they must be inseparable as the siamese twins, or the double-headed nightingale. therefore were they more than usually endearing and affectionate, therefore the carman who drove them through dublin, from station to station, approved heartily of their "nateral affection," as he called it, wishing, to use his own words, that he was "brother to either of them, or husband to both!" if they sparred at all, it was with the gloves--light hitting, and only to measure each other's reach. some day,--the same idea occurred to them at the same moment,--they meant to "have it out" in earnest, and it should be no child's play then. meantime they proceeded to take their places in a fast train which seemed to have no particular hour of departure, so long was it drawn up beside the platform after the passengers had seated themselves and the doors were locked. miss douglas possessed good nerves, no doubt, yet were they somewhat shaken by a dialogue she overheard between guard and station-master, carried on through many shrieks and puffings of the engine at the first halt they made, a few miles down the line. "is the express due, denis?" "she is." "is the mail gone by?" "she would be, but she's broke intirely." "is the line clear?" "it is _not_." "go on, boys, an' trust in god!" nevertheless, in accordance with an adage which must be of irish extraction, "where there is no fear there is no danger," our two ladies, their two maids, and mrs. lushington's footman, were all deposited safely at a wayside station in the dark; the last named functionary, a regular london servant, who had never before been ten miles from the standard, cornhill, arriving in the last stage of astonishment and disgust. he cheered up, however, to find a man, in a livery something like his own, waiting on the platform, with welcome news of a carriage for the ladies, a car for the luggage, and a castle not more than three miles off! "you _must_ be tired, dear," said mrs. lushington, sinking back among the cushions of an easy london-built brougham. "but, thank goodness, here we are at last. three miles will soon be over on so good a road as this." but three irish miles, after a long journey, are not so quickly accomplished on a dark night in a carriage with one of its lamps gone out. it seemed to the ladies they had been driven at least six, when they arrived at a park wall, some ten feet high, which they skirted for a considerable distance ere they entered the demesne through a stately gateway, flanked by imposing castellated lodges on either side. here a pair of white breeches, and the indistinct figure of a horseman, passed the carriage-window, flitting noiselessly over the mossy sward. "did you see it, blanche?" asked mrs. lushington, who had been in ireland before. "it's a banshee!" "or a whiteboy!" said miss douglas laughing. "only i didn't know they wore even boots, to say nothing of the other things!" but the london footman, balancing himself with difficulty amongst his luggage on the outside car, was more curious, or less courageous. "what's _that_?" he exclaimed, in the disturbed accents of one who fears a ghost only less than a highwayman. "which?" said the driver, tugging and flogging with all his might to raise a gallop for the avenue. "that--that objeck!" answered the other. "ah! that's the masther. more power to him!" replied the carman. "it's foxin' he'll have been likely, on the mountain, an' him nivir off the point o' the hunt. divil thank him with the cattle he rides! begorra! ye nivir see the masther, but you see a great baste!" all this was greek to his listener, whose mind, however, became easier, with the crunching of gravel under their wheels, and the looming of a large, irregular mass of building, about which lights were flashing in all directions, showing not only that they had arrived, but that they were expected and welcome. as blanche douglas stepped out of the brougham, she found her hand resting in that of the supposed banshee, who had dismounted not a minute before to receive his guests. he was a tall, handsome old gentleman, fresh-coloured and grey-haired, with that happy mixture of cordiality and good-breeding in his manner, to be found in the emerald isle alone; yet was there but the slightest touch of brogue on the deep mellow accents that proffered their hospitable greeting. "you've had a long journey, miss douglas, and a dark drive, but glad i am to see you, and welcome you are to the castle at cormac's-town." then he conducted the ladies across a fine old hall, furnished with antlers, skins, ancient weapons, and strange implements of chase, through a spacious library and drawing-room, to a snug little chamber, where a wood-fire blazed, not without smoke, and a tea-table was drawn to the hearth. here, excusing himself on the score of dirty boots and disordered apparel, he left the new arrivals to the care of his wife. lady mary macormac had once been as fresh and hearty an irish lass as ever rode a four-foot wall, or danced her partners down in interminable jigs that lasted till daylight. an earl's daughter, she could bud roses, set fruit trees, milk a cow, or throw a salmon-fly with any peasant, man or woman, on her father's estate. she slept sound, woke early, took entire charge of the household, the children, the garden, the farm, everything but the stables, was as healthy as a ploughman and as brisk as a milkmaid. now, with grown-up daughters, and sons of all ages, down to a mischievous urchin home from school, her eyes were blue, her cheeks rosy as at nineteen. only her hair had turned perfectly white, a distinction of which she seemed rather proud, curling and crimping it with some ostentation and no little skill over her calm unwrinkled brow. to blanche douglas this lady took a fancy, at first sight, reserving her opinion of mrs. lushington for future consideration, but feeling her impulsive irish heart warm to satanella's rich low voice, and the saddened smile that came so rarely, but possessed so strange a charm. "mrs. lushington, miss douglas, me daughters." the introduction was soon over, the tea poured out, and some half-dozen ladies established round the fire to engage in that small talk which never seems to fail them, and for which the duller sex find smoking so poor a substitute. it appeared there was a large party staying at the castle. not that the house was full, nor indeed could it be, since only one-half had been furnished: but there were country neighbours, who came long distances; soldiers, both horse and foot; a "jackeen"[ ] or two, sporting friends of mr. macormac; a judicial dignitary, a roman catholic bishop, and a cluster of london dandies. mrs. lushington's eyes sparkled, like those of a sportsman who proceeds to beat a turnip field into which the adjoining stubbles have been emptied of their coveys. "how gay you are, lady mary," said she, "on this side of the channel! i am sure you have much more fun in ireland than we have in london!" "i think we have," answered her ladyship. "though my experience of london was only six weeks in me father's time. i liked paris better, when macormac took me there, before louisa was born. but punchestown week, mrs. lushington, ye'll find dublin as good as both." "sure! i'd like to go to paris next winter, mamma," exclaimed the second girl, with a smile that lit up eyes and face into sparkling beauty. "just you and me and papa, and let the family stay here in the castle, to keep it warm." "and leave your hunting, norah!" replied her mother. "indeed, then, i wonder to hear you!" "are you fond of hunting?" asked miss douglas, edging her chair nearer this kindred spirit. "it's the only thing worth living for," answered miss norah decidedly. "dancing's not bad, with a real good partner, if he'll hold you up without swinging you at the turns; but, see now, when you're riding your own favourite horse, and him leading the hunt, that's what i call the greatest happiness on earth!" mrs. lushington stared. "ye're a wild girl, norah!" said lady mary, shaking her handsome head. "but, indeed, it's mostly papa's fault. we've something of the savage left in us still, miss douglas, and even these children of mine here can't do without their hunt." "i can feel for them!" answered satanella earnestly. "it's the one thing i care for myself. the one thing," she added rather bitterly, "that doesn't disappoint you and make you hate everything else when it's over!" "you're too young to speak like that," replied the elder lady kindly. "too young, and too nice-looking, if you'll excuse me for saying it." "i don't _feel_ young," replied miss douglas simply, "but i am glad you think me nice." if lady mary liked her guest before, she could have hugged her now. "ye're very pretty, my dear," she whispered, "and i make no doubt ye're as good as ye're good-looking. but that's no reason why ye would live upon air. the gentlemen are still in the dining-room. it's seldom they come out of that before eleven o'clock; but i've ordered some dinner for ye in the library, and it will be laid by the time ye get your bonnets off. sure it's good of ye both to come so far, and i'm glad to see ye, that's the truth!" the visitors, however, persistently declined dinner at half-past ten, p.m., petitioning earnestly that they might be allowed to go to bed, a request in which they were perfectly sincere; for blanche douglas was really tired, while mrs. lushington had no idea of appearing before the claret-drinkers at a disadvantage. to-morrow she would come down to breakfast rested, fresh, radiant, armed at all points, and confident of victory. lady mary herself conducted them to their chambers, peeping into the dining-room on her way back, to hear about the good run that had kept her husband out so late, and to see that he had what he liked for dinner at a side-table. her appearance brought all the gentlemen to their feet with a shout of welcome. her departure filled (and emptied) every glass to her health. "not another drop after lady mary," was the universal acclamation, when macormac proposed a fresh magnum; and although he suggested drinking the same toast again, a general move was at once made to the music-room, where most of the ladies had congregated with tact and kindness, that their presence might not add to the discomfort of the strangers, arriving late for dinner to join a large party at a country-house. with satanella's dreams we have nothing to do. proserpine seldom affords us the vision we most desire during the hours of sleep. think of your sweetheart, and as likely as not you will dream of your doctor. miss norah helped her new friend to undress, and kissed while she bade her good-night; but with morning came her own maid, looking very cross (the servants' accommodation at cormac's-town was hardly on a par with the magnificence of the mansion), complaining first of tooth-ache from sleeping in a draught; and, secondly, with a certain tone of triumph, that the closet was damp where she had hung her lady's dresses in a row like bluebeard's wives. the morning looked dull, rain beat against the windows, the clouds were spongy and charged with wet. it was not enlivening to have one's hair brushed by an attendant vexed with a swelled face, that constantly attracted her own attention in her lady's looking-glass. miss douglas, i fear, had no more toleration than other mistresses for short-comings in an inferior. if she passed these over it was less from the forbearance of good-humour than contempt. the toilette progressed slowly, but was completed at last, and even the maid pronounced it very good. masses of black hair coiled in thick, shining plaits, plain gold earrings, a broad velvet band tight round the neck, supporting the locket like a warming-pan, a cream-coloured dress, trimmed with black braid, pulled in here, puffed out there, and looped up over a stuff petticoat of neutral tint, the whole fabric supported on such a pair of balmoral boots as cinderella must have worn when she went out walking, formed a sufficiently fascinating picture. catching sight of her own handsome figure in a full-length glass, her spirits rose, and miss douglas began to think better of her irish expedition, persuading herself that she had crossed the channel only to accompany her friend, and not because daisy was going to ride at punchestown. she would have liked him to see her, nevertheless, she thought, now in her best looks, before she went down to breakfast, and was actually standing, lost in thought, with her hand on the door, when it was opened from without, and mrs. lushington entered, likewise in gorgeous apparel, fresh, smiling, beautiful in the gifts of nature as from the resources of art; to use the words of a "jackeen" who described her later in the day, "glittering in paint and varnish, like a new four-in-hand coach!" "who do you think is here, dear," was her morning salutation, "of all people in the world, under this very roof? now guess!" "prester john? the archbishop of canterbury? the great panjandrum? how should _i_ know?" "i don't believe you _do_ know. and i don't believe _he_ knows. it will be rather good fun to see you meet." "who is it, dear?" (impatiently.) "why, st. josephs. he came yesterday morning." blanche's face fell. "how _very_ provoking!" she muttered; adding, in a louder voice, and with rather a forced laugh, "that man seems to be my fate! let's go down to breakfast, dear, and get it over!" footnotes: [footnote : jackeen--a small squire of great pretensions.] chapter xii one too many at breakfast, for an old soldier, the general showed considerable want of military skill. miss douglas, indeed, assumed an admirable position of defence, flanked by norah macormac on one side, and the corner of the table on the other; but her admirer, posting himself exactly opposite, never took his eyes off her face, handed her everything he could reach, and made himself foolishly conspicuous in paying her those attentions to which ladies do not object so much as they profess. like many other players, he lost his head when risking a large stake. had he cared less, he would have remembered that wisest of all maxims in dealing with others--"_il faut se faire valoir_," and she might have appreciated his good qualities all the more, to mark the esteem in which he was held by her own sex. the general could fix a woman's attention, could even excite her interest, when he chose; and many of these laughing dames would have asked no better cavalier for the approaching races than this handsome, war-worn veteran, who "made such a fool of himself about that tall girl with black hair!" breakfast in a country house is usually a protracted and elastic meal. the "jackeens," whose habits were tolerably active, came down in good time, but the london young gentlemen dropped in, one later than another, gorgeously apparelled, cool, composed, hungry, obviously proud of being up and dressed at eleven o'clock, a.m. miss norah whispered to satanella that "she didn't like dandies, and dandies didn't like _her_!" looking in the girl's bright, handsome face, the latter proposition seemed to miss douglas wholly untenable. "what sort of people _do_ you like, dear?" said she, in answer to the former. "the army," replied miss norah, with great animation. "and the cavalry, ye know--they're beautiful; but a man must have something besides a fine uniform to please _me_." "what more _can_ you want?" asked blanche, with a smile. "well, a good seat on his horse, now," laughed the other, "that's the first thing, surely, and a good temper, and a good nerve, and a pleasant smile in his face, when everything goes wrong." "you're thinking of somebody in particular," said blanche. "i am," answered miss norah boldly, though with a rising blush. "i'm thinking of somebody i should wish my brothers to be like--that i should wish to be like myself. he's never puzzled; he's never put out. let the worst happen that will, he knows what to do, and how to do it--a fair face, a brave spirit, and a kind heart!" she raised her voice, for the subject seemed to interest her deeply. some of the guests looked up from their breakfasts, and the general listened with a smile. "it sounds charming," remarked miss douglas. "a hero--a paladin, and a very nice person into the bargain. i should like immensely to see him." "would ye now?" said the irish girl. "and so ye shall, dear. he'll be at the races to-morrow. ye'll see him ride. i'll engage he'll come to the ladies' stand. say the word, and i'll introduce him to ye myself." "is he an irishman?" asked miss douglas, amused with her animated manner and perfect good faith. "an irishman!" exclaimed norah. "did ever ye hear of walters for an irishman's name? they call him daisy that know him best, though mamma says i am never to mention him, only as captain walters." the shot was quite unexpected, but blanche knew the general's eye was on her, and she neither started nor winced. scarcely even changed countenance, except that she turned a shade paler, and looked sternly in her admirer's face while he carried on the conversation. "not captain walters _yet_, miss macormac," said the old soldier stiffly. "first for a troop though, and one going immediately. i know him very well, but never heard so flattering an account of him before. what a thing it is to have a charming young lady for a partisan! _we_ think him a good-humoured rattle enough, and he can ride, to do him justice, but surely--eh?--there's not much _in_ him. miss douglas here sees him oftener than i do, what does _she_ say?" "a pleasant companion, quite as clever as other people, and a right good fellow!" burst out blanche, her dark eyes flashing defiance. "that's what _she_ says, general! and what's more, she always stands up for her friends, and _hates_ people who abuse them!" the general, though he opened his mouth, was stricken dumb. norah macormac clapped her hands, and mrs. lushington, looking calmly down the table, afforded the discomfited soldier a sweet and reassuring smile. lady mary, reviewing her guests from behind an enormous tea-urn, judged the moment had arrived for a general move, and rose accordingly. as, late in the autumn, coveys get up all over the ground when you flush a single bird, so the whole party followed her example, and made for the door, which was opened by st. josephs, who sought in vain a responsive glance from miss douglas while she passed out, with her head up, and, a sure sign she was offended, more swing than usual in the skirts of her dress. he consoled himself by resolving that, if the weather cleared, he would ask her to take a walk, and so make friends before luncheon. gleams of sunshine sucking up a mist that hung about the hills above the park, disclosing like islands on a lake, clumps of trees, and patches of verdure, in the valley below, glittering on the surface of a wide and shallow river that circled and broke, over its rocky bed, in ripples of molten gold, would have seemed favourable to his project, but that the fine weather which might enable him to walk abroad with his ladye-love, was welcomed by his host for the promotion of a hundred schemes of amusement to while away a non-hunting day after the shooting season had closed. "it's fairing fast enough," exclaimed the cheerful old man. "we call that a bright sky in ireland, and why not? annyhow it's a great light to shoot a match at the pigeons; and if ye'd like to wet a line in the dabble there, i'll engage ye'll raise a ten-pound fish before ye'd say 'paddy snap.'" "i'll go bail ye will!" assented a mr. murphy, called by his familiars, "mick," who made a point of agreeing with his host. "i seen them rising yesterday afternoon as thick as payse, an' me riding by without so much as a lash-whip in me hand." two of the party, confirmed anglers, proposed to start forthwith. "there's a colt by lord george i'd like ye to look at, general," continued macormac, who would have each amuse himself in his own way. "we're training him for the hunt next season, and a finer leaper wasn't bred in kildare. d'ye see that sunk fence now parting the flower garden from the demesne? it's not two years old he was when he broke loose from the paddock, and dashed out over it like a wild deer. there's five-and-twenty feet, bank and ditch, ye can measure it for yourself!" "thirty! if there's wan!" assented mr. murphy. "an' him flyin' over it in his stride, an' niver laid an iron to the sod!" the general, however, declined an inspection of this promising animal, on the plea that he was not much of a walker, and had letters to write. "the post's gone out this hour and more," said his host. "but ye'd like to ride now. of course ye would! see, mick! sullivan's harriers will be at the kennel as usual. wait till i tell ye. why, wouldn't the boys get a fallow deer off the old park, and we'll raise a hunt for ye in less than an hour?" "i'll engage they can be laid on in twenty minutes from this time," declared mick. "say the word, an' i'll run round to the stable, and bid larry saddle up every beast that can stand." "the general might ride whiteboy," said his host, pondering, "and norah's got her own horse, and i'll try young orville, and ye shall take the colt yerself, mick. we'll get a hunt, annyways!" mr. murphy looked as if he would have preferred an older, or as he termed it, "a more accomplished hunter;" but he never dreamed of disputing the master's word, and was leaving the room in haste to further all necessary arrangements, when st. josephs stopped him on the threshold. "you'll think me very slow," said he graciously. "but the truth is, i'm getting old and rheumatic, and altogether i feel hardly fit for the saddle to-day. don't let me interfere with anybody's arrangements. i'll write my letters in the library, and then, perhaps, take a turn in the garden with the ladies." mick screwed up his droll irish mouth into a meaning but inaudible whistle. satisfied by the courtesy of his manner that the general was what he called "a real gentleman," it seemed impossible such a man could resist the temptations of a pigeon match, a salmon river, above all, an impromptu hunt, unless he had nobler game in view. till the old soldier talked of "a turn in the garden with the ladies," mr. murphy told himself he was "bothered entirely," but now, failing any signs of disapproval on the master's face, felt he could agree, as was his custom, with the last speaker. "why wouldn't ye?" said he encouragingly. "an' finer pleasure gardens ye'll not see in ireland than macormac's. that's for cucumbers, anyhow! an' the ladies will be proud to take a turn with ye, one and all. divil thank them, then, when they get a convoy to their likin'!" so the general was allowed to follow his own devices, while his host arranged divers amusements for the other guests according to programme, with the exception of the deer hunt. by the time a fallow buck was secured the hounds had been fed, and, under any circumstances, larry, the groom, reported so many lame horses in the stable, it would have been impossible to mount one-half of the party in a style befitting the occasion. st. josephs walked exultingly into the drawing-room, where he discovered lady mary alone, stitching a flannel petticoat for an old woman at the lodge. she thought he wanted the _times_ newspaper, and pointed to it on a writing-table. "deserted, lady mary?" said this crafty hunter of dames, "even by your nearest and dearest. left, like a good fairy, doing a work of benevolence in solitude." "it is the--the skirt you mean?" replied her ladyship, holding up the garment in question without the slightest diffidence. "sure, then, i'll get it hemmed and done with this afternoon. i'd have asked norah to help me,--the child was always quick at her needle,--but she's off to show miss douglas the waterfall: those two by themselves. it's as much as they'll do to be back by luncheon; though my girl's a jewel of a walker, and the other's as straight as an arrow, and as graceful as a deer." the general's letters became all at once of vital importance. excusing himself with extreme politeness to lady mary, who kept working on at the petticoat, he hastened to the library, where he did not stay two minutes, but, gliding by a side door into the hall, got his hat, and emerged on the park, with a vague hope of finding some one who would direct him to the waterfall. the two young ladies, meanwhile, were a good irish mile from the castle, in an opposite direction. norah, of course, knew a short cut through the woods, that added about a third to the distance. they walked a good pace, and exhilarated by the air, the scenery, and the sound of their own fresh young voices, skipped along the path, talking, laughing, even jeering each other, as though they had been friends from childhood. their conversation, as was natural, turned on the approaching races. to norah macormac, punchestown constituted, perhaps, the chief gala of the year. for those two days, alas! so often rainy, she reserved her freshest gloves, her newest bonnet, her brightest glances and smiles. to the pleasure everybody experiences in witnessing the performances of a good horse, she added the feminine enjoyment of showing her own pretty self in all her native attractions, set off by dress. it was no wonder she should impart to her companion that she wouldn't give up the races even for a trip to paris. she calculated their delights as equal to a whole month's hunting, and at least twenty balls. miss douglas, too, anticipated no little excitement from the same source. her trip across the channel, with its concomitant discipline, a new country, wild scenery, the good humour and cordiality that surrounded her, above all, the prospect of seeing daisy again, had raised her spirits far above their usual pitch. her cheek glowed, her eye sparkled, her tongue ran on. she could hardly believe herself the same reserved and haughty dame who was wont to ride from prince's gate to hyde park corner, and find nothing worthy to cost her a sigh or win from her a smile. "everybody in ireland goes there, absentees and all," said laughing norah. "it's such fun, you can't think, with the different turn-outs, from the lord lieutenant's half-dozen carriages-and-four to mr. murphy's outside car, with mrs. murphy and nine children packed all over it. she never goes anywhere else with him; but you shall see her to-morrow in all her glory. we like to be on the course early, it's so amusing to watch the arrivals, and then we get good places on the stand." "can you see well from the ladies' stand?" asked blanche eagerly. "i'm rather interested in one of the races. you'll think me very sporting. i've not exactly got a horse to run, but there's a mare called satanella going to start, and i confess i want to see her win." norah bounded like a young roe. "satanella!" she repeated. "why, that's daisy's mount! it is to win, dear? oh! then, if she doesn't win, or come very near it, i'll be fit to cry my eyes out, and never ask to go to a race again." her colour rose, her voice deepened, both gait and accent denoted the sincerity of her good wishes; and miss douglas, without quite admitting she had just cause for offence, felt as a dog feels when another dog is sniffing round his dinner. "i've no doubt the mare will have justice done to her," she said severely. "he's a beautiful rider." "a beautiful rider, and a beautiful mare entirely!" exclaimed her impulsive companion. "now to think he should be such a friend of yours, and me never to know it! i can't always make him out," added miss norah pondering. "sometimes he'll speak up, and sometimes he'll keep things back. you'll wonder to hear me when i tell you i haven't so much as seen this mare they make such a talk about!" "i have ridden her repeatedly," observed miss douglas, with a considerable accession of dignity. "in fact, she is more mine than his, and i had to give him leave before he ever sent her to be trained." "did ye, now?" replied the other, looking somewhat disconcerted. "and does he ride often with you in london--up and down the park, as they call it? how i'd long for a gallop in a place like that, where they never go out of a walk!" blanche was obliged to admit that such rides, though proposed very frequently, came off but rarely, and norah seemed in no way dissatisfied with this confession. "when he's here, now," she said, "if there isn't a hunt to be got up, we gallop all over the country-side, him and me, the same as if we'd a fox and a pack of hounds before us. it's him that taught me the real right way to hold the bridle, and i never could manage papa's orville horse till he showed me how. it's not likely i'd forget anything daisy told me! here we are at the waterfall. come off the rock now, or ye'll not have a dry thread on ye in five minutes!" miss douglas, keeping back a good deal of vexation, had the good sense to follow her guide's advice, and leaped lightly down amongst the shingle from the broad flat rock to which she had sprung, as affording a view of the cascade. it was a fine sight, no doubt. swelled by the spring rains, and increased by many little tributaries from the neighbouring hills, a considerable volume of water came tumbling over a ledge of bold bare rock, to roar and brawl and circle round a basin fifty feet below, not less than ten feet deep, from which it escaped in sheets of foam over certain shallows, till it was lost in a black narrow gorge, crowned by copses already budding and blooming with the first smiles of spring. "we're mighty proud of the dabble in these parts," observed norah macormac, when she had withdrawn her friend from the showers of spray that quivered in faint and changing rainbows under the sunshine. "there's not such a river for fish anywhere this side the shannon. and where there's fish there's mostly fishers. see, now; captain walters killed one of nine pounds and a half in the bend by the dead stump there. he'd have lost him only for little thady brallaghan and me hurrying to fetch the gaff, and i held it while we landed the beast on the gravel below the rocks." it was getting unbearable! blanche had started in such good spirits, full of life and hope, enjoying the air, the scenery, the exercise; but with every word that fell from her companion's lips the landscape faded, the skies turned grey, the very turf beneath her feet seemed to have lost its elasticity. norah macormac could not but perceive the change; attributing it, however, to fatigue, and blaming herself severely for thus tempting a helpless london girl into an expedition beyond her strength,--anticipating, at the same time, her mother's displeasure for that which good lady mary would consider a breach of the laws of hospitality,--"sure ye're tired," said she, offering to carry the other's parasol, which might have weighed a pound. "it's myself i blame, to have brought you such a walk as this, and you not used to it, may be, like us that live up here amongst the hills." but blanche clung to her parasol, and repudiated the notion of fatigue. "she had never enjoyed a walk so much. it was lovely scenery, and a magnificent waterfall. she had no idea there was anything so fine in ireland. she would have gone twice the distance to see it. tired! she wasn't a bit tired, and believed she might be quite as good a walker as miss macormac." there were times when miss douglas felt her nickname not altogether undeserved. she became satanella now to the core. luncheon was on the table when the young ladies got back to the castle, and although several of the guests had absented themselves, the general took his place with those who remained. st. josephs was not in the best of humours, for a solitary walk in a strange district which had failed in its object. he sat, as it would seem, purposely a long way from miss douglas, and the servants were already clearing away before he tried to catch her eye. what he saw, or how he gathered from an instantaneous glance that his company was more welcome now than it had been at breakfast, is one of those mysteries on which it seems useless to speculate; but he never left her side again during the afternoon. the general was true to his colours, and seldom ventured on the slightest act of disloyalty. when he returned, as in the present instance, to his allegiance, he always found himself under more authority than ever for his weak attempt at insubordination. chapter xiii punchestown "i tell ye, i bred her myself, and it's every hair in her skin i know, when i kept her on the farm till she was better than three year old. will ye not step in here, and take a dandy o' punch, mr. sullivan?" the invitation was promptly accepted, and its originator, none other than the breeder of satanella, dressed in his best clothes, with an alarming waistcoat, and an exceedingly tall hat, conducted his friend into a crowded canvas booth, on the outside of which heavy rain was beating, while its interior steamed with wet garments and hot whisky punch. mr. sullivan was one of those gentlemen who are never met with but in places where there is money to be made, by the laying against, backing, buying, or selling of horses. from his exterior the uninitiated might have supposed him a land-steward, a watch-maker, or a schoolmaster in reduced circumstances; but to those versed in such matters there was something indisputably _horsey_ about the tie of his neck-cloth, the sit of his well-brushed hat, and the shape of his clean, weather-beaten hands. he looked like a man who could give you full particulars of the noble animal, tell you its price, its pedigree, its defects, its performances, and buy it for you on commission cheaper than you could yourself. while his friend drank in gulps that denoted considerable enjoyment, mr. sullivan seemed to absorb his punch insensibly and as a matter of course. "there's been good beasts bred in roscommon beside your black mare, denis," observed this worthy; "and it's the pick of the world for harses comes into kildare this day. whisper now. old sir giles offered four hundred pounds, ready money, for shaneen in dublin last night. i seen him meself!" "is it shaneen?" returned denis, with another pull at the punch. "i'll not deny he's a nate little harse, and an illegant lepper, but he wouldn't be in such a race as this. he'll niver see it wan, mr. sullivan, no more nor a quaker'll never see glory! mat should have taken the four hundred!" "mat knows what he's doing," said mr. sullivan; "the boy's been forty years and more running harses at the curragh. may be they're keeping shaneen to lead the englishman over his leps; and why wouldn't he take the second money, or run for a place annyways?" "an' where would the black mare be?" demanded her former owner. "is it the likes of her ye'd see coming in at the tail of the hunt, and the captain ridin' and all! i wonder to hear you then, mr. sullivan." "in my opinion the race lies betwixt three," replied the great authority, looking wise and dropping his voice. "there's your own mare, denis, that you sold the captain; there's leprauchan, the big chestnut they brought up here from limerick; there's the english horse,--st. george they call him--that's been training all the time in kilkenny. wait till i tell ye. if he gets first over the big double, he'll take as much catching as a flea in an ould blanket; and when thim's all racing home together, why wouldn't little shaneen come in and win on the post?" denis looked disconcerted, and finished his punch at a gulp. he had not before taken so comprehensive a view of the general contest as affecting the chance of his favourite. pushing back the tall hat he scratched his head and pondered. "i'd be thinkin' better of it, av' the captain wouldn't have changed the mare's name," said he. "what ailed him at 'molly bawn' that he'd go an' call the likes of such a baste as that satanella? hurry now, mr. sullivan, take another taste of punch, and come out of this. you and me'll go and see them saddle, annyways!" leaving the booth, therefore, with many "god save ye's" and greetings from acquaintances crowding in, they emerged on the course close to the grand stand, at a spot that commanded an excellent view of the finish, and afforded a panorama of such scenery as, in the sportsman's eye, is unequalled by any part of the world. the rain had cleared off. white fleecy clouds, drifting across the sky before a soft west wind, threw alternate lights and shadows over a wild expanse of country that stretched to the horizon, in range on range of undulating pastures, broken only by scattered copses, square patches of gorse, and an occasional gully, marking the course of some shallow stream from the distant uplands, coyly unveiling, as the mist that rested on their brows rolled heavily away. far as sight could reach, the landscape was intersected by thick irregular lines, denoting those formidable fences, of which the nature was to be ascertained by inspecting the leaps that crossed the steeple-chase-course. these were of a size to require great power and courage in the competing animals, while the width of the ditches from which the banks were thrown up necessitated that repetition of his effort, by which the irish hunter gets safely over these difficulties much as a retriever jumps a gate. a very gallant horse might indeed fly the first two or three such obstacles in his stride, but the tax on his muscles would be too exhaustive for continuance, and not to "change," as it is called, on the top of the bank, when there is a ditch on each side, would be a certain downfall. with thirty such leaps and more, with a sufficient brook and a high stone wall, with four irish miles of galloping before the judge's stand can be passed, with the running forced from end to end by some thorough-bred flyer not intended to _win_, and with the best steeple-chase horses in great britain to encounter, a conqueror at punchestown may be said to win his laurels nobly--laurels in which, as in the wreath of many a two-legged hero, the shamrock is profusely intertwined. "the boys has got about the big double as thick as payse," observed mr. sullivan, shading his eyes under his hat-brim while he scanned the course. "it's there the englishman will _renage_ likely, an' if there's wan drops in there'll be forty of them tumblin' one above the other, like brian o'rafferty's pigs. will the captain keep steady now, and niver loose her off till she marks with her eye the very sod she's after kickin' with her fut?" "i'll go bail he will!" answered denis. "the captain he'll draw her back smooth an' easy on the snaffle, and when onc'st he lets her drive--whooroo! begorra! it's not the police barracks nor yet the county gaol would hould her, av' she gets a fair offer! i tell ye that black mare,--whisht--will ye now? here's the quality comin' into the stand. there's clane-bred ones, mr. sullivan, shape an' action, an' the ould blood at the back of it all." an irishman is no bad judge of good looks in man or beast. while the roscommon farmer made this observation, miss douglas was leaving lady mary macormac's carriage for the stand. her peculiar style of beauty, her perfect self-possession, the mingled grace and pride of her bearing, were appreciated and admired by the bystanders as, with all her triumphs, they had never been on her own side of the channel. the crowd were already somewhat hoarse with shouting. their lord lieutenant, with the princely politeness of punctuality, had arrived half an hour ago. being a hard-working viceroy, whose relaxation chiefly consisted in riding perfectly straight over his adopted country, he was already at the back of the course disporting himself amongst the fences to his own great content, and the unbounded gratification of "the boys." leaping a five-foot wall, over which his aide-de-camp fell neck and crop, they set up a shout that could be heard at naas. the irish jump to conclusions, like women, and are as often right. that a statesman should be wise and good because he is a bold rider, seems a position hardly to be reasoned out; yet these wild untutored spirits acknowledged instinctively that qualities by which men govern well are kept the fresher and stronger for a kindly heart to sympathize with sport as with sorrow, for a manly courage that, in work or play, trouble or danger, loves always to be in front. so the "more powers" to his excellency were not only loud but hearty, while for _her_ excellency, it need hardly be said of these impulsive, chivalrous and susceptible natures, they simply went out of their senses, and yelled in a frenzy of admiration and delight. nevertheless the applause was by no means exhausted, and miss douglas taking her place in the ladies' stand, could not repress a thrill of triumph at the remark of a strapping tipperary boy in the crowd, made quite loud enough to be overheard. "see, now, larry, av' ye was goin' coortin', wouldn't ye fling down your caubeen, and hid her step on to't? i'll engage there's flowers growin' wherever she lays her fut." to which larry replied, with a wink, "divil a ha'porth i'd go on for the coortin'--but just stay where i am!" our party from cormac's town formed no unimportant addition to the company that thronged the stand. amongst these neither norah macormac nor mrs. lushington could complain they had less than their share of admiration, while st. josephs observed, with mingled sentiments of triumph and apprehension, that a hundred male eyes were bent on satanella, and as many female voices whispered, "but who is that tall girl with black hair?--so handsome, and in such a peculiar style!" a proud man, though, doubtless, was the general, walking after his young lady with her shawls, her glasses, her parasol. choosing for her an advantageous position to view the races, obtaining for her a card of the running horses, and trying to look as if he studied it with the vaguest notion of what was likely to win. a match had just come off between mr. mcdermott's "comether" and captain conolly's "molly maguire," of little interest to the general public, but creating no small excitement amongst friends and partisans of the respective owners. "molly maguire" had been bred at naas--within a stone's-throw as it were. "comether" was the pride of that well-known western hunt, once so celebrated as "the blazers." each animal was ridden by a good sportsman and popular representative of its particular district. the little galway horse made all the running, took his leaps like a deer, finished like a game-cock, but was beaten by the mare's superior stride in the last struggle home, through a storm of voices, by a length. the crowd were in ecstasies. the gentlefolks applauded with far more enthusiasm than is customary at bedford or lincoln. a lovely galway girl, with eyes of that wondrous blue only to be caught from the reflection of the atlantic, expressed an inclination to kiss the plucky little animal that had lost, and blushed like a rose when a gallant cornet entreated he might be the bearer of that reward to the horse in its stable. the clouds had cleared off, the sun shone out. the booths emptied themselves into the course. a hungry roar went up from the betting-ring, and everybody prepared for the great race of the day--"the united service handicap, for horses of all ages, _bonâ-fide_ the property of officers who have held her majesty's commission within the last ten years. gentlemen riders, kildare hunt course and rules." betting, alas! flourishes at every meeting, and even punchestown is not exempt from the visits of a fraternity who support racing, it may be, after a fashion, but whose room many an irish gentleman, no doubt, considers preferable to their company. on the present occasion they made perhaps more noise than they did business; but amongst real lovers of the sport, from the high-bred beautifully-dressed ladies in the stand, down to lads taking charge of farmers' horses, and "raising a lep off them" behind the booths, speculation was rife, in french gloves and irish poplins, as in sixpenny pieces and "dandies" of punch. man and woman, each had a special fancy, shouted for it, believed in it, backed it through thick and thin. the race had created a good deal of attention from the time it was first organized. it showed a heavy entry, the terms were fair, a large sum of money was added, public runners were heavily weighted, the nominations included many horses that had never been out before. in one way and another the united service handicap had grown into the great event of the meeting. the best of friends must part. denis could not resist the big double, taking up a position whence he might hurl himself at it, in imagination, with every horse that rose. mr. sullivan, more practical, occupied a familiar spot that commanded a view of the finish, and enabled him to test the merits of winner or loser by the stoutness with which each struggled home. neither had such good places as miss douglas and miss macormac. norah knew the exact angle from which everything could best be seen. there, like an open-hearted girl, she insisted on blanche taking her seat, and planting herself close by. the general leaned over them, and mrs. lushington stood on a pile of cushions behind. she had very pretty feet, and it was a pity they should be hid beneath her petticoats. a bell rang, the course was cleared (in a very modified sense of the term), a stable-boy on an animal sheeted to its hocks and hooded to its muzzle (erroneously supposed to be the favourite), kicked his way along with considerable assurance, a friendless dog was hooted, a fat old woman jeered, and the numbers went up. "one, two, five, seven, eight, nine, eleven, fifteen, and not another blank till you come to twenty-two. bless me, what a field of horses!" exclaimed the general, adding, with a gallant smile, "the odd or the even numbers, ladies? which will you have? in gloves, bonnets, or anything you please." the girls looked at each other. "i want to back satanella," was on the lips of both, but something checked them, and neither spoke. macormac, full of smiles and good humour, in boots and breeches, out of breath, and splashed to his waist, hurried up the steps. "see now, norah," said he. "i've just left sir giles. he's fitting the snaffle himself in leprauchan's mouth this minute, and an awkward job he makes of it, by rason of gout in the fingers. put your money on the chestnut, miss douglas," he continued. "here he comes. look at the stride of him. he's the boy that can do't!" while he spoke, leprauchan, a great raking chestnut, with three white legs, came down the course like a steam-engine. no martingale that ever was buckled, even in the practised hands now steering him, could bring his head to a proper angle, but though he went star-gazing along, he never made a mistake, possessed a marvellous stride, especially in deep ground, and, to use a familiar phrase, could "stay for a week." "hie! hie!" shouted his jockey, standing well up in his stirrups to steer him for a preliminary canter through the crowd. "hie! hie!" repeated a dozen varying tones behind him, as flyer after flyer went shooting by--now this way, now that--carrying all the colours of the rainbow, and each looking like a winner, till succeeded by the next. for a few minutes st. josephs had been in earnest conversation with one of the "jackeens," who earlier in the day, might have been seen taking counsel of mr. sullivan. "i've marked your card for you, miss douglas," said the general. "i've the best information from my friend here, and the winner ought to be one of these four--leprauchan, shaneen, st. george, or satanella. the english horse for choice if he can keep on his legs." "i _must_ have a bet on satanella," exclaimed miss douglas irrepressibly, whereat the general looked grave, and norah gave her an approving pat on the hand. "send somebody into the ring, general, to find out her price, and back her for ten pounds at evens, if they can't do better, on my behalf." "i'd like to share your wager," said norah kindling. "and so you shall, dear," replied miss douglas. "you and i, at any rate, want him to win, poor fellow; and good wishes will do him no harm." "here he comes!" replied norah; and while she spoke, satanella was seen trotting leisurely down the course, snorting, playing with her bit, and bending to acknowledge the caresses daisy lavished on her beautiful neck with no sparing hand. the mare looked as fine as a star. trained to perfection, her skin shining like satin, her muscles salient, her ribs just visible, her action, though she trotted with rather a straight knee, stealthy, cat-like, and as if she went upon wires. it is the first quality of a rider to adapt himself easily to every movement of the animal he bestrides, but this excellence of horsemanship is much enhanced when the pair have completed their preparation together, and the man has acquired his condition, morning after morning, in training walks and gallops on the beast. this was daisy's case. satanella, to a sensitive mouth, added a peculiar and irritable temper. another hand on her rein for an hour would undo the work of days. nobody had therefore ridden her for weeks but himself, and when the two went down the course at punchestown together, they seemed like some skilful piece of mechanism, through which one master-spring set all parts in motion at once. "he's an illigant rider," groaned mr. sullivan, who stood to win on leprauchan. "an' 'a give-and-take horseman's' the pick of the world when there's leps. but it's not likely now they'd all stand up in such a 'rookawn,'"[ ] he added, "an' why wouldn't the captain get throw'd down with the rest?" such admiration was excited by the black mare's appearance, particularly when she broke into a gallop, and daisy with pardonable coxcombry, turned in his saddle to salute the ladies smiling on him from the stand, that few but those immediately interested noticed a little shabby, wiry-looking horse come stealing behind the crack with that smooth, easy swing which racing men, though they know it so thoroughly, will sometimes neglect to their cost. this unassuming little animal carried a plain snaffle in its mouth, without even a restraining nose-band. it seemed quiet as a sheep, and docile as a dog. there was nothing remarkable about it to those who cannot take a horse in at a glance, but one of the household left his excellency's stand and descended into the ring with a smile on his handsome, quiet face. when he returned the smile was still there, and he observed he had "backed shaneen for a pony, and had got four to one." mr. sullivan, too, as he marked the little animal increase its stride, while its quick, vibrating ears caught the footfall of a horse galloping behind it, drew his mouth into many queer shapes suggestive of discomfiture, imparting to himself in a whisper, "that if he rightly knawed it, maybe sir giles wasn't too free with his offer at all, for such a shabby little garron as that!" so the cracks came sweeping by in quick succession, st. george, perhaps, attracting most attention from the stand. a magnificent bay horse of extraordinary beauty, he possessed the rich colour and commanding size of the "king tom" blood, set off by a star of white in his forehead, and a white forefoot. no sooner did he appear with his scarlet-clad jockey, than the ladies, to use macormac's expression, were "in his favour to a man!" the property of a popular english nobleman, a pillar of support to all field-sports, ridden by a gentleman jockey, capable, over that course, of giving weight to most professionals, in the prime of blood, power, and condition, he was justly a favourite with the public as with the ring. in the whole of that multitude, there were probably but two individuals who wished he might break his neck at the first fence, and these two sat in the ladies' stand. "they're all weighed and mounted now but one," observed the general, studying his card. "what is it? fandango? yes, fandango; and here he comes. what a hideous drab jacket! but i say, i'll trouble you for a goer! why this is derby form all over!" "he's a good mile horse anywhere," said the quiet man, who had backed shaneen; "but he's not meant to win here, and couldn't if he tried. they've started him to make running for st. george." "what a pretty sight!" exclaimed the ladies, as something like a score of horses, ridden by the finest horsemen in the world, stood marshalled before the stand. though the majority were more sedate in their demeanour than might have been expected, three or four showed a good deal of temper and anxiety to get _somewhere_. amongst these satanella made herself extremely conspicuous for insubordination, contrasting strikingly with little shaneen, who stood stock-still, playing with his bit, through two false starts, till the flag was fairly down, when he darted away like a rabbit, without pulling an ounce. win or lose, his jockey was sure of a pleasant ride on shaneen. "they're really off!" said the general getting his glasses out, as a young officer, extricating himself from the betting ring, announced, breathlessly-- "they've made the mare first favourite, and are laying three to two!" "what's that in front?" said everybody. "fandango! well, they _are_ going a cracker. fancy jumping at such a pace as that!" yet not a mistake was made at the first fence. to lookers-on from the stand, all the horses seemed to charge it abreast, as their tails went up simultaneously, while they kicked the bank like lightning, and darted off again faster than before, but turning a little to the right, though the ground sloped in their favour, half-a-dozen were seen lengthening out in front of the rest, and it seemed as if the pace was already beginning to tell. "fandango still leading," said the general, scanning the race through his glasses, and thinking aloud as people always do on such occasions. "st. george and satanella close behind, and--yes--by jove it is! the little mud-coloured horse, shaneen, lying fourth. over you go! ah, one down--two--another! i fear that poor fellow's hurt! look at the loose horse galloping on with them! well done! they're _all_ over the brook! st. george second! what a fine goer he is! and now they're coming to the big double!" but the big double is so far from the stand that we will place ourselves by the roscommon farmer on a knoll that commands it, and watch with him the gallant sight offered by such a field of horses charging a fence like the side of a house at racing pace. "augh, captain! keep steady now, for the love of the virgin!" roared denis, as if daisy, a quarter of a mile off, and going like the wind, could possibly hear him. "more power to the little harse! he's leading them yet! nivir say it! the englishman has the fut of him! ah, catch hoult of his head, ye omadawn![ ] he'll never see to change av' you're loosin' him off that way! now, let the mare at it, captain! she's doin' beautiful! an' little shaneen on her quarters! it's keepin' time, he is, like a fiddler! ah, be aisy, you in scarlet! by the mortial, there's a lep for ye! whooroo!!! did ever man see the like of that?" it was indeed a heavy and hideous fall. st. george--whose education in the country of his adoption had been systematically carried out--could change his footing with perfect security on the narrowest bank that was ever thrown up with a spade. to the astonishment of his own and every other jockey in the race, his "on and off" at all the preceding fences had been quick and well-timed as that of shaneen himself; but his blood got up when he had taken the brook in his stride. he could pull hard on occasion. ten lengths from the big double he was out of his rider's hand, and going as fast as he could drive. therefore denis desired that gentleman to "catch hoult;" but with all his skill--for never was man less "an omadawn" in the saddle--his horse had broke away, and was doing with him what it liked. seeing the enormous size of the obstacle before him, st. george put on a yet more infuriated rush, and with a marvellous spring, that is talked of to this day, cleared the whole thing--broad-topped bank, double ditches, and all--in his stride, covering nearly eleven yards, by an effort that carried him fairly over from field to field: nothing but consummate horsemanship in his jockey--a tact that detects the exact moment when it is destruction to interfere--enabled the animal to perform so extraordinary a feat. but, alas! where he landed the surface was poached and trodden. his next stride brought him on his head; the succeeding one rolled him over with a broken thigh, and the gallant, generous, high-couraged st. george never rose again! the appearance of the race was now considerably altered. fandango dropped into the rear at once--there was nothing more for him to do in the absence of his stable-companion, and indeed he had shot his bolt ere half the distance was accomplished. the pace decreased slightly after the accident to st. george, and as they bounded over the wall, nearly together, not a man on the course doubted but that the contest lay between the first three--satanella, leprauchan, and shaneen. of these, the mare so far as could be judged by spectators in the stand, seemed freshest and fullest of running. already they were laying a trifle of odds on her in the ring. now daisy had planned the whole thing out in his own mind, and hitherto all had gone exactly as he wished. in satanella's staying powers he had implicit confidence, and he intended, from the first, that if he could have the race run to suit him, he would win it about a mile from home. after crossing the wall, therefore, he came away faster than ever, the leaps were easy, the ground inclined in his favour, and he rattled along at a pace that was telling visibly on leprauchan, who nevertheless kept abreast of him, while little shaneen, lying four lengths behind, neither lessened nor increased his distance from the leaders, but galloped doggedly on, in exactly the same form as when he started. "never saw a steeple-chase run so fast!" said everybody in the stand. "why, the time will be as good as the liverpool." "it _can't_ go on!" thought leprauchan's jockey, feeling the chestnut beginning to roll, while pulling more than ever. "if i can but keep alongside, she _must_ run herself out, and there's nothing else left in the race." but his whip was up when they made their turn for a run in, and he landed over his last fence with a scramble that lost him at least a length. "leprauchan's beat!" shouted the crowd. "satanella wins! it's all over--it's a moral. the mare for a million! the mare! the mare!!" blanche douglas turned pale as death, and norah macormac began to cry. satanella was approaching the distance with leprauchan beat off, and shaneen a length behind. here occurred one of those casualties which no amount of care avails to prevent, nor of caution to foresee. the crowd in their eagerness had swayed in on the course. a woman carrying a child lost her footing, and fell helpless, directly in front of the black mare. daisy managed to avoid them, with a wrench at the bridle that saved their lives, and lost him some twenty feet of ground. in the next three strides, shaneen's brown muzzle was at his quarters--at his knee--at his breast-plate. never before had satanella felt whip or spur. these were applied to some purpose, and gamely she answered the call; nevertheless, that shabby little horse drew on her, inch by inch. they were neck and neck now, shaneen's jockey sitting in the middle of his saddle, perfectly still. "it's a race!" shouted the lookers-on. "the little 'un's coming up! he's gaining on her. not a bit of it! the mare has him safe. keep at her, daisy! now, satanella! now, shaneen! did ever ye see such a fight? neck and neck--head and head. by the powers, it's a dead heat!" but the judge gave it to shaneen by a neck, and when the numbers went up, though not till then, daisy and daisy's backers knew that satanella had only taken the second place. leprauchan and the rest came lobbing in by twos and threes. nobody cared for them. nobody had attention to spare for anything but the shabby little brown horse that had beaten the favourite. footnotes: [footnote : "rookawn," a general scrimmage.] [footnote : "you fool!"] chapter xiv "a good thing" poor daisy! everybody was sorry for him, everybody except the owner and a few friends who won largely on shaneen, regretted his disappointment, and shrugged their shoulders at the heavy losses it was known to have entailed. his brother-officers looked grave, but bestirred themselves, nevertheless, for the next race. his trainer shook his head, glancing wistfully at the spur marks on the mare's reeking sides. the very crowd condoled with him, for he had ridden to admiration, and the accident that discomfited him was patent to all. even mr. sullivan, whose own hopes had been blighted by the defeat of the chestnut, expressed an opinion that "av' it could be run again, though there wasn't a pound between them, it was his belief the mare would win!" mr. walters, however, true to his nature, kept a bold face over a troubled heart, yet had a difficult task to control his feelings, when he emerged from the enclosure after weighing, and found his hand seized by the roscommon farmer in a grip that inflicted no slight physical pain. "ah! now, captain," exclaimed denis, who had flung himself on a horse, and galloped back from the big double, just too late to witness the finish. "sure ye rode it beautiful! an' the mare, i seen her myself, come out from them all in wan blaze, like a sky-rocket! bate, says they, by a neck? i'll niver believe it! annyways, ye'll need to pay the wagers. see, now, captain, i parted a score o' heifers, only last friday was it, by good luck, and i've got the money here--rale dublin notes--inside my coat-tail pocket. take as much as ye'd be likely to want, captain. what's a trifle like that betwixt you an' me? oh! the mare would have wan, safe enough, av' she had fair play. see to her now, she's got her wind back. begorra! she's ready to go again!" daisy was no creature of impulse,--the last man in the world to be fooled by any sentiment of the moment,--yet tears filled his eyes, and he could scarce find a voice to thank his humble friend, while he declined an offer that came straight from the farmer's warm and generous heart. denis looked disappointed, wrung "the captain's" hand hard, and vanished in a convenient booth to console himself with another "dandy" of punch. patting the mare fondly, and even laying his cheek against her warm, wet neck, the losing jockey retired to change silk and doeskin for his usual dress, in which, with his usual easy manner, he swaggered up to the stand. here, as has been said, his defeat excited considerable sympathy, and, indeed, in one quarter, positive consternation. two young ladies had accompanied him through the race, with their hearts as with their eyes. when his efforts ended in defeat, both were deeply affected, though in different ways. norah macormac could not refrain from tears, but conscious that mamma was on the watch, hid her face in a ridiculously small pocket-handkerchief, pretending to sneeze and blow her nose, as if she had caught cold. blanche douglas, on the contrary, looked round fierce, wistful, and defiant, like a wild creature at bay. even daisy, approaching jauntily to receive his friends' condolences could not but observe how pale she was, yet how collected and composed. "i've not punished her much," said he, addressing himself, in the first instance, to the real owner of the vanquished mare. "she's as good as i told you, miss douglas. it was no fault of hers. if i hadn't been a muff i'd have killed the old woman, and won in a canter! never mind; your favourite, at least, has not disgraced her name, and i'm very glad i called her satanella." she laid her hand softly on his arm, and looked straight into his eyes. "did you stand it all?" said she. "is it as bad as you said? tell me! quick! i cannot bear suspense." "never laid off a shilling," he answered lightly. "never even backed her for a place. i swore i'd be a man or a mouse, as you know, and it's come up--mouse!" "in two words, mr. walters, you're ruined!" she spoke almost angrily in her effort at self-control. "that's the way to say it!" was his careless reply. "general break up--horse, foot, and dragoons. no reason, though, you should call me _mr. walters_." "well, _daisy_, then," she murmured, with a loving, lingering tenderness on those syllables she was resolved never to utter above her breath again. "you know how i hoped you'd win. you know how vexed i am. you know--or rather you don't, and never _shall_ know--that it's worse for _me_ than for _you_!" the last sentence she spoke so low he did not catch its purport, but thinking she regretted the loss of her own wagers, he began to express sorrow for having advised her so badly. she stopped him angrily. "i would have backed her for thousands," she exclaimed. "i would have laid my life on her. i believe i _have_!" "then you don't owe the mare a grudge!" he answered cheerily. "i thought you wouldn't. she's not a pin the worse for training. you'll take her back, won't you?--and--and--you'll be kind to her for her own sake?" she seemed to waver a moment, as if she weighed some doubtful matter in her mind. presently with cleared brow, and frank, open looks, she caught his hand. "and for _yours_!" said she. "i'll never part with her. so long as we three are above ground, satanella--my namesake--will be a--a--remembrance between you and me!" then she beckoned the general, who was talking to some ladies behind her, and asked for information about the next race, with a kindness of tone and manner that elevated the old soldier to the seventh heaven. meanwhile, miss macormac had found time to recover her composure. turning to mr. walters she showed him a bright and pretty face, with just such traces of the vexation that had clouded it as are left by passing showers on an april sky. her eyes looked deeper and darker for their late moisture, her little nose all the daintier that its transparent nostrils were tinged with pink. she gave him her hand frankly, as though to express silent sympathy and friendship. sinking into a seat by her side, daisy embarked on a long and detailed account of the race, the way he had ridden it, the performances of st. george, leprauchan, shaneen, and his own black mare. though he seldom got excited, he could not but break into a glowing description, as he warmed with his narrative. "when i came to the wall," he declared, "i was as sure of winning as i am of sitting by you now. st. george had been disposed of, and he was the only horse in the race whose form i did not know to a pound. leprauchan, i felt satisfied, could never live the pace, if i made it hot enough. and as for little shaneen, the mare's stride would be safe to beat _him_, if we finished with a set-to, in the run-in. everything had come off exactly to suit me, and when we rounded the last turn but one i caught hold of satanella, and set her going down the hill like an express train!" "did ye now?" she murmured, her deep grey eyes looking earnestly into his, her sweet lips parted as though with a breathless interest that drank in every syllable he spoke. "_did ye now?_" only three words, yet carrying with them a charm to convince the most practical of men that the days of spells and witchcraft are not yet gone by. an englishwoman would have observed, "really!" "oh, indeed!" "you don't say so!" or made use of some such cold conventional expression to denote languid attention, not thoroughly aroused; but the irish girl's "_did ye now?_" identified her at once with her companion and his doings, started them both incontinently on that path of congenial partnership, which is so seductive to the traveller, smooth, pleasant all down hill, and leading--who knows where? perhaps neither deep liquid eyes, nor dark lashes, nor arched brows, nor even smiles and blushes, and shapely graceful forms, would arm these irish ladies with such unequalled and irresistible powers, were it not for their kindly womanly nature that adapts itself so graciously to those with whom it comes in contact--their encouraging "did ye now?" that despises no trifle, is wearied with no details, and asks only for his confidence whom they honour with their regard. perhaps, also, it is this faculty of sympathy and assimilation, predominant in both sexes, that makes irish society the pleasantest in the world. thus encouraged, daisy went off again at score, described each fence to his eager listener, dwelt on every stride, and explained the catastrophe of the woman and child, observing, in conclusion, with a philosophy all his own, that it was "hard lines to be done just at the finish, and lose a hat-full of money, by three-quarters of a yard!" she looked up anxiously. "did ye make such heavy bets now?" she said in a tone of tender reproach. "ah! captain walters, ye told me ye never meant to run these risks again!" "it was for the last time," he answered rather mournfully. "if the old woman had been at home and in bed, i should have been my own master at this moment, and then--never mind what _then_! it's no use bothering about that now!" she blushed to the very roots of her hair--why she would have been at a loss to explain,--crumpled her race-card into a hundred creases, and observed innocently-- "why should it make any difference now? do ye think we'd like you better for being a hundred times a winner? i wouldn't then, for one!" he was sitting very close, and nobody but herself heard the whisper, in which he asked-- "then you don't despise a fellow for losing, miss macormac, do you?" "despise him?" she answered with flashing eyes. "never say the word! if i liked him before, d'ye think i wouldn't like him ten times better after he'd been vexed by such a disappointment as that! ye're not understanding what i mean, and maybe i'm not putting it into right words, but it seems to me----yes, dear mamma, i'm minding what you say! sure enough, it is raining in here fit to drown a fish! i'm obliged to ye, captain. will ye kindly shift the cloak and cushions to that dry place yonder by lady mary. how wet the poor riders will be in their silk jackets! i'm pleased and thankful now--indeed i am--that ye're sheltered safe and dry in the stand." the last remark in a whisper, because of lady mary's supervision, who thinking the _tête-à-tête_ between daisy and her daughter had lasted long enough, took advantage of a driving shower and the state of the roof to call pretty miss norah into a part of the stand which she considered in every respect more secure. the sky had again darkened, the afternoon promised to be wet. punchestown weather is not proverbial for sunshine, and mrs. lushington, who had done less execution than she considered rightly due to a new toilette of violet and swansdown, voted the whole thing a failure and a bore. the last race was run off in a pelting shower, the lord lieutenant's carriages and escort had departed, people gathered up their shawls and wrappings with little interest in anything but the preservation of dry skins. ladies yawned and began to look tired, gentlemen picked their way through the course ankle-deep in mud, to order up their several vehicles, horse and foot scattered themselves over the country in every direction from a common centre, the canvas booths flapped, wind blew, the rain fell, the great day's racing was over, and it was time to go home. norah macormac's ears were very sharp, but they listened in vain for the expected invitation from lady mary, asking daisy to spend a few days with them at the castle. papa, whose hospitality was unbounded and uncontrollable, would have taken no denial, under any circumstances; but papa was engaged with the race committee, and intended, moreover, to gallop home across country by himself. there seemed nothing for it but to put as much cordiality into her farewell as was compatible with the presence of bystanders and the usages of society. miss norah no doubt acquitted herself to daisy's satisfaction--and her own. mr. sullivan, whose experience enabled him to recover his losses on the great handicap by a judicious selection of winners in two succeeding races, did not, therefore, depart without a final glass of comfort, which he swallowed in company with the roscommon farmer. to him he expounded his views on steeple-chasing, and horses in general, at far greater length than in the forenoon. it is a matter of regret that, owing to excitement, vexation, and very strong punch, denis should have been much too drunk to understand a word he said. the only idea this worthy seemed clearly to take in, he repeated over and over again in varying tones of grief and astonishment, but always in the same terms:-- "the mare can do it, i tell ye! an' the captain rode her beau-tiful! isn't it strange, now, to see little shaneen comin' in like that at the finish, an' givin' her a batin' by a neck!" chapter xv winners and losers dinner that day at the castle seemed less lively than usual. macormac, indeed, whose joviality was invincible, ate, drank, laughed, and talked for a dozen; but lady mary's spirits were obviously depressed; and the guests, perhaps not without private vexation of their own, took their cue rather from hostess than host. an unaccountable sense of gloom and disappointment pervaded the whole party. the general having come down early, in hopes of a few minutes with miss douglas in the drawing-room before the others were dressed, had been disappointed by the protracted toilette and tardy appearance of that provoking young lady, with whom he parted an hour before on terms of mutual sympathy and tenderness, but who now sat pale and silent, while the thunder clouds he knew and dreaded gathered ominously on her brow. his preoccupation necessarily affected his neighbour--a budding beauty fresh from the school-room, full of fun and good humour, that her sense of propriety kept down, unless judiciously encouraged and drawn out. most of the gentlemen had been wet to the skin, many had lost money, all were tired, and norah macormac's eyes filled every now and then with tears. these discoveries mrs. lushington imparted in a whisper to lord st. abbs as he sat between herself and her hostess, whom he had taken in to dinner, pausing thereafter to mark the effect of her condescension on this raw youth, lately launched into the great world. the young nobleman, however, betrayed no symptoms of emotion beyond screwing his eye-glass tighter in its place, and turning round to look straight in her face, while it dropped out with a jump. even mrs. lushington felt at a disadvantage, and took counsel with her own heart whether she should accost him again. why lord st. abbs went about at all, or what pleasure he derived from the society of his fellow-creatures, was a puzzle nobody had yet been able to find out. pale, thin, and puny in person, freckled, sandy-haired, bearing all outward characteristics of scottish extraction, except the caledonian's gaunt and stalwart frame, he neither rowed, shot, fished, sang, made jokes, nor played whist. he drank very little, conversed not at all, and was voted by nearly all who had the advantage of his acquaintance "the dullest young man out!" yet was he to be seen everywhere, from buckingham palace or holland house to hampton races and the fire-works at cremorne; always alone, always silent, with his glass in his eye, observant, imperturbable, and thinking, no doubt, a great deal. it was rumoured, indeed, that on one memorable occasion he got drunk at cambridge, and kept a supper-party in roars of laughter till four, a.m. if so, he must have fired all his jokes off at once, so to speak, and blown the magazine up afterwards; for he never blazed forth in such lustre again. he came out a wrangler of his year, notwithstanding, and the best modern linguist, as well as classical scholar, in the university. though the world of ball-goers and diners-out ignores such distinctions, a strong political party, hungering for office, had its eye on him already. as his father voted for government in the upper house, a provident director of the opposition lost no time in sounding him on his views, should he become a member of the lower. how little, to use his own words, the _whip_ "took by his motion" may be gathered from the opinion he expressed in confidence to his chief, that "st. abbs was either as close as wax or the biggest fool (and it's saying a great deal) who ever came out of cambridge with a degree!" gloomy as a dinner-party may appear at first, if the champagne circulates freely, people begin to talk long before the repast is half over. what must children think of their seniors when the dining-room door opens for an instant, and trailing upstairs unwillingly to bed, they linger to catch that discordant unintelligible gabble going on within? during a lull mrs. lushington made one more effort to arouse the attention of lord st. abbs. "we're all getting better by degrees," said she, with a comic little sigh. "but it has been a disastrous day, and i believe everybody feels just as i do myself." "how?" demanded his lordship, while the eye-glass bounced into his plate. "like the man who won a shilling and lost eighteen-pence," she answered, laughing. "why?" he asked, yet more austerely, screwing the instrument into position the while with a defiant scowl. she was out of patience--no wonder. "good gracious, lord st. abbs!" said she. "haven't we all been on the wrong horse? haven't we all been backing daisy?" she spoke rather loud, and was amused to observe the effect of her observation. it was like dropping a squib in a boy's school during lessons. everybody must needs join in the excitement. "a bad job indeed!" said one. "a great race entirely!" added another. "run fairly out from end to end, and only a neck between first and second at the finish!" "i wish i'd taken old sullivan's advice," moaned a third; "or backed the mare for a place, annyhow." "ye might have been wrong even then, me boy," interrupted a jolly, red-faced gentleman, "unless ye squared the ould woman! i wonder would she take three half-crowns a day to come with me twice a year to the curragh?" "i knew of the mare's trial," drawled one of the london dandies, "and backed her to win me a monkey. daisy put me on at once, like a trump. it was a real good thing and it has boiled over. (champagne, please.) such is life, miss douglas. we have no hope of getting home now till epsom spring." miss douglas, not the least to his discomfiture, stared him scornfully in the face without reply. "i'm afraid it's a severe blow to young walters," observed the general. "they tell me he has lost a good deal more than he can afford." "got it, i fancy, very hot!" said the dandy. "gad, he rode as if he'd backed his mount. i thought his finish one of the best i ever saw." norah macormac threw him the sweetest of glances, and wondered why she had considered him so very uninteresting till now. "they say he hasn't a shilling left," continued the general, but stopped short when he caught the flash of satanella's eye, under its dark, frowning brow. "i dare say he'll pull through," said she bitterly, "and disappoint his dearest friends, after all." "i'll engage he will, miss douglas!" exclaimed macormac's hearty voice from the end of the table. "it's yourself wouldn't turn your back on a friend, lose or win. take a glass of that claret, now. it'll not hurt ye. here's the boy's health, and good luck to him! a pleasanter fellow, to my mind, never emptied a bottle, and a better rider never sat in a saddle, than he's proved himself this day!" norah would have liked to jump up and hug papa's handsome white head in her embrace on the spot, but lady mary had been watching the girl to-night with a mother's anxiety, and fearful lest her daughter should betray herself if subjected to further trial, gave the signal rather prematurely for the ladies to withdraw. while they trooped gracefully out, the gentlemen were still discussing daisy's defeat, and the catastrophe of the great united service handicap. everybody knows what men talk about when left alone after dinner; but none, at least of the rougher sex, can venture to guess the topics with which ladies beguile their seclusion in the drawing-room. whatever these might be, it seems they had little interest for mrs. lushington, whose habit it was to retire for ten minutes or so to her own chamber, there, perhaps, to revise and refresh her charms ere she descended once more upon a world of victims. her bedroom was gorgeously furnished, supplied with all the luxuries to which she was accustomed; but the windows did not shut close, and a draught beneath the door lifted the hearth-rug at her fire-place; therefore she made but a short stay in her apartment, stealing softly down-stairs again, so as to be well settled in the drawing-room before the gentlemen came in. traversing the library, she heard lady mary's voice carrying on, as it seemed, a subdued, yet sustained conversation, in a little recess adjoining, which could hardly be called a boudoir, but was so far habitable, that in it there usually stood a lamp, a chess-board and a card-table. mrs. lushington would not have _listened_, be sure, to save her life, but the _dublin evening mail_ lay close at hand on a writing-table. she became suddenly interested in a tipperary election, and the price of pigs at belfast. lady mary's accents were low, grave, even sorrowful. it was difficult to catch more than a sentence here and there; but, judging by the short, quick sobs that replied to these, they seemed to produce no slight effect on the other party to the conversation. mrs. lushington smiled behind her paper. what she heard only confirmed what she suspected. her eyes shone, her brow cleared. she felt like a child that has put its puzzle together at last. lady mary warmed with her subject; presently she declared, distinctly enough, that something was "not like _you_, my dear. in any other girl i'd have called it bold, forward, unwomanly!" "oh, mamma! mamma! don't say that!" pleaded a voice that could only belong to poor norah. "if _you_ think so, what must _he_ have thought? oh dear! oh dear! what shall i do? what shall i do?" "it's never too late to remember your duty, my child," answered lady mary, "and i'm sure your father thinks as i do;" but though the words sounded brave enough, there was a tremble in the mother's voice that vibrated from the mother's heart. "and i'll never see him again now, i _know_!" murmured norah so piteously that lady mary could hardly keep back her tears. "well, it's not come to that yet," said she kindly. "annyways, it's wise to make ready for the worst. kiss me, dear, and mind what i've been telling ye. see now, stay here a bit, till you're more composed. i'll send in little ella to keep ye company. the child won't take notice, and ye can both come back together into the drawing-room, and no more said." but long ere lady mary could finish her caresses, and get her motherly person under weigh, mrs. lushington had slipped into the billiard-room, where she was found by the gentlemen practising winning hazards in solitude, and where, challenging lord st. abbs to a game, she was left discomfited by his very uncivil rejoinder-- "i don't play billiards," said his lordship, and turned on his heels without further comment or excuse. it was a new sensation for mrs. lushington to find herself thus thrown on general society, without at least one particular admirer on whose devotion she could rely. she didn't like it. she longed to have a finger in that mischief which is proverbially ready for "idle hands to do." on three people she now resolved to keep close and vigilant watch. these were norah, st. josephs, and satanella. the conduct of this last seemed baffling in the extreme. she had scarce vouchsafed a word to the general during dinner, had scowled at him more than once with the blackest of her black looks, and comported herself altogether like the handsome vixen she could be when she chose. now, under pretence of setting down her coffee-cup, she had brought him to her side, and was whispering confidences in his ear, with a tenderness of tone and bearing he accepted gratefully, and repaid a hundredfold. "how tolerant are these _old_ men!" thought mrs. lushington, "and how kind! what lovers they make, if only one can bring oneself not to mind wrinkles, and rheumatism and grey hair! how gentle and how chivalrous! what patience and consideration! they don't expect a woman to be an angel, because they _do_ know a little about us; and perhaps because it _is_ only a little, they believe there is more than one degree between absolute perfection and utter depravity. if jealous, they have the grace to hide it; if snubbed, they do not sulk; if encouraged, they do not presume. they know when and where to speak, and to hold their tongues; to act, and to refrain. besides, if one wants to make them unhappy, they are so sensitive, yet so quiet. a word or a look stings them to the quick, but they take their punishment with dignity; and though the blow be sharp and unprovoked, they never strike again. let me see. i don't think i've had an admirer above forty--not one who owned to it, at least. it's a new experience. i declare, i'll try! this romantic old general would suit the place exactly, and i couldn't do a kinder thing for both, than to detach him from blanche. the man is regularly wasted and thrown away. my gracious! isn't it ridiculous? if he could see us as we really are! if he only knew how much more willing a woman is to be controlled than a violent horse; how much easier to capture than a sepoy column, or a russian gun. and there he sits, a man who has ridden fearlessly against both, shrinking, hesitating, before a girl who might be his daughter--afraid, absolutely afraid, the gallant, heroic coward, to look her in the face! is she blind? is she a fool, not knowing what she throws away? or is she _really_ over head and ears in love with somebody else? she can't be breaking her heart for daisy, surely, or why has she taken the general up again, and put herself so much _en evidence_ with him to-night? i'm puzzled, i own, but i'm not going to be beat. i'll watch her narrowly. i've nothing else to do. and it's an awful temptation, even when people are great friends. wouldn't it be fun to cut her out with both?" thus reasoned mrs. lushington, according to her lights, scrutinising the couple she had set herself to study, while languidly listening to lady mary's conversation, which consisted, indeed, of speculations on the weather in the channel, mingled with hospitable regrets for the departure of her guest, and the breaking-up of the party, which was to take place on the morrow. "but ye'll come again next year," said this kind and courteous lady, who, anywhere but in her own house, would have disliked mrs. lushington from her heart. "and ye'll bring miss douglas with ye--if miss douglas she continues to be (with a significant glance at the general, holding, clumsily enough, a skein of much tangled silk). but, annyhow, i'll be lookin' for ye both punchestown week, if not before, to give us a good long visit, and we'll teach ye to like ireland, that we will, if kind wishes and a warm welcome can do't." but even while she spoke, lady mary looked anxiously towards the door. little ella, a flaxen-haired romp of eleven, had jumped off long ago with a message for sister norah, but neither having yet returned, the mother's heart ached to think of her handsome darling, smarting, perhaps, even under the mild reproof she had thought it wise to administer, perhaps weeping bitterly, to her little sister's consternation, because of the pain that burns so fiercely in a young unwearied heart--the longing for a happiness that can never be. presently, lady mary's brow cleared, and she gave a little sigh of relief, for miss ella's voice was heard, as usual, chattering loudly in the passage; and that young person, much elated at being still out of bed, came dancing into the room, followed by norah, from whose countenance all traces of recent emotion had disappeared, and who looked, in her mother's eyes, only the prettier, that she was a shade paler than usual. while the younger child laughed and romped with the company, fighting shy of lord st. abbs, but hovering with great glee about papa, and entreating not to be sent upstairs for five more minutes, her sister stole quietly off to a lonely corner, where she subsided into an unoccupied sofa, with the air of being thoroughly fatigued. mrs. lushington, covertly watching satanella, wondered more and more. breaking away from her general, her silks, and her unfinished cup of tea, miss douglas walked across the room like a queen, took norah's head in both hands, kissed her exactly between her eyebrows, and sat down composedly by her side. chapter xvi a garden of eden in a comic opera, once much appreciated by soldiers of the french nation, there occurs a quaint refrain, to the effect that the gathering of strawberries in a certain wood at malieux is a delightful pastime, "quand on est deux, quand on est deux--," and the sentiment, thus expressed, seems applicable to all solitudes, suburban or otherwise, where winding paths and rustic seats admit of two abreast. but however favoured by nature, the very smoothest of lawns and leafiest of glades surely lose more than half their beauty, if we must traverse them unaccompanied by somebody who makes all the sunshine, and perhaps all the shade, of our daily life. to wait for such a companion, is nevertheless an irritating ordeal, even amidst the fairest scenery, trying both to temper and nerves. it has been said that none realise the pace at which time gallops, till they have a bill coming due. on the other hand none know how slow he can crawl, who have not kept an uncertain tryst with over-punctuality "under the greenwood tree!" general st. josephs was not a man to be late for any preconcerted meeting, either with friend or foe. it is a long way from mayfair to kensington gardens; it seemed none the shorter for an impatient spirit and a heart beating with anxiety and hope. yet the old soldier arrived at the appointed spot twenty minutes too soon, there to suffer torments from a truly british malady called "the fidgets," while diligently consulting his watch and reconnoitering his ground. how many turns he made, pacing to and fro, between the round pond and the grove, through which he longed to behold his goddess advancing in a halo of light and beauty, he would have been ashamed to calculate. some women never _can_ be in time for anything, even for a lover; and after half an hour's waiting, that seemed a week, he drew a little note from his breast-pocket, kissed it reverently, and read it once more from end to end. it said twelve o'clock, no doubt, and certainly was a very short epistle to be esteemed so sweet. this is what, through many perusals, he had literally learned by heart-- "my dear general, "i want a long talk. shall i find you in kensington gardens, where you say it's so pretty, at twelve o'clock? "ever yours, "blanche." now, in the composition, there appeared one or two peculiarities that especially delighted its recipient. she had hitherto signed herself b. douglas, never so much as writing her christian name at length; and here she jumped boldly to "blanche," the prettiest word, to his mind, in the english language, when standing thus, like falstaff's sack, "simple of itself." also, he had not forgotten the practice adopted by ladies in general of crossing a page on which there is plenty of space, to enhance its value, as you cross a cheque on your banker, that it may be honoured in the right quarter. one line had satanella scrawled transversely over her note to this effect, "don't be late; there is nothing i hate so much as waiting." altogether the general would not have parted with it for untold gold. but _why_ didn't she come? looking round in every direction but the right, she burst upon him, like a vision, before he was aware. if he started, and turned a little pale, she marked it, we may be sure, and not with displeasure. it was but the middle of may, yet the sky smiled bright and clear, the grass was growing, butterflies were already on the wing, birds were singing, and the trees had dressed themselves in their fairest garments of tender, early green. she too was in some light muslin robe, appropriate to the weather, with a transparent bonnet on her head, and a pink-tinted parasol in her hand. he thought, and she _knew_, she had never looked more beautiful in her life. she began with a very unnecessary question. "did you get my note?" said she. "of course you did, or you wouldn't be here. i don't suppose you come into kensington gardens so early to meet anybody else!" "never did such a thing in my life!" exclaimed the general, quite frightened at the idea--but added, after a moment's thought--"it was very good of you to write, and better still to come." "now what on earth do you suppose i wanted to speak to you about?" she continued, in rather a hard voice. "let us turn down here. i daresay you'd like all london to see us together; but that wouldn't suit me at all." this was both unprovoked and unjust, for a more discreet person in such matters than the accused never existed. he felt hurt, and answered gravely, "i don't think i deserve that. you cannot say i have ever shown myself obtrusive or impatient with regard to _you_." "don't look vexed," she replied; "and don't scold me, though i deserve it. i am in one of my worst tempers this morning; and who can i wreak it on but _you_?--the kindest, the bravest, the most generous of men!" his features quivered; the tears were not far from his eyes. a little boy with a hoop stood still, and stared up in his face, marvelling to see so tall a gentleman so greatly moved. he took her hand. "you can always depend on _me_," he said softly; and, dropping it, walked on by her side in silence. "i know i can," she answered. "i've known it a long time, though you don't think so. what a hideous little boy! now he's gone on with his hoop, i'll tell you what i mean.--one of the things that first made me like you, was this--you're a gentleman down to the heels of your boots!" "there's not much in that," he replied, looking pleased, nevertheless. "so are most of the men amongst whom you live. a fellow ought to have something more than a good coat and decent manners, to be worthy of your regard; and you _do_ like me, miss douglas? tell me so again. it is almost too much happiness for me to believe." "that's not the question. if i hated anybody very much, do you think i would ask him to come and walk with me in kensington gardens at an hour when all respectable people are broiling in the park?" said she, with one of her winning laughs. "you're wrong, though, about the people in good coats. what i call a gentleman is--well--i can't think of many--king arthur, for instance, in 'guinevere.'" "not launcelot?" he asked. "i thought you ladies liked launcelot best." "there are plenty of launcelots," she answered dreamily, "and always will be. _not launcelot, nor another_, except it be _my_ general!" could he do less than take her arm and press it fondly to his side? they had loitered into the seclusion of a forest glade, that might have been a hundred miles from london. the little boy had vanished with his hoop, the nursery-maids and their charges were pervading the broad gravel walks and more frequented lawns of this sylvan paradise; not a soul was to be seen threading the stems of the tall trees but themselves, and an enthusiastic thrush straining its throat in their ears, seemed to ensure them from all observation less tolerant than its own. "now or never!" thought satanella. "it _must_ be done; and it's no use thinking about it!" turning round on her companion, she crossed her slender hands over his arm, looked caressingly in his face and murmured-- "general, will you do me a favour?" pages could not have conveyed the gratification expressed by his monosyllable, "try!" she looked about, as if searching for some means of escape, then said hurriedly-- "i am in a difficulty. i want money. will you help me?" watching his face, she saw it turn very grave. the most devoted of lovers, even while rejoicing because of the confidence reposed in him, cannot but feel that such a question must be approached with caution--that to answer it satisfactorily will require prudence, fore-thought, and self-sacrifice. to do the general justice, which satanella at the moment did _not_, his circumspection was far removed from hesitation; he had no more idea of refusing, than the gallant horse who shortens his stride, and draws himself together, for a larger fence than common, that he may collect his energies, and cover it without a mistake. for one delightful moment miss douglas felt a weight lifted from her heart, and was already beginning to unsay her words as gracefully as she might when he stopped her, with a firm, deliberate acquiescence. "of course i will! and you ought to know by this time nothing can make me so happy as to be of use to you in any way. forgive me, miss douglas--business is business--how much?" her face fell; she let go of his arm, and her lips were very dry, while she whispered, "three thousand!" he was staggered, and showed it, though he tried hard not to look surprised. few men can lay their hands on three thousand pounds of hard money, at a moment's notice, without some personal inconvenience. now the general was no capitalist, though in easy circumstances, and drawing the half-pay of his rank; to him such an outlay meant a decreased income for the rest of his life. she was quite right about his being a gentleman. in a few seconds he had recovered his composure; in half a minute he said quietly-- "you shall have it at once. i am only so glad to be able to oblige you, that i wish it was more difficult. and now, miss douglas, you always say i'm a sad fidget, i'll go about it directly: i'll only ask you to come with me to the end of the walk." she was crying beneath her veil; he saw the tears dropping on her hands, and would have liked to kiss them away on any other occasion but this. "to the end of the world!" she answered, with the sobs and smiles of a child. "there's nobody like you--nobody!--not even king arthur! ask what you will, i'll never refuse you--never--as long as i live!" but it need hardly be said that the general would rather have cut off his right hand, than presumed on the position in which her confidence had placed him. though she appreciated his consideration, she hardly understood why his manner became so unusually respectful and courteous, why his farewell under the supervision of a cabman and a gate-keeper--should be almost distant; why he lifted his hat to her, at parting, as he would to the queen--but, while he replaced it on his bald and grizzled head, blanche douglas was nearer being in love than she suspected with this true, unselfish admirer, who was old enough to be her father. in women, far more than in men, there can exist an affection that springs from the head alone. it is the result of respect, admiration, and gratitude. it is to be won by devotion, consistency, above all, self-control; and, like a garden flower, so long as it is tended with attention, prospers bravely till autumn cools the temperature, and saddens all the sky. but this is a very different plant from the weed, wild rose, nightshade--call it what you will--that is sown by the winds of heaven, to strike root blindly and at haphazard in the heart; sweeter for being trampled, stronger for being broken, proof against the suns that scorch, the winds that shatter, the worm that eats away its core, and, refusing to die, even in the frown of winter, under the icy breath of scorn and unmerited neglect. which of these kindred sentiments the general had succeeded in awakening, was a problem he shrank from setting himself honestly to solve. he tried to hope it might be the one; he felt sadly convinced it was only the other. traversing the gardens with swift, unequal strides, so as to leave them at the very farthest point from where his companion made her exit, for he was always loyal to _les convenances_, he argued the question with his own heart, till he dared not think about it any longer, subsiding at last into composure, with the chivalrous reflection, that, come what might, if he could but minister to the happiness of blanche douglas, he would grudge no sacrifice, even the loss of his money--shrink from no disappointment, even the destruction of his hopes. satanella meanwhile had selected a hansom cab, in which to make her homeward journey, characteristically choosing the best-looking horse on the stand. to be seen, however, spanking along, at the rate of twelve miles an hour, in such a vehicle, she reflected, might be considered _fast_ in a young unmarried lady, and originate, also, surmises as to the nature of her expedition; for it is quite a mistake to suppose that people in london are either blind or dumb, because they have so much on hand of their own, that they cannot devote all their attention to the business of their neighbours. with commendable modesty, therefore, she kept her parasol well before her face, so as to remain unrecognised by her friends, while she scanned everything about her with the keen, bright glances of a hawk. bowling past kingston house, then, and wondering whether it would not be possible, in time, to raise a domestic pedestal for general st. josephs, on which she might worship him as a hero, if she could not love him as a cupid, her hansom cab passed within six inches of another, moving rapidly in the opposite direction; and who should be seated therein, smoking a cigar, with a white hat and light-coloured gloves, but ruined, reckless, never-to-be-forgotten daisy! she turned sick, and white even to the lips. in one glance, as women will, she had taken in every detail of his face and person, had marked that the one seemed devoid of care, the other well dressed as usual. like a stab came the conviction, that ruin to _him_ meant only a certain amount of personal inconvenience, irrespective of any extraneous sorrow or vexation; and in this she misjudged him, not quite understanding a nature she had unwittingly chosen for the god of her idolatry. though they passed each other so quickly, she stretched her arms out and spoke his name, but daisy's whole attention was engrossed by a pretty horse-breaker in difficulties on his other side. satanella felt, as she rolled on, that he had not recognised her, and that if she acted up to her own standard of right, this miserable glimpse must be their last meeting, for she ought never to see him again. "he'll be sure to call, poor fellow!" she murmured, when she reached her own door. so it is fair to suppose she had been thinking of him for a mile and a quarter. "i should like to wish him good-bye, _really_ for the last time. but no, no! honour, even among thieves. and i'm sure _he_ deserves it, that kind, noble, generous old man. oh! i wish i was dead! i wish i was dead!" then she paid the cabman (more than his fare) told her servant, in a strange, hoarse voice, that "she was at home to nobody this afternoon--nobody, not even mrs. lushington!" and so ran fiercely upstairs, and locked herself into her room. chapter xvii "soldier bill" daisy placidly smoking, pursued the even tenor of his way, thinking of the pretty horse-breaker more than anything else; while disapproving, in a calm, meditative mood, of her hat, her habit, her bridle, and the leather tassels that danced at her horse's nose. the particular business mr. walters had at present on hand in london, or rather kensington must be explained. perhaps it may be remembered how, in a financial statement made by this young officer during the progress of a farce, he affirmed that, should he himself "burst up," as he called it, a certain "soldier bill" would become captain of that troop which it was his own ambition to command. with the view of consulting this rising warrior in his present monetary crisis, daisy had travelled, night and day, from ireland, nor could he have chosen a better adviser in the whole army-list, as regarded kindness of heart, combined with that tenacious courage englishmen call "pluck." "i'm not a clever chap, i know," bill used to acknowledge, in moments of expansion after dinner. "but what i say is this: if you've got to do a thing, catch hold, and do it! keep square, run straight, and ride the shortest way! you won't beat _that_, my boy, with all the dodges that ever put one of your nobblers in the hole!" it is but justice to admit that, in every relation of life, sport or earnest, this simple moralist acted strictly in accordance with his creed. that he was a favourite in his regiment need hardly be said. the younger son of a great nobleman, he had joined at seventeen, with a frank childish face and the spirits of a boy fresh from school. before he was a week at drill, the very privates swore such a young dare-devil had never ridden in their ranks since the corps was raised. utterly reckless, as it seemed, of life and limb, that fair-haired, half-grown lad, would tackle the wildest horse, swim the swiftest steam, leap the largest fence, and fight the strongest man, with such rollicking, mirthful enjoyment, as could only spring from an excess of youthful energy and light-heartedness. but, somehow, he was never beat, or _didn't know_ it when he _was_. eventually, it always turned out that the horse was mastered, the stream crossed, the fence cleared, and the man obliged to give in. his war-like house had borne for centuries on their shield the well-known motto, "go on!" to never a scion of the line could it have been more appropriate than to this light-footed, light-headed, light-hearted light dragoon! in his own family, of course, he was the pet and treasure of all. his mother worshipped him, though he kept her in continual hot water with his vagaries. his sisters thought (perhaps reasonably enough) that there was nobody like him in the world. and his stately old father, while he frowned and shook his head at an endless catalogue of larks, steeple-chases, broken bones, etc., was more proud of bill in his heart than of all his ancestors and all his other sons put together. they were a distinguished race. each had made his mark in his own line. it was "soldier bill's" ambition to attain military fame; every step in the ladder seemed to him, therefore, of priceless value. and promotion was as the very breath of his nostrils. but a man that delights in personal risk is rarely of a selfish nature. in reply to daisy's statement, made with that terseness of expression, that total absence of circumlocution, complimentary or otherwise, which distinguishes the conversation of a mess-table, bill ordered his visitor a "brandy-and-soda" on the spot, and thus delivered himself. "troop be d----d, daisy! it's no fun soldiering without your 'pals.' i'd rather be a 'serrafile' for the rest of my life, or a 'batman,' or a trumpeter, by jove! than command the regiment, only because all the good fellows in it had come to grief. sit down. never mind the bitch, she's always smelling about a strange pair of legs, but she won't lay hold, if you keep perfectly still. have a weed, and let's see what can be done!" the room in which their meeting took place was characteristic of its occupant. devoid of superfluous furniture, and with an uncarpeted floor, it boasted many works of art, spirited enough, and even elaborate, in their own particular line. the series of prints representing a steeple-chase, in which yellow jacket cut out all the work, and eventually won by a neck, could not be surpassed for originality of treatment and fidelity of execution. statuettes of celebrated acrobats stood on brackets along the walls, alternating with cavalry spurs, riding-whips, boxing-gloves, and basket-hilted sticks, while the place of honour over the chimney-piece was filled by a portrait of mendoza in fighting attitude, at that halcyon period of the prize-ring-- "when humphreys stood up to the israelite's thumps, in kerseymere breeches, and 'touch-me-not' pumps." "it's very pleasant this," observed daisy, with his legs on a chair, to avoid the attentions of venus, an ill-favoured lady of the "bull" kind, beautiful to connoisseurs as her olympian namesake, but for the uninitiated an impersonation of hideous ferocity and anatomical distortion combined. "jolly little crib, isn't it?" replied bill; "and though i'm not much in 'fashionable circles,' suits me down to the ground. wasn't it luck, though, the small-pox and the regimental steeple-chase putting so many of our captains on the sick-list, that they detached a subaltern here to command? we were so short of officers, my boy, i thought the chief would have made you 'hark back' from ireland. don't you wish he had? you'd better have been in bed on the th; though, by all accounts, you rode the four miles truly through, and squeezed the old mare as dry as an orange!" "gammon!" retorted daisy. "she had five pounds in hand, only we got jostled at the run-in. i'll make a match to-morrow with shaneen for any sum they like, same course, same weights, and---- but i'm talking nonsense! i couldn't pay if i lost. i can't pay up what i owe now. i'm done, old boy; that's all about it. when a fellow can't swim any farther, there's nothing for it but to go under!" his friend pulled a long face, whistled softly, took venus on his lap, and pondered with all his might. "look here, daisy," was the result of his cogitations; "when you've got to fight a cove two stone above your weight, you don't blunder in at him, hammer-and-tongs, to get your jolly head knocked off in a couple of rounds. no; if you have the condition (and that's everything), you keep dodging, and waiting, and out-fighting, till your man's blown. then you tackle to, and finish him up before he gets his wind again. now this is just your case. ask for leave; the chief will stand it well enough, if he knows you're in a fix. _i'll_ do your duty, and you must get away somewhere, and keep dark, till we've all had time to turn ourselves round." "where can i go to?" said daisy. "what a queer smell there is in this room, bill. something between dead rats and a stilton cheese." "smell!" answered his host. "pooh; nonsense. that's the badger; he lives in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe. we call him 'benjamin.' don't you _like_ the smell of a badger, daisy?" now "benjamin" was a special favourite with his owner, in consideration of the creature's obstinate and tenacious courage. bill loved it from his heart, protesting it was the only living thing from which he "took a licking;" because on one occasion, after a _very_ noisy supper, the man had tried, and failed, to "draw" the beast from its lair with his teeth! therefore, "benjamin" was now a free brother of the guild, well cared for, unmolested, living on terms of armed neutrality with the redoubtable venus herself. ignoring as deplorable prejudice daisy's protest that he did _not_ like the smell of a badger, his friend returned with unabated interest to the previous question. "you mustn't stay in london, that's clear; though i've heard there's no covert like it to hang in for a fellow who's robbed a church! but it wouldn't suit _you_. you're not bad enough; besides it's too near hounslow. the continent's no use. travelling costs a hat-full of money, and it's very slow abroad now the fighting's over. a quiet place, not too far from home; that's the ticket!" "there's jersey," observed daisy doubtfully. "i don't know where it is, but i daresay it's quiet enough." "jersey be hanged!" exclaimed his energetic friend. "why not guernsey, alderney, or what do you say to sark? no, we must hit on a happier thought than that. you crossed last night, you say. does any one know you're in town?" "only the waiter at limmer's. i had breakfast there, and left my portmanteau, you know." "limmer's! i wish you hadn't gone to limmer's! never mind; the waiter is easily squared. now, look here, daisy, you're not supposed to be in london. is there no retired spot you could dodge back to in ireland, where you can get your health, and live cheap? who's to know you ever left it?" his friend denis occurred to daisy at once. "there's a farm up in roscommon," said he, "where they'd take me in and welcome. the air's good, and living _must_ be cheap, for you can't get anything to eat but potatoes! i shouldn't wonder if they hunted all the year round in those hills, and the farmer is a capital fellow, never without a two-year-old that can jump!" "that sounds like it," responded the other, with certain inward longings of his own for this favoured spot. "now, daisy, will you ride to orders, and promise to be guided entirely by _me_?" "all right," said daisy; "fire away." "barney!" shouted his friend, in a voice that resounded over the barracks, startling even the sergeant of the guard. "barney! look sharp. tell them to put a saddle on catamount, and turn him round ready to go out; then come here." in two minutes a shock-headed batman, obviously irish, entered the apartment and stood at "attention," motionless, but for the twinkling of his light blue eyes. "go to limmer's at once," said his master; "pay mr. walters's bill. breakfast and b. and s., of course? pack his things, and take them to euston station. wait there till he comes, and see him off by the irish mail. do you understand?" "i do, sur," answered barney, and vanished like a ghost. "you've great administrative powers, bill," said his admiring friend. "hang it! you're fit to command an army." "i could manage the commissariat, i think," answered the other modestly; "but of course you're only chaffing. i'm not a wise chap, i know; never learnt anything at school, and had the devil's own job to pass for my cornetcy. but i'll tell you what i _can_ do. when a course is marked out, and the stewards have told me which side of the flags i'm to go, i _do_ know my right hand from my left, and that's more than every fellow can say who gets up for a flutter in the pig-skin! and now i'm off to head-quarters to see the chief, and ask leave for you till muster, at any rate." "you won't find him," observed daisy. "it must be two o'clock now." "not find him!" repeated the other. "don't you know the chief better than that? he gets home-sick if he is a mile from the barrack-yard. it's my belief he was born in spurs, with the 'state' of the regiment in his hand! besides he's ordered a parade for fitting on the new nose-bags at three. he wouldn't miss it to go to the derby." "you _are_ a good chap," said his friend. "it's a long ride, and a beastly hard road!" bill was by this time dressing with inconceivable rapidity, and an utter disregard of his comrade's presence. "a long ride," he repeated, in high scorn, while he dashed into a remarkably well-made coat. "what do you call a long ride with a quad. like catamount? five-and-forty minutes is what he allows me from gate to gate; and it takes captain armstrong all his time, i can tell you, to keep him back to _that_! the beggar ran away with me one night from ashbourne to the royal barracks in dublin; and though it was so dark you couldn't see your hand, he never made a wrong turn, nor let me get a pull at him, till he laid his nose against his own stable door. bless his chestnut heart! he's the worst mouth and the worst temper of any horse in europe. look at him now. there's a pair of iron legs, and a wicked eye! it's rather good fun to see him kick directly i'm up. but i've never had such a hack, and i wouldn't part with him to be made commander-in-chief." daisy could do no less than accompany his host to the door, and see him mount this redoubtable animal, the gift of a trainer at the curragh, who could do nothing with it, and opined that even soldier bill's extraordinary nerve would be unequal to compete with so restive a brute. he had miscalculated, however, the influence utter fearlessness can establish over the beasts of the field. catamount's first act of insubordination, indeed, was to run away with his new master for four miles on end, across the curragh, but over excellent turf, smooth as a bowling-green: he discovered, to his surprise, that bill wished no better fun. he then repeated the experiment in a stiffly-fenced part of kildare; and here found himself not only indulged, but instigated to continue, when he wanted to leave off. he tried grinding his rider's leg against the wall: bill turned a sharp spur inwards, and made it very uncomfortable. he lay down: bill kept him on the ground an hour or two by sitting on his head. at last he confined himself to kicking unreasonably, at intervals, galloping sullenly on, nevertheless, in the required direction, and doing a vast amount of work in an incredibly short space of time. he was never off his feed, and his legs never filled, so to bill he was invaluable, notwithstanding their disputes, and a certain soreness about a cup the horse ought to have won, had he not sulked at the finish: they loved each other dearly, and would have been exceedingly loth to part. "my serjeant's wife will get you some dinner," said the rider, between certain sundry preliminary kicks in getting under way. "she's an outside cook, and i've told her what you'd like. there's a bottle of brandy on the chimney-piece, and soda-water in the drawer next the badger. i'll be back before it's time for you to start. cut along, catamount! hang it! don't get me off the shop-board, before half the troop. forrard! my lad! forrard! away!" and bill galloped out of the barracks at head-long speed, much to the gratification of the sentry manipulating his carbine at the gate. this true friend proved as good as his word. in less than three hours, he was back again, catamount having hardly turned a hair in their excursion. the colonel had been kindness itself. the leave was all right. there was nothing more to be done, but to pack daisy off in a hansom, for euston square. "take a pony, old man," said bill, urging his friend to share his purse, while he wished him "good-bye." "if i'd more, you should have it. nonsense! i don't want it a bit. keep your pecker up and fight high. write a line if anything turns up. i'll go on working the job here, never fear. we won't let you out of the regiment. what is life, after all, to a fellow who isn't a light dragoon?" chapter xviii delilah in consoling his friend, _xanthias phoceus_, for the result of a little flirtation, in which that roman gentleman seems to have indulged without regard to station, horace quotes for us a triad of illustrious persons whose brazen-plated armour, and bulls-hide targets were of no avail to fence them from the shaft of love. if neither petulant achilles, nor ajax, son of telamon, nor the king of men himself, could escape, it is not to be supposed that a young cavalry officer in her majesty's service, however simple in his habits and frank in his demeanour, should be without some weakness of the same nature, unacknowledged perhaps, yet none the less a weakness on that account. "soldier bill," notwithstanding his kindly disposition and fresh comely face, seemed the last man in the world to be susceptible of female influence, yet "soldier bill" felt, to a certain extent, in the same plight as agamemnon. though in dress, manners and appearance, anything but what is usually termed a "ladies' man;" he was nevertheless a prime favourite with the sex, on such rare occasions as threw him in their way. women in general seem most to appreciate qualities not possessed by themselves, and while they greatly admire all kinds of courage, find that which is mingled with good-humoured haphazard recklessness, perfectly irresistible. they worship their heroes too, and believe in them, with ludicrous good faith. observe a woman in a pleasure boat. if there comes a puff of wind, she never takes her eyes off the boatman, and trusts him implicitly. the more frightened she feels, the more confidence she places in her guardian, and so long as the fancied danger lasts, clings devotedly to the pilot, be he the roughest, hairiest, tarriest son of neptune that ever turned a quid. now the converse of this relation between the sexes holds equally good. to live entirely with men and horses; to _rough_ it habitually; from day to day enduring hardships, voluntary or otherwise, in the pursuit of field-sports; to share his studies with a dog, and take his pastime with a prize-fighter, does not necessarily unfit a man for the society of gentler, softer, sweeter, craftier creatures. on the contrary, in many natures, and those, perhaps, the strongest, such habits produce a longing for female society deeper and keener, that it has to be continually repudiated and repressed. when he had started daisy for the station, bill renewed his toilet with peculiar care, and in spite of a few scars on his face, some the effects of falls, others, alas! of fights, a very good-looking young gentleman he saw reflected in his glass. smoothing a pair of early moustaches, and sleeking a close-cropped head, he searched about in vain for a scent-bottle, and actually drew on a pair of kid gloves. obviously, "soldier bill" was going to call on a lady. he could not help laughing, while he thought how the cornets would chaff him, if they knew. nevertheless, with a farewell caress to the badger, fresh, radiant, and undaunted, he sallied forth. it was quite in accordance with the doctrine of opposites, propounded above, that bill should have experienced a sensation of refreshment and repose, in the society of a charming married woman, very much his senior, who made light of him no doubt, but amused, indulged, and instructed him while she laughed. her boudoir was indeed a pleasant change from his barrack-room. he could not but admit that in her society tea seemed a more grateful beverage than brandy and soda; the tones of a pianoforte sweeter than any stable call; and the perfume that pervaded every article about her, far more delightful, if less pungent, than that which hung round his retiring friend "benjamin," in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. in his wildest moments, however, bill never dreamed of making love to her; and it is not difficult to understand, that his goddess, being no less experienced a person than mrs. lushington, was well able to take care of herself. "i like the boy," she used to say to any one who would listen, even to her husband, if nobody else could be found. "he is so fresh and honest, and he looks so _clean_! it's like having a nice child about one, and then i can do him so much good. i form his manners, teach him the ways of society, prevent his being imposed upon, and generally make him fit for civilised life. if there were no good-natured people like me, frank, these poor young things would fall a prey to the first designing girl who comes across them on the war-path, looking out to catch a husband _coûte que coûte_. i'm sure his mother ought to be infinitely obliged to me. she couldn't take more pains with him herself! when he began coming here, he didn't know how to waltz or to take off his hat, or to answer a note even; in short, he couldn't say boo to a goose! and now i've made him learn all these things, and he does them well, particularly the last. he's still absurdly shy, i grant you, but it's wearing off day by day. when i'm grown old, frank, and wrinkled (though i'd sooner die first), he'll be grateful, and understand what care i've taken of him, and what a sad fate might have befallen him, but for _me_! isn't there something in dr. watts, or somebody, regardless of their doom, the little victims play. frank! i don't believe you're listening!" "oh yes, i am," answers frank, whose thoughts have wandered to skindle's, richmond, newmarket--who knows where? "what you say is very true, my dear--very true--and nobody understands these things better than yourself. good gracious! is that clock right! i had no idea it was so late! i must be off at once, and--let me see--i'll get back to dinner if i _can_; but don't wait." so _exit_ mr. lushington on his own devices, and enter a footman with tea, closely followed by the butler ushering in "soldier bill." "talk of somebody," says the lady, graciously extending her hand, "and, we are told, he is sure to appear. how odd, i was abusing you not five minutes ago to frank--you must have met him as you came in,--and, behold, here you are--not having been near me for a month!" "a week," answered her visitor, who always stuck to facts. "you told me yourself one ought never to call again at the same house till after a decent interval. a week is decent surely! it seems a deuced long time, i know." "you don't suppose i've missed you?" said she, pouring out the tea. "it's all for your own good i have you here. you'd get back to savage life again, if i neglected you for a fortnight; and it _is_ provoking to see all one's time and trouble thrown away! now put your hat down, have some tea, make yourself agreeable, and you may stay here for exactly three-quarters of an hour!" to "make himself agreeable" at short notice, and to order, is a difficult task for any man. for bill it was simply impossible. he fidgeted, gulped hot tea, and began to feel shy. she had considerable tact, however, and no little experience in the ways of young men. she neither laughed at him nor took notice of the blush he tried to keep down, but bade him throw the window open, and while he obeyed, continued carelessly, though kindly-- "in the first place, tell me all about yourself. how's catamount?" she knew every one of his horses by name, and even some of the men in his troop, leading him to talk on such congenial topics with considerable ingenuity. it was this tact of hers that rendered mrs. lushington such a pleasant member of society, enabling her to keep her head above water deep enough to have drowned a lady with less _savoir-faire_, and consequently fewer friends. his face brightened. "as fresh as paint!" he replied. "i beg your pardon; i mean as well as can be expected. i rode him two-and-twenty miles to-day in an hour and a half, and i give you my word, when i got off him he looked as if he'd never been out of the stable." "i should pity _you_ more than your horse," she replied, with a commendable air of interest; "only i know you are never so happy as when you are trying to break your neck. you've had the grace to dress since, i see, and not badly, for once, only that handkerchief is too light a shade of blue. now, confess! where does she live? and is she worth riding eleven miles, there and back, to see?" "i never know whether you're chaffing or not!" responded bill. "you cannot believe i would gallop catamount twenty-two miles on a hard road for any lady in the world. i didn't suppose he'd take me if i wanted to go. _she_, indeed! there's no _she_ in the matter!" "you might have made _one_ exception in common politeness," said mrs. lushington, laughing. "but i'm not satisfied yet. you and catamount are a very flighty pair. i still think there's a lady in the case." "a lady in boots and spurs, then," he answered; "six foot high, with grey moustaches and a lame leg from a sabre-cut--a lady who has been thirty years soldiering, and never gave or questioned an unreasonable order. do you know _many_ ladies of that stamp, mrs. lushington? i only know one, and she has made _my_ regiment the smartest in the service." "i _do_ know your colonel a little," said she. "i met him once at aldershot, and though he is anything but an old woman, i consider him an old _dear_! so i am not very far wrong, after all. now what did he want you for? sent for you, of course, to have--what do you call it?--a _wigging_. i'm afraid, master bill, you're a sad bad boy, and always getting into scrapes." "wigging!" he repeated indignantly. "not a bit of it; nothing could have been kinder than the chief. he's the best old fellow in the world! i wasn't sent for. i didn't go on my own account; i went down about daisy." then he stopped short, afraid of having committed himself, and conscious that at the present crisis of his brother-officer's affairs, the less said about them the better. but who, since the days of samson, was ever able to keep a secret from a woman resolved to worm it out? as the strong man in delilah's lap, so was bill in the boudoir of mrs. lushington. "daisy," she repeated; "do you know anything of daisy? tell me all about him. we're so interested, you can't think, and so sorry for his difficulties. i wish i could help him. is there nothing to be done?" touched by her concern for his friend's welfare, he trusted her at once. "you won't mention it," said he; "daisy was with me at kensington to-day. he can't show yet, you know; but still we hope to make it all right in time. he's got a month's leave for the present; and i packed him off, to start by the irish mail to-night, just before i came to see you. he'll keep quiet over there, and people won't know where he is; so they can't write, and then say he doesn't answer their letters. anything to put off the smash as long as possible. one can never tell what may turn up." "you're a kind friend," she replied approvingly, "and a good boy. there! that's a great deal for me to say. now tell me _where_ the poor fellow is gone." "you won't breathe it to a soul," said honest bill--"not even to mr. lushington?" "not even to mr. lushington!" she protested, greatly amused. he gave her the address with profound gravity, and an implicit reliance on her secrecy. "a hill-farmer in roscommon!" she exclaimed. "i know the man. his name is denis; i saw him at punchestown." "you know everything," he said, in a tone of admiration. "it must be very jolly to be clever, and that." "it's much jollier to be 'rich and that,'" was her answer. "money is what we all seem to want--especially poor daisy. now, how much do you suppose it would take to set him straight?" he was not the man to trust any one by halves. "three thousand," he declared, frankly: "and where he is to get it beats me altogether. of course he can't hide for ever. after a time he must come back to do duty; then there'll be a show up, and he'll have to leave the regiment." "and you will get your troop," said mrs. lushington. "you see i know all about that too." his own promotion, however, as has been said, afforded this kind-hearted young gentleman no sort of consolation. "i hope it won't come to that," was his comment on the military knowledge of his hostess. "i've great faith in luck. when things are at their worst they mend. never say die till you're dead, mrs. lushington. take your 'crowners' good-humouredly. stick to your horse; and don't let go of the bridle!" "you've been here more than your three-quarters of an hour," said mrs. lushington, "and you're beginning to talk slang, so you'd better depart. but you're improving, i _think_, and you may come again. let me see, the day after to-morrow, if the colonel don't object, and if you can find another handkerchief with a deeper shade of blue." so bill took his leave, and proceeded to "the rag," where he meant to dine in company with other choice spirits, wondering whether it would ever be his lot to marry a woman like mrs. lushington--younger, of course, and perhaps, though he hardly ventured to tell himself so, with a little less chaff--doubting the while if he could consent so entirely to change his condition and his daily, or perhaps rather his _nightly_, habits of life. he need not give up the regiment, he reflected, and could keep catamount, though the stud might have to be reduced. but what would become of benjamin? was it possible any lady would permit the badger to occupy a bottom drawer in her wardrobe? this seemed a difficult question. pending its solution, perhaps he had better remain as he was! chapter xix "the river's brim" daisy was sick of the channel. he had crossed and recrossed it so often of late as to loathe its dancing waters, yawning in the face of welsh and wicklow mountains alike, wearied even of the lovely scenery that adorns the coast on either side. he voted himself so tired in body and mind that he must stay a day or two in dublin to refresh. a man who balances on the verge of ruin always has plenty of money in his pocket for immediate necessities. the expiring flame leaps up with a flash; the end of the bottle bubbles out with a gush; and the ebbing tide of wealth leaves, here and there, a handful of loose cash on the deserted shore. daisy drove to the most expensive hotel in dublin, where he ordered a capital breakfast and a comfortable room. the future seemed very uncertain. in obedience to an instinct of humanity that bids men pause and dally with any crisis of their fate, he determined to enjoy to-day, and let to-morrow take care of itself. nobody could be more unlikely to analyse his own sensations. it was not the practice of the regiment; but had daisy been given to self-examination it would have puzzled him to explain why he felt in such good humour, and so well satisfied--buoyed up with hope, when he ought to have been sunk and overwhelmed in despair. "waiter," said the fugitive, while he finished his tea and ordered a glass of curaçao, "has mr. sullivan been here this morning?" "he _did_, sur," answered the waiter, with a pleasant grin. "sure he brought a harse for the master to see. five years old, captain. a clane-bred one, like what ye ride yerself. there's not the aqual of him, they do be braggin', for leppin', in westmeath an' thim parts where he was trained." now daisy wanted a horse no more than he wanted an alligator. he could neither afford to buy nor keep one, and had two or three of his own that it was indispensable to sell, yet his eye brightened, his spirits rose, with the bare possibility of a deal. he might see the animal, at any rate, he thought, perhaps ride it--there would be others probably to show; he could spend a few pleasant hours in examining their points, discussing their merits, and interchanging with mr. sullivan those brief and pithy remarks, intelligible only to the initiated, which he esteemed the essence of pleasant conversation. like many other young men, daisy was bitten with hippomania. he thoroughly enjoyed the humours of a dealer's yard. the horses interested, the owners amused him. he liked the selection, the bargaining, the running up and down, the speculation, and the slang. to use his own words--"he never could resist the _rattle of a hat_!" it is no wonder then that "the captain," as mr. sullivan called him, spent his whole afternoon at a snug little place within an easy drive of dublin, where that worthy, though not by way of being in the profession, inhabited a clean whitewashed house, with a few acres of marvellously green paddock, and three or four loose boxes, containing horses of various qualities, good, bad, and indifferent. here, after flying for an hour or two over the adjoining fields and fences, daisy, with considerable difficulty, resisted the purchase (on credit) of a worn-out black, a roan with heavy shoulders, and a three-year-old engaged in the following autumn at the curragh, but afforded their owner perfect satisfaction by the encomiums he passed on their merits, no less than by the masterly manner in which he handled them, at the formidable fences that bordered mr. sullivan's domain. "an' ye'll take nothing away with ye but a fishing-rod," said the latter, pressing on his visitor the refreshment of whiskey, with or without water. "ye're welcome to't, anny how--more by token that ye'll bring it back again when ye done with it, captain, and proud i'll be to get another visit from ye, when ye're travelling the country, to or from dublin, at anny time. may be in the back end of the year i'll have wan to show ye in thim boxes that ye niver seen the likes of him for lep-racin'. whisper now. he's bet the black baron in a trial; and for shaneen, him that wan the race off _your_ mare at punchestown,--wait till i tell ye,--at even weights, he'd go and _lose_ little shaneen in two miles!" promising to return at a future time for inspection of this paragon, and disposing the borrowed fishing-rod carefully on an outside car he had chartered for his expedition, daisy returned to dublin, ate a good dinner, drank a bottle of dry champagne, and went to sleep in the comfortable bedroom of his comfortable hotel, as if he had not a care nor a debt in the world. towards morning his lighter slumbers may have been visited by dreams, and if so it is probable that fancy clothed her visions in a similitude of norah macormac. certainly his first thought on waking was for that young lady, as his opening eyes rested on the fishing-rod, which he had borrowed chiefly on her account. in truth, daisy felt inclined to put off as long as possible the exile--for he could think of it in no more favourable light--that he had brought on himself in the roscommon mountains. mr. sullivan, when the sport of fly-fishing came in his way, was no mean disciple of the gentle art. observing a salmon-rod in that worthy's sitting-room, of which apartment, indeed, with two foxes' brushes and a barometer it constituted the principal furniture, daisy bethought him that on one of his visits to cormac's-town its hospitable owner had given him leave and licence to fish the dabble whenever he pleased, whether staying at the castle or not. the skies were cloudy--as usual in ireland, there was no lack of rain--surely this would be a proper occasion to take advantage of macormac's kindness, protract his stay in dublin, and run down daily by the train to fish, so long as favourable weather lasted and his own funds held out. we are mostly self-deceivers though there exists something _within_ each of us that is not to be hoodwinked nor imposed upon by the most specious of fallacies. it is probable daisy never confessed to himself how the fish he _really_ wanted to angle for was already more than half-hooked: how it was less the attraction of a salmon than a mermaid that drew him to the margin of the dabble; and how he cared very little that the sun shone bright or the river waned so as he might but hear the light step of norah macormac on the shingle, look in the fair face that turned so pale and sad when he went away, that would smile and blush its welcome so kindly when he came again. he must have loved her without knowing it; and perhaps such insensible attachments, waxing stronger day by day, strike the deepest root, and boast the longest existence: hardy plants that live and flourish through the frowns of many winters, contrasting nobly with more brilliant and ephemeral posies, forced by circumstances to sudden maturity and rapid decay-- "as flowers that first in spring-time burst, the earliest wither too." nevertheless, for both sexes, "'tis all but a dream at the best:" and norah macormac's vision, scarcely acknowledged while everything went smoothly, assumed very glowing colours when the impossibility of its realisation dawned on her; when lady mary pointed out the folly of an attachment to a penniless subaltern unsteady in habits, while addicted overmuch to sports of the field. with average experience and plenty of common-sense, the mother had been sorely puzzled how to act. she was well aware, that advice in such cases, however judiciously administered, often irritates the wound it is intended to heal; that "warnings"--to use her own words--"only put things in people's heads;" and that a fancy, like a heresy, sometimes dies out unnoticed when it is not to be stifled by argument nor extirpated with the strong hand. yet how might she suffer this pernicious superstition to grow, under her very eyes? was she not a woman? and must she not speak her mind? besides, she blamed her own blindness, that her daughter's intimacy with the scape-grace had been unchecked in its commencement, and, smarting with self-reproach, could not forbear crying aloud, when she had better have held her tongue! so miss norah discovered she was in love, after all. mamma said so! no doubt mamma was right. the young lady had herself suspected something of the kind long ago, but lady mary's authority and remonstrances placed the matter beyond question. she was very fond of her mother, and, to do her justice, tried hard to follow her ladyship's advice. so she thought the subject over, day by day, argued it on every side, in accordance with, in opposition to, and independent of, her own inclinations, to find as a result, that during waking and sleeping hours alike, the image of daisy was never absent from her mind. then a new beauty seemed to dawn in the sweet young face. the very peasants about the place noticed a change; little ella, playing at being grown-up, pretended she was "sister norah going to be married;" and papa, when she retired with her candle at night, turning fondly to his wife, would declare-- "she'll be the pick of the family now, mamma, when all's said and done! they're a fair-looking lot, even the boys. divil thank them, then, on the mother's side! but it's norah that's likest yourself, my dear, when we were young, only not quite so stout, maybe, and a thought less colour in her cheek." disturbed at the suggestion, while gratified by the compliment, lady mary, in a fuss of increased anxiety, felt fonder than ever of her child. in norah's habits also there came an alteration, as in her countenance. she sat much in the library, with a book on her knee, of which she seldom turned a page; played long _solos_ on the pianoforte, usually while the others were out; went to bed early, but lay awake for hours; rode very little, and walked a great deal, though the walks were often solitary, and almost invariably in the direction of a certain waterfall, to which she had formerly conducted miss douglas, while showing off to her new friend the romantic beauties of the dabble. the first day mr. walters put his borrowed rod together on the banks of this pretty stream, it rained persistently in a misty drizzle, borne on the soft south wind. he killed an eight pound fish, yet returned to dublin in an unaccountable state of disappointment, not to say disgust. he got better after dinner, and, with another bottle of dry champagne, determined to try again. the following morning rose in unclouded splendour--clear blue sky, blazing sun, and not a breath of wind. a more propitious day could scarcely be imagined for a cricket-match, an archery-meeting, or a picnic; but in such weather the crafty angler leaves rod and basket at home. daisy felt a little ashamed of these _paraphernalia_ in the train, but proceeded to the waterside, nevertheless, and prepared deliberately for his task, looking up and down the stream meanwhile with considerable anxiety. all at once he felt his heart beating fast, and began to flog the waters with ludicrous assiduity. it is difficult to explain the gentleman's perturbation (for why was he there at all?), though the lady's astonishment can easily be accounted for, when norah, thinking of him every moment, and visiting this particular spot only because it reminded her of his presence, found herself, at a turn in the river, not ten paces from the man whom, a moment before, she feared she was never to see again! yet did she remain outwardly the more composed of the two, and was first to speak. "daisy!" she exclaimed--"captain walters--i never thought you were still in ireland. you'll be coming to the castle to dinner, anyhow." he blushed, he stammered, he looked like a fool (though norah didn't think so), he got out with difficulty certain incoherent sentences about "fishing," and "flies," and "liberty from your father," and lastly, recovering a little, "the ten-pounder _i_ rose and _you_ landed, by the black stump there, under the willow." as he regained his confidence, she lost hers--almost wishing she hadn't come, or had put her veil down, or, she didn't exactly know what. in a trembling voice, and twining her fingers nervously together, she propounded the pertinent question:-- "how--how did you find your brother-officers when you got back to the regiment?" its absurdity struck them both. simultaneously, they burst out laughing: their reserve vanished from that moment. he took both her hands in his, and the rod lay neglected on the shingle, while he exclaimed-- "i _am_ so pleased to see you again! miss macormac--norah! i fished here all yesterday, hoping you'd come. i'm glad though you didn't; you'd have got such a wetting." "did you, now?" was her answer, while the beautiful grey eyes deepened, and the blood mantled in her cheek. "indeed, then, it's for little i'd have counted the wetting, if i'd only known. but how _was_ i to know, captain walters--well, daisy, then--that you'd be shooting up the river, like a young salmon, only to see _me_? and supposing i _had_ known it, or thought it, or wished it even, i'm afraid i ought never to have come." "but now you _are_ here," argued daisy, with some show of reason, "you'll speak to me, won't you? and help me to fish, and let me walk back with you part of the way home?" it seemed an impotent conclusion, but she was in no mood to be censorious. "i'm very pleased to see you, and that's the truth," she answered; "but as for fishing, i'll engage ye'll never rise a fish in the dabble with a sky like that. i'll stay just five minutes, though, while ye wet your line, anyhow. oh! daisy, don't you remember what a trouble we had with the big fish down yonder, the time i ran to fetch the gaff?" "remember!" said daisy, "i should think i _do_! how quick you were about it. i didn't think any girl in the world could run so fast. i can remember everything you've said and done since i've known you. that's the worst of it, norah. it's got to be different after to-day." she had been laughing and blushing at his recollections of her activity; but she glanced quickly in his face now, while her own turned very grave and pale. "ye're coming to the castle, of course," said she. "i'll run home this minute, and tell mamma to order a room, and we'll send the car round to the station for your things." she spoke in hurried nervous accents, dreading to hear what was coming, yet conscious she had never felt so happy in her life. formerly she considered daisy the lightest-hearted of men. hitherto she scarcely remembered to have seen a cloud on his face. she liked it none the worse for its gravity now. "i've been very unlucky, norah," said he, holding her hand, and looking thoughtfully on the river as it flowed by. "perhaps it's my own fault. i shall never visit at cormacs'-town, nor go into any society where i've a chance of meeting _you_ again. and yet i've done nothing wrong nor disgraceful as yet." "i knew it!" she exclaimed; "i'd have sworn it on the book! i told mamma so. he's a _gentleman_, i said, and that's enough for _me_!" "thank you, dear," answered daisy, in a failing voice. "i'm glad _you_ didn't turn against me. it's bad enough without that." "but what _has_ happened," she asked, drawing closer to his side. "couldn't any of us help you? couldn't papa advise you what to do?" "_this_ has happened, norah," he answered gravely; "i am completely ruined. i have got nothing left in the world. worse still, i am afraid i can scarce pay up all i've lost." the spirit of her ancestors came into her eyes and bearing. ruin to these, like personal danger, had never seemed a matter of great moment, so long as, at any sacrifice, honour might be preserved. she raised her head proudly, and looked straight in his face. "the last _must_ be done," said she. "_must_ be done, i'm telling you, daisy, and _shall_ be, if we sell the boots, you and me, off our very feet! how near can you get to what you owe for wages and things? of course they'll have to be paid the first." "if _everything_ goes, i don't see my way to pay up all," he answered. "however, they _must_ give me a little time. where i'm to go, though, or what to do, is more than i can tell. but norah, dear norah! what i mind most is, that i mustn't hope to see _you_ again!" her tears were falling fast. her hands were busy with a locket she wore round her neck, the only article of value norah possessed in the world. but the poor fingers trembled so they failed to undo the strip of velvet on which it hung. at last she got it loose, and pressed it into his hand. "take it, daisy," said she, smiling with her wet eyes; "i don't value it a morsel. it was old aunt macormac gave it me on my birth-day. there's diamonds in it--not irish, dear--and it's worth something, anyway, though not much. ah, daisy! now, if ye won't take it, i'll think ye never cared for me one bit!" but daisy stoutly refused to despoil her of the keepsake, though he begged hard, of course, for the velvet ribbon to which it was attached; and those who have ever found themselves in a like situation will understand that he did not ask in vain. so miss macormac returned to the castle, and the maternal wing, too late for luncheon; but thus far engaged to her ruined admirer that, while he vowed to come back the very moment his prospects brightened, and the "something" turned up--which we all expect, but so few of us experience, she promised, on her part, "never to marry (how could you think it now, daisy!) nor so much as look at anybody else till she saw him again, if it wasn't for a hundred years!" i am concerned to add that mr. sullivan's rod remained forgotten on the shingle, where it was eventually picked up by one of mr. macormac's keepers, but handled by its rightful owner no more. there was nothing to keep daisy in dublin now, and his funds were getting low. in less than twenty-four hours from his parting with norah macormac he found himself crossing that wild district of roscommon where he had bought the famous black mare that had so influenced his fortunes. toiling on an outside car, up the long ascent that led to the farmer's house, he could scarcely believe so short a time had elapsed since he visited the same place in the flush of youth and hope. he felt quite old and broken by comparison. years count for little compared to events; and age is more a question of experience than of time. he had one consolation, however, and it lay in the shape of a narrow velvet ribbon next his heart. ere he had clasped the farmer's hand, at his own gate, and heard his cheery hospitable greeting, he wondered how he could feel so happy. "i'm proud to see ye, captain!" said denis, flourishing his hat round his head, as if it was a slip of blackthorn. "proud am i an' pleased to see ye back again--an' that's the truth! ye're welcome, i tell ye! step in, now, an' take something at wanst. see, captain, there's a two-year-old in that stable; the very moral of your black mare. ye never seen her likes for leppin'! ye'll try the baste this very afternoon, with the blessin'. i've had th' ould saddle mended, an' the stirrups altered to your length." chapter xx taking the collar the general thought he had never been so happy in his life. his voice, his bearing, his very dress seemed to partake of the delusion that gilded existence. springing down the steps of his club, with more waist in his coat, more pretension in his hat, more agility in his gait, than was considered usual, or even decorous, amongst its frequenters, no wonder they passed their comments freely enough on their old comrade, ridiculing or deploring his fate, according to the various opinions and temper of the conclave. "what's up with st. josephs now?" asked a white-whiskered veteran of his neighbour, whose bluff, weather-beaten face proclaimed him an admiral of the red. "he's turned quite flighty and queer of late. nothing wrong _here_, is there?" and the speaker pointed a shaking finger to the apex of his own bald head. "not _there_, but _here_," answered the sailor, laying his remaining arm across his breast. "going to be spliced, they tell me. sorry for it. he's not a bad sort; and a smartish officer, as i've heard, in _your_ service." "pretty well--so, so. nothing extraordinary for _that_," answered the first speaker, commonly called by irreverent juniors "old straps." "he hadn't much to do in india, i fancy; but he's been lucky, sir, lucky, and luck's the thing! luck against the world, admiral, by sea or land!" "well, his luck's over now, it seems," grunted the admiral, whose views on matrimony appeared to differ from those of his profession in general. "i'm told he's been fairly hooked by that miss douglas. black-eyed girl, with black hair--black, and all black, d-- me!--and rides a black mare in the park. hey! why she might be his daughter. how d'ye mean?" "more fool he," replied straps, with a leer and a grin that disclosed his yellow tusks. "a fellow like st. josephs ought to know better." "i'm not so sure of that," growled the admiral. "gad, sir, if i was idiot enough to do the same thing, d'ye think i'd take a d--d old catamaran, that knew every move in the game? no, no, sir; youth and innocence, hey? a clean bill of health, a fair wind, and a pleasant voyage, you know!" "in my opinion, there's devilish little youth left, and no innocence," answered "straps." "if that's the girl, she's been hawked about, to my certain knowledge, for the last three seasons; and i suppose our friend is the only chance left--what we used to call a 'forlorn hope' when i was an ensign. he's got a little money, and they might give him a command. you never know what this government will do. it's my belief they'd give that crossing-sweeper a command if they were only sure he was quite unfit for it." "command be d--d!" swore the admiral. "he'll have enough to do to command his young wife. what? she's a lively craft, i'll be bound, with her black eyes. carries a weather-helm, and steers as wild as you please in a sea-way. i'll tell you what it is--here, waiter! bring me the _globe_. why the --- are the evening papers so late?" in the rush for those welcome journals, so long expected, so eagerly seized, all other topics were instantaneously submerged. long before he could reach the end of the street, general st. josephs was utterly forgotten by his brother officers and friends. still he _thought_ he had never been so happy in his life. the word is used advisedly, for surely experience teaches us that real happiness consists in tranquillity and repose, in the slumber rather than the dream, in the lassitude that soothes the patient, not the fever-fit of which it is the result. can a man be considered happy who is not comfortable? and how is comfort compatible with anxiety, loss of appetite, nervous tremors, giddiness, involuntary blushing, and the many symptoms of disorder, who could be cured heretofore by advertisement, and which are the invariable accompaniments of an epidemic, invincible by pill or potion, and yielding only to the homoeopathic treatment of marriage. in this desperate remedy st. josephs was anxious to experimentalise, and without delay. yet his tact was supreme. since the memorable walk in kensington gardens, when he laid her under such heavy obligations, his demeanour had been more that of a friend than a lover--more, perhaps, that of a loyal and devoted subject to his sovereign mistress, than either. she wondered why he never asked her, what she had done with all that money? why, when she alluded to the subject, he winced and started, as from a touch on a raw wound. once she very nearly told him all. they were in a box at the opera, so far unobserved that the couple who had accompanied them seemed wholly engrossed with each other. satanella longed to make her confession--ease her conscience of its burden, perhaps, though such a thought was cruel and unjust--shake the yoke from off his neck. she had even got as far as, "i've never half thanked you, general--" when there came a tap at the box-door. enter an irreproachable dandy, then a confusion of tongues, a laugh, a solo, injunctions to silence, and the opportunity was gone. could she ever find courage to seek for it again? nevertheless, day by day she dwelt more on her admirer's forbearance, his care, his tenderness, his chivalrous devotion. though he never pressed the point, it seemed an understood thing that they were engaged. she had forbidden him to visit her before luncheon, but he spent his afternoons in her drawing-room; and, on rare occasions, was admitted in the evening, when an elderly lady, supposed to be blanche's cousin, came to act chaperone. the walks in kensington gardens had been discontinued. her heart could not but smite her sometimes, to think that she never gave him but one, when she wanted him to do her a favour. had he been more exacting, she would have felt less self-reproach, but his patience and good humour cut her to the quick. "you brute!" she would say, pushing her hair back, and frowning at her own handsome face in the glass. "you _worse_ than brute! unfeeling, unfeminine, i wish you were dead!--i wish you were dead!" she had lost her rich colour now, and the hollow eyes were beginning to look very large and sad, under their black arching brows. perhaps it was the general's greatest delight to hear her sing. this indulgence she accorded him only of an evening, when the cousin invariably went to sleep, and her admirer sat in an armchair with the daily paper before his face. she insisted on this screen, and this attitude, never permitting him to stand by the pianoforte, nor turn over the leaves, nor undergo any exertion of mind or body that should break the charm. who knows what golden visions gladdened the war-worn soldier's heart while he leaned back and listened, spellbound by the tones he loved? dreams of domestic happiness and peaceful joys, and a calm untroubled future, when doubts and fears should be over, and he could make this glorious creature wholly and exclusively his own. [illustration: "perhaps it was the general's greatest delight to hear her sing." _satanella._ _page _] did he ever wonder why in certain songs the dear voice thrilled with a sweetness almost akin to pain ere it was drowned in a loud and brilliant accompaniment, that foiled the possibility of remonstrance, while the ditty was thrown aside to be replaced by another, less fraught, perhaps, with painful memories and associations? if so, he hazarded no remark nor conjecture, satisfied, as it seemed, to wait her pleasure, and in all things bow his will to hers, sacrificing his desires, his pride, his very self-respect to the woman he adored. for a time nothing occurred to disturb the general's enforced tranquillity, and he pursued the course he seemed to have marked out for himself with a calm perseverance that deserved success. in public, people glanced and whispered when they saw miss douglas on his arm; in private, he called daily at her house, talked much small-talk and drank a great deal of weak tea; while in solitude he asked himself how long this probation was to last, resolving nevertheless to curb his impatience, control his temper, and if the prize was only to be won by waiting, wait for it to the end! leaving his club, then, unconscious of the admiral's pity and the sarcasms of "old straps," st. josephs walked jauntily through mayfair, till he came to the well-known street, which seemed to him now even as a glade in paradise. the crossing-sweeper blessed him with considerable emphasis, brushing energetically in his path; for when going the general was invariably good for sixpence, and on propitious days would add thereto a shilling as he returned. on the present occasion, though his hand was in his pocket, it remained there with the coin in its finger and thumb; for the wayfarer stopped petrified in the middle of the street; the sweeper held his tattered hat at arm's-length, motionless as a statue; and a bare-headed butcher's-boy, standing erect in a light cart, pulled his horse on its haunches, and called out-- "now then, stoopid! d'ye want all the road to yerself?" grazing the old officer's coat-tails as he drove by with a brutal laugh. but neither irreverence nor outrage served to divert the general's attention from the sight that so disturbed his equanimity. "there's that d--d black mare again!" he muttered, while he clenched his teeth, and his cheek turned pale. "i'll put a stop to this one way or the other. steady, steady! no; my game is to be won by pluck and patience. it's very near the end now. shall i lose it by failing in both?" the black mare, looking but little the worse for training, was indeed in the act of leaving blanche's door. miss douglas had evidently ridden her that morning in the park. she might have told the general, he thought. she might have asked him to accompany her as he used. she ought to have no secrets from him now; but was he in truth any nearer her inner life, any more familiar with her dearest thoughts and wishes than he had been months ago? surely she was not treating him well! surely he deserved more confidence than this. the general felt very sore and angry; but summoning all his self-command, walked upstairs,--and for this he deserves no little credit,--with an assured step, and a calm, unruffled brow. "miss douglas was dressing," the servant said. "miss douglas had been out for a ride. would the general take a seat, and look at to-day's paper? miss douglas had said '_partic'lar_' she would be at home." it was irritating to wait, but it was soothing to know she was at home "_partic'lar_" when _he_ called. the general sat down to peruse the advertisement sheet of the paper, reading absently a long and laudatory description of the trousseaux and other articles for family use supplied by a certain house in the city at less than cost price! chapter xxi a snake in the grass his studies were soon interrupted by the rustle of a dress on the staircase. with difficulty he forbore rushing out to meet its wearer, but managed to preserve the composure of an ordinary morning visitor, when the door opened, and--enter mrs. lushington! she must have read his disappointment in his face; for she looked half-amused, half-provoked, and there was no less malice than mirth in her eyes while she observed-- "blanche will be down directly, general, and don't be afraid i shall interrupt your _tête-à-tête_, for i am going away as soon as i've written a note. you can rehearse all the charming things you have got to say in the meantime." he had recovered his _savoir-faire_. "rehearse them to _you_?" he asked, laughing. "it would be pretty practice, no doubt. shall i begin?" "not now," she answered, in the same tone. "there is hardly time; though blanche wouldn't be very cross about it, i dare say. she is liberal enough, and knows she can trust _me_." "i am sure you are a true friend," he returned gravely. "miss douglas--blanche--has not too many. i hope you will always remain one of her staunchest and best." she smiled sadly. "do you _really_ mean it?" said she, taking his hand. "you can't imagine how happy it makes me to hear you say so. i thought you considered me a vain, ignorant, frivolous little woman, like the rest." perhaps he did, but this was not the moment to confess it. "what a strange world it would be," he answered, "if we knew the real opinions of our friends. in this case, mrs. lushington, you see how wrong you were about mine." "i believe you, general!" she exclaimed. "i feel that you are truth itself. i am sure you never deceived a woman in your life, and i _cannot_ understand how any woman could find it in her heart to deceive _you_. one ought never to forgive such an offence, and i can believe that _you_ never would." he thought her earnestness unaccountable, and wholly uncalled for; but his senses were on the alert to catch the first symptoms of blanche's approach, and he answered rather absently-- "quite right! of course not. double-dealing is _the_ thing i hate. you may cheat me once; that is _your_ fault. it is my own if you ever take me in again." "no wonder blanche values your good opinion," said mrs. lushington meaningly. "she has not spent her life amongst people whose standard is so high. hush! here she comes. ah! general, you won't care about talking to _me_ now!" she gave him one reproachful glance in which there was a little merriment, a little pique, and a great deal of tender interest, ere she departed to write her note in the back drawing-room. it was impossible not to contrast her kind and deferential manner with the cold, collected bearing of miss douglas, who entered the room, like a queen about to hold her court, rather than a loving maiden, hurrying to meet her lord. she had always been remarkable for quiet dignity in motion or repose. it was one of the many charms on which the general lavished his admiration, but he could have dispensed with this royal composure now. it seemed a little out of place in their relative positions. also he would have liked to see the colour deepen in her proud impassive face, though his honest heart ached while he reflected how the bright tints had faded of late, how the glory of her beauty had departed, leaving her always pale and saddened now. he would have asked a leading question, hazarded a gentle reproach, or in some way made allusion to the arrival of his _bête noir_, but her altered looks disarmed him; and it was satanella herself who broached the subject, by quietly informing her visitor she had just returned from riding the black mare in the park. "do you _mind_?" she added, rising in some confusion to pull a blind down, while she spoke. here would have been an opportunity for a confession of jealousy, an appeal to her feelings, pleadings, promises, protestations,--to use the general's own metaphor,--"an attack along the whole line;" but how was he thus to offer decisive battle, with his flank exposed and threatened, with mrs. lushington's ears wide open and attentive, while her pen went scribble, scribble, almost in the same room? "i _mind_ everything you do," said he gallantly, "and object to nothing! if i _did_ want to get up a grievance, i should quarrel with you for not ordering me to parade in attendance on you in the park. my time, as you know, is always yours, and i am never so happy as with you. blanche (dropping his voice), i am never _really_ happy when you are out of my sight." she glanced towards the writing-table, and though the folding-doors, half-shut, concealed that lady's person, seemed glad to observe, by the continual scratching of a pen, that mrs. lushington had not yet finished her note. "you are always good and kind," said blanche, forcing a smile. "far more than i deserve. will you ride another day, early? thanks; i knew you would. i should have asked you this morning but i had a headache, and thought i should only be a bore. besides, i expected you in the afternoon. then clara came to luncheon, and we went upstairs, and now the carriage will be round in five minutes. that is the way the day goes by; yet it seems very long too, only not so bad as the night." again his face fell. it was uphill work, he thought. surely women were not usually so difficult to woo, or his own memory played him false, and his friends romanced unpardonably in their narratives. but, nevertheless, in all the prizes of life that which seemed fairest and best hung highest out of reach, and he would persevere to the end. aye! even if he should fail at last! miss douglas seemed to possess some intuitive knowledge of his intention; and conscious of his determination to overcome them, was perhaps the more disposed to throw difficulties in his path. he should have remembered that in love as in war, a rapid flank movement and complete change of tactics will often prevail, when vigilance, endurance, and honest courage have been tried in vain. satanella could not but appreciate a delicacy that forbade further inquiry about the black mare. no sooner had she given vent to her feelings, in the little explosion recorded above, than she bitterly regretted their expression, comparing her wayward petulant disposition with the temper and constancy displayed by her admirer. sorrowful, softened, filled with self-reproach, she gave him one of her winning smiles, and bade him forgive her display of ill-humour, or bear with it, as one of many evil qualities, the result of her morbid temperament and isolated lot. "then i slept badly, and went out tired. the ride was crowded, the sun broiling, the mare disagreeable. altogether, i came back as cross as two sticks. general, are _you_ never out of humour? and how do you get rid of your ill-tempers? you certainly don't visit them on _me_!" "how _could_ i?" he asked in return. "how can i ever be anything but your servant, your slave? oh! blanche, you must believe me _now_. how much longer is my probation to last? is the time to be always put off from day to day, and must i----" "clara! clara!" exclaimed miss douglas to her friend in the back drawing-room, "shall you never have done with those tiresome letters? have you any idea what o'clock it is? and the carriage was ordered at five!" the general smothered a curse. it was invariably so. no sooner did he think he had gained a secure footing, wrested a position of advantage, than she cut the ground from under him, pushed him down the hill, and his labour was lost, his task all to begin again! it seemed as if she could not bear to face her real position, glancing off at a tangent, without the slightest compunction, from the one important topic he was constantly watching an opportunity to broach. "just done! and a good day's work too!" replied mrs. lushington's silver tones from the writing-table, and it must have been a quicker ear than either satanella's or the general's to detect in that playful sentence the spirit of mischievous triumph it conveyed. mrs. lushington was delighted. she felt sure she had fathomed a secret, discovered the clue to an intrigue, and by such means as seemed perfectly fair and justifiable to her warped sense of right and wrong. finding herself a third person in a small party that should have been limited to two, she made urgent correspondence her excuse for withdrawing to such a distance as might admit of overhearing their conversation, while the lovers, if lovers indeed they were, should think themselves unobserved. so she opened satanella's blotting-book, and spread a sheet of note-paper on its folds. mrs. lushington had a quick eye, no less than a ready wit. blanche's blotting-paper was of the best quality, soft, thin, and absorbent. where the writing-book opened, so shrewd an observer did not fail to detect the words "roscommon, ireland," traced clear and distinct as a lithograph, though reversed. looking through the page, against the light, she read daisy's address in his hiding-place with his humble friend denis plainly enough, and the one word "registered" underlined at the corner. "_enfin je te pince!_" she muttered below her breath. it was evident satanella was in daisy's confidence, that she knew his address,--which had been extorted indeed with infinite trouble from a lad whom he had sent to england in charge of the precious mare,--and had written to him within the last day or two. it was a great discovery! her hand shook from sheer excitement, while she considered how best it could be turned to account, how it might serve to wean the general of his infatuation, to detach him from her friend, perhaps at last to secure him for herself. but she must proceed cautiously; make every step good, as she went on; prove each link of the chain, while she forged it; and when blanche was fairly in the toils, show her the usual mercy extended by one woman to another. of course, she wrote her notes on a fresh page of the blotting-book. of course, she rose from her employment frank, smiling, unsuspicious. of course, she was more than usually affectionate to blanche, and that young lady, well-skilled in the wiles of her own sex, wondering what had happened, watched her friend's conduct with some anxiety and yet more contempt. "good-bye, blanche." "good-bye, clara." "come again soon, dear!" "you may depend upon me, love!" and they kissed each other with a warmth of affection in no way damped or modified because blanche suspected, and clara resolved, henceforth it must be war to the knife! in taking her leave of the general, however, mrs. lushington could not resist an allusion to their previous conversation, putting into her manner so much of tender regard and respectful interest as was pleasing enough to him and inexpressibly galling to her friend. "have you said your say?" she asked, looking very pretty and good-humoured as she gave him both hands. "i'm sure you had lots of time, and the best of opportunities. don't you think i'm very considerate?" "more--very generous!" "come and see me soon. whenever you like. with or without dear blanche. she won't mind; i'm always at home, to either of you--or both." then she made a funny little curtsey, gave him one more smile, one sidelong sorrowful glance, with her hand on the door, and was gone. blanche's spirit rose to arms; every instinct of her sex urged her to resist this unconscionable freebooter, this lawless professor of piracy and annexation. after all, whether she cared for him or not, the general was her own property. and what right had this woman to come between mistress and servant, with her becks and leers, her smiles and wiles, and meretricious ways? she had never valued her lover higher than at the moment mrs. lushington left the room; but he destroyed his advantage, kicked down all his good fortune, by looking in miss douglas's face with an expression of slavish devotion, while he exclaimed-- "how different that woman is from you, blanche. surely, my queen, there is nobody like you in the world!" chapter xxii an expert returning from morning stables to his barrack-room, soldier bill found on his table a document that puzzled him exceedingly. he read it a dozen times, turned it up-side down, smoothed it out with his riding-whip, all in vain. he could make nothing of it; then he summoned barney. "when did this thing come, and who brought it?" "five minutes back," answered the batman. "left by a young man on fatigue duty." so barney, with military exactitude, described a government official, in the costume of its telegraphic department. "did the man leave no message?" continued bill. "said as there was nothing to pay," answered barney, standing at "attention" and obviously considering this part of his communication satisfactory in the extreme. "said there was nothing to pay!" mused his master, "and i would have given him a guinea to explain any two words of it." then he took his coat off, and sat doggedly down to read the mysterious sentences again and again. the soldier, as he expressed it, was "up a tree!" that the message must be of importance, he argued from its mode of transmission. the sender's name was legible enough, and his own address perfectly correct. he felt sure daisy would not have telegraphed from the wilds of roscommon but on a matter of urgency; and it did seem provoking that the only sense to be got out of the whole composition, was in the sentence with which it concluded--"do not lose a moment." in his perplexity, he could think of no one so likely to help him as mrs. lushington. "she has more 'nous' in that pretty little head of hers," thought bill, as he plunged into a suit of plain clothes, "than the horse guards and the war office put together. _she'll_ knock the marrow out of this, if anybody can! i've heard her guess riddles right off, the first time she heard them; and there isn't her equal in london for acting charades and games of that kind, where you must be down to it, before they can say 'knife.' by jove, i shouldn't wonder if this was a double acrostic after all? only daisy wouldn't be such a flat as to telegraph it all the way from ireland to _me_. i hope she'll see me. it's awfully early. i wonder if she'll blow me up for coming so soon." these reflections, and catamount's thorough-bred canter, soon brought him to mrs. lushington's door. she was at home, and sufficiently well prepared for exercises of ingenuity, having been engaged, after breakfast,--though it is but fair to say, such skirmishes were of unusual occurrence,--in a passage-of-arms with frank. the latter was a good-_natured_ man, with a bad _temper_. his wife's temper was excellent; but her enemies, and indeed her friends, said she was ill-_natured_. though scarcely to be called an attached couple, these two seldom found it worth while to quarrel, and so long as the selfishness of each did not clash with the other, they jogged on quietly enough. it was only when domestic affairs threw them together more than common, that the contact elicited certain sparks, such as crackled on occasion into what observers below-stairs called a "flare-up." to-day they happened to breakfast together. after a few "backhanders," and some rapid exchanges, in which the husband came by the worst, their conversation turned on money-matters--always a sore subject, as each considered that the other spent more than a due share of their joint income. complaints led to recriminations, until at length, goaded by the sharpness of his wife's tongue, mr. lushington exclaimed: "narrow-minded, indeed! paltry economy! i can tell you, if i didn't keep a precious tight hand, and deny myself--well--lots of things. i say if i didn't deny myself _lots_ of things, i should be in the bench--that's all." "then you are a very bad financier," she retorted, "worse than the chancellor of the exchequer even. but i don't believe it. i believe you're saving money every day." he rose from his chair in a transport of irritation, the skirts of his dressing-gown floating round him, like the rags of a whirling dervish. "saving money!" he repeated, in a sort of suppressed scream. "i can only tell you i had to borrow five hundred last week, and from little sharon too. that doesn't mean getting it at three per cent.!" "then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" said she. "no gentleman borrows money from sharon." "no gentleman!" he vociferated. "upon my life, mrs. lushington, i wish you would try to be more temperate in your language. no gentleman, indeed! i should like to know what you call general st. josephs? i fancy he is rather a favourite of yours. all i can tell you is, _he_ borrows money of sharon. lumps of money, at exorbitant interest." "it's very easy to _say_ these things," she replied. "but you can't prove them!" "can't i?" was his rejoinder. "well, i suppose you won't doubt my word, when i give you my honour, that he consulted me himself about a loan from this very man. three thousand pounds, mrs. lushington--three thousand pounds sterling, and at two days' notice. didn't care what he paid for it, and wanted it; well, _i_ didn't ask him why he wanted it; _i_ don't pry into other people's money-matters. _i_ don't always think the worst of my neighbours. but you'll allow i'm right, i hope! you'll admit so much at any rate!" "that has nothing to do with it," replied his wife; and in this highly satisfactory manner their matrimonial bicker terminated. mrs. lushington, while remaining, in a modified sense, mistress of the position--for frank retired to his own den, when the servants came to take away breakfast--found her curiosity keenly stimulated by the little piece of gossip thus let fall under the excitement of a conjugal wrangle. what on earth could st. josephs want with three thousand pounds? she had never heard he was a gambler. on a race-course, she knew, from personal observation, that beyond a few half-crowns with the ladies, he would not venture a shilling. he had told her repeatedly how he abhorred foreign loans, joint-stock companies, lucrative investments of all sorts, and money speculations of any kind whatever; yet here, if she believed her husband, was this wise and cautious veteran plunging overhead in a transaction wholly out of keeping with his character and habits. "there _must_ be a woman at the bottom of it!" thought mrs. lushington, not unreasonably, resolving at the same time never to rest till she had sifted the whole mystery from beginning to end. she felt so keen on her quest, that she could even have found it in her heart to seek frank in his own snuggery, and, sinking her dignity, there endeavoured to worm out of him further particulars, when catamount was pulled up with some difficulty at her door, and his master's card sent in, accompanied by a humble petition that the early visitor might be admitted. having darkened her eyelashes just before breakfast, and being, moreover, dressed in an unusually becoming morning toilet, she returned a favourable answer, so that soldier bill, glowing from his ride, was ushered into her boudoir without delay. her womanly tact observed his fussed and anxious looks. she assumed, therefore, an air of interest and gravity in her own. "there's some bother," said she kindly; "i see it in your face. how can i help you, and what can i do?" "you're a conjuror, by jove!" gasped bill, in a paroxysm of admiration at her omniscience. "_you're_ not, at any rate!" she replied, smiling. "but, come, tell me all about it. you're in a scrape? you've been a naughty boy. what have you been doing? out with it!" "it's nothing of my own; i give you my honour," replied bill. "it's daisy's turn now. look here, mrs. lushington. i'm completely puzzled--regularly knocked out of time. read that. i can't make head or tail of it." he handed her the telegram, which she perused in silence, then burst out laughing, and read it again aloud for his edification:-- "_very strong honey just arrived--bulls a-light on bank of ireland--sent by an unknown fiend--fail immediately--sell chief--consult a gent, and strip aaron at once--do not lose a moment._" "mr. walters must be gone raving mad, or is this a practical joke, and why do you bring it here?" "i don't think it's a joke," answered bill ruefully. "i brought it because you know everything. if _you_ can't help me, i'm done!" "quite right," said she. "always consult a woman in a tangle. now this thing is just like a skein of silk. if we can't unravel it at one end, we begin at the other. in the first place, who is aaron? and how would you proceed to strip him?" "aaron," repeated bill thoughtfully. "aaron--i never heard of such a person. there's sharon, you know; but stripping _him_ would be out of the question. it's generally the other way!" "sharon's a money-lender, isn't he?" she asked. "what business have _you_ to know anything about him, you wicked young man?" "never borrowed a sixpence in my life," protested bill, which was perfectly true. "but i've been to him often enough lately about this business of daisy's. we've arranged to get fifteen hundred from _him_ alone. perhaps that is what is meant by stripping him. but it was all to be in hard money; and though i know sharon sometimes makes you take goods, i never heard of his sending a fellow bulls, or strong honey, or indeed, anything but dry sherry and cigars." she knit her brows and read the message again. "i think i have it," said she. "'_strip aaron._' that must mean 'stop sharon.' '_sell the chief_',--that's 'tell the colonel.' then '_fail immediately_' signifies that the writer means to cross by the first boat. where does it come from--dublin or roscommon?" "roscommon," answered bill. "they're not much in the habit of telegraphing up there." "depend upon it daisy has dropped into a good thing. somebody must have left, or lent, or _given_ him a lot of money. i have it! i have it! this is how you must read it," she exclaimed, and following the lines with her taper finger, she put them into sense with no little exultation, for the benefit of her admiring listener. "'_very strange! money just arrived. bill at sight, on bank of ireland. sent by an unknown friend. sail immediately. tell chief. consult agent, and stop sharon at once._ do not lose a moment.' there, sir, should i, or should i not, make a good expert at the bank." "you're a witch--simply a witch," returned the delighted bill. "it's regular, downright magic. of course, that's what he means. of course, he's come into a fortune. hurrah! hurrah! mrs. lushington, have you any objection? i should like to throw my hat in the street, please, and put my head out of window to shout!" "i beg you'll put out nothing of the kind!" she answered, laughing. "if you must be a boy, at least be a good boy, and do what i tell you." "i should think i _would_ just!" he protested, still in his paroxysm of admiration. "you know more than the examiners at sandhurst! you could give _pounds_ to the senior department! if you weren't so--i mean if you were old and ugly--i should really believe what i said at first, that you're a witch!" she smiled on him in a very bewitching manner; but her brains were hard at work the while recapitulating all she had learned in the last twenty-four hours, with a pleasant conviction that she had put her puzzle together at last. yes, she saw it clearly now. the registered envelope of which she found the address, in reverse, on blanche's blotting-paper, must have contained those very bills, mentioned in daisy's telegram. it had struck her at the time that the handwriting was stiff and formal, as if disguised; but this served to account for the mysterious announcement of an "unknown fiend!" she was satisfied that miss douglas had sent anonymously the sum he wanted to the man she loved. and that sum bill had already told her was three thousand pounds--exactly the amount, according to her husband's version, lately borrowed by the general from a notorious money-lender. was it possible satanella could thus have stripped one admirer to benefit another? it must be so. such treachery deserved no mercy, and mrs. lushington determined to show none. she considered how far her visitor might be trusted with this startling discovery. it was as well, she thought, that he should be at least partially enlightened, particularly as the transaction was but little to the credit of any one concerned, and could not, therefore, be made public too soon. so she laid her hand on bill's coat-sleeve, and observed impressively-- "never mind about my being old and ugly, but attend to what i say. daisy, as you call him, has evidently found a good friend. now i know who that friend is. don't ask me how i found it out. i never speak without being sure. that money came from miss douglas." bill opened his eyes and mouth. "miss douglas!" he repeated. "not the black girl with the black mare?" "the black girl with the black mare, and no other," she answered. "miss douglas has paid his debts, and saved him from ruin. what return can a man make for such generosity as that?" "she's a trump, and he ought to marry her!" exclaimed the young officer. "no great sacrifice either. only," he added, on reflection, "she looks a bit of a tartar--wants her head let quite alone at her fences, i should think. she'd be rather a handful; but daisy wouldn't mind that. yes; he's bound to marry her no doubt; and i'll see him through it." "i quite agree with you," responded mrs. lushington, "but i won't have you talk about ladies as if they were hunters. it's bad style, young gentleman, so don't do it again. now, attend to what i tell you. jump on that poor horse of yours; it must be very tired of staring into my dining-room windows. go to your agent, and send _him_ to sharon. let your colonel know at once. when daisy arrives, impress on him all that he is bound in honour to do, and you may come and see me again, whenever you like, to report progress." so bill leapt into the saddle in exceedingly good spirits, while mrs. lushington sat down to her writing-table, with the self-satisfied sensations of one who has performed an action of provident kindness and good-will. chapter xxiii the debt of honour daisy's astonishment, on receiving by post those documents that restored him to the world from his vegetation in roscommon, was no less unbounded than his joy. when he opened the registered letter, and bills for the whole amount of his liabilities fluttered out, he could scarcely believe his eyes. then he puzzled himself to no purpose, in wild speculations as to the friend who had thus dropped from the skies at his utmost need. he had an uncle prosperous enough in worldly matters, but this uncle hated parting with his money, and was, moreover, abroad, whereas the welcome letter bore a london post-mark. he could think of no other relative nor friend rich enough, even if willing, to assist him in so serious a difficulty. the more he considered his good luck, the more inexplicable it appeared; nor, taking his host into consultation, did that worthy's suggestions tend to elucidate the mystery. in the first place, recalling many similar instances under his own observation, denis opined that the money must have been hidden up for his guest, long ago, by his great grandmother, in a stocking, and forgotten! next, that the prussian government, having heard of the mare's performances at punchestown, had bought her for breeding purposes, at such a sum as they considered her marketable value. and, lastly (standing the more stoutly by this theory, for the failure of its predecessors), that the whole amount had been subscribed under a general vote of the kildare street club, in testimony of their admiration for daisy's bold riding and straightforward conduct as a sportsman! leaving him perfectly satisfied with this explanation, daisy bade his host an affectionate farewell, and started without delay for london, previously telegraphing to his comrade at kensington certain information and instructions for his guidance. warped in its transmission by an imaginative clerk in a hurry, we have seen how this message confused and distracted the honest perceptions of its recipient. that young officer was sitting down to breakfast, with venus under his chair, while benjamin, the badger, poked a cautious nose out of his stronghold in the wardrobe, when the hasty retreat of one animal, and formidable growlings of the other, announced a strange step on the stairs. immediately daisy rushed into the room, vociferated for barney to look after his "traps" and pay the cab, seized a hot plate, wagged his head at his host, and began breakfast without further ceremony. "seem peckish, young man," observed bill, contemplating his friend with extreme satisfaction. "sick as a fool last night, no doubt, and sharp-set this morning in consequence. go in for a cutlet, my boy. another kidney, then. that's right. have a suck of the lemon, and at him again!" munching steadily, daisy repudiated the imputation of sea-sickness, with the scorn of a practised mariner. "it seems to me that i live on that channel," said he, "like a ship's-steward, bill, or a horse-marine! well, i've done with it now, i hope, for some time. how jolly it is to feel straight again! it's like your horse getting up, when he's been on his head, without giving the crowner you deserve. it was touch-and-go this time, old chap. i say, you got my telegram?" bill laughed. "i did, indeed!" he answered; "and a nice mull they made. read it for yourself." thus speaking, he tossed across the breakfast-table that singular communication which his unassisted ingenuity had so failed to comprehend. daisy perused it with no little astonishment. "the fools!" he exclaimed. "why, bill, you must have thought i'd gone mad." "we _did_," replied bill gravely. "stark staring, my boy. we said we always _had_ considered you 'a hatter,' but not so bad as this." "_we!_" repeated his friend. "what d'ye mean by _we_? you didn't go jawing about it in the regiment, bill?" "when i say we," answered the other, with something of a blush, "i mean me and mrs. lushington." "what had _she_ to do with it?" asked daisy, pushing his plate away, and lighting a cigar. "_she_ didn't send the stuff, i'll take my oath!" "but she knows who did," said bill, filling a meerschaum pipe of liberal dimensions, with profound gravity. then they smoked in silence for several minutes. "it's a very rum go," observed daisy, after a prolonged and thoughtful puff. "i don't know when i've been so completely at fault. tell me what you've heard, bill, for you _have_ heard something, i'm sure. in the first place, how came you to take counsel with mrs. lushington?" "because she is up to every move in the game," was the answer. "because she's the cleverest woman in london, and the nicest. because i was regularly beat, and could think of nobody else to help me at short notice. the telegram said, 'do not lose a moment.'" "and what did _she_ make of it?" asked daisy. "tumbled to the whole plant in three minutes," answered bill. "put the telegram straight--bulls, honey, and all--as easy as wheeling into line. i tell you, we know as much as you do now, and _more_. you've got three 'thou,' daisy, ready-money down, to do what you like with. isn't that right?" daisy nodded assent. "the chief's delighted, and i've sent the agent to sharon. luckily, the little beggar's not so unreasonable as we thought he'd be. that reckons up the telegram, doesn't it?" again daisy nodded, smoking serenely. "then there's nothing more for you to bother about," continued his host; "and i'm glad of it. only, next time, daisy, you won't pull for an old woman, i fancy, in a winning race." "nor a young one either," said his friend. "but you haven't told me now who the money came from." "can't you guess? have you no idea?" "not the faintest." "what should you say to miss douglas?" "miss douglas!" by the tone in which daisy repeated her name, that young lady was obviously the last person in the world from whom he expected to receive pecuniary assistance. though no longer peaceful, his meditations seemed deeper than ever. at length he threw away the end of his cigar with a gesture of impatience and vexation. "this is a very disagreeable business," said he. "hang it, bill, i almost wish the money had never come. i can't send it back, for a thousand's gone already to our kind old major, who promised to settle my book at tattersall's. i wonder where she got such a sum. by jove, it's the handsomest thing i ever heard of! what would you do, bill, if you were in my place?" "do," repeated his friend; "i've no doubt what i should _do_. i should order catamount round at once; then i think i'd have a brandy-and-soda; in ten minutes i'd be at miss douglas's door, and in fifteen i'd have--what d'ye call it?--proposed to her. proposed to her, my boy, all according to regulation. i'm not sure how you set about these things. i fancy you go down on your knees; i know you ought to put your arm round their waists; but lots of fellows could coach you for all that part, and even if you did anything that's not in the book, this is a case of emergency, and, in my opinion, you might chance it!" having thus delivered himself, the speaker assumed a judicial air, smoking severely. "in plain english, a woman buys one for three thousand pounds!" said daisy, laughing rather bitterly. "_and only three thousand bid for him. going! going!!_" "_gone!!!_" added bill, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang that startled the badger, and elicited an angry bark from venus. "a deuced good price, too; i only hope i shall fetch half as much when i'm brought to the hammer. why you ought to be delighted, my good fellow. she's as handsome as paint, and the best horse-woman that ever wore a habit!" "i don't deny her riding, nor her beauty, nor her merit in every way," said daisy, somewhat ruefully. "in fact, she's much too good for a fellow like me. but do you mean, seriously, bill, that i must marry her because she has paid my debts?" "i do, indeed," answered his friend; "and mrs. lushington thinks so too." before daisy's eyes rose the vision of an irish river glancing in the sunshine, with banks of tender green and ripples of molten gold, and a fishing-rod lying neglected on its margin, while a fair, fond face looked loving and trustful in his own. there are certain hopes akin to the child's soap-bubble which we cherish insensibly, admiring their airy grace and radiant colouring, almost persuading ourselves of their reality, till we apply to them some practical test--then behold! at a touch, the bubble bursts, the dream vanishes, to leave us only a vague sense of injustice, an uncomfortable consciousness of disappointment and disgust. "i conclude mrs. lushington understands these things, and knows exactly what a fellow ought to do," said daisy, after another pause that denoted he was in no indiscreet hurry to act on that lady's decision. "of course she does!" answered bill. "she's a regular authority, you know, or i wouldn't have gone to her. you couldn't be in safer hands." both young men seemed to look on the whole transaction in the light of a duel, or some such affair of honour, requiring caution no less than courage, and in the conduct of which the opinion of a celebrated practitioner like mrs. lushington was invaluable and unimpeachable. "but if i--if i don't like her well enough," said poor daisy, looking very uncomfortable. "hang it, bill, when one marries a woman, you know, one's obliged to be always with her. early breakfast, home to luncheon, family dinner, smoke out of doors, and in by ten o'clock. i shouldn't like it at all; and then perhaps she'd take me to morning visits and croquet parties. think of that, bill! like poor martingale, whose only holiday is when he gets the belt on, and can't stir out of barracks for four-and-twenty hours. to be sure, miss douglas is a good many cuts above mrs. martingale!" "to be sure she is!" echoed his adviser. "and i dare say, after all, daisy, it is not quite so bad as we think. wet days and that you'd have to yourself, you know, and she wouldn't want you when she had a headache. mrs. martingale often has headaches, and so should i if i liquored up as freely!" "but supposing," argued daisy, "i say only _supposing_, bill, one liked another girl better; oughtn't that to make a difference?" "i'm afraid _not_," replied bill, shaking his head. "i didn't think of putting the case in that way to mrs. lushington, but i don't imagine she'd admit the objection. no, no, my boy, it's no use being shifty about it. you've got to jump, and the longer you look, the less you'll like it! if it was a mere matter of business, i wouldn't say a word, but see how the case stands. there are no receipts, no vouchers; she has kept everything dark, that you might feel under no obligation. hang it, old fellow, it's a regular debt of honour; and there's no way of paying up, that i can see, but this." such an argument was felt to be unanswerable. "a debt of honour," repeated daisy. "i suppose it is. very well; i'll set about it at once. i can't begin to-day though." "why not?" asked his friend. "no time," answered the other, who in many respects was a true englishman. "i've got lots of things to do. in the first place, i must have my hair cut, of course!" chapter xxiv a pertinent question a letter, without date or signature, written in an upright, clerkly hand, correctly spelt, sufficiently well-expressed, and stamped at the general post office! st. josephs had no clue to his correspondent, and could but read the following production over and over again with feelings of irritation and annoyance that increased at each perusal:-- "you have been grossly ill-treated and deceived. a sense of justice compels the writer of these lines to warn you before it is too late. you are the victim of a conspiracy to plunder and defraud. one cannot bear to see a man of honour robbed by the grossest foul play. general st. josephs is not asked to believe a bare and unsupported statement. let him recapitulate certain facts, and judge for himself. he best knows whether he did not lately borrow a large sum of money. he can easily discover if that amount corresponds, to a fraction, with the losses of a young officer celebrated for his horsemanship. let him ascertain why that person's debts have stood over till now; also, how and when they have been settled. will he have courage to ask himself, or _somebody_ he trusts as himself, whence came these funds that have placed his rival in a position to return to england? will he weigh the answer in the balance of common-sense; or is he so infatuated by a certain dark lady that he can be fooled with his eyes open, in full light of day? there is no time to lose, or this caution would never have been given. if neglected, the general will regret his incredulity as long as he lives. most women would appreciate his admiration; many would be more than proud of his regard. there is but one, perhaps, in the world who could thus repay it by injury and deceit. he is entreated to act at once on this communication, and to believe that of all his well-wishers it comes from the sincerest and the most reliable." everybody affects to despise anonymous letters. no doubt it is a wise maxim that such communications should be put in the fire at once, and ignored as if they did not exist. nevertheless, on the majority of mankind they inflict unreasonable anxiety and distress. the sting rankles, though the insect be infinitesimal and contemptible; the blow falls none the less severely that it has been delivered in the dark. on a nature like the general's such an epistle as the above was calculated to produce the utmost amount of impatience and discomfort. to use a familiar expression, it _worried_ him beyond measure. straightforward in all his dealings, he felt utterly at a loss when he came in contact with mystery or deceit. nothing could furnish plainer proof of the general's sincere attachment to miss douglas than the fortitude with which he confronted certain petty vexations and annoyances inseparable from the love affairs of young and old. "ah me! what perils do environ, the man who meddles with cold iron," quoth hudibras, but surely his risk is yet greater, who elects to heat the metal from hilt to point in the furnace of his own affections, and burns his fingers every time he draws the sword, even in self-defence. to st. josephs who, after a manhood of hardship, excitement, and some military renown, had arrived at a time of life when comfort and repose are more appreciated, and more desirable every day, nothing could have been so distasteful as the character he now chose to enact, but for _her_ charms, who had cast the part for him, and with whom, by dint of perseverance and fidelity, he hoped to play out the play. though he often sighed to remember how heavily he was weighted with his extra burden of years, he never dreamed of retiring from the contest, nor relaxed for one moment in his efforts to attain the goal. twenty times was he on the point of destroying a letter that so annoyed him, and twenty times he checked himself, with the reflection, that even the treacherous weapon might be wrested from the enemy, and turned to his own advantage by sincerity and truth. after much cogitation, he ordered his horse, dressed himself carefully, and rode to miss douglas's door. that lady was at home. luncheon, coming out of the dining-room untouched, met him as he crossed the hall, and the tones of her pianoforte rang in his ears, while he went upstairs. when the door opened she rose from the instrument and turned to greet him with a pale face, showing traces of recent tears. all his self-command vanished at these tokens of her distress. "you've been crying, my darling," said he, and taking her hand in both his own, he pressed it fondly to his lips. it was not a bad beginning. hitherto he had always been so formal, so respectful, so unlike a lover; now, when he saw she was unhappy, the man's real nature broke out, and she liked him none the worse. withdrawing her hand, but looking very kindly, and speaking in a softer tone than usual, she bade him take no notice of her agitation. "i'm nervous," said she. "i often am. you men can't understand these things, but it's better than being cross at any rate." "cross!" he repeated. "be as cross and as nervous as you like, only make _me_ the prop when you require support, and the scapegoat when you want to scold." "you're too good," said she, her dark eyes filling again, whereat he placed himself very close and took her hand once more. "far too good for _me_! i've told you so a hundred times. general, shall i confess why i was--was making such a fool of myself, and what i was thinking of when you came in?" "if it's painful to _you_, i'd rather not hear it," was his answer. "i want to be associated with the sunshine of your life, blanche, not its shade." she shook her head. "whoever takes that part in _my_ life," she replied, "must remain a good deal in the dark. that's what i was coming to. general, it is time you and i should understand each other. i feel i could tell _you_ things i would not breathe to any other living being. you're so safe, so honourable, so punctiliously, so _ridiculously_ honourable, and i _like_ you for it." he looked grateful. "i want you to like me," said he. "better and better every day. i'll try to deserve it." "they say time works wonders," she answered wistfully, "and i feel i shall. i _know_ i shall. but there are some things i _must_ tell you now, while i have the courage. mind, i am prepared to take all consequences. i have deceived you, general. deceived you in a way you could never imagine nor forgive." "so people seem to think," he observed coolly, producing, at the same time, the anonymous letter from his pocket. "i should not have troubled you with such trash, but as you have chosen to make me your father-confessor, perhaps i ought to say your _grand_-father confessor, this morning, you may as well look through it, before we put that precious production in the fire." he walked to the window, so as not to see her face while she read it, nor was this little act of delicacy and forbearance lost on such a woman as blanche douglas. her temper, nevertheless, became thoroughly roused before she got to the end of the letter, causing her to place herself once more in the position of an adversary. her eyes shone, her brows lowered, and her words came in the tight concentrated accents of bitter anger while she bade him turn round, and look her in the face. "this has only anticipated me," said she, pale and quivering. "i stand here, arraigned like any prisoner in the dock, but with no excuses to offer, no defence to make. it is a fine position, truly; but having been fool enough to accept it, i do not mean to shrink from its disgrace. ask me what questions you will, i am not afraid to answer them." "honestly?" said he, "without quibbles or after-thought, and once for all?" she looked very stern and haughty. "i am not in the habit of shuffling," she replied. "i never yet feared results from word or action of mine. and what i say, you may depend upon it, i mean." on the general's face came an expression of confidence and resolution she had never noticed before. meeting his regard firmly, it occurred to her that so he must have looked when he rode through that sepoy column, and charged those russian guns. he was a gallant fellow, no doubt, bold and kind-hearted too. if he had only been twenty years younger, or even ten! he spoke rather lower than usual; but every syllable rang clear and true, while his eyes looked frankly and fearlessly into her own. "then answer my question once for all. blanche, will you be my wife? without farther hesitation or delay?" "let me explain first." "i ask for no explanation, and will listen to none. suppose me to repose implicit confidence in the vague accusations of an anonymous slander. suppose me to believe you false and fickle, a shameless coquette, and myself an infatuated old fool. suppose anything and everything you please; but first answer the question i ask you from the bottom of my heart, with this anonymous statement, false or true, i care not a jot which, in my hand." he held it as if about to tear it across and fling it in the grate. she laid a gentle touch on his arm and whispered softly-- "don't destroy it till i've answered your question. yes. there is nobody like you in the world!" we need not stop to repeat a proverb touching the irreverent persistency of folly in travelling hand-in-hand with age; and of what extravagances the general might have been guilty, in his exceeding joy, it is impossible to guess, had she not stopped him at the outset. "sit down there," she said, pointing to a corner of the sofa, while establishing herself in an armchair on the other side of the fire-place. "now that you have had your say, perhaps you will let me have _mine_! hush! i know what you mean. i take all that for granted. stay where you are, hold your tongue, and listen to me." "the first duty of a soldier is obedience," he answered in great glee. "i'll be as steady as i can." "it is my _right_ now to explain," she continued gravely. "believe me. i most fully appreciate; i never can forget. whatever happened i never _could_ forget the confidence you have shown in me to-day. depend upon it, when you trust people so unreservedly, you make it _impossible_ for them to deceive. i have always honoured and admired you. during the last hour i have learned to--to--well--to think you deserve more than honour and esteem. any woman might be proud and happy--yes--happy to belong to you. but now, if i am to be your wife--don't interrupt. well, _as_ i am to be your wife, you must let me tell you everything--everything--or i recall my promise." "don't do that," he answered playfully. "but mind, i'm quite satisfied with you as you are, and ask to know _nothing_." she hesitated, and the colour came to her brow while she completed her confession. "you--you lent me some money, you know; _gave_ it me, i ought to say, for i'm quite sure you never expected to see it back again. it was a good deal. don't contradict. it _was_ a good deal, and i wonder how i could have the face to ask for it. but i didn't want it for myself. it was to save from utter ruin a very old and dear friend." "i know all about it," said he cheerfully. "at least, i can guess. very glad it should be so well employed. but all that was _your_ business, not mine." "and you never even asked who got it!" she continued, while again there gathered a mist to veil her large dark eyes. "my dear blanche," he answered, "i was only too happy to be of service to you. surely it was your own, to employ as you liked. i don't want to know any more about it, even now." "but you _must_ know," she urged. "i've been going to tell you ever so often, but something always interrupted us; and once, when i had almost got it out, the words seemed to die away on my lips. listen. you know i'm not very young." he bowed in silence. the reflection naturally presented itself that if _she_ was not very young, _he_ must be very old. miss douglas proceeded, with her eyes fixed on her listener, as if she was looking at something a long way off. "of course i've seen and known lots of people in my life, and had some great friends--i mean _real_ friends--that i would have made any sacrifice to serve. amongst these was mr. walters. i used to call him daisy. general, i--i liked him better than all the rest. better than anybody in the world--" "and now?" asked the general anxiously, but carrying a bold front notwithstanding. "_now_, i know i was mistaken," she replied. "though that's not the question. well, after that horrid race--when my beautiful mare ought to have won, and _didn't_--i knew daisy--mr. walters, i mean--had lost more than he could afford to pay--in plain english, he was ruined; and worse, wouldn't be able to show, unless somebody came to the rescue. i hadn't got the money myself. not a hundredth part of it! so i asked _you_, and--and--sent it all to _him_. now you know the whole business." "i knew it long ago," said he gently. "at least, i might have known it, had i ever allowed the subject to enter my head. does _he_ know it too, do you think, blanche?" "good heavens! no!" she exclaimed. "that _would_ be a complication. you don't think there's a chance of it! i took every care--every precaution. what _should_ i do? general, what would you advise?" he smiled to mark how she was beginning to depend on him, drawing a good augury from this alteration in her character, and would no doubt have replied in exceedingly affectionate terms, but that he was interrupted by the opening of the drawing-room door, and entrance of a servant, who, in a matter-of-fact voice, announced a visitor--"mr. walters!" blanche turned white to her lips, and muttered rapidly, "won't you stay, general? _do!_" but the general had already possessed himself of his hat, and, with an air of good-humoured confidence, that she felt did honour both to herself and him, took a courteous leave of his hostess, and gave a hearty greeting to the newcomer as they passed each other on the threshold. "i think i've won the battle," muttered the old soldier, mounting his horse briskly in the street; "though i've left the enemy in possession of the ground!" chapter xxv a satisfactory answer daisy, with his hair cut exceedingly short, as denoting that he was on the eve of some great crisis in life, entered the apartment in the sheepish manner of a visitor who is not quite sure about his reception. though usually of cheerful and confident bearing, denoting no want of a certain self-assertion, which the present generation call "cheek," all his audacity seemed to have deserted him, and he planted himself in the centre of the carpet, with his hat in his hand like the poor, spiritless bridegroom at netherby, who stood "dangling his bonnet and plume" while his affianced and her bridesmaids were making eyes at young lochinvar. miss douglas, too, required a breathing-space to restore her self-command. when they had shaken hands, it was at least a minute before either could find anything to say. the absurdity of the situation struck them both, but the lady was the first to recover her presence of mind; and, with a laugh not the least genuine, welcomed him back to england, demanding the latest news from paddy-land. "you've been at cormac's-town, of course," said she. "you can tell us all about dear lady mary, and your pretty friend norah. i hope she asked to be remembered to _me_." he blushed up to his eyes, turning his hat in his hands, as if he would fain creep into it bodily and hide himself from notice in the crown. she saw her advantage, and gained courage every minute, so as to stifle and keep down the gnawing pain that made her so sick at heart. "i wonder norah trusts you in london," she continued, with another of those forced smiles. "i suppose you're only on short leave, as you call it, and mean to go back directly. will you have the black mare to ride while you are in town? i've taken great care of her, and she's looking beautiful!" to her own ear, if not to his, there was a catch in her breath while she spoke the last words, that warned her she would need all her self-command before the play was played out. he thanked her kindly enough, while he declined the offer; but his tone was so grave, so sorrowful, that she could keep up the affectation of levity no longer. "what is it?" she asked, in an altered voice. "daisy!--mr. walters! what is the matter? are you offended? i was only joking about norah." "offended!" he repeated. "how could i ever be offended with _you_? but i didn't come here to talk about miss macormac, nor even satanella, except in so far as the mare is connected with your generosity and kindness." "what do you mean?" she asked, in considerable trepidation. "_you_ were the generous one, for you gave me the best hunter in your stable, without being asked." "as if you had not bought her over and over again!" he exclaimed, finding voice and words and courage now that he was approaching the important topic. "miss douglas, it's no use denying your good deeds, nor pretending to ignore their magnificence. it was only yesterday i learned the real name of my _unknown friend_! i tell you that money of yours saved me from utter ruin--worse than ruin, from such disgrace as if i had committed a felony, and been sent to prison!" "i'm sure you look as if you had just come out of one," she interposed, "with that cropped head. why do you let them cut your hair so short? it makes you hideous!" "never mind my cropped head," he continued, somewhat baffled by the interruption. "i hurried here at once, to thank you with all my heart, as the best friend i ever had in the world." "well, you've done it," said she. "that's quite enough. now let us talk of something else." "but i _haven't_ done it," protested daisy, gathering, from the obstacles in his way, a certain inclination to his task or at least a determination to go through with it. "i haven't said half what i've got to say, nor a quarter of what i feel. you have shown that you consider me a near and dear friend. you have given me the plainest possible proof of your confidence and esteem. all this instigates me--or rather induces me, or, shall i say, encourages me--to hope, or perhaps persuade myself of some probability. in short, miss douglas--can't you help a fellow out with what he's got to say?" floundering about in search of the right expressions, she would have liked him to go on for an hour. it was delightful to be even on the brink of that paradise from which she must presently exclude herself for ever with her own hands, and she forbore to interrupt him till he came to a dead stop for want of words. "nonsense!" she said. "any friend would have done as much who had the power. it's nothing to make a fuss about. i'm glad you're out of the scrape, and there's an end to it." "you were always generous," he exclaimed. "you ought to have been a man; i've said so a hundred times--only it's lucky you're _not_, or i couldn't ask you a question that i don't know how to put in the right form." she turned pale as death. it was come, then, at last--that moment to which she had once looked forward as a glimpse of happiness too exquisite for mortal senses. here was the enchanted cup pressed to her very lip, and she must not taste it--must even withdraw her eyes from the insidious drink. and yet even now she felt a certain sense of disappointment in her empty triumph, a vague misgiving that the proffered draught was flatter than it should be, as if the bottle had been already opened to slake another's thirst. "better not ask," she said, "if the words don't come naturally,--if the answer is sure to be _no_." in his intense relief he never marked the piteous tone of her voice, nor the tremble of agony passing over her face, like the flicker of a fire on a marble bust, to leave its features more fixed and rigid than before. even in her keen suffering she wished to spare _him_. already she was beginning to long for the dull insensibility that must succeed this hour of mental conflict, as bodily numbness is the merciful result of pain. she dreaded the possibility that his disappointment should be anything like her own, and would fain have modified the blow she had no choice but to inflict. daisy, however, with good reason no doubt, was resolved to rush on his fate the more obstinately, as it seemed, because of the endeavours to spare both him and herself. "i am a plain-spoken fellow," said he, "and--and--tolerably straightforward, as times go. i'm not much used to this kind of thing--at least, i've never regularly asked such a question before. you mustn't be offended, miss douglas, if i don't go the right way to work. but--but--it seems so odd that you should have come in and paid my debts for me! don't you think i ought--or don't you think _you_ ought--in short, i've come here on purpose to ask you to marry me. i'm not half good enough, i know, and lots of fellows would make you better husbands, i'm afraid. but, really now--without joking--won't you try?" he had got into the spirit of the thing, and went on more swimmingly than he could have hoped. there was almost a ring of truth in his appeal, for daisy's was a temperament that flung itself keenly into the excitement of the moment, gathering ardour from the very sense of pursuit. as he said himself, "he never could help riding, if he got a start." and miss douglas shook in every limb while she listened with a wan, weary face and white lips, parted in a rigid smile. it was not that she was unaccustomed to solicitations of a like nature; whatever might be her previous experience, scarcely an hour had passed since she sustained a similar attack--and surely to accept an offer of marriage ought to be more subversive of the nervous system than to refuse; yet she could hardly have betrayed deeper emotions had she been trembling in the balance between life and death. that was a brave heart of hers, or it must have failed to keep its own rebellion down so firmly, and gather strength to answer in a calm, collected voice-- "there are some things it is better not to think about, for they can never be, and this is one of them." how little she knew what was passing in his mind! how little she suspected that _her_ sentence was _his_ reprieve! and yet his self-love was galled. he had made a narrow escape, and was thankful, no doubt, but felt somewhat disappointed, too, that his danger had not been greater still. "do you mean it?" said he. "well, you'll forgive my presumption, and--and--you won't forget i asked you." "_forget!_----" it was all she said; but a man must have been both blind and deaf not to have marked the tone in which those syllables were uttered, the look which accompanied them. daisy brandished his hat, thinking it high time to go, lest his sentence should be commuted, and his doom revoked. she put her hand to her throat, as if she must choke; but mastered her feelings with an effort, forcing herself to speak calmly and distinctly now, on a subject that must never be approached again. "do not think i undervalue your offer," she said, gathering fortitude with every word; "do not think me hard, or changeable, or unfeeling. if you must not make me happy, at least you have made me very proud; and if everything had turned out differently, i do hope i might have proved worthy to be your wife. you're not angry with me, are you? and you won't hate me because it's impossible?" "not the least!" exclaimed daisy, eagerly. "don't think it for a moment! please not to make yourself unhappy about _me_." "i _am_ worthy to be your friend," she continued saddened, and it may be a little vexed, by this remarkable exhibition of self-denial; "and _as_ a friend i feel i owe you some explanation, beyond a bare 'no, i won't.' it ought rather to be 'no, i _can't_;' because--because, to tell you the honest truth, i have promised somebody else!" "i wish you joy with all my heart!" he exclaimed, gaily, and not the least like an unsuccessful suitor. "i hope you'll be as happy as the day is long! when is it to be? you'll send me an invitation to the wedding, won't you?" her heart was very sore. he did not even ask the name of his fortunate rival, and he could hardly have looked more pleased, she thought, if he had been going to marry her himself. "i don't know about that," she answered, shaking her head sadly. "at any rate, i shall not see you again for a long time. good-bye, daisy," and she held out a cold hand that trembled very much. "good-bye," said he, pressing it cordially. "i shall never forget your kindness. good-bye." then the door shut, and he was gone. blanche douglas sank into a sofa, and sat there looking at the opposite wall, without moving hand or foot, till the long summer's day waned into darkness and her servant came with lights. she neither wept, nor moaned, nor muttered broken sentences, but remained perfectly motionless, like a statue, and in all those hours she asked herself but one question--"do i love this man? and, if so, how can i ever bear to marry the other?" chapter xxvi afternoon tea "i wish you'd come, daisy. you've no idea what it is, facing all those swells by oneself!" "i have _not_ the cheek," was daisy's reply. "they would chaff one so awfully, if they knew. no, bill, i'll see you through anything but that." "then i must show the best front i can without a support," said the other ruefully. "why can't she let me off these tea-fights? they're cruelly slow. i don't see the good of them." "_she_ does," replied daisy. "not a woman in london knows what she is about better than mrs. lushington." "how d'ye mean?" asked his less worldly-minded friend. "why, you see," explained daisy, "one great advantage of living in this wicked town is, that you've no duty towards your neighbour. people don't care two straws what you do, or how you do it, so long as you keep your own line, without crossing theirs. they'll give you the best of everything, and ask for no return, if only you'll pretend to be glad to see them when you meet, and not forget them when you go away. that's the secret of morning visits, card-leaving, wedding-presents, and the whole of the sham. now mrs. lushington goes everywhere, and never has a ball, nor a drum, nor even a large dinner-party of her own, but she says to her friends, 'i love you dearly, i can't exist without you. come and see me every wednesday, except the derby day, all the london season through, from five to seven p.m. i'll swear to be at home, and i'll give you a cup of tea!' so, for nine pen'orth of milk, and some hot water, she repays the hospitalities of a nation. she's pleased, the world is gratified, and nobody's bored but _you_. it's all humbug, that's the truth, and i'm very glad i'm so soon to be out of it!" "but you won't leave the regiment?" said his brother officer kindly. "not if i know it!" was the hearty response. "norah likes soldiering, and old macormac doesn't care what we do, if we only visit _him_ in the hunting season. besides, my uncle put that in the conditions when he 'parted,' which he did freely enough, i am bound to admit, considering all things." "you've not been long about it," observed soldier bill in a tone of admiration. "it's little more than a month since you pulled through after that 'facer' at punchestown; and now, here you are booked to one lady, after proposing to another, provided with settlements, _trousseau_, bridesmaids, and very likely a bishop to marry you. hang it, daisy, i've got an uncle _smothered_ in lawn; i'll give him the straight tip, and ask him to tie you up fast." "you'll have to leave the park at once," was daisy's reply, "or you'll be returned absent when the parade is formed. you know, bill, you _daren't_ be late, for your life." the two young men were by this time at albert gate, having spent a pleasant half-hour together on a couple of penny chairs, while the strange medley passed before them that throngs hyde park on every summer's afternoon. daisy was far happier than he either hoped or deserved. after satanella's refusal, he had felt at liberty to follow the dictates of his own heart, and lost no time in prosecuting his suit with norah macormac. the objections that might have arisen from want of means were anticipated by his uncle's unlooked-for liberality, and he was to be married as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, though, in consideration of his late doings, the engagement was at present to be kept a profound secret. notwithstanding some worldly wisdom, daisy could believe that such secrets divided amongst half-a-dozen people, would not become the property of half-a-hundred. in mood like his, a man requires no companion but his own thoughts. we will rather accompany soldier bill, as he picks his way into belgravia, stepping daintily over the muddy crossings, cursing the water-carts, and trying to preserve the polish of his boots, up to mrs. lushington's door. yet into those shining boots his heart seemed almost sinking, when he marked a long line of carriages in the streets, a crowd of footmen on the steps and pavement. no man alive had better nerve than bill, to ride, or fight, or swim, or face any physical danger; but his hands turned cold, and his face hot, when about to confront strange ladies, either singly or in masses; and for him, the rustling of muslin was as the shaking of a standard to the inexperienced charger, a signal of unknown danger, a flutter of terror and dismay. nevertheless, he mastered his weakness, following his own name resolutely upstairs, in a white heat, no doubt, yet supported by the calmness of despair. fortunately, he found his hostess at her drawing-room door. the favourable greeting she accorded him would have reassured the most diffident of men. "you're a good boy," she whispered, with a squeeze of his hand. "i was almost afraid you wouldn't come. stay near the door, while i do the civil to the arch-duchess. i'll be back directly. i've got something very particular to ask you." so, while mrs. lushington did homage (in french) to the arch-duchess, who was old, fat, good-humoured, and very sleepy, bill took up a position from which he could pass the inmates of the apartment in review. observing his welcome by their hostess, and knowing _who he was_, two or three magnificent ladies thought it not derogatory to afford him a gracious bow; and as they forbore to engage him in discourse, a visitation of which bill had fearful misgivings, he soon felt sufficiently at ease to inspect unconcernedly, and in detail, the several individuals who constituted the crush. it was a regular london gathering, in the full-tide of the season, consisting of the best-dressed, best-looking, and idlest people in town. there seemed an excess of ladies, as usual; but who would complain of a summer market that it was over stocked with flowers? while of the uglier sex, the specimens were either very young or very mature. there was scarcely a man to be seen between thirty and forty, but a glut of young gentlemen, some too much and some too little at their ease, with a liberal sprinkling of ancient dandies, irreproachable in manners, and worthier members of society, we may be permitted to hope, than society believed. a few notabilities were thrown in, of course: the arch-duchess aforesaid; a missionary, who had been tortured by the chinese, dark, sallow, and of a physiognomy that went far to extenuate the cruelty of the celestials; a lady who had spent two years at thebes, and, perhaps for that reason, dressed almost as low as the egyptian sphinx; a statesman out of office; a celebrated preacher at issue with his bishop; a foreign minister; a london banker; and a man everybody knew, who wrote books nobody read. besides these, there was the usual complement of ladies who gave, and ladies who went to, balls; married women addicted to flirting; single ladies not averse to it; stout mammas in gorgeous apparel; tall girls with baby faces promising future beauty; a powdered footman winding, like an eel, through the throng; frank lushington himself, looking at his watch to see how soon it would be over; and pretty bessie gordon, fresh and smiling, superintending the tea. all this bill took in, wondering. it seemed such a strange way of spending a bright summer's afternoon, in weather that had come on purpose for cricket, boating, yachting, all sorts of out-of-door pursuits. putting himself beside the question, for he felt as much on duty as if he had the belt on in a barrack-yard, it puzzled him to discover the spell that brought all these people together, in a hot room, at six o'clock in the day. was it sheer idleness, or the love of talking, or only the follow-my-leader instinct of pigs and sheep? catching sight of general st. josephs and miss douglas conversing apart in a corner, he determined that it must be a motive stronger than any of these, and looking down on her broad deep shoulders, marvelled how such motive might affect his next neighbour, a lady of sixty years, weighing some sixteen stone. it is fair to suppose, therefore, that bill was as yet himself untouched. his intimacy with mrs. lushington, while sharpening his wits and polishing his manners, served, no doubt, to dispel those illusions of romance that all young men are prone to cherish, more or less; and soldier bill, with his fresh cheeks and simple heart, believed he was becoming a thorough philosopher, an experienced man-of-the-world, rating human weaknesses at their real value, and walking about the battle of life sheathed in armour-of-proof. honest bill! how little he dreamt that his immunity was only a question of time. the hour had not yet come--nor the woman. far different was st. josephs. if ever man exulted in bondage and seemed proud to rattle his chains, that man was the captive general. he never missed an opportunity of attending his conqueror: riding in the park--"walking the zoo"--waiting about at balls, drums, crush-rooms, and play-houses,--he never left her side. miss douglas, loathing her own ingratitude, was weary of her life. even bill could not help remarking the pale cheeks, the heavy eyes, the dull lassitude of gait and bearing, that denoted the feverish unrest of one who is sick at heart. he trod on a chaperone's skirt, and omitted to beg pardon; he stumbled against his uncle, the bishop, and forgot to ask after his aunt. so taken up was he with the faded looks of miss douglas, that he neither remembered where he was, nor why he came, and only recovered consciousness with the rustle of mrs. lushington's dress and her pleasant voice in his ear. "give me your arm," said she, pushing on through her guests, with many winning smiles, "and take me into the little room for some tea." though a short distance, it was a long passage. she had something pleasant to say to everybody, as she threaded the crowd; but it could be no difficult task for so experienced a campaigner, on her own ground, to take up any position she required. and bill found himself established at last by her side, in a corner, where they were neither overlooked nor overheard. "now i want to know if it's true?" said she, dashing into the subject at once. "_you_ can tell, if anybody can, and i'm sure you have no secrets from _me_." "if _what's_ true?" asked bill, gulping tea that made him hotter than ever. "don't be stupid!" was her reply. "why, about daisy of course. is he going to marry that irish girl? i want to find out at once." "well, it's no use denying it," stammered bill, somewhat unwillingly. "but it's a dead secret, mrs. lushington, and of course it goes no farther." "oh, of course!" she repeated. "don't you know how safe i am? but you're quite sure of it? you have it from himself?" "i've got to be his best man," returned bill, by no means triumphantly. "you'll coach me up a little, won't you, before the day? i haven't an idea what to do." she laughed merrily. "make love to the bridesmaids, of course," she answered. "irish, no doubt, every one of them. i'm not quite sure i shall give you leave." "i can't get out of it!" exclaimed bill. "he's such a 'pal,' you know, and a brother-officer, and all." she was amused at his simplicity. "i don't want you to get out of it," she answered, still laughing. "i can't tell you what sort of a best man you'll make, but you're not half a bad boy. you deserve something for coming to-day. dine with us to-morrow--nobody but the gordon girls and a stray man. i must go and see the great lady off. that's the worst of royalty. good-bye," and she sailed away, leaving bill somewhat disconcerted by misgivings that he had been guilty of a breach of trust. the party was thinning visibly upstairs, while people transferred themselves with one accord to the hall and staircase, many appearing to consider this the pleasantest part of the entertainment. mrs. lushington had scarcely yet found time to speak three words to blanche douglas, but she caught her dear friend now, on the eve of departure, and held her fast. the general had gone to look for his lady-love's carriage. they were alone in mr. lushington's snuggery, converted (though not innocent of tobacco-smoke) into a cloak-room for the occasion. "so good of you to come, dear blanche, and to bring _him_," (with a meaning smile). "i waited to pounce on you _here_. i've got _such_ a piece of news for you!" miss douglas looked as if nothing above, upon, or under the earth could afford her the slightest interest, but she was obliged to profess a polite curiosity. "who _do_ you think is going to be married? immediately! next week, i believe. who but our friend daisy!" the shot told. though miss douglas received it with the self-command of a practised duellist, so keen an observer as her friend did not fail to mark a quiver of the eye-lids, a tightening of the lips, and a grey hue creeping gradually over the whole face. "our fickle friend daisy, of all people in the world!" continued mrs. lushington. "it only shows how we poor women can be deceived. i sometimes fancied he admired _me_, and i never doubted but he cared for _you_, whereas he has gone and fallen a victim to that wild irish girl of lady mary macormac's--the pretty one--that was such a friend of yours." "i always thought he admired her," answered miss douglas in a very feeble voice. "i ought to write and wish norah joy. are you quite sure it's true?" "quite!" was the reply. "my authority is his own best man." fortunately the general appeared at this juncture, with tidings of the carriage, while through a vista of footmen might be seen at the open door a brougham-horse on his hind legs, impatient of delay. "good-bye, dear blanche! you look so tired. i hope you haven't done too much." "good-bye, dear clara! i've had such a pleasant afternoon." putting her into the carriage, the general's kind heart melted within him. she looked so pale and worn. she clung so confidingly, so dejectedly to his arm. she pressed his hand so affectionately when he bade her good-bye, and seemed so loth to let it go that, but for the eyes of all england, which every man believes are fixed on himself alone, he would have sprung in too, and driven off with her then and there. but he consoled himself with the certainty of seeing her next day. that comfort accompanied him to his bachelor lodgings, where he dressed, and lasted all through a regimental dinner at the london tavern. while a distinguished leader proposed his health, alluding in flattering terms to the services he had rendered, and the dangers he had faced, general st. josephs was thinking far less of his short soldier-like reply than of the pale face and the dark eyes that would so surely greet him on the morrow; of the future about to open before him at last, that should make amends for a life of war and turmoil, with its gentle solace of love, and confidence, and repose. chapter xxvii a hard morsel like the feasts of apicius, that dinner at the london tavern was protracted to an unconscionable length. its dishes were rich, various, and indigestible, nothing being served _au naturel_ and without "garnish" but the brave simplicity of the guests. "wines too there were, that would have slain young ammon," and old comrades seldom part under such conditions without the consumption of much tobacco in the small hours. nevertheless, st. josephs rose next morning fresh and hopeful as a boy. he ordered his horse for an early canter in the park, and shared the row with divers young ladies of tender years but dauntless courage, who crammed their ponies along at a pace that caused manes, and tails, and golden hair to float horizontal on the breeze, defiant even of that mounted inspector, whose heart though professionally intolerant of "furious riding," softened to a pigmy with snub nose and rosy cheeks, on a tiny quadruped as round, as fat, and as saucy-looking as itself. st. josephs felt in charity with all mankind, and returned to breakfast so light of heart that he ought to have known, under the invariable law of compensation, some great misfortune was in store. he had little appetite; happiness, like sorrow, when excessive, never wants to eat; but he dressed himself again with the utmost care, and after exhausting every expedient to while away the dragging hours, started at half-past eleven for the abode of his ladye-love. do what he would, it was scarcely twelve when he arrived at her door, where his summons remained so long unanswered, that he had leisure to speculate on the possibility of miss douglas being indisposed and not yet awake. so he rang next time stealthily, and, as it were, under protest, but in vain. the general then applied himself to the area bell. "they'll come directly, now," he argued; "they'll think it's the beer!" and sure enough the street-door was quickly unfastened, with more turning of keys, clanking of chains, and withdrawal of bolts than is usual during the middle of the season, in the middle of the day. a very grimy old woman met him on the threshold, and peering suspiciously out of her keen, deep-set eyes, demanded his business in a hoarse voice, suggestive of gin. "miss douglas b'aint here," was the startling answer to his inquiries. "she be gone away for good. hoff this morning, i shouldn't wonder, afore you was out of bed." "gone!" he gasped. "this morning! did she leave no message?" "none that i knows of. the servants didn't say nothink about it; leastways, not to _me_." "but she's coming back?" "not likely! the maid _did_ suppose as they was a-going for good and all. it's no business of mine. i'm not miss douglas's servant. i'm a-taking care of the 'ouse for the landlord, i am. it's time i was a-tidying of it up now." with this broad hint, she proceeded to shut the door in his face, when the general, recovering his presence of mind, made use of the only argument his experience had taught him was universal and conclusive. her frown relaxed with the touch of money on her palm. "you're a gentleman, you are," she observed approvingly. "won't ye step in, sir? it's bad talking with the door in your 'and." he complied, and sat down on one of the bare hall-chairs, feeling as he had felt once before, when badly hit, in the punjaub. she went on with her dusting, talking all the time. "you see they sent round for me first thing in the morning; and i says to mrs. jones--that's my landlady, sir,"--(dropping a curtsey), "'mrs. jones,' says i, 'whatever can they be up to,' says i, 'making such an early flitting?' says i--" "but do you mean they've left no letter?" he interrupted, starting from his seat; "no directions--no address? are all the servants gone? has miss douglas taken much luggage with her? did she go away in a cab? oh, woman! woman! tell me all you know! it's a matter of life and death!" she looked at him askance, privately opining that, early as it was, the gentleman had been drinking, and sympathising with him none the less for that impression. "they're off," said she stubbornly; "and they've took everythink along with them--bags and boxes, and what not. there was a man round after the keys--not half an hour gone. i should say as they wasn't coming back, none of 'em, no more." this redundancy of negatives forcibly expressed her hopelessness of their return, and the general's good sense told him it was time wasted to cross-question his informant any further. summoning his energies, he reflected that the post-office would be the best place whereat to prosecute inquiries, so he bade the old woman farewell, with all the fortitude he could muster, leaving her much impressed by his manners, bearing, and profuse liberality. at the post-office, however (an italian warehouse round the corner), they knew nothing. the general, at his wits' end, bethought him of those livery-stables where satanella kept her namesake, the redoubtable black mare. here his plight excited the utmost interest and commiseration. "certainly. the general should have all the assistance in their power. of course, the lady had forgotten to leave her address, no doubt. ladies _was_ careless, sometimes, in such matters. a _beautiful_ 'orse-woman," the livery-stable keeper understood, "an' kep' two remarkably clever ones for her own riding. had an idea they went away this very morning. might be mistaken. john could tell. john was the head-ostler. it was john's business to know." so a bell rang, and john, in a long-sleeved waistcoat, sleeking a close-cropped head, appeared forthwith. "black mare and chestnut 'oss," said john decidedly. "gone this morning; groom took with him saddles, clothing, and everything. paid up to the end of their week. looked like travelling--had their knee-caps on. groom a close chap; wouldn't say where. wish he (john) could find out. left a setting-muzzle behind, and would like to send it after him." there seemed nothing to be done here, and the general was fain to retrace his steps, hurt, anxious, angry, and more puzzled when he reached home than he had ever been in his life. for an hour or two, the whole thing seemed so impossible, and the absurdity of the situation struck him as so ridiculous, that he sat idly in his chair to wait for tidings. in this nineteenth century, he told himself, people could not disappear from the surface of society, and leave no sign. rather, like the sea-bird diving in the waves, if they go down in one place, they must come up in another. there were no kidnappings now, no sendings off to the plantations, no forcible abductions of ladies young or old. then his heart turned sick, and his blood ran cold, while he recalled more than one instance in his own experience, where individuals had suddenly vanished from their homes and never been heard of again. stung to action by such thoughts, he collected his ideas to organise a comprehensive system of pursuit, that should embrace enquiries at all the railway-stations, cab-stands, and turnpikes in and about the metropolis, with the assistance of scotland yard in the background. then he remembered how an old brother-officer had told him, only the other day, of a similar search made by himself, and attended with success. so he resolved to consult that comrade without delay. it was now two o'clock. he would find him eating luncheon at his club. in five minutes, the general was in a hansom cab, and in less than ten, leaped out on the steps of that military resort. had he gone there an hour ago, it would have spared him a good deal of mental agitation, though perhaps any amount of anxiety would have been preferable to the dull, sickening resignation which succeeded a blow that could no longer be modified, parried, nor escaped. in after-times, the general looked back to those ten minutes in the hansom cab as the close of an era in his life. henceforth, every object in nature seemed to have lost something of its colouring, and the sun never shone so bright again. in the hall an obsequious porter handed him a letter. he staggered when he recognised the familiar handwriting on the envelope, and drew his breath hard for the effort before he tore it open. there were several pages, some of them crossed. he retired to the strangers'-room, and sat down to peruse the death-warrant of his happiness. "you will forgive me," it began, "because you are the kindest, the best, the most generous of men; but i should never forgive myself the blow i feel i am now inflicting, were it not that i regard your pride, your character, your high sense of honour, before your happiness. general, i am unfit to be your wife; not because my antecedents are somewhat obscure--_you_ know my history, and that i have no reason to be ashamed of it; not because i undervalue the happiness of so high and enviable a lot--any woman, as i have told you more than once, would be proud of your choice; but because you deserve, and could so well appreciate, the unalloyed affection, the utter devotion, that are not mine to give. _your_ wife should have no thought but for you, no hopes independent of you, no memories in which you do not form a part. she should be wrapped up in your existence, identified with you, body and soul. all this i am _not_. i never have been--i never can be now. had i entertained a lower opinion of your merits, admired and _cared for_ you less, i would have kept my promise faithfully, and we might have jogged on like many another couple, comfortably enough. but _you_ ought to win more than mere _comfort_ in married life. you merit, and would expect, _happiness_. how could i bear to see my hero disappointed? for you are my hero--my _beau-idéal_ of a gentleman--and my standard is a very high one, or you and i had never been so unhappy as i firmly believe we both are at this moment. it is in vain to regret, and murmur, and speculate on what might have been, if everything, including one's own identity, were different. there is but one line to take now, even at the eleventh hour. some day you will acknowledge that i was right. we must never meet again. i have taken such precautions as can baffle, i do believe, even your energy and resource. you have often said nobody was so determined when i had made up my mind. i am resolved that you shall never find out what has become of me; and i entreat you--i adjure you--if you love me--nay, as you love me--not to try! so now, farewell--a long farewell, that it pains me sore to say. i shall never forget you. in all my conflict of feelings, in all my self-reproach and bitter sorrow, when i think of your pain, i cannot bring myself to wish we had never met. i am proud of your notice and your regard--proud to remain under obligations to you--proud to have loved you so far as my false, wicked nature had the power. even now i can say, though you put me out of your heart, do not let me pass entirely from your memory. think sometimes, and not unkindly, of your wilful, wayward-- "blanche." so it was all over. "it's a good letter," murmured the general; "but i prefer the one julia wrote to juan." then he read it through again, and found, as is usually the case, that the second perusal reversed his impression of the first. did she _really_ mean he was to abstain from all attempt to follow her? he examined the envelope; it bore the stamp of the general post office; the contents certainly afforded him no clue, yet, judging by analogy, he argued that no woman would lay such stress on the precautions she had taken if she did not wish their efficacy to be proved. when he found, however, that nothing short of police-detectives and newspaper advertisements would avail him, he took a juster view of her intentions, and in the chivalry of his nature resolved that under this great affliction, as in every other condition of their acquaintance, he would yield implicitly to her wish. so he went back into the world, grave, kindly, and courteous as before. there were a few more grey hairs in his whiskers, and he avoided ladies' society altogether; otherwise, to the unobservant eye, he was little altered; but a dear old friend whom he had nursed through cholera at varna, and dragged from under a dead horse at lucknow, took him into a bay-window of the club-library, and thus addressed him-- "my good fellow, you're looking shamefully seedy. idleness never suited you. nothing like work to keep old horses sound. why don't you apply for employment? there's always something to do in the east." chapter xxviii "seeking rest and finding none" but great nations do not plunge recklessly into war, nor even do mountain tribes rise suddenly in rebellion because an elderly gentleman is suffering like some sentimental school-girl from a disappointment of the heart. general st. josephs extorted, indeed, from a great personage the promise that if anything turned up he would not be forgotten, and was fain to content himself, for the time, with a pledge in which he knew he could place implicit trust. so the weary, hot months dragged on, and he remained in london, solitary, silent, preoccupied, wandering about the scenes of his former happiness, like a ghost. he went yachting, indeed, with one friend, and agreed on a pedestrian excursion through switzerland with another; but the "sad sea waves" were too sad for him to endure, and the energy that should have taken him over a mountain, or up a glacier, seemed to fail with the purchase of a knapsack and the perusal of a foreign bradshaw, so the walking tour was abandoned, and the friend rather congratulated himself on escaping such a mournful companion. when autumn came round with its many temptations to scotland, where the muir-fowl were crowing about their heathery knolls, and the red-deer sunning their fat backs on the leeward side of the corrie, he did indeed avail himself of certain invitations to the hospitable north; and the general, who could level rifle or fowling-piece, breast a hill, or plunge through a moss with his juniors by twenty years, strove hard in fatigue of body to earn repose for the mind. but he did not stay long; the grand, grave beauty of those silent hills oppressed and tortured him. he pitied the wild old cock, flapping its life out on its own purple heather, fifty yards off, mowed down by his deadly barrel, even as it rose. when he had stalked the "muckle red hart" with antlered front of royalty, and three inches of fat on those portly sides, up the burn, and under the waterfall, and through the huge grey boulders of eternal rock, to sight the noble beast fairly from a leeward ambush, and bring it down, pierced through the heart with a long and "kittle" shot, his triumph was all merged in sorrow for the dead monarch lying so calm and stately in the quiet glen, not perhaps without a something of envy, for a creature thus insensible, and at rest for evermore. the foresters wondered to see him in no way triumphant, and when they heard next morning he was gone, shook their heads, opining that "it was a peety! she was a pratty shot, and a fery tight shentlemans on a hill." it was _work_ the general required, not amusement; so he journeyed sadly back, to await in london the command he hoped would ere long recall him to a profession he had always loved, that seemed now to offer the sympathy and solace of a home. sometimes, but this only in moments of which he was ashamed, he would speculate on the possibility of meeting miss douglas by accident in the great city, and it soothed him to fancy the explanations that would ensue. he never dreamed of their resuming their old footing; for the general's forbearance hitherto had sprung from the strength, not the weakness of his character, and the same stubborn gallantry that held his position was available to cover his defeat; but it would be a keen pleasure, he thought, though a sad one, to look in her face just once more. after that he might turn contentedly eastward, go back into harness, and never come to england again. in the meantime, the days that dragged so wearily with st. josephs, danced like waves in the sunshine through many of those other lives with which he had been associated in his late history. amongst all gregarious animals, it is the custom for a sick or wounded beast to withdraw from the herd, who in no way concern themselves about its fate, but continue their browsings, baskings, croppings, waterings, and friskings, with a well-bred resignation to another's plight worthy of the human race. if the general's friends and acquaintance asked each other what had become of him, and waited for an answer, they were satisfied with the conventional surmise-- "gone to scotland, i fancy. they tell me it's a wonderful year for grouse!" mrs. lushington, yachting at cowes, and remaining a good deal at anchor, because it was "blowing fresh outside," thought of him perhaps more than anybody else. not that she felt the least remorseful for the break-up she believed to have originated solely in her own manoeuvres. she was persuaded that her information conveyed through the anonymous letter had aroused suspicions which, becoming certainties on inquiry, detached him from satanella, and, completely mistaking his character, considered it impossible, but that their dissolution of partnership originated with the gentleman. how the lady fared interested her but little, and in conversation with other dearest friends, she usually summed up the fate of this one by explaining-- "it was _impossible_ to keep poor blanche straight. always excitable, and unlike other people, you know. latterly, i am afraid, _more_ than flighty, my dear, and _more_ than odd." besides, mrs. lushington, as usual, had a great deal of business on hand. for herself and her set cowes was nothing in the world but london gone down to the sea. shorter petticoats, and hats instead of bonnets, made the whole difference. there were the same attractions, the same interests, the same intrigues. even the same bores went to and fro, and bored, as they breathed, more freely in the soft, channel air. altogether, it was fresher and quieter, but, if possible, stupider than pall mall. nevertheless, mrs. lushington, being in her natural element, exercised her natural functions. she was hard at work, trying to mate bessie gordon, nothing loth, with a crafty widower, who seemed as shy of the bait as an old gudgeon under kew bridge. she had undertaken, in conspiracy with other frisky matrons, to spoil poor rosie barton's game with young wideacres, the catch of the season; and they liked each other so well that this job alone kept her in constant employment. she had picnics to organise, yachting parties to arrange, and frank to keep in good humour; the latter no easy task, for cowes bored him extremely, and, to use his own words, "he wished the whole place at the devil!" she felt also vexed and disappointed that the general had withdrawn himself so entirely from the sphere of her attractions, reflecting that she saw a great deal more of him before he was free. added to her other troubles was the unpardonable defection of soldier bill. that volatile light dragoon had never been near her since daisy's marriage--a ceremony in which he took the most lively interest, comporting himself as "best man" with an unparalleled audacity, and a joyous flow of spirits, that possessed, for a gathering composed of hibernians, the greatest attractions. people said, indeed, that bill had shown himself not entirely unaffected by the charms of a lovely bridesmaid, the eldest of lady mary's daughters; and it was impossible to over-estimate the danger of his position under such suggestive circumstances as must arise from a wedding in the house. then a grey hair or two had lately shown themselves in her abundant brown locks; while of the people she chose to flirt with, some neglected her society for a cruise, others afforded her more of the excitement produced by rivalry than she relished, none paid her the devoted attention she had learned to consider her due. altogether, mrs. lushington began to find life less _couleur de rose_ than she could wish, and to suspect the career she had adopted was not conducive to happiness, or even comfort. many people make the same discovery when it is too late to abandon the groove in which they have elected to run. daisy, in the meantime, true to his expressed intention of turning over a new leaf, found no reason to be dissatisfied with his lot. you might search ireland through, and it is saying a good deal, without finding a more joyous couple than captain and mrs. walters. the looked-for promotion arrived at last, and the bridegroom had the satisfaction of seeing himself gazetted to a troop on the very morning that provided him with a wife. old macormac was pleased, lady mary was pleased, everybody was pleased. the castle blazed with light and revelry, the tenants drank, danced, and shouted. the "boys" burnt the mountain with a score of bonfires, consuming whisky, and breaking each other's heads to their own unbounded satisfaction. in short, to use the words of peter corrigan, the oldest solvent tenant on the estate, "the masther's wedding was a fool to't! may i never see glory av' it wasn't betther divarsion than a wake!" but norah's gentle heart, even in her own new-found happiness, had a thought for the beautiful and stately englishwoman, whom, if she somewhat feared her as a rival, she yet loved dearly as a friend. "what's gone with her, daisy?" she asked her young husband, before they had been married a fortnight. "sure she would never take up with the nice old gentleman, a general he was, that marked the race-cards for us at punchestown. oh, daisy! how i cried that night, because you didn't win!" they were walking by the river-side, where they landed the big fish at an early period of their acquaintance, and norah brought the gaff to bear in more ways than she suspected; where they parted so hopelessly, when, because of his very desolation, the true and generous girl had consented to plight him her troth; and where they had hardly dared to hope they would meet again in such a glow of happiness as shone round them to-day. it was bright spring weather when they wished each other that sorrowful good-bye. now, the dead leaves were falling thick and fast in the grey autumn gloom. nevertheless, this was the real vernal season of joy and promise for both those loving hearts. "what a goose you were to back me!" observed daisy, with a pressure of the arm that clung so tight round his own. "it served you right, and i hope cured you of betting once for all!" "that's no answer to my question," persisted mrs. walters. "i'm asking you to tell me about my beautiful blanche douglas, and why wouldn't the old general marry her if she'd have him." "that's it, dear!" replied her husband. "she _wouldn't_ have him! she--she accepted him, i _know_, and then she threw him over." "what a shame!" exclaimed norah. "though, to be sure, he might have been her father." then a shadow passed over her fair young brow, and she added wistfully, "ah, daisy! i'm thinking i know who she wanted all the time." "meaning _me_?" said daisy, with a frank, saucy smile, that brought the mirth back to her face, and the sunshine to her heart. "meaning _you_, sir!" she repeated playfully. "but it's very conceited of you to think it, and very wrong to let it out. it's not so wonderful, after all," she added, looking proudly in his handsome young face. "i suppose i'm not the only girl that's liked you, dear, by a many. i oughtn't to expect it!" "the only one that's _landed_ the fish," laughed daisy, stopping in the most effectual manner a little sigh with which she was about to conclude her peroration. "you're mistaken about miss douglas, though," he added, "i give you my word. she hadn't your good taste, my dear, and didn't _see_ it! look, norah, there's the very place i left sullivan's fishing-rod. he'll never get it again, so it's lucky i bought his little brown horse. i wonder who found it? what a day that was! norah, do you remember?" "_remember!_" so the conversation turned on that most interesting of topics--themselves, and did not revert to satanella nor her doings. if norah was satisfied, daisy felt no wish to pursue the subject. however indiscreet concerning his successes, i think when a man has been refused by another lady, he says nothing about it to his wife. chapter xxix undivided the late autumn was merging into early winter, that pleasantest of all seasons for those sportsmen who exult in the stride of a good horse, and the stirring music of the hound. even in pall mall true lovers of the chase felt stealing over them the annual epidemic, which winter after winter rages with unabated virulence, incurable by any known remedy. a sufferer--it would be a misnomer to call him a _patient_--from this november malady was gaping at a print-shop window, near the bottom of st. james's street, wholly engrossed in the performances of a very bright bay horse, with a high-coloured rider, flying an impossible fence, surrounded by happy hunting-grounds, where perspective seemed unknown. "d'ye think he'll get over, bill?" said a familiar voice, that could only belong to daisy walters, who had stolen unperceived behind his friend. "not if the fool on his back can pull him into it," answered the other indignantly. and these comrades, linking arms, turned eastward, in the direction of their club. "how's the missis?" said bill, whose boast it was that he never forgot his manners. "fit as a fiddle," replied the happy husband. "had a long letter from molly this morning. sent her best love--no, scratched that out, and desired to be kindly remembered to _you_." molly, called after lady mary, was the eldest and, in bill's opinion, the handsomest daughter, so he changed the subject with rather a red face. "about to-morrow now," said bill. "i've got martingale to do my orderly. are you game for a day with the stag?" "will a duck swim!" was the answer. "norah is coming too. i shall mount her on boneen; he's own brother to the little horse that beat our mare at punchestown." "couldn't do better in that country," asserted his friend. "he'll carry her like a bird, if she'll wake him up a bit, and it's simply _impossible_ to get him down. by jove, daisy, there's st. josephs going into the club. how seedy he looks, and how old! hang me, if i won't offer him a mount to-morrow. i wonder if he'll come?" so this kind-hearted young sportsman, in whose opinion a day's hunting was the panacea for all ills, mental or bodily, followed his senior into the morning-room, and proffered his best horse, with the winning frankness of manner that his friends found it impossible to resist. "he's good enough to carry the commander-in-chief," said bill. "i've more than i can ride till i get my long leave. i should be _so_ proud if you'd have a day on him; and if he makes a mistake, i'll give him to you. there!" st. josephs was now on the eve of departure for the employment he had solicited. while his outfit was preparing, the time hung heavy on his hands, and he had done so many kindnesses by this young subaltern that he felt it would be only graceful and friendly to accept a favour in return, so he assented willingly, and bill's face glowed with pleasure. "don't be late," said he. "nine o'clock train from euston. mind you get into the drop-carriage, or they'll take you on to the shires. i'll join you at willesden. and if we don't have a real clinker, i'll make a vow never to go hunting again." then he departed on certain errands of his own connected with the pugilistic art, and the general reflected sadly how it was a quarter of a century since he used to feel as keen as that reckless light-hearted boy. he waited on high authorities at the war-office, dined with the field-marshal, and, through a restless night, dreamed of satanella, for the first time since her disappearance. a foggy november morning, and a lame horse in the cab that took him to euston station did not serve to raise his spirits. but for bill's anticipations of "a clinker," and the disappointment he knew it would cause that enthusiast, the general might have turned back to spend one more day in vain brooding and regret. arrived on the platform, however he got into a large saloon-carriage, according to directions, and found himself at once in the midst of so cheerful a party that he felt it impossible to resist the fun and merriment of the hour. st. josephs was too well known in general society not to find acquaintances even here, though he was hardly prepared to meet representatives of so many pursuits and professions, booted and spurred for the chase, and judging by the ceaseless banter they interchanged, "all determined to ride, each resolved to be first." soldiers, sailors, diplomatists, bankers, lawyers, artists, authors, men of pleasure, and men of business, holding daily papers they never looked at, were all talking across each other, and laughing incessantly, while enthroned at one end of the carriage sat the best sportsman and most popular member of the assemblage, whose opinions, like his horses, carried great weight, and were of as unflinching a nature as his riding, so that he was esteemed a sort of president in jack-boots. opposite him was placed pretty irish norah, now mrs. walters, intensely excited by her first appearance at what she called "an english hunt," while she imparted to daisy, in a mellower brogue than usual, very original ideas on things in general, and especially on the country through which they were now flying at the rate of forty miles an hour. "it's like a garden where it's in tillage, and a croquet-lawn where it's in pasture," said norah, after a gracious recognition of the general, and cordial greeting to bill, who was bundled in at willesden, panting, with his spurs in his hand. "ah! now, daisy, it's little of the whip poor boneen will be wanting for easy leaps like them." "wait till you get into the vale," said daisy; "and whatever you do let his head alone. follow me close, and if i'm down, ride over me. it's the custom of the country." the general smiled. "i haven't been there for twenty years," said he; "but i can remember in my time we were not very particular. i shall follow my old friend," he added, nodding to the president, whose nether garments were of the strongest and most workmanlike materials; "when a man has no regular hunting things, he wants a leader to turn the thorns, and from all i hear, if i can only stick to mine, i shall be in a very good place." everybody agreed to this, scanning the speaker with approving glances, the while, st. josephs, though wearing trousers and a common morning coat, had something in his appearance that denoted the practised horseman; and when he talked of "twenty years ago," his listeners gave him credit for those successes which in all times, are attributed to the men of the past. "mrs. walters must be a little careful at the doubles," hazarded a quiet good-looking man who had not yet spoken, but whose nature it was to be exceedingly courteous, where ladies were concerned. "a wise horse that knows its rider is everything in the vale." norah looked into the speaker's dark eyes with a quaint smile. "ah, then! if the horse wasn't wiser than the rider," said she, "it's not many leaps any of us would take without a fall!" and in the laughter provoked by this incontestable assertion, a slight jerk announced that their carriage was detached from the train, and they had arrived. though it requires a long time to settle a lady in the saddle for hunting, even when in the regular swing of twice or thrice a week, and though norah was about to enjoy her first gallop of the season in a new habit, on a new horse, she and daisy had ample leisure for a sober ride to the place of meeting, arriving cool and calm, pleased with the weather, the scenery, the company, and, above all, delighted with boneen. they were accompanied by the general on a first-class hunter belonging to bill, and soon overtaken by its owner, who, having lingered behind to jump a four-year-old over a tempting stile for educational purposes, had crushed a new hat, besides daubing his coat in the process. "down already?" said st. josephs. "what happened to him? what did he do?" "rapped very hard," answered bill; "found his friend at home, and went in without waiting to be announced;" but he patted the young pupil on its neck, and promised to teach it the trade before christmas, nevertheless. certainly, if practice makes perfect, no man should have possessed a stud of cleverer fencers than soldier bill. and now, as she reached the summit of a grassy ascent, there broke on norah's vision so extensive and beautiful a landscape as elicited an exclamation of amazement and delight. mile after mile, to the dim grey horizon, stretched a sweep of smooth wide pastures, intersected by massive hedges, not yet bare of their summer luxuriance, dotted by lofty standard trees, rich in the gaudy hues of autumn, lit up by flashes of a winding stream that gleamed here and there under the willows with which its banks were fringed. enclosures varying from fifty to a hundred acres, gave promise of as much galloping as the heart of man, or even woman, could desire. and scanning those fences the irish lady admitted to herself, though not to her companions, that from a distance they looked as formidable obstacles as any she had confronted in kildare. "it's beautiful," said norah. "it's made on purpose for a hunt. look, daisy, there's the hounds! oh, the darlings! and little boneen, he sees them, too!" gathered round their huntsman, a wiry, sporting-looking man on a thorough-bred bay horse, they were moving into sight from behind a hay-stack that stood in a corner of the neighbouring field. rich in colour, beautiful in shape, and with a family likeness pervading the lot as if they were all one litter, a fox-hunter would have grudged them for the game they were about to pursue--a noble red deer, in so far tame, that he was fed in the paddock, and brought to a condition that could tax the speed and endurance even of this famous pack. the animal had already arrived in a large van on wheels, drawn by a pair of horses, and surrounded by a levee of gaping rustics, whose eagerness and love for the sport reminded norah of her countrymen on the other side of the channel. "will they let him out here, daisy?" said she, in accents of trembling excitement. "i wish they'd begin. what are we waiting for?" "your patience will not be tried much longer," said the general, lighting a cigar. "here comes the master, at a pace as if the mare that landed him the thousand guineas, the oaks, and the st. leger, had been made a cover-hack for the occasion!" "with the derby-winner of the same year for second horse!" added her husband. "if you want a pilot, norah, you couldn't do better than stick to _him_, heavy as he is!" "i mean to follow _you_, sir," was the rejoinder. "if you don't mind, daisy, maybe i'll be before ye." even while she spoke a stir throughout the whole cavalcade, and a smothered shout from the foot-people, announced that the deer had been enlarged. with a wild leap in the air, as though rejoicing in its recovered liberty, the animal started off at speed, but in the least favourable direction it could have taken, heading towards the ascent on the side of which the horsemen and a few carriages were drawn up. then slackened its pace to a jerking, springing trot--paused--changed its mind--lowered its head--dashed wildly down the hill to disappear through a high bull-finch, and after a few seconds came again into view, travelling swift and straight across the vale. the general smoked quietly, but his eye brightened, and he seemed ten years younger for the sight. "it's all right now," said he; "the sooner they lay them on the better." soldier bill, drawing his girths, looked up with a beaming smile. "they say there's a lady, a mysterious unknown, in a thick veil, who beats everybody with these hounds," he observed. "i wonder why she's not out to-day." "i think she _is_," replied daisy, shooting a mischievous glance at his wife. "i fancied i caught the flutter of a habit just now behind the hay-stack. i suppose she's determined to get a good start and cut norah down!" ere the latter could reply, the hounds dashed across the line of the deer. throwing the tongues in full musical notes, they spread like a fan, with noses in the air; then, stooping to the scent, converged, in one melodious crash and chorus, ere they took to running with a grim, silent determination that denoted the extremity of pace. every man set his horse going at speed. nearly a dozen selected their places in the first fence--a formidable bull-finch. the rest, turning rather away from the hounds, thundered wildly down to an open gate. amongst those who meant riding straight, it is needless to say, were mrs. walters and her three cavaliers. these landed in the second field almost together. daisy, closely pursued by his wife, stealing through a weak place under a tree, the general sailing fairly over all, and bill, unable to resist the temptation of a gap, made up with four strong rails, getting to the right side with a scramble, that wanted very little of a nasty fall. the hounds were already a quarter of a mile ahead with nobody near them but a lady on a black hunter, who was well alongside, going, to all appearance, perfectly at her ease; while her groom, on a chestnut horse, left hopelessly behind, rode in the wake of the general, and wished he was at home. daisy, whose steeple-chasing experience had taught him never to lose his head, was the only one of our party who did not feel a little bewildered by the pace. taking in everything at a glance, he observed the black hunter in front sail easily over a fence that few horses would have looked at. there was no mistaking the style and form of the animal. "of course it is!" he muttered. "satanella, by all that's inexplicable! we shall not catch them at _this_ pace, however!" then, pulling his horse to let his wife come up, he shouted in her ear, "norah, that's miss douglas!" whether she heard him or not, the only answer mrs. walters vouchsafed was to lean back in her saddle and give boneen a refresher with the whip. unlike a fox, whose reasons are logical and well-considered, a deer will sometimes turn at right angles for no conceivable cause, pursuing the new line with as much speed and decision as the old. in the present instance the animal, after leaping a high thorn fence with two ditches, broke short off in a lateral direction, under the very shadow of the hedge it had just cleared, and, at the pace they were going, the hounds, as a natural consequence, over-ran the scent. miss douglas pulled up her horse, and did not interfere. there being, fortunately, no one to assist them, they flung themselves beautifully, swinging back to the line and taking it up again with scarcely the loss of a minute. the president, two fields off, struggling hard to get nearer, was perhaps the only man out who sufficiently appreciated their steadiness. like coleridge's ancient mariner, "he blessed them unawares." bill, i fear, did the _other_ thing, for the fence was so high he never saw them turn, and jumped well into their midst, happily without doing any damage. this slight delay, however, had the effect of bringing daisy, his wife, soldier bill, and the general into the same field with miss douglas. she heard the footfall of their horses, looked round, and set the black mare going faster than before. if, as indeed seemed probable, she was resolved not to be overtaken, the pack, streaming away at speed once more, served her purpose admirable. no horse alive could catch them; and satanella herself seemed doing her best to keep on tolerable terms at that terrific pace. the majority of the field had already been hopelessly distanced. the general found even the superior animal he rode fail somewhat in the deep-holding meadows. bill was in difficulties, although he had religiously adhered to the shortest way. even daisy began to wish for a pull, and only little boneen, quite thorough-bred and as good as he was sluggish, seemed to keep galloping on, strong and full of running as at the start. for more than a mile our friends proceeded with but a slight alteration in their relative positions--satanella, perhaps, gradually leaving her followers, and the hounds drawing away from all five. in this order two or three flying fences were negotiated, and a fair brook cleared. daisy, looking back in some anxiety, could not but admire the form in which norah roused and handled boneen. that good little horse, bred and trained in ireland, seemed to combine the activity of a cat with the sagacious instincts of a dog. like all of his blood, he only left off being lazy when his companions began to feel tired; and mrs. walters, coming up with her husband, as they rose the hill from the waterside, declared, though he did not hear her, "i could lead the hunt now, daisy, if you'd let me. little boneen's as pleased as punch! he'd like to pull hard, only he's such a good boy he doesn't know how!" [illustration: "taking fast hold of his horse's head, he got over with a scramble." _satanella._ _page _] bill's horse dropped its hind legs in the brook, and fell, but was soon up again with its rider. the general got over successfully; nevertheless, his weight was beginning to tell, and the ground being now on the ascent, he found himself the last of the five people with the hounds. at the crest of the hill frowned a black, forbidding-looking bull-finch: on this side a strong rail; on the other, if a horse ever got there, _the uncertainty_, which might or might _not_, culminate in a rattling fall. daisy glanced anxiously to right and left, on his wife's behalf, but there was no forgiveness. they must have it, or go home! then he watched how the famous black mare would acquit herself a hundred yards ahead of him, and felt little reassured to detect such a struggle in the air while she topped the fence, as by no means inferred a pleasant landing where she disappeared on its far side. he wavered, he hesitated, and pulled his horse off for a stride; but norah's impatient--"ah, daisy! go on now!" urged him to the attempt, and he _chanced_ it, with his heart in his mouth, for her sake, not his own. taking fast hold of his horse's head, he got over with a scramble, turning afterwards in the saddle to watch how it fared with his wife and little boneen. her subsequent account described the performance better than could any words of mine. "when i loosed him off at it," said she, "i just touched him on the shoulder with the whip, to let him know he wasn't in kildare. he understood well enough, the little darling! for he pricked his ears, and came back to a slow canter; but i'd like ye to have felt the bound he made when he rose to it! such a place beyond! 'twas as thick as a cabbage-garden--dog-roses, honeysuckles, i'm not sure there wasn't cauliflowers, and all twisted up together to conceal a deep, wide, black-looking hole, like a boreen.[ ] well, i just felt him give a sort of a little kick, while he left the entire perplexity ten feet behind him, and when he landed, as light as a fairy, daisy, i'm sure i heard him laugh!" mrs. walters, like most of her nation, abounded in enthusiasm. she could not forbear a little cry of delight at the panorama that opened before her, when she had effected the above-mentioned-feat. to the very horizon lay stretched a magnificent vale of pasture, brightened by the slanting rays of a november sun. far ahead, fleeting across the level below, sped a dark object, she recognised for the deer; a field nearer were the hounds, running their hardest, in a string that showed they too had caught sight of their game. half-way down the hill she was herself descending, the other lady was urging the black mare to head-long speed, very dangerous on such a steep incline. fifty yards behind satanella, came daisy, and close on his heels, norah, wild with delight, feeling a strong inclination to give boneen his head, and go by them all. the little horse, however, watched his stable-companion narrowly, while his rider's eyes were riveted on the hounds. suddenly she felt him shorten his stride and stop, with a jerk, that nearly shot her out of the saddle. glancing at daisy, for an explanation, she screamed aloud, and covered her face with her hands. when she looked again, she was aware of her husband's horse staring wildly about with the bridle over its head; of daisy himself on foot, and, a few yards off, the good black mare prostrate, motionless, rolled up in a confused and hideous mass with her hapless rider. down hill, at racing pace, satanella had put her fore-feet through a covered drain, with the inevitable result--the surface gave way, letting her in to the shoulders, and a few yards farther on, she lay across her mistress, with her neck broken, never to stir those strong, fleet limbs again. "oh! daisy, they're both killed!" whispered norah, with a drawn, white face, while her husband, busying himself to undo the girths, and thus extricate that limp helpless figure from beneath the weight that crushed it so sorely, shouted for assistance to soldier bill and the general, who at that moment entered the field together. "i trust in heaven, _not_!" he replied aloud; and, below his breath, even while his heart smote him for the thought, "it might have been worse. my darling, it might have been _you_!" footnotes: [footnote : "boreen," irish for a deep, stone-paved lane.] chapter xxx the bitter end it was indeed a sad sight for those joyous riders, exulting but a moment before, in all the triumph and excitement of their gallop. saddest and most pitiable for the general, thus to find and recognise the woman he had loved and lost. while they took her gently out from under the dead mare's carcase, she groaned feebly, and they said, "thank god!" for at least there seemed left a faint spark of life. assistance, too, was near at hand. as norah observed, "'twasn't like kildare, where ye wouldn't have seen a shealing or may be so much as a potato-garden for miles! but every farm here was kept like a domain, and they'd built a dwelling-house almost in every field!" within a short distance stood the comfortable mansion, surrounded by its well-stocked fold-yards, of a substantial yeoman; and bill, with two falls, was there in two minutes! a few of the second flight also, persevering resolutely on the line the hounds had gone, straggled up and did good service. what became of the field, and where the deer was taken, none of these had opportunity to ascertain. all their energies, all their sympathies, were engrossed by that helpless, motionless form, that beautiful rigid face, so wan and white, beneath its folds of glossy raven hair. carrying her softly and carefully on a gate to her place of shelter, it looked as if they formed a funeral procession, of which the general seemed chief-mourner. his bearing was stern and composed, his step never faltered, nor did his hand shake; but he who wrestled with the angel of old, and prevailed against him, could scarcely have out-done this loving, longing heart in earnestness of purpose and passionate pleading of prayer. "but once more!" was his petition. "only that she may know me, and look on me once more!" and it was granted. for two days blanche douglas never spoke nor stirred. mrs. walters constituted herself head-nurse, and never left her pillow. the general remained the whole time at the threshold of her chamber. the surgeon, a country practitioner of high repute, who saw her within an hour of her accident, committed himself to no opinion by word or sign, but shook his head despondingly the moment he found himself alone. the famous london doctor, telegraphed for at once, preserved an ominous silence. he, too, getting into the fly that took him back to the station, looked grave and shook his head. the hospitable yeoman, who placed his house and all he had freely at the sufferer's disposal, packing off the very children to their aunt's, at the next farm, felt, as he described it, "down-hearted--uncommon." his kindly wife went about softly and in tears. daisy and bill hurried to and fro, in every direction, as required, by night and day; while norah, watching in the darkened room, tried to hope against hope, and pray for that which she dared not even think it possible could be granted. the general looked the quietest and most composed of all. calm and still, he seemed less to watch than to wait. perhaps some subtler instinct than theirs taught him the disastrous certainty, revealed to him the inevitable truth. towards evening of the second day norah came into the passage and laid her hand on his shoulder, as he sat gazing vacantly from the window, over the fields and orchards about the farm. they loomed hazy and indistinct in the early winter twilight, but the scene on which he looked was clear enough--a bright sunny slope, a golden gleam in the sky above, and on earth a dark heap, with a trailing habit, and a slender riding-whip clenched in a small gloved hand. "she has just asked for you," whispered norah. "go to her--quick! god bless you, general! try and bear it like a man!" the room was very dark. he stole softly to her bedside, and felt his fingers clasped in the familiar clinging touch once more. "my darling!" he murmured, and the strong man's tears welled up, thick and hot, like a child's. her voice came, very weak and low. "the poor mare!" she said; "is she much hurt? it was no fault of hers." he must have answered, and told her the truth without knowing it; for she proceeded more feebly than before. "both of us! then it's no use. i was going to give her to you, dear, and ask you to take care of her for my sake. have you--have you forgiven?" "forgiven!" his failing accents were even less steady than her own. "i vexed you dreadfully," she continued. "i was not good enough for you. i see it all; and, if it could come again, i would never leave you--never! but i did it for the best. i took great pains to hide myself away down here; but i'm glad. yes, i'm very glad you found me out at last. how dark it is! don't let go my hand. kiss me, my own! i know now that i _did_ love you dearly--far better than i thought." the feeble grasp tightened, stronger, stronger, yet. the shadows fell, the night came down, and a pale moon threw its ghostly light into the chamber. but the face he loved was fixed and grey now, the hand he still clasped was stiff and cold in death. * * * * * the general carried to india a less sore heart, perhaps, than he had expected. there was no room left for the gnawing anxiety, the bitter sense of humiliation, the persistent struggle against self, that distressed and troubled him in his previous relations with her he had loved so dearly, and lost so cruelly even in the hour she became his own. he was grave and silent, no doubt, in feelings and appearance, many years beyond his real age; but every fresh grey hair, every additional symptom of decay, seemed only a milestone nearer home. without speculating much on its locality, he cherished an ardent hope that soon he might follow to the place where she had gone before. none should come between them there, he thought, and they need never part again. soldier bill and daisy saw the last of him when he left england; the former rather envied every one who was bound for a sphere in which there seemed a possibility of seeing real service, the latter comparing his senior's lonely life and blighted hopes with his own happy lot, felt a humbler, a wiser, and a better man for the contrast. mrs. walters, though losing none of her good nature and genial irish humour, became more staid in manner, altogether more matronly; and though she went out hunting on occasion, certainly rode less boldly than before the catastrophe. her sister mary, however, who came over to stay with her about this time, kept up the family credit for daring, and would have taken bill's heart by storm if she had not won it already with the fearlessness she displayed in following him over the most formidable obstacles. after a famous day on boneen, when she bustled that lazy little gentleman along in a manner that perfectly electrified him, bill could hold out no longer, but placed himself, his fortunes, catamount, and benjamin, at her disposal. all these she was good enough to accept but the badger; and that odorous animal was compelled to evacuate his quarters in the wardrobe for a more suitable residence out of barracks, at a livery-stable. so they were married in london, and inaugurated the first day of their honeymoon by a quick thing with the windsor drag-hounds. of mrs. lushington there is little more to be said. the sad fate of her former friend she accepted with the resignation usually displayed by those of her particular set in the face of such afflictions as do not immediately effect themselves and their pleasures. she vowed it was very sad, talked of wearing black--but didn't! and went out to dinner much as usual. even bessie gordon showed more feeling, for she _did_ cry when she heard the news, and appeared that night at a ball with swollen eyelids and a red place under her nose. many people asked what had become of miss douglas? the answer was usually something to this effect-- "don't you remember? painful business; shocking accident. killed out hunting. odd story; odd girl. yes, handsome, but peculiar style!" they buried the good black mare where she fell. long before the grass was green over her grave, rider and horse had been very generally forgotten. yet in their own circle both had created no small sensation in their time. but life is so far like the chase, that it admits of but little leisure for hesitation; none whatever for regret. how should we ever get to the finish if we must needs stop to pick up the fallen, or to mourn for the dead? in certain kind and faithful hearts, however, it is but justice to say the memory of that hapless pair remains fresh and vivid as on the day of their fatal downfall. there is a stern, grey-headed soldier in the east who sees blanche douglas nightly in his dreams; and daisy walters, in his highest state of exultation, when he has been well-carried, as often happens, through a run, heaves a sigh, and feels something aching at his heart, that recalls the black mare and her lovely wayward rider, while it reminds him in a ghostly whisper that "there never was one yet like satanella!" unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london. new complete library edition of g.j. whyte=melville's novels. complete in about volumes. _large crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. each._ the publishers have pleasure in announcing a monthly issue of novels by the late g.j. whyte-melville, who, uniting, as he did, the qualities of poet, novelist, sportsman, and leader of society, has long been acknowledged to stand above rivalry when dealing with sport and the romance of old. each volume will be illustrated by front-rank artists, well printed from type specially cast, on best antique paper, and handsomely bound. katerfelto. with four illustrations by lucy e. kemp-welch. cerise. with four illustrations by g.p. jacomb-hood. sarchedon. with four illustrations by s.e. waller. songs and verses, and the true cross. with five illustrations by s.e. waller. market harborough, and inside the bar. with four illustrations by john charlton. black but comely. with four illustrations by s.e. waller. roy's wife. with four illustrations by g.p. jacomb-hood. rosine, and sister louise. with four illustrations by g.p. jacomb-hood. kate coventry. with four illustrations by lucy e. kemp-welch. the gladiators. with four illustrations by j. ambrose walton. riding recollections. with four illustrations by john charlton. the brookes of bridlemere. with four illustrations by s.e. waller. satanella. with four illustrations by lucy e. kemp-welch. holmby house. with four illustrations by lucy e. kemp-welch. novels by guy boothby. special and original designs. each volume attractively illustrated by stanley l. wood and others. _crown vo, cloth gilt, trimmed edges, s._ mr. rudyard kipling says: "mr. guy boothby has come to great honours now. his name is large upon hoardings, his books sell like hot cakes, and he keeps a level head through it all. i've met him several times in england, and he added to my already large respect for him." love made manifest. pharos, the egyptian. across the world for a wife. the lust of hate. bushigrams. the fascination of the king. dr. nikola. the beautiful white devil. a bid for fortune; or, dr. nikola's vendetta. in strange company: a story of chili and the southern seas. the marriage of esther: a torres straits sketch. new library edition of henry kingsley's novels. edited by clement k. shorter. _well printed on good paper, from type specially cast._ _neatly and handsomely bound. illustrated by eminent artists._ _cloth gilt, s. d. per volume._ press opinions. "to mr. clement shorter and to the publishers the unreserved thanks of the public are warmly due. there can be no finer mission from the world of fiction to the world of fact than the putting forth of these ennobling novels afresh and in a fitting form."--_daily chronicle._ "to renew your acquaintance with henry kingsley is for henry kingsley to stand forth victorious all along the line. his work, in truth, is moving and entertaining now as it was moving and entertaining thirty odd years ago."--_pall mall gazette._ . the recollections of geoffry hamlyn. with a photogravure portrait of henry kingsley, and a memoir by clement k. shorter. illustrated by herbert railton. . ravenshoe. with frontispiece by r. caton woodville. . the hillyars and the burtons. with a note on old chelsea church by clement k. shorter. illustrated by herbert railton. . silcote of silcotes. with frontispiece by lancelot speed. . stretton. with frontispiece by george m. henton. . austin elliot, and the harveys. with frontispiece by walter paget. . mdlle. mathilde. with frontispiece by holland tringham. . old margaret, and other stories. with a frontispiece by robert sauber. . valentin, and number seventeen. with a frontispiece by r. caton woodville. . oakshott castle, and the grange garden. with a frontispiece by w.h. overend. . reginald hetherege, and leighton court. with a frontispiece by gordon browne. . the boy in grey, and other stories. with a frontispiece by a. forestier. novels by joseph hocking. _crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. each._ (each volume uniform.) though mr. joseph hocking's novels have been (by the _spectator_) compared to mr. baring-gould's and (by the _star_) to mr. thomas hardy's--next to whom it placed him as a writer of country life--and by other journals to mr. hall caine and mr. robert buchanan, they are, one and all, stamped with striking and original individuality. bold in conception, pure in tone, strenuously high and earnest in purpose, daring in thought, picturesque and life-like in description, worked out with singular power and in nervous and vigorous language, it is not to be wondered at that mr. hocking's novels are eagerly awaited by a large and ever increasing public. weapons of mystery. with frontispiece and vignette. fields of fair renown. with frontispiece and vignette by j. barnard davis. all men are liars. with frontispiece and vignette by gordon browne. ishmael pengelly: an outcast. with frontispiece and vignette by w.s. stacey. the story of andrew fairfax. with frontispiece and vignette by geo. hutchinson. jabez easterbrook. with frontispiece and vignette by stanley l. wood. zillah. with frontispiece by powell chase. the monk of mar-saba. with frontispiece and vignette by w.s. stacey. works by e. phillips oppenheim. _crown vo, cloth gilt uniform, s. d._ the man and his kingdom. illustrated by j. ambrose walton. "a thoroughly interesting and exciting story."--_pall mall gazette._ "this is a brilliant and virile story of adventure, and the reader's interest is maintained at a high pitch throughout a long series of exciting and romantic adventures."--_st. james's budget._ mysterious mr. sabin. illustrated by j. ambrose walton. "one of the brightest and best managed yarns we have read for many a day. we can recommend mr. sabin to all who like a thoroughly robust mystery tale."--_sheffield independent._ "a distinctly clever and interesting story of state-craft and intrigue.... full of dramatic incidents and surprises."--_st. james's gazette._ as a man lives. illustrated by stanley l. wood. "if you feel the need of a stimulant of this kind (an exciting story), i can recommend you a singularly stirring sensational novel."--_truth._ "a deeply interesting volume. the story is a strangely exciting one."--_manchester courier._ a monk of cruta. 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throughout the whole history of english literature there is no period which impresses one with its variety and helpfulness in any way comparable to the first half of the nineteenth century. no period certainly has produced so many books which it is essential for our own age to read. the idea of "the nineteenth century classics" is to place these permanent treasures of the century before the public in an attractive and serviceable form. each volume is beautifully printed on fine paper, well bound, with photogravure frontispiece. sartor resartus. by thomas carlyle. with an introduction by edward dowden, ll.d. alaric at rome, and other poems. by matthew arnold. with an introduction by richard garnett, c.b., ll.d. heroes and hero-worship. by thomas carlyle. with an introduction by edmund gosse. prometheus bound, and other poems. by elizabeth barrett browning. with an introduction by alice meynell. bells and pomegranates, and other poems. by robert browning. with an introduction by thos. j. wise. bells and pomegranates (_second series_). by robert browning. past and present. by thomas carlyle. with an introduction by frederic harrison. the opium eater. by thomas de quincey. with an introduction by richard le gallienne. cranford. by mrs. gaskell. with an introduction by w. robertson nicoll, ll.d. the autocrat of the breakfast table. by oliver wendell holmes. with an introduction by andrew lang. scenes of clerical life. by george eliot. with an introduction and biography by clement k. shorter. _you cannot beat the best._ the windsor magazine ... always contains the ... best work by the ... best authors ... and best artists. it has eclipsed every other sixpenny magazine, and has achieved the most brilliant success of the day. holds the record for giving the best serial story of the year. holds the record for giving splendid exclusive articles by recognised specialists. holds the record for being the most varied, the most entertaining, and the most instructive of magazines. the "times" calls it "wonderful." available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/garryowen staciala garryowen by h. de vere stacpoole author of "the blue lagoon," "the crimson azaleas," etc. [illustration: logo] new york duffield & company copyright, by duffield & company _this book is dedicated to my little dog "whisky," a thorough sportsman and a faithful friend_ garryowen chapter i the great old house of drumgool, ugly as a barn, with a triton dressed in moss and blowing a conch shell before the front door, stands literally in the roar of the sea. from the top front windows you can see the atlantic, blue in summer, grey in winter, tremendous in calm or storm; and the eternal roar of the league-long waves comes over the stunted fir trees sheltering the house front, a lullaby or menace just as your fancy wills. everything around drumgool is on a vast and splendid scale. to the east, beyond drumboyne, beyond the golden gorse, the mournful black bogs, and the flushes of purple heather, the sun, with one sweep of his brush paints thirty miles of hills. vast hills ever changing, and always beautiful, gone now in the driving mist and rain, now unwreathing themselves of cloud and disclosing sunlit crag and purple glen outlined against the far-off blue, and magical with the desolate beauty of distance. the golden eagle still haunts these hills, and lying upon the moors of a summer's day you may see the peregrine falcon hanging in the air above and watch him vanish to the cry of the grouse he has struck down, whose head he will tear off amidst the gorse. out here on the moors, under the sun on a day like this, you are in the pleasant company of laziness and loneliness and distance and summer. the scent of the gorse is mixed with the scent of the sea, and the silence of the far-off hills with the sound of the billows booming amidst the coves of the coast. except for the sea and the sigh of the wind amidst the heather bells there is not a sound nor token of man except a pale wreath of peat smoke away there six miles towards the hills where lies the village of drumboyne, and that building away to the west towards the sea, which is drumgool house. the railway stops at coyne, fifteen miles to the east, as though civilisation were afraid of venturing further. now if you stand up and shade your eyes and look over there to the north and beyond drumgool house, you will notice a change in the land. there is the beginning of the four-mile track--four miles of velvety turf such as you will get nowhere else in the whole wide world; the finest training ground in existence. the frenches of drumgool (no relation of any other frenches) have trained many a winner on the four-mile track. once upon a time those big stables there at the back of drumgool house were filled with horses. "once upon a time"--is not that the sorrowful motto of ireland? this morning, as beautiful a september morning as one could wish to see, a bath-chair drawn by a spirited-looking donkey stood at the front steps of drumgool house. by the donkey's head, moriarty, a long, foxy, evil-looking personage in leggings, stood with a blackthorn stick in his hand and a straw in his mouth. he was holding the donkey by the bridle, while miss french was being assisted into the bath-chair by mrs. driscoll, the cook and general factotum of the french household. miss french had on a huge black felt hat adorned with a dilapidated ostrich feather. her pale, inconsiderable face and large dark eyes had a decidedly elfish look seen under this structure. she had also on a cloak, fastened at the neck by a tara brooch, and mrs. driscoll was wrapping a grebe boa round her neck, though the day was warm enough in all conscience. miss french had a weakness of the spine which affected her legs. the doctors had given this condition a long latin name, but the country people knew what was wrong with the child much better than the doctors. she was a changeling. had miss french been born of poor folk a hundred years ago she would have undoubtedly met with a warm reception in this world, for she would have been put out on a hot shovel for the fairies to take back. she was a changeling, and she looked it as she sat in the bath-chair, "all eyes, like an owl," while mrs. driscoll put the boa round her throat. "now keep the boa round you, miss effie," said mrs. driscoll; "and don't be gettin' on the cliffs, moriarty, but keep in the shelter of the trees, and go aisy with her. be sure, whatever you do, to keep clear of them cliffs." moriarty hit the donkey a blow on the ribs with his blackthorn stick just as a drummer strikes a drum, with somewhat of the same result as to sound, and the vehicle started. mr. french had trained a good many winners, and moriarty was mr. french's factotum in stable matters; what moriarty did not know about horses would be scarcely worth mentioning. very few men know the true inwardness of a horse--what he can do under these circumstances and under those, his spirit, his reserve force, his genius. a horse is much more than an animal on four legs. legs are the least things that win a race, though essential enough, no doubt. it is the soul and spirit of the beast that brings the winner along the last laps of the rowley mile, that strews the field behind at tattenham corner, that, with one supreme effort, gains victory at the winning-post by a neck. it is this intuitive knowledge of the psychology of a horse that makes a great trainer or a great jockey. moriarty was possessed of this knowledge, but he was possessed of many other qualities as well. he could turn his hand to anything--rabbit catching, rearing pheasants, snaring birds, doctoring dogs, carpentry. "moriarty!" said miss french, when they were out of earshot of the house. "yes, miss," said moriarty. "drive me to the cliffs!" moriarty made no reply, but struck the donkey another drum-sounding blow on the ribs, and, pulling at its bridle, turned the vehicle in the direction indicated. "you'll be afther loosin' thim things," said moriarty, without turning his head, as he toiled beside the donkey up the steep cliff path. "i don't care if i do," said miss french. "besides, we can pick them up as we go back. come off!" she was apostrophising the boa. the big hat, the flap of which, falling on the ground, had drawn moriarty's attention, was now followed by the boa, and miss french, free of her lendings all but the cloak, sat up, a much more presentable and childlike figure, the wind blowing amid her curls, and her brown, seaweed-coloured eyes full of light and mischief. "now, moriarty," said miss french, when she had cleared herself sufficiently for action, "gimme the reins." moriarty unwisped the reins from the saddle of the harness and placed them in the small hands of his mistress, who, as an afterthought, had unlatched the tara brooch and slipped off the cloak. "arrah! what have yiz been afther?" said moriarty, looking back at the strewn garments as though he had only just discovered what the child had been doing. "glory be to god! if you haven't left the half of yourself behint you on the road. sure, what way is that to be behavin'? now, look here, and i'll tell you for onct and for good, if you let another stitch off you, back yiz'll go, donkey and all, and its mrs. driscoll will give you the dhressin'. musha! but you're more thrubble than all me money. let up wid thim reins and don't be jibbin' the donkey's mouth!" the last sentence was given in a shout as he ran to the donkey's head just in time to avert disaster. moriarty sometimes spoke to miss french as though she were a dog, sometimes as though she were a horse, sometimes as though she were his young mistress. never disrespectfully. it is only an irish servant that can talk to a superior like this and in so many ways. "i'm not jibbing his mouth," replied miss french. "think i can't drive! you can hold on to the reins if you like, though, and, see here, you can smoke if you want to." "it's not you i'd be axin' if i wanted to," replied moriarty, halting the donkey on a part of the path that was fairly level, so as to get a light for his pipe before they emerged into the sea breeze on the cliff top. miss french watched the operation critically, she did not in the least resent the tone of the last few words. moriarty was a character. in other words, he had a character. moriarty would not have given the wall to the lord lieutenant himself. moriarty was not a servant, but a retainer. he received wages, it is true, but he did not work for them; he just worked for the interests of the frenches. he had a huge capacity for doing the right thing, and a knack of doing everything well. the latter he proved just now by lighting his pipe with a single match, though the sea breeze, despite the shelter of the cliff top, was gusting and eddying around him. the pipe alight, he set the donkey going, and the next minute they were on the cliff top. chapter ii the sea lay below, far below, and stretching like a sapphire meadow to the rim of the world. you could hear the song of the breakers in the cave and on the sand and the cry of the seagulls from the cliff and rock, and the breeze amid the cliff grass, but these sounds only emphasised the silence of the great sunlit sapphire sea. the sea is a very silent thing. three thousand miles of pampas grass would emit more sound under the lash of the wind than the whole atlantic ocean, and a swallow in its flight makes more sound than the forty-foot wave, that can wreck a pier or break a ship, makes in its passage towards the shore. up here, far above the shore, the faint, sonorous tune of wave upon wave breaking upon the sands below served only to accentuate the essential silence of the sea. through this sound could be distinguished another, immense, faint, dream-like--the breathing of leagues of coast; a sound made up of the boom of billows in the sea caves, and the bursting of waves on rock and strand, but so indefinite, so vague, that, listening, one sometimes fancied it to be the wind in the bent grass, or a whisper from the stunted firs on the landward side of the cliff. away out on the sparkling blue, the brown sails of fisher boats bound for bellturbet filled to the light wind, and a mile out from shore, and stretching south-westward, the seven sisters rocks broke from the sea. that was all. but it was immensely beautiful. nowhere else perhaps can you get such loneliness as here, on the west coast of ireland--loneliness without utter desolation. the vast shore, left just as the gods hewed it in the making of the world, lies facing the immense sea. they tell each other things. you can hear the billow talking to the cave, and the cave to the billow, and the wind to the cliff, and the wave to the rock, and the gulls lamenting. and you know that it was all like this a thousand years and more ago, when machdum set his sails to the wind and headed his ship for the island. moriarty, leaving the donkey to nibble at the scant grass on the cliff top, took his seat on the ground and began to cut a split out of the blackthorn stick, while miss french, with the reins in her hands, looked about her and over the sea. she could see a white ring round the base of each of the seven sisters rocks; it was a ring of foam, for, placid though the sea looked from these heights, a dangerous swell was running. now and then, like a puff of smoke, a ring of seagulls would burst out from the rocks, contract, dissolve, and vanish. now and then a great cormorant would pass the cliff edge, sailing along without a movement of the wings, and sinking from sight with a cry. the sea breeze blew, bringing with it the crowning delight of the cliff-top--the smell of the sea; the smell of a thousand leagues of waves, the smell of seaweed from the shore, the smell that men knew and loved a thousand years ago, the smell which is freedom distilled into perfume and the remembrance of which makes us turn each year from the land and seek the sea. "moriarty," said the child, "where are those ships going to?" "which ships?" asked moriarty. "those ships with the brown sails to them." "limerick," replied moriarty, without raising an eye from the job he was on, or knowing in the least which way the ships were going, or whether limerick was by the sea or inland. moriarty had a theory that one answer was as good as another for a child as long as you satisfied it, and the easiest answer was the best, because it gave you the least trouble. moriarty was not an educationist; indeed, his own education was of the slightest. "why are they going to limerick?" demanded miss french. "why are they goin' to where?" asked moriarty, speaking like a man in a reverie and whittling away with his knife at the stick. "limerick." "sure, what else would they be goin' for but to buy cods' heads?" "why?" asked miss french, who felt this answer to be both bizarre and unsatisfactory. "i dunno. i've never axed them." this brought the subject to a cul-de-sac and brick wall. and if you will examine moriarty's answers you will find that he had constructed an impregnable position, a glacis across which no child would get a "why?" miss french ruminated on this for a moment, while moriarty, having finished his operations on the stick, tapped the dottle out of his pipe, refilled it, and lit it. then, leaning on his elbow, he lay watching the ships going to limerick, and thinking about stable matters and garryowen, the latest addition to mr. french's stable, in particular. moriarty had spotted garryowen. it was by his advice that mr. french had bought the colt, and it was in his hands that the colt was turning into one of the fleetest that ever put hoof to turf. miss french watched her companion, and they sat like this for a long, long time, while the wind blew, and the sea boomed, and the gulls passed overhead, honey-coloured where the sunlight pierced the snow of their wings. "moriarty," said the child at last, "how would you like to have a governess?" this question brought moriarty back from his reverie, and he rose to his feet. "come along," said he, taking the donkey's reins, "it's moidhered you'll be gettin' with the sun on your head and you without a hat." "i'm going to have a governess," said the child; "she's coming this day week, and she's forty years old. what'll she be like, do you think, moriarty?" "faith!" said the evader of questions, "it's i that am thinkin' she won't be like a rosebud." miss french drew a letter from the pocket of her skirt as moriarty led the donkey towards the path. it was a letter written purposely in a large, round hand that a child could easily read; each character was neatly printed, and though the contents were simple enough, the thing spoke volumes about the good heart of the sender. mr. french was in dublin, but every day during his absence he wrote his little daughter a letter like this--a pleasant trait in a man living in a world the keynote of which is forgetfulness of the absent. the child read out the letter as moriarty guided the donkey down the steep hill path. it was a funny letter. it began as though mr. french were writing to a child; it went on as though he were writing to an adult, and it finished as though the age of his correspondent had just occurred to him. it told of what he was doing in town--of a visit to mr. legge, the family solicitor, and of bother about money matters. "however," said mr. french in one passage, "garryowen will put that all right." as miss french read this aloud moriarty emphasised his opinion on the matter by striking a drum note on the donkey's ribs with the butt of his stick. "i've got a governess for you at last," said mr. french. "she's forty, and wears spectacles. i haven't seen her, but i gather so from her letter. she's coming from england this day week. i'll be back to-morrow by the . train." "that's to-day," said miss french. "i know," replied moriarty. "mrs. driscoll had a postcard. i'm to meet the train wid the car. now, miss effie, here's your cloak, and on you put it." "bother," said miss french as moriarty picked up the discarded cloak from the ground. she put it on, and they resumed their way, till they reached the boa. this, too, was grumblingly put on, and they resumed their way till they came on the great hat lying on the ground. moriarty placed the elastic of this under the child's chin and gave the crown a slight twitch to put it straight. with the putting on of the hat miss french's light-hearted look and gaiety, which had dwindled on the assumption of the cloak and boa, completely vanished, like a candle-flame under an extinguisher. mrs. driscoll met them at the door. "that's right, moriarty," said she. "you haven't let the hat off her, have you?" "she tuck it off," said moriarty, "and i put it on her head again wid me own hands. what's that you say? have i kep' her out of the wind? which wind d'y mane, or what are you talkin' about? here you are, take her into the house, for i have me stables to look afther, and it's close on wan." mrs. driscoll disappeared into the house, bearing in her arms the last of the frenches. poor child! if anyone ever stood a chance of being killed by kindness, it was she. muffled to death! many an invalid has gone through that martyrdom and sure process of extinction. chapter iii drumgool was a bachelor's, or, rather, a widower's, household. the dining-room, where dead-and-gone frenches looked at one another from dusty canvases, was rarely used; the drawing-room never. guns and fishing-rods found their way into the sitting-room, which had once been the library, and still held books enough to lend a perfume of mildew and leather to the place--a perfume that mixed not unpleasantly with the smell of cigar-smoke and the scent of the sea. the house hummed with the sound of the sea. fling a window open, and the roar of it came in, and the smell of it better than the smell of roses. room after room of drumgool, had you knocked at the doors of them, would have answered you only with echoes. "here there was laughter of old; there was weeping----" laughter there was none now, nor weeping--just silence, dust; old furniture, so used by the sea air that a broker's man would scarcely have taken the trouble to take possession of it. in the sitting-room, on the morning of the day on which the governess was expected to arrive, mr. french was talking to his cousin, mr. giveen, who, with his hat by his side, was seated on the sofa glancing over a newspaper. the breakfast things were still on the table, the window was open to let in the glorious autumn day, and a blue haze of cigar-smoke hung in the air, created by the cigar of mr. french. mr. giveen did not smoke; his head would not stand it. neither did he drink, and for the same reason. he looked quite a young man when he had his hat on, but he was not; his head was absolutely bald. he was dressed in well-worn grey tweed, and his collar was of the gladstone type. cruikshank's picture of mr. dick in "david copperfield" might have been inspired by mr. giveen. this gentleman, who carried about with him a faint atmosphere of madness, was not in the least mad in a great many ways; in some other ways he was--well, peculiar. he inhabited a bungalow half way between drumgool house and drumboyne, and he had a small income, the exact extent of which he kept hidden. he had no profession, occupation, or trade, no family--french was his nearest relation, and continually wishing himself further away--no troubles, no cares. he neither read, smoked, drank, played billiards, cards, nor games of any description; all these methods of amusement were too much for mr. giveen's head. he had, however, two pastimes that kept his own and his neighbours hands full. collecting news and distributing it was one of these pastimes; making love was the other. small as was drumboyne, and few as were the gentry distributed around, mr. giveen's gossiping propensities had already created much mischief, and there was not a girl or unmarried woman within a range of fifteen miles that mr. giveen had not either made eyes at or love to. the strange thing is that he could have been married several times. there were girls in drumboyne who would have swallowed mr. giveen for the sake of the bungalow and the small income, which popular report made big, but he was not a marrying man. on the other hand he was a most moral man. he made love just for the sake of making love. it is an irish habit. the question of bringing a governess to drumgool house had been held in abeyance for some time on account of mr. giveen. mr. french knew quite well that anything with petticoats on it and in the way of a lady would cause his cousin to infest the house. however, effie's education had to be considered. "sure," said mr. french to himself, "it'll be all right if i get one old enough." it was only this morning that he broke the news. "dick," said mr. french. "there's a governess coming for effie." "a what did you say?" asked mr. giveen, looking up from the newspaper, the advertisement page of which he had been reading upside down. one of his not altogether sane habits was to sit and stare at a paper and pretend to be reading it, so that his thoughts might wander unperceived. "a what did you say?" "a governess is coming for effie." "oh," said mr. giveen, and relapsed into the study of the newspaper. now, this appearance of indifference was a very ominous sign. the news that a new servant was coming would have caused this inveterate tattler to break into a volley of questions, questions of the most minute and intimate description as to the name, age, colour, looks, height, and native place of the newcomer; yet this important information left him dumb, but it was a speechlessness that only affected the tongue. if you had watched him closely you would have noticed that his eyes were travelling rapidly up and down the columns of the paper, that his hand was tremulous. mr. french, who was not an observer, went on to talk of other matters, when suddenly mr. giveen dropped his paper. "what's she like?" said he. "what's who like?" replied mr. french, who at the moment was discussing turnips. "the governess." "i haven't seen her yet," said mr. french, "but her name is grimshaw, and she's over forty." at this news mr. giveen clapped his hat on his head and made for the open french window. "i'll see you to-morrow," he cried back as he disappeared amidst the rose trees. mr. french chuckled. then through the same window he passed into the garden, and thence to the stable-yard, where he found moriarty, who was standing at the harness-room door engaged in cleaning a bit. "moriarty," said mr. french, "you'll take the car to the station to meet the half-past five train." "yes, sir," said moriarty. "any luggage?" "oh! i shouldn't think much," replied mr. french. "you're to meet the lady that's coming as governess for miss effie. you're sure to recognise her--she's elderly. if she has more than one trunk you can tell doyle to bring it on in the morning." as he went back to the house he took the letter he had received a week before from miss grimshaw from his pocket and reread it. "the question of salary," said miss grimshaw, "does not weigh particularly with me, as i am possessed of a small income of my own, to which i can, if i choose, add considerably with my pen. i am very much interested in the study of ireland and the irish, and would like to become more intimate at first-hand with your charming country, so i think we will waive the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. any instruction i can give your little daughter will be amply repaid by your hospitality." a nice letter written in a nice firm, sensible woman's hand. miss grimshaw had referred mr. french to several highly respectable people, but mr. french, with that splendid indifference to detail which was part of his nature, had not troubled to take miss grimshaw's character up. "oh, bother her character," said he. "no woman has any character worth troubling about over forty." chapter iv "porter, porter! does this train stop at tullagh?" "you're in the wrong thrain, mum; this thrain stops nowhere; this is the ixpress all the way to cloyne. out you get, for we want to be goin' on. right, larry!" miss grimshaw, dusty and tired, seated in the corner of a first-class carriage, heard the foregoing dialogue, and smiled. it came to her with a puff of gorse-scented air through the open window of the railway carriage. "now," said miss grimshaw to herself, "i really believe i am in ireland." up to this, at kingstown, in her passage through dublin, and during the long, dusty, dull journey that followed, she had come across nothing especially national. it is not in the grooves of travel that you come across the spirit of ireland. davy stevens, selling his newspapers on the carlisle pier at kingstown, had struck her fancy, but nothing followed him up. the jarvey who drove her from station to station in dublin was surly and so speechless that he might have been english. the streets were like english streets, the people like english people, the rain like english rain, only worse. but it was not raining here. here in the west, the train seemed drawing out of civilisation, into a new world--vast hills and purple moors, great spaces of golden afternoon, unspoiled by city or town, far mountain tops breaking to view and veiled in the loveliness of distance. "and people go to switzerland with this at their elbow," said miss grimshaw, leaning her chin upon her palm and gazing upon the view. she was alone in the carriage, and so could place her feet on the opposite cushions. very pretty little feet they were, too. v. grimshaw was dressed with plainness and distinction in a norfolk jacket and skirt of harris tweed, a brown homburg hat, and youth. she did not look more than eighteen, though she was, in fact, twenty-two. her face, lit by the warm afternoon light, was both practical and pretty; her hair was dark and seemed abundant. beside her on the cushions of the carriage lay several newspapers--the _athenæum_ among others--and a book, "tartarin of tarascon," in the original french. this was the personage who had replied to mr. french's advertisement. there was no deception. she had stated her age plainly as twenty-two in her first letter to him; the mistake was on his part. in reading the hundred-and-fifty or so replies to his advertisement he had got mixed somehow, and had got some other lady's age in his head attached to the name of grimshaw. as for the spectacles, he had drawn in his imagination the portrait of a governess of forty-four named grimshaw, and the portrait wore spectacles. miss grimshaw didn't. those clear, grey eyes would not require the aid of glasses for many a year to come. american by birth, born in the state of massachusetts, twenty-two years ago, miss grimshaw's people had "gone bust" in the railway collapse that followed the shooting of garfield. miss grimshaw's father, a speculator by nature and profession, had been one of the chief "bulls" in wall street. he had piled together a colossal fortune during the steady inflation of railway stock that preceded the death of garfield. the pistol of guiteau was the signal for the bottom to fall out of everything, and on that terrible saturday afternoon when wabash stock fell sixteen points without recovery, curtis grimshaw shot himself in his office, and v. grimshaw, a tiny tot, was left in the world without father or mother, sister or brother, or any relations save an uncle in the dry-goods trade. he had taken care of her and educated her at the best school he could find. four years ago he had died, and v. grimshaw at eighteen found herself again on the world, this time most forlorn. the happy condition remained, however, that simon gretry, the dry-goods uncle, had settled a thousand (dollars) a year on his niece, this small income being derived from real estate in new york city. miss grimshaw emigrated to europe, not to find a husband, but to study art in paris. six months' study told her, however, that art was not her walk in life, and being eminently practical, she cast aside her palette and took up with writing and literary work generally, working for hardmuth's press syndicate and tiring of the work in a year. just after she had dropped hardmuth's, miss grimshaw came upon mr. french's advertisement in a lady's paper. its ingenuousness entirely fascinated her. "he's not literary, anyhow," she said. "it's the clearest bit of writing i've come across for many a day. might try it. i've long been wanting to go to ireland, and if i don't like it--why, i'm not tied to them." mr. french's reply to her application decided her, and so she came. the train was now passing through a glen where the bracken leaped six feet high--a glen dim and dream-like, a vast glen, echo-haunted, and peopled with waterfalls, pines, and ferns that grow nowhere else as they grow here. it is the glen of a thousand echoes. call here, and echo replies, and replies, and replies; and you hear your commonplace voice--the voice that you ordered a beefsteak with yesterday--chasing itself past fern and pine and fading away in fairyland. a tunnel took the train, and then out of the roaring darkness it swept into sunlight again, and great plains of bracken and heather. miss grimshaw undid the strap of her rug and packed her newspapers and book inside. the train was slowing. by the time she had got all her things together it was drawing up at a long platform, whose notice-board read:-- cloyne the girl opened the door of the carriage and stepped on to the platform and into a world of sunlight, silence, and breeze. the air was like wine. there were few people on the platform; a woman in a red cloak, a priest who had stepped out of the train, a couple of farmers, and several porters busily engaged in taking some baskets of live fowl (to judge by the sound) out of the guard's van, and a seedy-looking individual in a tall hat and frock-coat, who looked strangely out of keeping with his surroundings. "is there not a porter to take luggage out of the train?" asked miss grimshaw of a long, squint-eyed, foxy-looking man, half-groom, half-gamekeeper, who was walking along the train length peeping into each carriage as if in search of something. "porthers, miss," replied the foxy person. "thim things that's gettin' the chickens out of the van calls themselves porthers, i b'lave." without another word he stepped into the carriage and whipped the travelling-bag, the bundle of rugs, and other small articles on to the platform. "you didn't happen to see an ouldish lady in the thrain anywhere between here and dublin, miss?" said moriarty--for moriarty it was--as he deposited the last of the bundles. "no," said miss grimshaw, "i didn't." "begorra, then," said moriarty, "she's either missed the train or tumbled out of it. billy!"--to a porter who was coming leisurely up--"when you've done thinkin' over that prize you tuk in the beauty show, maybe you'll attind to the company's business and lift the young lady's luggage." "i expected a trap to meet me from mr. french, of drumgool," said miss grimshaw as billy took the luggage. "mr. frinch, did you say, miss?" said moriarty. "yes. mr. french, of drumgool house; he expected me by this train." moriarty broke into a grin that broadened and spread over his ugly face like the ripple on a pond. "faith, thin," said he, "it's mr. frinch will have a most agrayable surprise. 'moriarty,' says he to me, 'take the car and meet the lady that's comin' by the ha'f-pas' five thrain. you can't mistake her,' he says, 'for she's an ouldish lady in spicticles.'" miss grimshaw laughed. "well," she said, "it was mr. french's mistake. let us find the car. i suppose you are going to drive me?" "it's fifteen miles to drumgool, miss," said moriarty. "mr. frinch tould me to say you were to be sure and have some tay at the hotel here afther your journey; it's only across the road." "thanks," said miss grimshaw. she followed moriarty and the porter to the station gate. an outside car, varnished, silver-plated as to fittings, and very up to date stood near the wicket. a big roan mare with a temper was in the shafts, and a barefooted gossoon was holding on to the bridle. the station inn across the road flung its creaking sign to the wind from the moors, seeming to beckon, and miss grimshaw came. the front door was open, and a dirty child was playing in the passage. miss grimshaw passed the child, knocked at a door on the left of the passage, and, receiving no answer, opened it, to find a bar-room, smelling vilely of bad tobacco and spirits. she closed the door and opened one on the right of the passage, to find a stuffy sitting room with a stuffed dog under a glass case for its presiding genius. two clocks stood on the mantelpiece, one pointing to three, the other to twelve, neither of them going; a sofa covered with american cloth, chairs to match, a picture of the day of judgment, some dusty seashells, and a drugget carpet completed the furniture of the place. miss grimshaw was looking around her for a bell when the following dialogue between moriarty and some female unknown struck her ears. "mrs. sheelan," came moriarty's voice, evidently from the backyard. "what do you want?" came the reply, evidently from an upper room. "what are you doin'?" "i'm clanin' meself." "well, hurry up clanin' yourself and put the kittle on the fire, for there's a young lady wants some tay." "oh, glory be to god! moriarty!" "well?" "shout for biddy; she's beyant there in the cowhouse. tell her the kittle's on, and to stir the fire and make the tay. i'll be wid you in wan minit." miss grimshaw took her seat and waited, listening to the stumping noise upstairs that told of speed, and wondering what mrs. sheelan would be like when she was cleaned. almost immediately biddy, fresh from the cowhouse, a girl with apple-red cheeks, entered the room, whisked the stuffed dog on to a side table, dumped down a dirty table-cloth which she had brought in rolled up under her arm, dragged out the drawer of a cupboard, and from the drawer knives, forks, spoons, a salt-cellar, and a pepper caster of pewter. "you needn't lay all those things for me," said the traveller. "i only want tea." "oh, it's no thrubble, miss," replied biddy with an expansive smile. she finished laying the cloth, and then hung at the door. "well?" asked miss grimshaw. "i thought, miss," said biddy in a difficult voice, "you might be wantin' to--change your hat afther the journey." as miss grimshaw was sitting at her tea some ten minutes later a knock came to the door. it was moriarty who entered on the knock and stood hat in hand. "i'm sendin' your thrunk by doyle, the carrier, miss," said moriarty, "and i'm takin' your small thraps on the car." "thank you." "if you plaze, miss," said moriarty, "did you see a man step out of the thrain wid a long black coat on him and a face like an undertaker's?" "i did," said miss grimshaw, "if you mean a man in a tall hat." "that's him," said moriarty. "bad luck to him! i knew what he was afther when i set me eyes on him, and when i was puttin' your bag on the car he ups and axes me if i knew of a mr. frinch living here away. 'which mr. frinch?' says i. 'mr. michael frinch,' says he. 'do i know where he lives?' says i. 'sure, what do you take me for--me, that's mr. frinch's own man?' 'how far is it away?' says he. 'how far is what?' says i. 'mr. frinch's house,' says he. 'a matter of fifteen miles,' says i. 'bad luck to it!' says he, 'i'll have to walk it.' 'up you get on the car,' says i, 'and sure i'll drive you,' and up he gets, and there he's sitting now, waitin' to be druv. bad cess to him!" "but who is he?" asked the girl, not quite comprehending the gist of this flood of information. moriarty lowered his voice half a tone. "he's a bailiff, miss, come down to arrist the horses." "arrest the horses!" "it's this way, miss. mr. frinch had some dalin's wid a jew money-lender in dublin be the name of harrison, and only this mornin' he said to me, 'moriarty,' he says, 'keep your eye out at the station, for it's i that am afraid this black baste of a harrison would play us some trick, for them money-lenders has ears that would reach from here to clontarf,' says he, 'and it's quite on the cards he's heard from his agent i've sold nip and tuck, and if he has,' he says, 'it's sure as a gun he'll have a bailiff in before i can get them off the primises.'" "are nip and tuck horses?" asked miss grimshaw, who was beginning to find a subtle interest in moriarty's conversation. "yes, miss, as clane a pair of hunters as you'd find in galway." "yes, go on." "well, miss, the horses were due to be taken off be the nine train to-night. major sherbourne has bought thim and paid for thim, and now if this chap nails thim, mr. frinch will have to refund the money, and, sure, wouldn't that be a black shame?" "and this man has come down to arrest the horses?" said miss grimshaw. "yes, miss, and that's why i've come to ax you to let him drive with us. for i'm going to play him a trick, miss, with your leave and licence, and that's why i've got him on the car." miss grimshaw laughed. "i'm no friend of money-lenders," said she. "sure, i could tell that be your face, miss." "but i do not wish to see the man injured or hurt." "hurt, miss!" cried moriarty in a virtuous voice. "sure, where would be the good of hurtin' him, unless he was kilt outright? you lave it to me, miss, and i'll trate him as tender as an infant. i've tould him i'll drive him to mr. frinch's house, and i will; but he won't get nip nor tuck." "very well," said miss grimshaw. "as long as you don't hurt him i don't care." moriarty withdrew, and mrs. sheelan appeared. the cleaning process was evident in the polish of her face. she would take nothing for the tea; it was to go down to mr. french's account, by his own express orders. having bestowed a shilling upon biddy, the traveller left the inn. the seedy personage in the tall hat was comfortably seated on the outside car reading a day-before-yesterday's _freeman's journal_, and a new gossoon was holding the mare's head vice the old gossoon, who had been sent on horseback hot foot to drumgool to give warning to mr. french. miss grimshaw got on the side of the car opposite to the bailiff, moriarty seized the reins, the gossoon sprang away, and the mare rose on end. "fresh?" said the man in the tall hat. "faith, she'll be stale enough when i've finished with her," said moriarty. "now then, now then, what are yiz afther? did you never see a barra of luggage before? is it a mothor-car you're takin' yourself to be, or what ails you, at all, at all? jay up, y' divil!" the dancing mistress--such was her ominous name--having performed the cake walk to her own satisfaction, turned her attention to a mixture of the "washington post" and the two-step. "hit her with the whip," said miss grimshaw. "hit her with the whip!" replied moriarty. "sure, it's kicked to matches we'd be if she heard me draa it from the socket. now then, now then, now then!" "that's better," said miss grimshaw. "yes, miss," replied moriarty. "once she's started nothin' will stay her, but it's the startin' is the divil." it was getting towards sunset now, and in the east the ghost of a great moon was rising pale as a cloud in the amethyst sky. the moors swept away for ever on either side of the road, moor and black bog desolate and silent but for the wind and the cry of the plover. vast mountains and kingly crags thronged the east, purple in the level light of evening and peaceful with the peace of a million years; away to the west, beyond the smoke wreaths from the chimneys of cloyne, the invisible sea was thundering against rock and cliff, and the gulls and terns, the guillemots and cormorants, were wheeling and crying, answering with their voices the deep boom of the sea caves. miss grimshaw tried to imagine what life would be like here, fifteen miles from a railway station. despite the beauty of the scenery there was over all, or rather in it all, a touch of darkness, desolation, and poverty, a sombre note rising from the black bog patches, the wretched cabins by the way, the stone walls, the barren hills. but the freshness of the air, the newness of it all, made up to the girl for the desolation. it was different from fleet-street, and anything that is different from fleet-street must have a certain beauty of its own. she tried to imagine what trick moriarty was going to play on the gentleman whose tall hat was so extremely out of keeping with the surroundings. that person, who had left the refreshments of the inn untried, had not come unprovided; he produced a flask from his pocket at times, fouling the air with the smell of bad brandy, but not a word did he speak as mile after mile slipped by and the sun sank and vanished and the moon glowed out, making wonderland of the world around them. "we're more than ten miles on our road now, miss," said moriarty, speaking across the car to miss grimshaw. "do you see that crucked tree beyant on the right be the bog patch?" "yes." "it was half-way betune that and thim bushes they shot ould mr. moriarty two years ago come next june." "shot him?" "faith, they filled him so full of bullets that the family had to put a sintry over the grave for fear the bhoys would dig him up to shtrip him of his lead." "but who shot him?" "that's what the jury said, miss, when they brought it in 'not guilty' against billy the rafter, long sheelan, and mick mulcahy, and they taken with the guns smokin' in their hands--the blackgyards." "good heavens! but why did they shoot him?" "well, he'd got himself disliked, miss. for more than five years the bhoys had been warning him; sure they sent him enough pictures of coffins and skulls to paper a wall with, and he, he'd light his pipe with them. little he cared for skulls or crossbones. 'to blazes with them!' he'd say. 'all right,' says the bhoys, 'we'll give you one warnin' more.' 'warn away,' says he, and they warned. two nights after they laid him out. do you see away beyant those trees, miss, thim towers--there, you see them poppin' up?" "yes." "that's mr. frinch's house." "why, it's a castle." "yes, miss, i b'lave they called it that in the old days." at a gateway, where the gate was flung wide open, moriarty drew up. "now," said he to the person in the tall hat, "that's your way to the back primises; down with you and in with you, and sarve your writ, for it's a writ you've come to sarve, and you needn't be hidin' it in your pocket, for it's stickin' out of your face. round with you to the back primises and give me compliments to the cook, and say i'll be in for me supper when i've left this lady at the hall dure." the man in possession, standing now in the road under the moonlight, examined the car and the horse that had brought him. "the horse and car are mr. french's?" he asked. "they are." "well, when you've put 'em in the stables," said he, "mind and don't you move 'em out again. all the movables and live stock are to be left in statu quo till my business is settled." "right y' are, sorr," replied moriarty cheerfully, and the man in the tall hat strode away through the gate and vanished in the direction of the back premises. miss grimshaw felt rather disgusted at this spiritless fiasco. she was quite without knowledge, however, of moriarty's thorough methods and far-reaching ways. "i thought you were going to play him a trick," said she. moriarty, who had got down for a moment to look at the mare's off-fore shoe, sprang on to the car again, turned the car, touched the mare with the whip, and turned to the astonished miss grimshaw. "this isn't mr. frinch's house at all, miss." "why, you said it was." "it's his house, right enough," said moriarty, "but it hasn't been lived in for a hundred and tin years; it's got nuthin' inside it but thistles and bats. he axed me for mr. frinch's house; well, i've driv him to mr. frinch's house, him and his ow-de-cologne bottle, but mr. frinch doesn't live here; he lives at drumgool." "how far is drumgool from here?" "it's fifteen miles from here to cloyne, miss, and fifteen from cloyne to drumgool." "oh, good heavens!" said miss grimshaw, "thirty miles from here?" "there or thereabouts, miss; we'll have to get a new horse at cloyne; the ould mare is nearly done, and she'd be finished entirely, only i gave her a two hours' rest before i take you up at the station." "look!" groaned the girl. far away behind them on the moonlit road a figure had appeared; it was running and shouting and waving its arms. "that's him," said moriarty. "faith, he looks as if he had seen the banshee! look, miss, there's his hat tumbled off." running was evidently not the bailiff's forte, but he continued the exercise manfully for a quarter of a mile or so, hat in hand, before giving up. when he disappeared from view miss grimshaw felt what we may suppose the more tender-hearted of alexander selkirk's marooners felt when tristan d'acunha sank from sight beyond the horizon. "what will he do with himself?" asked she, her own grievance forgotten for a moment, veiled by the woes of the other one. "faith, i don't know, miss," replied moriarty; "he can do what he plazes, for what i care. but there's one thing he won't do, and that's lay finger on the horses; and it's sorry i am, miss, to have dhriven you out of your way. but, sure, wouldn't you have done it yourself if i'd been you and you'd been me, and that black baste of a chap puttin' his ugly foot in the master's business?" miss grimshaw laughed in a rather dreary manner. "but it isn't his fault." "whose fault, miss?" "that man's; he was only doing his duty." "faith, and that's the thruth," said moriarty, "and more's the pity of it, as con meehan said when he was diggin' in his pitata garden and the pleeceman came to arrist him. i'm disremembrin' what it was he'd done--chickens i think it was he'd stole--but the pleeceman says to him, 'come off wid you to gaol,' says he; 'it's sorry i am to have to take you,' says he, 'but it's me painful duty.' 'the more's the pity it gives you such pain,' says con, 'and where does it hurt you most, may i ax?' 'in me feelin's,' replies him. 'faith, i'll aise you,' says con, and wid that he knocks him sinsless with the flat of the spade." "that was one way of relieving him of his painful duty." "yes, miss," said moriarty, and they drove on in silence for a while, miss grimshaw trying to imagine how the case of con meehan bore extenuation to the case of the bailiff and failing. a long hill brought them to a walk, and moriarty got down and walked beside the mare to "aise" her. half-way up the hill a man tramping on ahead halted, turned, and stood waiting for them to come up. he had a fishing-rod under his arm, and miss grimshaw, wondering what new surprise was in store for her, found it in the voice of the stranger, which was cultivated. "can you tell me where i am?" asked the stranger. "yes, sorr," said moriarty, halting the mare. "you're eleven miles and a bit from cloyne, if you're going that way." "good heavens!" said the stranger, half beneath his breath; then aloud: "eleven irish miles?" "yes, sorr; there aren't any english miles in these parts. were you going to cloyne, sorr?" "yes; i'm staying at the inn there, and i came out to-day to fish a stream over there between those two hills; and the fool of a fellow i took with me got lost--at least, he went off and never came back; and i'll break his neck when i catch him." "was it billy sheelan, of the inn, be any chance, sorr?" "yes, i believe that was his name." "then he hasn't got lost, sorr; he's got dhrunk. this is mr. frinch's car, and if you'll step on to it i'll drive you back to cloyne, if the young lady has no objection." "not in the least," said miss grimshaw. the stranger raised his cap. he was a good-looking youth, well dressed, and his voice had a lot of character of a sort. it was a good-humoured, easy-going, happy-go-lucky voice, and it matched his face, or as much of his face as could be seen in the moonlight. "it's awfully good of you," he said. "i'm dead beat, been on my legs since six, had good luck, too, only i lost all my fish tumbling into one of those bog holes. just escaped with my life and my rod." he mounted on the same side of the car as the girl and continued to address his remarks to her as moriarty drove on. "i believe i ought to introduce myself. dashwood is my name. i came over for some fishing, and the more i see of ireland, the more i like it. your country----" miss grimshaw laughed. "it's not my country--i'm american." "are you?" said mr. dashwood in a relieved voice. "how jolly! i thought you might be irish. i say," in a confidential tone of voice, "isn't it a beastly hole?" "which?" "ireland." "why, i thought you said you liked it!" "i thought you were irish. i do like it in a way. the mountains and the whisky aren't bad, and the people are jolly enough if they'd only wash themselves, but the hotels--oh, my!" "you're staying at the inn near the railway station at cloyne?" "i am," said mr. dashwood. "then you know biddy and the stuffed dog?" "intimately--have you stayed there?" "i had tea there this afternoon." "you live near here?" "i believe i am going to live for a while near here. i only arrived this afternoon." "only this afternoon. excuse me for being so inquisitive, but when did you arrive at--i mean----" "cloyne." "but you're driving to cloyne now." "i know. i've been driving all over the country. we had to leave a gentleman at a castle, and now we are going back to cloyne. then i have to go on to a place called drumgool, which is fifteen miles from cloyne." "to-night?" said mr. dashwood, looking in astonishment at the wanderer. "i don't know," said the girl, with a touch of hopelessness in her voice. "i expect they'll have to tie me on to the car, for i feel like dropping off now. no, thanks; i can manage to hold on by myself, i was speaking metaphorically." mr. dashwood said nothing for a few minutes. there was a mystery about miss grimshaw that he could not unravel, and which she could not explain. then he said: "we've both been travelling round the country, seems to me, and we're both pretty tired and we've met like this. funny, isn't it?" "awfully," said miss grimshaw, trying to stifle a yawn. "do i bore you talking?" "not a bit." "that's all right. i know you must be tired, but then, you see, you can't go to sleep on an outside car, so one may as well talk. how far are we from cloyne now?"--to moriarty. "nine miles, sorr." "good! i say, you said this car belonged to a mr. french. i met a mr. french six months ago in london--a mr. michael french." "that's him, sorr." "well, that's funny," said mr. dashwood. "i met him at my club, and he told me he lived somewhere in ireland--a big man, very big man--goes in for horses." "that's him, sorr." "awfully rummy coincidence," said mr. dashwood, turning to his companion. "i lost two ponies to him over the gatwick selling plate." "that's him, sorr," said moriarty with conviction. "awfully funny; do you know him?" "no," replied miss grimshaw. "at least only by writing to him. i'm going there for a while to act as governess," she explained. "and of course i'll call there to-morrow and look him up; well, it's extraordinary, really. joke if we met someone else going to see him that had been lost and wandering about all day; sort of canterbury pilgrimage, you know. and we could all sit round the fire at the inn and tell tales." "i hope not," said miss grimshaw devoutly, thinking of the gentleman they had left at the old castle and the tale he'd have to tell. moriarty was now talking to the dancing mistress, telling her of the feed of corn waiting for her at the inn, and they jogged along rapidly, the sinking moon at their back, till presently a few glow-worm sparks before them indicated the lights of cloyne. "how long will you be getting the other horse?" asked miss grimshaw of moriarty as they drew up at the inn, which was still open. "i don't know, miss. i'll ax," replied moriarty. mr. dashwood helped his companion down, and she followed him into the passage, and from there to the sitting-room. a bright turf fire was burning, and the table was still laid, and almost immediately biddy appeared to say that mr. french had sent word that the lady was to stay at the inn and make herself comfortable for the night and to come on to drumgool in the morning, and to say he was sorry that she should have been put to any inconvenience on account of the horses, all of which seemed as wonderful as wireless telegraphy to miss grimshaw, inasmuch as she knew nothing of the gossoon moriarty had despatched to his master earlier in the evening, with a succinct message stating his plan against the bailiff, and the absolute necessity of taking the governess along, lest the said bailiff, seeing the governess and luggage left behind at the inn, might smell a rat. "and what'll you be plazed to have for supper, miss?" asked biddy. "what can you give us?" asked mr. dashwood. "anything you like, sorr." "well, get us a cold roast chicken and some ham. i'm sure you'd like chicken, wouldn't you?" turning to the girl. "yes," said she, "as long as they haven't to cook it. i'm famished." biddy retired. there was no cold chicken and there was no ham on the premises; but the spirit of hospitality demanded that ten minutes should be spent in pretending to look for them. they had fried rashers of bacon--there were no eggs--and tea, and when miss grimshaw retired for the night to a stuffy bedroom ornamented with a stuffed cat, she could hear the deep tones of moriarty's voice colloguing with mrs. sheelan, telling her most likely of the trick he had played on the bailiff man. she wondered how far that benighted individual had wandered by this time on his road to cloyne, and what he would say to moriarty, and what moriarty would say to him, when they met. she could not but perceive that the commercial morality of the house she was going to was of an old-fashioned type, dating from somewhere in the times of the buccaneers, and she felt keenly interested in the probable personality of mr. french. moriarty she liked unreservedly; and in mr. dashwood, her fellow-stranger in this unknown land, she felt an interest which he was returning as he lay in bed, pipe in mouth, and his head on a pillow stuffed presumably with brickbats. chapter v andy meehan was a jockey who had already won mr. french three races. he was a product of the estate, and a prodigy, though by no means an infant. nobody knew his age exactly. under five feet, composed mostly of bone with a little skin stretched tightly over it, with a face that his cap nearly obliterated, andy presented a problem in physiology very difficult of solution. that is to say, in mr. french's words, the more he ate the lighter he grew. in the old days, before mr. french took him into his stable as helper, when food was scarce and andy half-starved, he was comparatively fat. housed and fed well, he waxed thin, and kicked. kicked for a better job, and got it. he was a heaven-born jockey. he possessed hands, knees, and head. he was made to go on a horse just as a limpet is made to go on a rock. nothing on the ground, he was everything when mounted. he was insight, dexterity, coolness, courage, and judgment. several owners had tried to lure andy away from his master. prospects of good pay and advancement, however, had no charm for andy. french was his master, and to all alien offers andy had only one reply. "to h----l wid them." i doubt if andy's vocabulary had more than two hundred words. except to mr. french or moriarty he was very speechless. "yes" and "no" for ordinary purposes, and when he was vexed, "to h----l wid you," served his almost everyday needs. last night he had single-handed taken nip and tuck to the station, and entrained them, returning on foot, and this morning he was mending an old saddle in the sunshine of the stableyard when mr. french appeared at the gate. mr. french had come out of the house without his hat. he had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. he gave some directions to andy to be handed on to moriarty when that personage arrived, and then with his own hand opened the upper door of a loose-box. a lovely head was thrust out. it was garryowen's. the eye so full of kindliness and fire, the mobile nostrils telling of delicate sensibilities and fine feeling, the nobility and intelligence that spoke in every line of that delicately-cut head--these had to be seen to be understood. garryowen was more than a horse to mr. french. he was a friend, and more even than that. garryowen was to pull the family fortunes out of the mire, to raise the family name, to crown his master with laurels. garryowen was french's last card on which he was about to speculate his last penny. in simpler language, he was to run in the city and suburban in the ensuing year and to win it. i dare say you have already gathered the fact that mr. french's financial affairs were rather involved. the nip and tuck incident, however, was only a straw showing the direction of the wind, which threatened in a few months to strengthen into a gale. only an incident--for the debt to harrison was not considerable, and it would not require more than a week or so to collect the money to satisfy it. the bother to mr. french was that in the spring of next year he would have to find fifteen hundred pounds to satisfy the claims of a gentleman named lewis, and how he was to do this and at the same time bear the expense of getting the horse to england and running him was a question quite beyond solution at present. not only had the horse to be run, but he had to be backed. french had decided to win the city and suburban. he wished sometimes now that he had made punchestown the limit of his desires; but having come to a decision, this gentleman never went back on it. besides, he would never have so good a chance again of winning a big english race and a fortune at the same time, for garryowen was a dark horse, if ever a horse was dark, and a flyer, if ever a creature without wings deserved the title. "oh, bother the money! we'll get it somehow," french would say, closing his bank-book and tearing up the sheet of note-paper on which he had been making figures. he calculated that, gathering together all his resources, he would have enough to run the horse and back him for a thousand. to do this he would have to perform the most intricate evolutions in the borrowing line. it could be done, however, if lewis were left out of the calculation. the fifteen hundred owing to lewis was a debt which would have to be paid by the third of march, and the city and suburban is run in april. if it were not paid then lewis would seize garryowen with the rest of mr. french's goods, and that unfortunate gentleman would be stranded so high and dry that he would never swim again. the one bright spot in his affairs was the fact that effie had two hundred and fifty a year, settled on her so tightly by a prescient grandfather that no art or artifice could unsettle it or fling it into the melting-pot. this was french's pet grievance, and by a man's pet grievance you may generally know him. garryowen blew into his master's waistcoat, allowed his ears to be stroked, nibbled a lump of sugar, and replied to some confidential remarks of his owner by a subdued, flickering whinny. then mr. french barred the door, and, leaving the stableyard, came out into the kitchen-garden, whence a good view could be had of the road. the adventure of the governess on the preceding night had greatly tickled his fancy. the idea of a sedate, elderly lady assisting, even unwillingly, in the marooning of the bailiff, had amused him, but that was nothing to the fact that moriarty had used her for bait. this morning, however, the amusement had worn off, and he was reckoning uncomfortably on an interview with an outraged elderly female, who would possibly carry her resentment to the point of renouncing her situation and returning home. he looked at his watch. it pointed to half-past ten. he looked at the road winding away, a white streak utterly destitute of life or sign of moriarty, the car, or the dreaded governess. the fine weather still held, and the distant hills stood out grand in the brave morning light. the gossoon sent by moriarty the previous day had announced that moriarty was going to drive the bailiff to the "ould castle" and drop him there, at the same time giving full details of the plan. the arrival of the outraged bailiff had to be counted on later in the day, and would, no doubt, form a counterpart to the arrival of the outraged governess. to a man of french's philosophical nature, however, these things were, to quote sophocles, "in the future," non-existent at present and not worth bothering about till they materialised themselves. as he stood, casting a leisurely glance over the great sweep of country that lay before him, a black, moving speck far away on the road caught his eye. he watched it as it drew nearer and developed. it was the car. he shaded his eyes as it approached. three people were on it--moriarty and two others, a woman and a man. the idea that the bailiff and the governess were arriving together, allied forces prepared to attack him, crossed his brain for one wild instant. then he dismissed it. moriarty was much too clever a diplomat to allow such a thing as that. then as the car came up the drive he saw that the woman was a young and pretty girl, and the man youthful and well dressed, and, concluding that the governess had vanished into thin air, and that these were visitors of some sort, he hurried back to the house and shouted for norah, the parlour-maid. "open the drawing-room and pull up the blinds," cried mr. french. "there's visitors coming. let them in, and tell them i'll be down in a minute." he ran upstairs to make himself tidy, being at the moment attired in a shocking old shooting-coat gone at the elbows, and as to his feet, in a pair of carpet slippers. as he changed he heard the visitors being admitted, and then norah came tumbling up the stairs and thumped at his door. "they're in the draaing-room, sir!" "all right," said mr. french. "i'll be down in a minute." mr. dashwood and his companion had breakfasted together at the inn. the double freemasonry of youth and health had made the meal a happy affair, despite the teapot with a broken spout, the bad, sad, salt bacon, and the tea that tasted like a decoction of mahogany shavings. it was miss grimshaw who proposed that, as mr. dashwood was going to see his friend, and as she was bound on the same errand, they might use the same car. moriarty, who was consulted, consented with alacrity. "he's not turned up yet, miss," said moriarty, as he held the horse while miss grimshaw got on the car. "i wonder what's become of him?" said the girl, settling the rug on her knees. "faith, and i expect he's wonderin' that himself," said moriarty, taking the reins; "unless he's tuck a short cut across the country and landed in a bog-hole." all of which was greek to mr. dashwood. in the drawing-room of drumgool house they were now awaiting the arrival of mr. french. "i say," said mr. dashwood. "i hope he is the man i met in london." "i hope so, too," said the girl, looking round the quaint old room, with its potpourri vases, its antimacassars, its furniture of a distant day. the place smelt like an old valentine with a tinge of musk clinging to it. pretty women had once sat here, had played on that rosewood piano whose voice was like the voice of a harp in the bass, like a banjo in the treble; had woven antimacassars, had read the romances of mr. richardson, had waited for the gentlemen after dinner, the claret-flushed gentlemen whose cheery voices would be heard no more. "i hope so, too," said miss grimshaw. "i'm all right, for i'm the governess, you know. if he isn't, it will look very strange us arriving together, so you must explain, please. are you good at explaining things?" "rather! i say, is he a family man? i mean, are there a lot of children?" "no. mr. french has only one little daughter, an invalid. i'm not a real governess. i don't take a salary, and all that. i've just come over to---- well, i want a home for a while, and i want to see ireland." "strikes me you'll see a lot of it here," said mr. dashwood, looking out at the vast solitudes to the east, where the hills stood ranged like armed men guarding a country where the bird shadow and the cloud shadow were the only moving things. "yes," said miss grimshaw, and yawned. she liked mr. dashwood, but his light-hearted conversation just now rather palled upon her. "and won't you catch it in the winter here?" said he, as he watched croag mahon, a giant monolith, sunlit a moment ago, and now wreathing itself with mist just as a lady wreathes herself with a filmy scarf. "what on earth will you do with yourself when it rains?" "i don't know," replied miss grimshaw. "don't be gloomy. ah!" the door opened, and mr. french entered the room--a gentleman that bobby dashwood had never seen in his life before. chapter vi the master of drumgool, genial and cosey, and the very personification of welcome, had scarcely taken in with a glance the two pleasant-looking young people who had invaded his drawing-room when the explainer of situations rushed into the breach. "i'm awfully sorry," said he, "but i've made a mistake. i met this young lady at the inn at cloyne, and as she was coming here i came on the same car, for i thought you were a mr. michael french i'd met in london. i've been fishing down here." "you expected me last night," said miss grimshaw. "my name is grimshaw." "faith," said mr. french, "this is a pleasant surprise. sit down, sit down." "i ought to say my name is dashwood," put in the explainer. "sit down, sit down. i'm delighted to see you both. staying at the inn, are you? and how do you like mrs. sheelan? and you met at the inn? of course you did. miss grimshaw, i don't know how, in the name of wonder, i'm going to apologise to you for driving you all over the country. is that chair easy? no, it's not--take this one. look at it before you sit in it. dan o'connell took his seat in that chair when he was here for the elections, in my grandfather's time, and i have the bed upstairs he slept in. which michael french, i wonder, was it you met? was it a man with a big, black beard?" "yes," replied mr. dashwood. "and gold-rimmed spectacles?" "yes." "did he bawl like a bull?" "he had rather a loud voice." "that's him. he's my cousin, bad luck to him! no matter. i'll be even with him some day yet. he's the biggest black--i mean, we have never been friends; but that's always the way between relations. and that reminds me--i've never bid you welcome to drumgool, miss grimshaw. welcome you are to the house and all it holds, and make yourself at home! and here we are sitting in the old drawing-room that's only used for company once in a twelvemonth. come down to the sitting-room, both of you. there's a fire there, and effie will be in in a minute. she's out driving in the donkey-carriage. this isn't a bad bit of an old hall, is it?" continued he as they passed through the hall. "it's the oldest part of the house. do you see that split in the panelling up there? that's where a bullet went in the duel between counsellor kinsella and colonel white. 'black white' was his nickname, and well he deserved it. they fought here, for it was snowing so thick outside you couldn't see a man at ten paces. eighteen hundred and one, that was, and they in their graves all these years! no, no one was killed. only a tenant that had come in to see the fun, and he got in the line of fire. he recovered, i believe, though they say he carried the bullet in his head to the end of his days. this is the sitting-room. it's the warmest room in winter. the old house is as full of holes as a colander, but you'll never get a draught here. norah!"--putting his head out of the door. "yes, sir." "bring the decanters. you don't mind smoking, miss grimshaw? that's a good job. are you fond of horses, mr. dashwood?" "rather." "well, there's the hoof of the shaughraun. he carried everything before him in ireland. he was my grandfather's, and he was entered for the derby, and some blackguards poisoned him. it would be before your time, and his death made more stir than the death of anything that ever went on four legs, except, maybe, old nebuchadnezzar. they made songs about it, and i have a ballad upstairs in my desk a yard long my father bought from an old woman in abbey-street. here's the whisky. sure, norah, what have you been dreaming about, and why didn't you bring the wine for the young lady? not drink wine! well, now, just say the word, and i'll get you some tea. or would you like coffee? well, well. say 'when,' mr. dashwood." "i like this room," said miss grimshaw, looking round at the books and the oak panelling. "it's so cosey, and yet so ghosty. have you a ghost?" "a which? i beg your pardon," said mr. french, pausing in his operations with a soda-water siphon. "a ghost." "i believe there's an old woman without a head walks in the top corridor by the servants' bedrooms. at least, that's the story; but it's all nonsense, though it does to frighten the girls with, and get them to bed early. who's that?" "if you plaze, sir," said norah, speaking through the half-open door, "miss effie's back from her drive and upstairs, and she's wild to see the young lady." "that's me, i suppose," said miss grimshaw. "i'll go up, if i may." "sure, with pleasure," said mr. french, holding the door open for her with all the grace of a brummell, while the girl passed out. then he closed the door, waited till she was well out of earshot, and then, sitting down in an armchair, he "rocked and roared" with laughter. "don't speak to me," said he, though mr. dashwood had not said a word. "did you ever see me trying to keep my face? sure, man, she's the governess, and i thought it was an old lady in spectacles that would be coming. faith, and i'll have to get a chaperon. you might have blown me away with a fan when she said who she was. but i didn't let on, did i? i didn't show the start she's given me? are you sure?" assured on this point, mr. french poured himself out another glass of whisky. he explained that he'd got miss grimshaw "out of an advertisement." then, much to the edification of mr. dashwood, he went into the bailiff business, the beauty of nip and tuck, the price colonel sherbourne had paid, explaining that it was not the money he cared about so much as the injury it would have done him in sherbourne's estimation if the horses had not been delivered. it was an adventure after the heart of bobby dashwood, who, in his short life, had dealt freely and been dealt with by money-lenders. mr. dashwood was what women call a "nice-looking boy," but he was not particularly intellectual when you got him off the subjects he had made particularly his own. he had failed for sandhurst. if a proficiency in cricket and fives had been allowed to count, he would have got high marks; but they wanted mathematics, and mr. dashwood could not supply this requirement; in french, too, he was singularly deficient. the deficiencies of mr. dashwood would have furnished out half a dozen young men well equipped for failure in business, and that is why, i suppose, he managed to make such a success of life. the joy mr. dashwood managed to extract from that usually unjoyful thing called life hinted at alchemy rather than chemistry. joy, too, without any by-products in the way of headaches or heartaches. utterly irresponsible, but without a serious vice, always bright, clean, and healthy, and alert for any sort of sport as a terrier, he was as good to meet and have around one as a spring morning--that is to say, when one was in tune for him. he had five hundred a year of his own, with prospects of great wealth on the death of an uncle, and even out of this poverty he managed to extract pleasure of a sort in the excitement of settling with creditors and trying to make both ends meet--which they never did. "what a joke!" said mr. dashwood. "and she never split. she said she'd been leaving a gentleman at an old castle--and she never grumbled, though she was nearly dropping off the car. i say, isn't she a ripper?" "here's to her," said french. "and now, come out and have a look at the stables and grounds. lunch is at one, and we have an hour." the youth and prettiness of miss grimshaw after the first pleasing shock did not trouble him in the least. a straight-minded man and a soul of honour in everything not appertaining to bill discounters, the propriety or impropriety of the situation did not cause him a moment's thought. the only thing that worried him for a second or two was the remembrance of mr. giveen. how would that gentleman act under the intoxication sure to be produced by the newcomer's youth and prettiness? "she'd have been down herself to see you, miss," said norah as she led the way upstairs, "only she's gone in the legs. this way, miss, along the passidge; this is the door." a scuffling noise made itself evident as norah turned the door-handle, and miss grimshaw, entering a brightly and pleasantly furnished room, found herself face to face with miss french, who was sitting up on a sofa, flushed and bright-eyed and with the appearance of having suddenly returned to her invalidhood and position on the couch after an excursion about the apartment. "hullo!" said the child. "hullo!" said miss grimshaw. "oh, will you look at her?" cried norah. "and the rug i put round her legs all over the place! you've been off the couch, miss effie!" "i only put my feet on the ground," protested the child. "you needn't be going on at me. bother my old legs! i wish they was cut off!" "and so you are effie?" said miss grimshaw, taking her seat on the edge of the couch. "do you know who i am?" "rather," replied miss french. "you're miss grimshaw." there was a subdued chuckle in the tone of her voice, as though miss grimshaw was a joke that had just come off, rather than a governess who had just arrived--a chuckle hinting at the fact that miss grimshaw had been the subject of humorous discussion and speculation in the french household for some time past. "you'll ring, miss, when you want me to show you your room?" said norah. then she withdrew, and miss grimshaw found herself alone with her charge. the room was half nursery, half sitting-room, papered with a sprightly green-sprigged and rose-patterned paper. pictures from christmas numbers of the _graphic_ and pictures of cats by louis wain adorned the walls; there were a number of yellow-backed books on the book-shelf, and in one corner a pile of old comic papers--_punches_, _judys_, and _funs_--all of an ancient date. all the light literature in drumgool house found its way here--and remained. the yellow-backed books were the works of arthur sketchley, a most pleasing humourist whose name has faded almost from our memories. "mrs. brown's 'oliday outings," "mrs. brown in paris," "mrs. brown at the seaside"--all were here. they had been bought by some member of the french family with a taste for humour, as had also the comic papers. to miss french in her captivity the dead-and-gone artists, the dead-and-gone jokes, the fashions and manners of the eighties, which are as thebes to us, were fresh and vigorous. up-to-date papers and books came little in her way, for french was not a reading man. chapter vii "where's your spectacles?" asked effie, after they had conversed for a while, tucking the rug round herself and speaking with the jocularity and familiarity which generally is associated with long acquaintanceship. "i beg your pardon," said miss grimshaw. "father said you'd be in spectacles." "oh, my spectacles--they are coming by the next train. also my snuffbox and a birch-rod." "get out with you!" said miss french, moving under the rug, as if someone had tickled her. "your snuffbox and your birch-rod! get out with you!" it was the first time that miss grimshaw had come across a child brought up almost entirely by servants--and irish servants at that--but there was an entire good humour about the product that made it not displeasing. "so that's how you welcome me, telling me to get out almost as soon as i have come! very well, i am going." "off with you, then!" replied the other, falling into the vein of badinage as easily as a billiard ball into a pocket. "patwallop, along with you. i don't care. hi! come back." "what is it?" inquired miss grimshaw, now at the door, with her hand on the door handle. "i want to tell you somethin'." "well?" "i want to whisper it." miss grimshaw came to the couch. "bend down closer." she bent. two small arms flung themselves tentaclewise round her neck, and she was nearly deafened by a "boo!" in her ear, followed and apologised for by a moist and warm-hearted kiss. * * * * * extract from a letter addressed by miss v. grimshaw to a friend: "since i last wrote to you, young mr. dashwood has left. he stayed three days. mr. french insisted on his staying, sent for his luggage to the inn at cloyne, put him up in the best bedroom, where i believe dan o'connell once slept, and kept him up till all hours of the morning, drinking far more whisky than was good for his constitution, i am sure. "we had an awfully good time while he was here, and the house seems a little dull now that he is gone. he asked me before he left if he might write to me and tell me how he was getting on. but he hasn't written yet. he was a nice boy, but irresponsible. and, talking of irresponsibility, the word does not even vaguely describe the affairs of this household. "i told you of the bailiff man. well, he arrived in a closed carriage from cloyne next day, and has been in bed ever since with influenza, caught by exposure on the moors. he is convalescent now, and i met him in the garden this morning, 'taking the air on a stick,' to use mr. french's expression. i believe the debt is paid to mr. harrison, but the bailiff is staying on as a guest. mr. french gets me at night sometimes to help him in his accounts. he tells me all his affairs and money worries. his affairs are simply appalling, and he has a mad scheme for running a horse next spring in a big english race, the suburban something or other, by which he hopes to make a fortune. when i point out the impossibility of the thing, he closes up his account-books and says there is no use in meeting troubles half-way. "effie is a bright little thing, but there is something about her i can't quite understand. she has a secret, which she tells me she is going to tell me some day, but what it is i can't make out. now i must stop. oh, but i forgot. how shall i say it? how shall i tell it? i have an admirer. he is a little mad, a cousin of mr. french's. you remember those pictures of sunny jim we used to admire on the posters? well, he is not like that; much stouter and more serious looking, and yet there is a family resemblance. he has taken to haunting me. "mr. french has warned me not to mind him. he says he is sure to propose to me, but that i'm not to be offended, as it's a disease 'the poor creature is afflicted with, just as if he had epileptic fits,' and that he would make eyes at a broomstick with a skirt on it if he could get nothing else; all of which is interesting, but scarcely complimentary. things are so dull just at present that i really think i must lead him on. i am sure when he does do it it will be awfully funny. his name is giveen. everything is queer about him. "it rained yesterday and the day before, but to-day is simply glorious. and now i must stop in earnest.--ever yours lovingly, violet." miss grimshaw had been writing her letter at the writing-table in the sitting-room window. the sitting-room was on the ground floor, and as she looked up from addressing the envelope, mr. giveen, at the window and backed by the glorious september afternoon, met her gaze. he was looking in at her. how long he had been standing at the window gazing upon her it would be impossible to say. irritated at having been spied upon, miss grimshaw frowned at mr. giveen, who smiled in return, at the same time motioning her to open the window. "well?" said miss grimshaw, putting up the sash. "come out with me," said mr. giveen. "michael is off at drumboyne, and there's no one to know. put on your hat and come out with me." "go out with you? where?" "i'll get the boat and take you to see the seals on the seven sisters rocks. the sea is as smooth as a--smooth as a--smooth as a what's-its-name. i'll be thinking of it in a minit. stick on your hat and come out with me." "some other day, when mr. french is at home. i don't understand your meaning at all when you talk about nobody knowing. i never do things that i want to hide." "sure, that was only my joke," grinned mr. giveen; "and if you don't come to-day you'll never come at all, for it's the end of the season, and it's a hundred to one you won't find another day fit to go till next summer; and i'll show you the big sea cave," finished he, "for the tide will be out by the time we've had a look at the seals. it's not foolin' you i am. the boat's on the beach, and it won't take ten minutes to get there." "i'll come down and look at the sea," said miss grimshaw, who could not resist the appeal of the lovely afternoon, "if you'll wait five seconds till i get my hat." "sure, i'd wait five hundred years," replied the cousin of mr. french, propping himself against the house wall, where he stood whistling softly and breaking off every now and then to chuckle to himself, after the fashion of a person who has thought of a good joke or has got the better of another in a deal. five minutes later, hearing the girl leaving the house by the front door, he came round and met her. "this way," said mr. giveen, taking a path that led through the kitchen-garden and so round a clump of stunted fir trees to the break in the cliffs that gave passage to the strand. "now, down by these rocks. it's a powerfully rough road, and i've told michael time out of mind he ought to have it levelled, but much use there is in talking to him, and him with his head full of horses. will you take a hold of my arm?" "no, thanks. i can get on quite well alone." "well, step careful. musha, but i was nearly down then myself. do you know the name they give this crack in the cliffs?" "no." "it's the devil's keyhole." "why do they call it that?" "why, faith, you'll know that when you hear the wind blowing through it in winter. it screeches so you can hear it at drumboyne. do you know that i live at drumboyne?" "that's the village between here and cloyne is it not?" "that's it. but do you know where i live in drumboyne?" "no." "well, now, by any chance, did you see a bungalow on the right after you left drumboyne, as you were driving here that day on the car with the young chap--mr. what's-his-name?" "dashwood. yes, i did see a bungalow." "that's mine," said mr. giveen with a sigh. "as nice a house as there is in the country, if it wasn't that i was all alone in it." "don't you keep a servant?" "a servant! sure, of course i keep a servant--two. but it wasn't a servant i was meaning. shall i tell you what i was meaning?" "i'm not much interested in other people's affairs," said miss grimshaw hurriedly. "ah! there's the sea at last." a turn of the cleft had suddenly disclosed the great atlantic ocean. blue and smooth as satin, it came glassing in, breaking gently over and around the rocks--huge, black rocks, shaggy with seaweed, holding among them pools where at low tides you would find rock bass, lobsters, and crabs. in winter, during the storms, this place was tremendous and white with flying foam, the waves bursting to the very cliff's base, the echoes shouting back the roar of the breakers, the breakers thundering and storming at the echoes, and over all the wind making a bugle of the devil's keyhole; but to-day nothing could be more peaceful, and the whisper of the low tide waves seething in amidst the rocks was a lullaby to rock a babe to sleep. just here, protected by the rocks, lay a tiny cove where french kept his boat, which he used for fishing and seal shooting. and here to-day, on a rock beside the boat, which was half water-borne, they found doolan, the man who looked after the garden and hens and did odd jobs, among which was the duty of keeping the boat in order and looking after the fishing tackle. "what a jolly little boat!" said the girl, resting her hand on the thwart of the sturdy little white-painted dinghy. "do you go fishing in this?" "michael does," replied mr. giveen, "but i'm no fisherman. doolan, isn't the sea smooth enough to take the young lady for a row?" he shouted the words into the ear of the old weatherbeaten man, who was as deaf as a post. "say smooth enough to take the young lady for a row?" replied doolan in a creaky voice that seemed to come from a distance. "and what smoother would you want it, mr. dick? say smooth enough to take the young lady for a row? sure, it's more like ile than say water, it is to-day. is this the young lady you tould me you were going to take to say the sales?" "i don't want to see any seals," cut in miss grimshaw. "i only came down to look at the sea." "there you are!" burst out mr. giveen, like a child in a temper. "after i get the boat ready for you, thinking to give you a bit of pleasure, and take doolan away from his work and all, and now you won't go!" "but i said i wouldn't go!" said miss grimshaw. "you didn't." "i did"--searching her memory--"at least, i didn't say i would go." "well, say you will go now, and into the boat with you." "i won't!" "well, then, all the fun's spoiled," said mr. giveen, "and it's a fool you've been making of me. sure, it's hundreds of girls i've taken out to see the caves, and never one of them afraid but you." "i'm not afraid," said miss grimshaw, beginning to waver, "and i don't want to spoil your fun. how long would it take us to see the caves?" "not more than an hour or two--less maybe." "well," said the girl, suddenly making up her mind, "i'll come." it was a momentous decision, with far-reaching effects destined to touch all sorts of people and things, from mr. french to garryowen, a decision which, in the ensuing april, might have changed the course of racing events profoundly. so slender and magical are the threads of cause that the fortunes of thousands of clerks with an instinct for racing, thousands of sportsmen, and innumerable "bookies," all were swept suddenly that afternoon into the control of an event so simple as a boating excursion on the west coast of ireland. she stepped into the boat, and took her seat in the stern. mr. giveen and doolan pushed the little craft off, and just as she was water borne mr. giveen tumbled in over the bow, seized a scull, and pulled her into deep water. the rocks made a tiny natural harbour, where the dinghy floated with scarcely a movement while the oarsman got out both sculls. "isn't he coming with us?" asked miss grimshaw. "who?" "the old man--doolan--what's his name?" "sure, what would we be bothered taking him for?" replied the other, turning the boat's nose and sculling her with a few powerful strokes to the creek's mouth, where the incoming swell lifted her with a buoyant and balloon-like motion that brought a sickening sense of insecurity to the heart of the girl. "well, i thought he was coming with us, or i would not have got in." "well, you're in now," said mr. giveen, "and there's no use crying over spilt milk." he had taken his hat off, and his bald head shone in the sun. snow-white gulls were flying in the blue overhead, the profound and glassy swell, which was scarcely noticeable from the shore, out here made vales and hills of water, long green slopes in which the seaweed floated like mermaids' hair. far out now the loveliness of the scene around her made the girl forget for a moment her sense of insecurity. the whole beauty and warmth of summer seemed gathered into that september afternoon, and the coast showed itself league upon league, vast cliff and silent strand, snowed with seagulls, terns, guillemots, and fading away twenty miles to the north and twenty miles to the south in the haze and the blueness of the summer sky. the great silence, the vast distances, the happy blue of sea and sky, the voicelessness of that tremendous coast--all these cast the mind of the gazer into a trance in which the soul responded for a moment to that mystery of mysteries, the call of distance. "there's the seven sisters," said mr. giveen, resting his oars and pointing away to the north, where the peaked rocks stood from the sea, cutting the sky with their sharp angles and making froth of the swell with their spurs. broad ledges of rock occurred here and there at their base, and on these ledges the seals on an afternoon like this would be sunning themselves, watching with liquid human eyes the surging froth, and ready to dive fathoms deep at the approach of man. miss grimshaw, coming back from her reverie, heard borne on the breeze, which was blowing from the north, the faint crying of the gulls round the rocks. it was the voices of the seven sisters for ever lamenting, blue weather or grey, calm or storm. "where are you going to?" asked she. "wherever you please," said he. "if we were to go on as we're going now, do you know where we'd land?" "no." "america. how'd you like to go to america with me? say the word now," went on mr. giveen, with a jocularity that was quite lost on his companion. "say the word, and on we'll go." "turn the boat round," said miss grimshaw, suddenly and with decision. "we are too far out. row back. i want to go home." "and how about the seals?" "i don't want to see them. go back!" "well now, listen to me. do you see over there, behind us, that black hole in the cliffs, about a quarter of a mile, or maybe less, from the devil's keyhole?" "which? where? oh, that! yes." "well, that's the big sea cave that everyone goes to see. sure, you haven't seen ireland at all till you've been in the devil's kitchen--that's the name of it. shall i row you there?" "yes, anywhere, so long as we get close to the shore. it frightens me out here." "sure, what call have you to be afraid when i'm with you?" asked mr. giveen in a tender tone of voice, turning the boat's head and making for the desired shore. "i don't know. let us talk of something else. why do they call it the devil's kitchen?" "faith, you wouldn't ask that if you heard the hullabaloo that comes out of it in the big storms. you'd think, by the frying and the boiling, it was elephants and whales they were cooking. but in summer it's as calm as a--calm as a--what's-its-name. musha, i'll be remembering it in a minit." mr. giveen grumbled to himself in thought as he lay to his oars. sometimes the brogue of the common people with whom he had collogued from boyhood, and which underlay his cultivated speech as a stratum of rock underlies arable land, would crop up thick and strong, especially when he was communing with himself, as now, hunting for a metaphor to express the sea's calmness. miss grimshaw, passionately anxious to be on land again, was not the less so as she watched him muttering and mouthing and talking to himself. she had now been contemplating him at close quarters in the open light of day for a considerable time, and her study of him did not improve her opinion of him, in fact, she was beginning to perceive that in mr. giveen there was something more than a harmless gentleman rather soft and with a passion for flirtation. she saw, or thought she could see, behind the sunny jim expression, behind the jocularity and buffoonery and soft stupidity which made him sometimes mildly amusing and sometimes acutely irritating, a malignant something, a spirit vicious and little, a spirit that would do a nasty turn for a man rather than a nice one, and perhaps even a cruel act on occasion. whatever this spirit might be, it was little--a thing more to dislike than fear. they were now in close to the cliffs, and the entrance to the devil's kitchen loomed large--a semicircular arch beneath which the green water flooded, washing the basalt pillars with a whispering sound which came distinctly to the boat. the cliff above stretched up, immense, and the crying of the cormorants filled the air and filled the echoes. wheeling about the rocks away up, where in the breeding season they had their nests, they seemed to resent the approach of the boat. on a ledge of rock near the cove mouth something dark moved swiftly and then splashed into the sea and was free. it was a seal. "i'll take you into the cave to have a look at it," cried mr. giveen, raising his voice to outshout the cormorants. "you needn't be a bit afraid. the devil's not here to-day--it's too fine weather for him." "don't go far in," cried miss grimshaw, and as she spoke the words the boat, urged by the rower, passed into the gloom beneath the archway. she saw the bottle-green water of the rising and falling swell washing the pillars and the walls from which the seaweed hung in fathom-long ribbons; then they were in almost darkness, and as mr. giveen rested on his oars, she could hear the water slobbering against the walls, and from far away in the gloom, every now and then, a bursting sound as the swell filled some hole or shaft and was spat out again. after a moment or two, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, the vast size of the place became apparent. far greater than the inside of a cathedral, given over to darkness and the sea, the devil's kitchen was certainly a place to make one pause. in the storms of winter, when, like the great mouth of some giant fighting the waves, it roared and stormed and spat out volumes of water, filled now almost to its roof, now blowing the sea out in showers of spray, the horror of it would be for a bold imagination to conceive. even to-day, in its best mood, it was not a place to linger in. "now i've brought you in," said mr. giveen, his voice finding echoes in the darkness, "and what will you give me to bring you out?" "nothing. turn the boat. i don't like the place. turn the boat, i say!" she stamped on the bottom boards, and her voice came back to her ears with a horrible cavernous sound, as did the laughter of mr. giveen. he turned the boat so that she was fronting the arch of light at the entrance, but he did not row towards it. instead, he began rocking the boat from side to side in a boyish and larky way that literally brought the heart of miss grimshaw into her mouth. "stop it!" she cried. "we'll be upset. oh, i'll tell mr. french. stop it! do, please--please stop it." "well, what will you give me if i stop it? come, now, don't be shy. you know what i mean. what will you give me?" "anything you like." "then we'll make it a kiss?" "yes, anything! only take me out of this." "two kisses?" asked mr. giveen, pulling in his oars and making to come aft. "twenty. only not here. you'll upset the boat. don't stand up. you'll upset us." "well, when we get back, then?" said the amorous one. "yes." "and you won't tell michael?" "no, no, no!" "on your word of honour?" "yes." "swear by all's blue." "yes." "but that's not swearing." "i don't know what all's blue is. ouch!" the boat, drifting, had drifted up against the wall of the cave, and the swell, which had a rise and fall of eighteen inches or more, was grinding the starboard thwart lovingly against the seaweed and rock. "i swear by all's blue," shrieked the girl. "anything! quick! push her off, or we'll be over." "faith, and that was a near shave," said mr. giveen, shoving the boat off with an oar. he got the sculls in the rowlocks, and a few strokes brought them out under the arch into daylight again. "mind, you've sworn," said mr. giveen, who evidently had a very present and wholesome dread of his cousin, michael french. "don't speak to me," replied his charge, whose lips were dry, but whose terror had now, on finding herself in comparative safety, turned into burning wrath. "don't speak to me, you coward! you--you beast--or i'll hit you with this." a boat-hook of ash and phosphor-bronze lay at her feet, and she seized it. mr. giveen eyed the boat-hook. it did not promise kisses on landing, but it was a very efficient persuader, in its way, to a swift return. * * * * * * * now, mr. french, that day after luncheon, had ridden into drumboyne about some pigs he was anxious to sell. he had failed to come to terms with the pig merchant, and had returned out of temper. in the stableyard he met moriarty. "if you plaze, sorr," said moriarty, "i've just heard from doolan that mr. giveen has taken the young lady out in the boat." the contempt which moriarty had for mr. giveen and the dislike were fully expressed in the tone of his words. "d'you mean to say that idiotic fool has taken miss grimshaw out in the dinghy?" cried michael french, letting himself down from the saddle. "yes, sorr." "to blazes with doolan! what the--what the--what the--did he mean not telling me!" "i don't know, sorr. here he is himself. micky, come here! the master wants to speak wid you." mr. doolan, who was passing across the yard with a tin basin of fowls' food--it had a wooden handle, and he was holding it by the handle--approached, deaf to what moriarty said, but answering his gesture. "what did you mean by letting mr. giveen take the young lady out in the dinghy without telling me, you old fool?" asked his master. "sure, he tould me not to tell you, sorr," creaked micky. "to the devil with you!" cried mr. french, giving the tin basin a kick that sent the contents flying into micky's face, spattering it with meal and soaked bread and finely chopped bits of meat till it looked like a new form of pudding. "off with you, and clean your face, and not another word out of you, or i'll send you flying after the basin. come on with me, moriarty, down to the cove, till we see if we can get sight of them." "think of the fool letting the girl go out with that egg-headed ass of a dick!" grumbled french, half to himself and half to moriarty, as he made down the devil's keyhole, followed by the other. "he's been hanging after her for the last week, popping in at all hours of the day, and as sure as he gets a girl into the boat close with him, he's sure to be making a fool of himself, and maybe upsetting her, and the both of them drowned. not that he'd matter; not that he'd drown, either, for that bladder of a head of his would keep him afloat. do you see any sight of them, moriarty?" they had reached the shore, and moriarty, standing on a rock and shading his eyes, was looking over the sea. "no, sorr." "come on to the cove. he's sure to come back there, if he ever comes back. if you can't see them from there, they must have gone down the coast to the caves. i tell you what it is, moriarty, relations or no relations, i'm not going to have that chap hanging round the premises any longer. he comes to drumgool, and he sits and reads a newspaper, and he pretends to be a fool, and all the time he's taking everything in, and he goes off and talks about everything he sees, and i believe it's him and his talk that's knocked my bargain with old shoveler over those pigs. he heard me say i'd take two pounds less than i was asking shoveler, and to-day the old chap was 'stiff as a rock.'" "i don't think he's any good about the place, sorr," said moriarty. "yesterday, when andy was giving garryowen his exercise on the four-mile track, there he was, pottin' about with his eye on the horse. you know, sorr, andy has no likin' for him, and as andy was passin' the big scrub, there was misther giveen, and he up and calls to andy, 'that's a likely colt,' says he, 'and is me cousin thinkin' of runnin' him next year?' he says." "good heavens!" said garryowen's owner, taking his seat on a rock. "i hope andy didn't split?" "split, sorr! 'to h---- wid you,' says andy and on he goes, and buck slane, who was up on the cat, and be the same token, sorr, garryowen can give the cat two furlongs in a mile and lather him. buck says the black blood come in his face, and he shuck the stick he was holdin' in his hand after andy and the colt as if he'd like to lay it on thim." "well, i'll lay a stick on him," said french, "if he comes round asking his questions. moriarty, only you and me and the young lady--she's safe--and buck slane--and he's safe--know what we're going to do with garryowen, and where we're going to run him. if we want to keep him dark, we mustn't have fellows poking their noses about the place." "that young gintleman from over the wather, sorr, is he safe?" "mr. dashwood? yes, he's a gentleman. even so, i did not tell him anything about it. he saw the colt, and, by gad! didn't he admire him. but i said nothing of what i was going to do with him." "here they are, sorr," cried moriarty, who was standing up, and so had a better view of the sea. mr. french rose to his feet. the dinghy was rounding the rocks. mr. giveen, at the sculls, was evidently remonstrating with the girl, who, seeing help at hand, and vengeance in the forms of the two men on the beach, was standing up in the stern of the boat--at least, half standing up--now almost erect, now crouched and clutching the thwart, she seemed ready to jump on the rocks they were passing--to jump anywhere so long as she got free of the boat and her companion. one might have thought that fear was impelling her. it was not fear, however, but anger and irritation. french and moriarty rushed into the water up to their knees, seized the dinghy on either side of the bow, and ran her up on the sand, while mr. giveen, with his coat in his hand and his hat on the back of his head, tumbled over the side and made as if to make off. "stop him!" cried the girl. "he's insulted me! he has nearly drowned me! he frightened me into swearing i wouldn't tell!" "i didn't," cried mr. giveen, now in the powerful grasp of his cousin. "it wasn't my fault. let loose of me. let up, or i'll have the law of you!" "didn't you?" replied french, who had caught his kinsman by the scruff of his neck and was holding him from behind, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat, "we'll soon see that. moriarty, run for a policeman. take a horse and go for a constable at drumboyne. well, then, what do you mean, eh?--what do you mean, eh?--you blackguard, with your philandering? you bubble-headed, chuckle-headed son of a black sweep, you! call yourself an irish gentleman! insulting a lady! miss grimshaw, say the word, and i'll stick the ugly head of him in the water and drown him!" "no, no!" cried the girl, taking the words literally. "perhaps he didn't mean it. i don't think he is quite right. he only wanted to kiss me. he rocked the boat. perhaps it was only in fun." "now listen to me," cried french, accentuating every second word with a shake, "if i ever catch you within five miles of drumgool again i'll give you a lambasting you won't get over in a month. that's my last word to you. off you go!" the last words were followed by a most explicit kick that sent mr. giveen racing and running across the bit of sand till he reached the rocks, over which he scrambled, making record time to the mouth of the devil's keyhole. near that spot he turned and shook his fist at his kinsman. "i'll be even with you yet, mick french!" cried mr. giveen. "away with you!" replied the threatened one, making as if to run after him, at which the figure of mr. giveen vanished into the devil's keyhole as a rat vanishes up a drain. french burst into a laugh, in which miss grimshaw joined. "now he'll be your enemy," said the girl as moriarty flung the sculls over his shoulder and they prepared to return to the house. "much i care!" replied the owner of garryowen. chapter viii the first and most pressing necessity of a woman's life is--what? love? no, a home. a home implies love and everything in life worth having. a girl without a home and without relations is the loneliest thing on earth, simply because she is a woman, and nothing has such a capacity for loneliness as a woman. give her anything in the way of a tie, and she will crystallise on to it and take it to heart, just as the sugar in a solution of barley-sugar takes the string. so it came about that violet grimshaw found herself, in less than three weeks after her arrival at drumgool, not only acclimatised to her new surroundings, but literally one of the family. she had caught on to them, and they had caught on to her. french, with that charming easiness which one finds rarely nowadays, except in that fast vanishing individual, the real old irish gentleman, had from the first treated her as though he had known her for years. guessing, with the sure intuition of the irresponsible, the level-headedness and worth behind her prettiness, he now talked to her about his most intimate affairs, both financial and family. in him and in the other denizens of drumgool was brought home to her the power of the celtic nature to imagine things and take them for granted. "now, where's me colander?" mrs. driscoll would say (as, for instance, in a dialogue which reached the girl one afternoon with a whiff of kitchen-scented air through a swing-door left open). "where's me colander? it's that black baste of a doolan. i b'lave he's taken it to feed the chickens. i'll tie a dish-cloth to his tail if he comes into me kitchen takin' me colanders! doolan! foolan! come here wid ye, and bring me me colander. i'll tell the masther on you for takin' me things. you haven't got it? may heaven forgive you, but i saw you with the two eyes in me head, and it in your hand! it's forenint me nose? which nose? oh, glory be to heaven! so it is. now, out of me kitchen wid you, and don't be littherin' me floor with your dirty boots!" the connection of doolan with the missing colander was based on a pure assumption. just so french had adorned the portrait of miss grimshaw, which he had painted in his own mind, with spectacles. and he would have sworn to those spectacles in a court of law. just so, by extension, he saw garryowen passing the winning-post despite all the obstacles in his path. but it was the case of effie that brought home to miss grimshaw this trait with full force. "mr. french," said she one morning, entering the sitting-room where he was writing letters, "do you know effie can walk?" "i beg your pardon--what did you say?" asked mr. french, dropping his pen and turning in his chair. "the child's not a cripple at all. she can walk as well as i can." "walk! why, she's been a cripple for years! walk! why, mrs. driscoll never lets her on her feet by any chance!" "yes, but when she's alone she runs about the room, and she's as sound on her legs as i am." "but dr. o'malley said with his own mouth she was a cripple for life!" "how long ago was that?" "four years." "has he seen her lately?" "seen her lately? why, he's been in his coffin three years come next october!" "have you had no other doctor to see her?" "sure, there's no one else but rafferty at cloyne, and he's a fool--and she won't see doctors; she says they are no use to her." "well, all i can say is that i've seen her walking. she can run, and she tells me she has been able to for years, only no one will believe her. whenever they see her on her feet she says they pop her back on the couch. the poor child seems to have become so hopeless of making any one believe her that she has submitted to her fate. i believe she half believes herself that she oughtn't to walk, that it's a sort of sin; she does it more out of perversity than anything else. she's been coddled into invalidhood, and i'm going to coddle her out of it," said miss grimshaw. "and if you will come upstairs with me now, i'll show you that she's as firm on her legs as you are yourself." they went upstairs. as miss grimshaw turned the handle of the door of effie's room a scuffling noise was heard, and when they entered, the child was sitting up on the couch, flushed and bright-eyed. "why, what's all this, effie?" cried her father. "what's all this i've been hearing about your running about the room? stick your legs out, and let me see you do it." effie grinned. "i will," said she, "if you promise not to tell mrs. driscoll." for three years the unfortunate child had been suffering from no other disease but mrs. driscoll's vivid imagination and the firm belief held by her that the child's back would "snap in two" if she stood on her legs. vivid and vital, this belief, like some people's faith, refused to listen to suggestion or criticism. "i won't tell," said effie's father. "up with you and let's see you on your pins." "now," said miss grimshaw, when the evolutions were over, and miss french had demonstrated her soundness in wind and limb to the full satisfaction of her sire, "what do you think of that?" "but how did you find it out?" asked the astonished man. "she told me it as a secret." "but why didn't she tell anyone else, with a whole houseful of people to tell, this three years and more?" "she did, but no one would believe her--would they, effie?" "no," replied effie. "you told mrs. driscoll over and over again you could walk, and what did she say to you?" "she told me to 'hold my whisht and not to be talking nonsense.' she said she'd give me to the black man that lives in the oven if i put a foot to the ground, and i told papa i was all right, and could walk, if they'd let me, and he only laughed and told me not to be getting ideas in my head." "faith, and that's the truth," said her papa. "i thought it was only her fancies." "well," said miss grimshaw, "i examined her back this morning, and there is nothing wrong with it. her legs are all right. she's in good health. well, where's your invalid?" "faith, i don't know," said french. "this beats bannagher." he went to the bell and pulled it. "send up mrs. driscoll," said the master of drumgool. "send up mrs. driscoll. and what are you standing there with your mouth hanging open for?" "sure, miss effie, and what are you doin' off the couch?" cried norah, shaken out of her respect for her master by the sight of effie on her legs. "doing off the couch? away with you down, and send up mrs. driscoll. you and your couch! you've been murdering the child between you for the last three years with your couches and your coddling. off with you!" "don't be harsh to them," said effie's saviour, as norah departed in search of the housekeeper. "they did it for the best." half-an-hour later, mrs. driscoll, with her pet illusion still perfectly unshattered, returned to her kitchen to conduct the preparations for dinner, while effie, freed for ever from her bonds, sat on a stool before the nursery fire, reading mrs. brown's adventures in paris. miss grimshaw, coming down a little later, found three letters that had just come by post awaiting her. one was from mr. dashwood. it was a short and rather gloomy letter. he had asked permission to write to her, and she had been looking forward to a letter from him, for she liked him, and his recollection formed a picture in her mind pleasant to contemplate; but this short and rather gloomy screed was so unlike him that she at once guessed something wrong in his affairs. womanlike, she was not over pleased that he should permit his private worries to take the edge off his pen when he was writing to her, and she determined to leave the letter unanswered. chapter ix it was november, and it had been raining for a week. the sun had vanished, the hills had vanished, the land had all but vanished--nothing remained but the wind and the rain, the rain and the wind. effie's short lessons only consumed a couple of hours of each rain-soaked, wind-blown day. no one ever came to drumgool except, maybe, a farmer now and then to see mr. french; and the long-drawn "hoo-hoo" of the wind through the devil's keyhole, the rattling of windows fighting with the wind, and the tune of wastepipes emptying into over-full waterbutts were beginning to prey upon miss grimshaw's nerves. even mr. giveen would have been a distraction these times; but mr. giveen was now at open enmity with his kinsman, and spoiling with all the bitterness of his petty nature to do him an injury. and giveen was not french's only enemy just now. the united irish league was against him. he had let farms on the eleven months' system, and he had let farms for grazing, two high offences in the eyes of the league. "the time has come to put an end to the big grazing ranches and to plant the people on the soil," says the league, as though the people were seed potatoes. "you mustn't take a farm on an eleven-month agreement," goes on this areopagus of plunderers and short-sighted patriots. "for," continues the league, "if you do, we'll drive the cattle off your land with hazel sticks, and on you we will commit every dirty outrage that the black heart of a low-down irishman can invint, begob!" and they do. the law of the league is the law of the west of ireland. king edward does not reign there in the least. "come down here," cried mr. french one morning, standing in the hall and calling up the stairs, where he had caught the flutter of miss grimshaw's skirt. "come down here till i show you something you've never seen before. come in here." he led the way into a small room, where he received farmers and tenants, and there, sitting on a chair, was an old man with a face furrowed like a ploughed field. his battered old hat was on the floor, and he held in his hand two cows' tails, and there he sat, purblind, and twisting the tails in his hands, a living picture of age and poverty and affliction. "don't get up, ryan. sit you down where you are," said french, "and tell the young lady what you have in your hands." "sure, they're me cows' tails," piped the old fellow, like a child saying a lesson. "me beautiful cows' tails, that the blackguards chopped off wid a knife--divil mend them!--and i lyin' in bed in the grey of the marnin'. 'listen,' i says to me wife. 'what ails the crathurs and they boohooin' like that?' 'get up an' see,' she says. and up i gets, and slips on me breeches and coat, and out i goes, and finds thim hangin' over the rail, dhrippin' wid blood, and they cut off wid a knife. oh, the blackguards, to chop their knives into the poor innocent crathurs, and lave me widout a cow, and the rint comin' due, and me wife sick in her bed, and all. sure, what way is that to be thratin' a man just bekase i niver answered their divil's notice to quit?" "cut off his cows' tails?" cried the girl in horror. "were they alive?" "yes," said french. "it's little those ruffians care for an animal--or a man either." "oh, but what a cruel, sneaking thing to do! why did they do it?" "because he would not give up his bit of a farm. and they call themselves irishmen; and the worst of the business is, they are. well, ryan, keep your seat, and i'll send you in a drop of whisky. and don't bother about the rent--i expect the next thing will be they'll visit me. faith, and they'll get a warm reception if they do!" mr. french left the room, followed by the girl. "that's the sort of thing that's been the ruin of ireland," said he, as he pulled the sitting-room bell for norah. "talk of landlords! good heavens! when was there ever a landlord would cut a cow's tail off? when was there ever a landlord would mutilate horses? did ye ever hear of a landlord firing a gun through the window of a house where a lonely old woman was and nearly blow the roof off her skull, all because her son refused to 'strip his farm,' as they call it? and that was done ten miles from here a month before you came. norah, get the whisky and give old ryan a glassful and a bite to eat. he's sitting in there in the little study, with his two cow's tails, those blackguards have cut off, in his hand. take him into the kitchen and dry him, and let him sit by the fire; and tell mrs. driscoll to give him something for his old wife, for she's sick in bed. "yes, that's what ireland has come to. a lot of poor, ignorant people like ryan, ruled by a syndicate of ruffians, that make their own laws and don't care a button for the law of god or the law of the land. it's unbelievable, but there it is. and now they'll be going for me. i've had several anonymous letters in the last month, threatening boycotting or worse, if i don't amend my ways. much i care for them! look, the rain's cleared off. i'm going to the meet of the hounds at drumboyne. would you care to drive with me? if you had a riding habit, we might have ridden." "but i have a riding habit. it's pretty old, but----" "up with you and put it on, then," said mr. french; "and i'll tell moriarty to saddle the grey mare for you. she'll be round at the door in ten minutes." twenty minutes later, miss grimshaw, in a riding habit and covert coat, relic of her money-making days with hardmuth, was accompanying mr. french down the drive, she on the grey mare, he on a raw-boned hunter with a head which had suggestions about it of a fiddle and the devil. she was a good horsewoman. in london, her only extravagance had been an early morning canter in the park on a hired hack. it was for this she had bought the habit. they struck the road. it was twenty minutes past nine, and as the meet was at half-past ten, they had plenty of time. the clouds had ceased raining, had risen to an immense height, and there, under the influence of some wind of the upper atmosphere, had become mackerelled--a grey, peaceful sky, showing here and there through a rift the faintest tinge of blue. the air smelt of the rain and the rain-wet earth, and the hills lay distinct, grey, peaceful, wonderfully clear. nowhere else in the world but in ireland do you get such weather as this. hennessy, the master of the hounds, lived at a place called barrington court, seven miles south of drumboyne. he was a young man, a bachelor, and a pretty fast liver; he owned a good bit of land, and, like every other landowner in the county, was pretty much under the thumb of the league. but he was, unlike french, a diplomat. "that's hennessy," said mr. french, when the turning of the road suddenly showed them the long, straggling street of drumboyne, the market cross, the hounds, the master and the whips, and about two dozen horsemen, mounted on all sorts and conditions of nags, all congregated about the cross. "we're just in time. the first meet of the season, too, and a grand day for the scent." violet grimshaw, who had never until this seen a meet of the hounds except in the illustrated papers, looked before her with interest not unmixed with amusement at the crowd surrounding the cross. all sorts of rabble had gathered from north, south, east, and west. gossoons without a shoe to their feet; chaps from "over beyant the big bog," in knee-breeches and armed with shillelaghs; dirty little girls dragging younger sisters by the hand to have a look at the "houn's"; father roche, from cloyne, who had stopped to say a cheery word to hennessy; long doolan, the rat catcher, in an old red waistcoat; billy sheelan, of the station inn, the same who had directed mr. dashwood on his fishing expedition, and who, by popular report, was ruining his mother and "drinking the inn dry"--all these and a lot more were chattering and laughing, shouting one to the other, and giving advice to the whips, when french and his companion, rounding the turn of the road, made their appearance. the effect was magical. the talking and the laughing ceased. men fell away from one another, and as french rode up to the master, three farmers who had been talking to him turned their horses so that their backs were presented to the newcomers. by the inn door, which was directly opposite the cross, french perceived mr. giveen. mr. giveen vanished into the inn, but a moment later his face appeared at the barroom window, and remained there during all that followed. "well, hennessy," said the master of drumgool, appearing to take no notice of the coldness of his reception, "you've a fine day for the first meet. allow me to introduce you to a young lady who is staying with me. mr. hennessy--miss grimshaw. and where are you going to draw?" "barrington scrub, i believe," replied hennessy, saluting the girl. "yes, it's not a bad day. do you intend to follow?" "no. we'll go to see you draw the scrub, that's all. why, there's father roche! and how are you to-day? faith, it's younger you're looking every time i meet you. and why haven't i seen you at drumgool these months?" as he turned to talk to the priest several of the hunt drew close to hennessy and spoke to him in a low tone, but so vehemently that violet, observing everything, overheard several of their remarks. "not a fut does he follow the houn's. what do i care about him? sure, giveen said he swore he'd fling the whole of the castle french property into grazing land to spite the league. listen now, and it's the last time i'll say it. if he goes, we stay." "french!" said the master, detaching himself from the group. "hullo!" replied mr. french. "just a word with you." he drew him aside. "there's a lot of bad blood here. it's not my fault, but you know these chaps, and they have a down on you, every one of them, and they say if you follow to the scrub, they'll all stay behind. now, don't get waxy. you know it's not my fault, but there it is." french's eyes blazed. "follow you to the scrub!" said he in a loud, ringing voice. "thank you for the hint, dick hennessy. follow you with that pack of half-mounted rat-catchers! i was going to ride to the scrub to see if there was ever a fox white-livered enough to turn its tail on them, and, sure, if he did, he couldn't run for laughing. and, talking of tails," said mr. french, turning from the master and addressing the market-place, "if the gentleman who cut off the tails of old ryan's cows will only step forward, i'll accommodate him with my opinion of him here and now. and it's not the whip-end of my hunting-crop i'll do it with, either." no gentleman present was at all desirous of being accommodated, for french turned the scale at fourteen stone, all muscle, and he was a match for any two men present. he waited a moment. then he took off his hat to miss grimshaw. "i must apologise to you," he said, "for losing my temper. let us on to cloyne, for this is no place for a lady to be, at all." he touched the fiddle-headed devil he was riding with the spur, making him plunge and scatter the ragamuffins who were hanging on the scene with open mouths, and, cannoning against and nearly unseating one of the "half-mounted rat-catchers," he took the road to cloyne, followed by the girl. it was the first time he had come in clash with his countrymen; the storm had been brewing a long time, but it had burst at last. to think that he, michael french, in his own county, had been ordered not to follow the hounds by a herd of dirty-fisted petty farmers was a thought to make his blood boil. petty spite, needle-sharp--that was the weapon the league were using against michael french by day. in their own disgusting language, he was a "first offender." even yet, if he chose to give in and eat humble pie out of the grimy hands of the men who would be his masters, he might find forgiveness. if not, boycotting would follow, and who knows what else? he knew this, and he knew that he had no hope of help from the law. the police might arrest his tormenters if they were caught trying to do him an injury; but the jury, if they were tried, would be pretty sure to let the offenders slip. and it was a hundred to one they would never be caught, for these people are trained sneaks; no area sneak is more soft-footed or cunning than the gentleman with the black cloth mask and the knife, who comes like a thief in the night to work brutal mutilation on cattle. garryowen was the only thing he was afraid of; but in moriarty he had a rock of strength to depend upon. "did you see dick giveen?" said he, as the girl ranged alongside of him. "he's had a finger in this pie. did you see him at the inn window with his nose to the pane? he knew i'd come to the meet, and he came to see those chaps get the better of me." "they didn't get that," said violet. "they looked like whipped puppies when you were talking to them. yes, i'm sure that man has been doing you injury. i heard one of the farmers say to mr. hennessy that giveen had said you would do your best to spite the league. i wish i hadn't gone with him in the boat that day. if i hadn't, this would not have occurred." "i don't care for those chaps so much as for dick giveen," said he. "he's a bad man to vex. these fools always are. he'll be on my tracks now like a stoat trying to do me some dirty trick. he'll watch and wait. i know him. but if he comes within five miles of drumgool, i'll put a bullet in him, or my name's not michael french." they rode on through the grey, still day. now and again a whiff of turf smoke from a cabin by the way made the air delicious. over the black bog pitches and wild, broken land a soft wind had risen, blowing from the south, and bringing with it the scent of the earth, and far ahead of them a trace of smoke from the chimneys of cloyne went up against the background of hills. mr. french and miss grimshaw stopped at the station inn at cloyne, and put the horses up. french ordered some bread and cheese. "and now," said he, "while they're getting it ready, would you like to see a real old irish cabin? i'll take you to see old mrs. moriarty down the road, and you can amuse yourself talking to her for a minute, while i run in and see janes, my agent. mrs. moriarty is a witch, so they say, but she's true to the frenches. she was a kitchen-maid at drumgool in my grandfather's time. she believes in fairies and leprechauns, and all that nonsense. here we are." he stopped at the door of a cabin a hundred yards away from the inn and knocked. then, without waiting for an answer, he lifted the latch and opened the door. "are you there, kate?" cried he into the dark interior of the place. "sure, and where else would i be?" replied a wheezy voice. "who are you, lettin' the draught in on me? oh! glory be to heaven! it's mr. michael himself." "come in," said french, and the girl followed him into the one room where mrs. moriarty kept herself and her hens--two of them were roosting on the rafters--and where she was sitting now over a bit of fire, with her bonnet on to keep the "cowld" from her head, and a short black pipe between her teeth. it was an appalling place considered as a human dwelling. the floor was of clay, the window had only one practicable pane, the rest were broken and stuffed with rags. a heap of rags in the corner did duty for a bed. by the fire and beside the old lady, who was sitting on a stool, a bantam hen brooding in the warmth cocked one bloodshot eye up at the visitors. "i've brought a young lady to see you, kate," said mr. french. "talk to her and tell her of the fairies, for i'm going down the road to see mr. janes, and i won't be a minute, and i'll send you a drop of whisky from the inn to warm your gizzard when i get back." "sure, it's welcome she is," said the old woman. "but it isn't a seat i have to ask her to sit on, and i stuck to this ould stool wid the rheumatiz in me legs. get out wid you, norah," making a dive with a bit of stick at the bantam, which, taking the hint, fluttered into a corner, "and make way for the young lady. you'll excuse her, miss; she's the only one of siven i brought up wid me own hand. sure, it's not from anywhere in these parts you've come from?" she was peering up from under her bonnet at the girl's face, and violet, fascinated by that terrible purblind gaze, thought that she had never seen tragedy written on a human countenance so plainly as on the stone-like mask which the red glimmer of the turf fire showed up to her beneath the bonnet of the old woman. "no," said she; "i come from america." "ochone!" cried mrs. moriarty. "sure, it's there me boy mike went forty years ago--forty years ago!--and niver a word or a letther from him for twenty long years. maybe you never chanced to hear of him, miss? he was in the bricklayin'. six-fut-six he stood widout his brogues, and the lovely red hair on the head of him was curly as a rethraver's back. and, sure, what am i talkin' about? it's grey he'd be now. ochone! afther all thim years!" "no," said the girl, "i never heard of him; but america is a big place. cheer up. you may hear of him yet, and here's something that may bring you luck!" she took a shilling from the pocket of her covert coat and put it in the hand of the old woman, who took it and blessed her, and wrapped it in a scrap of paper. "the blessin's of god on you, and may the divil bile his pot wid the man that desaves you! oh! sure, it's the face of a shillin' i haven't seen for more than a twel'month, and i afeared to say a word, for the guardians do be strugglin' to get me into the house. half-a-crown a week and a bandage for me poor leg is all i've had out of the blackgyards, and they sittin' on the poor wid one hand and fillin' their bellies wid the other. atin' and dhrinkin' and havin' the hoight of fine times they do be wid the money of the parish. may it stick in their livers till the divil chokes their black mouths with burnin' turves an' bastes them wid the bilin' tears of the poor they do be defraudin'! and they're all up against mr. michael. whisht! now, and i'll tell you somethin'. shusey gallagher, she's servant beyant over there at blood, the farrier's; she tould me to kape it saycret they was going to play their tricks on mr. michael's horses if he went on lettin' his land to the graziers. she said they was going to----" at this moment the cabin door was flung open and a ragged urchin popped his head in, shouted, "boo!" and clapped the door to again. it was a favourite pastime with the cloyne children to shout through old mrs. moriarty's door, and then watch her raging through the window. "away wid yiz!" yelled mrs. moriarty, forgetting violet, mr. french's enemies, and everything else in her excitement, turning to the window, where she knew her tormenter would be, and shaking her fist at the grinning face peeping in at her. "away wid yiz, or i'll cut your lights out, comin' shoutin' through me dure, you divil's baboon, wid your ugly gob stuck at me window there! gr-r-r! out wid you, you baste, you, or i'll lay you flat so your mother won't know you wid a sod of turf! off wid you and ax your father what he meant gettin' such a monkey-faced parrit and lettin' it loose on the parish widout a chain to it, you cross-eyed son of a blackgyard, you!" all of which was better than pearls to the one at the window. horrified at the language, and fearing a stroke for mrs. moriarty, the girl ran to the door and opened it, only to see a small gossoon, bare-legged and bare-footed, vanishing round the corner. then she came back, anxious to get out of mrs. moriarty more information concerning the plans against french, but the source had dried up. the old lady declared herself to be moidhered, and her wits to be all astray. "well, listen to me," said violet. "if you hear any more of those men going to harm mr. french or his horses let me know, and i'll give you a silver five-shilling piece for yourself." mrs. moriarty understood that. at this moment the door opened, and mr. french appeared, and, leaving the old lady to her pipe and the prospect of a glass of whisky, they went back to the inn for luncheon. the hideous, old-fashioned irish custom of dinner at four o'clock had been put aside on account of miss grimshaw. seven o'clock was the dinner hour at drumgool now, and after dinner that night, effie having departed for bed in charge of norah, violet, with a ball of red wool and two long knitting-needles, took her seat at a corner of the fireplace in the sitting-room. the idea of a red knitted petticoat for old mrs. moriarty had occurred to her on the way home, and she was putting it now into practice. french had been rather gloomy on the way home, and at dinner. it was evident that the incident at the meet had hit him hard. money worries could not depress the light-hearted, easy-going gentleman, who had a soul above money and the small affairs of life. it was the feeling of enmity against himself that cast him out of spirits for the first time in years. for the first time in life he felt the presence, and the influence against him, of the thing we call fate. his whole soul, heart, and mind were centred on garryowen. in garryowen he felt he had the instrument which would bring him name and fame and fortune. it was no fanciful belief. he knew horses profoundly; here was the thing he had been waiting for all his life, and everything was conspiring to prevent him using it. first, there was lewis and his debt--that was bad enough. second, was the fact that he would have to complete the training of the horse in a hostile country, and that country the ireland of to-day, a place where law is not and where petty ruffianism has been cultivated as a fine art. with giveen for a spy on his movements, with a hundred scoundrels ready to do him an injury, and with lewis only waiting to put out his hand and seize the horse, he was, it must be admitted, in a pretty bad way to the attainment of his desires. but he had a friend, and as long as a man has a friend, however humble, he is not altogether in the hands of fate. the girl sitting by the fire, knitting a red petticoat for old mrs. moriarty, had been exercising her busy mind for the past few days on the seeming hopelessness of the problem presented to her in french and his affairs. she had inherited a good deal of her father's business sharpness. she was not the niece of simon gretry for nothing, and a way out of the difficulty had presented itself before her; at least, she fancied it was a way. at nine o'clock, after a look round the stables, mr. french came in, and, sitting down in the arm-chair opposite the girl, opened the _irish times_ and began to read it, listlessly skimming the columns without finding anything of interest, moving restlessly in his chair, lighting his pipe and letting it go out again. miss grimshaw, without pausing in her rapid knitting or dropping a stitch, watched him. then she said, "do you know i've been thinking?" "what have you been thinking?" "that i've found a way out of your difficulty about garryowen." "and what's that?" asked french, who, since the affair of effie, had conceived a deep respect for miss grimshaw's cleverness and perspicuity. "well, it's this way," said she. "that man lewis is your stumbling-block." "call him my halter," said the owner of garryowen, "for if ever a man had a blind horse in a halter, it's me and him." "no, i will not call him any such thing. he's only a moneylender. you owe him the money. garryowen will belong to him after the third of april. well, let him have garryowen." "faith, there's no letting about it." "let him have garryowen, i say, but not until after the race." "why--what do you mean?" "i mean this. would it not be possible to take garryowen away from here secretly? he does not belong to mr. lewis yet. take him away to some lonely place, train him there, and run him for the race. if he wins, you will make money, won't you? and if he loses, why, he will belong to mr. lewis." french rose up and paced the floor. "that's not a bad idea," said he. "by george! it's good, if we could do it. only, could we keep it hid?" "does mr. lewis know you are running him for the race?" "no. he doesn't know i've got him, and the debt's not due till a fortnight before the event. and, by jove! if he does see my name in the racing lists, he'll put it down as my cousin, michael french's--the one mr. dashwood met--for michael runs horses in england every day in the week, and his name's as well known as the monument. faith! and it's a bright idea, for i'd get rid of all this crew here at one sweep." mr. french went to the door, opened it, and called: "norah!" "yes, sir?" "bring the whisky!" "but," continued mr. french, "the only question is where could i take the horse? faith! and i have it. todd mead--he's a man you've never heard of--has an old shanty down in sligo. he uses it for breeding polo ponies, and there's a hundred square mile of heath that you could train a dromedary on and not a soul to see. he lives in dublin, and keeps a manager there, and he'd give me stabling there, maybe, for nothing, for he has more room than he wants. it's a big streeling barn of a place." "you say the debt to mr. lewis only comes due a few weeks before the race?" asked miss grimshaw. "yes." "will he seize your things immediately the debt is due, or might he give you a few weeks' grace?" "not an hour's. i borrowed the money, giving him the house and live-stock as security, and the bit of land that's unmortgaged, and he'll clap a man in ten minutes after the clock strikes on the day the money is due." "but if you have borrowed the money on the live stock, surely, since garryowen is part of the live stock, it would be unlawful to remove him?" "listen to me," said mr. french. "i borrowed the money before i owned garryowen. sure, the main reason i borrowed it was to buy him. he's not part of the security." "well, then, mr. lewis can't touch him." "yes, maybe, by law. but how long does it take to prove a thing by law? suppose he puts a man in. well, the man will seize the colt with everything else; then the lawyers will go to work to prove the colt's not part of the security and they'll prove it, maybe, about next june twelvemonth, and by that time two city and suburbans will have been run, and garryowen will be good for nothing but to make glue of. besides, these blackguards here may do him an injury. no, the plan is to slip out by the back door. major lawson, an old friend of mine, has a stable at epsom. we can bring the colt there two days before the race. i'm beginning to see clear before me and, faith, it's through your eyes i'm seeing." "you are sure mr. lewis can't come down on you before april?" "no. i paid him his half-year's interest last month. i paid him close on two hundred pounds." "well, if you paid him his interest next april, wouldn't he be satisfied?" "of course he'd be satisfied, but how am i to pay it? i tell you, it will take me every penny i have for the expenses. there's no margin for paying moneylenders. "i've made my calculations. by scraping and screwing, with some money i've hid away, i can just manage to run the colt, pay expenses, and back him for a thousand--and that's all." "but, see here. why not back him for only eight hundred, and pay mr. lewis his two hundred?" "now, there you are," said french. "and that shows you haven't grasped the big thing i'm after. suppose i pay lewis his two hundred, and only back the colt for eight hundred, do you know what that would make me lose if he starts at, say, a hundred to one, and wins? i'd lose twenty thousand pounds. it's on the cards that for every hundred pounds i lay on garryowen i'll win ten thousand." "so that, if he wins, and you have the full thousand on him?" "i'll win a hundred thousand." "and if he loses?" "faith, i'll be stripped as naked as bryan o'lynn." there was a fine sporting flavour in this deal with fortune that pleased miss grimshaw somehow. "there is one more thing," said she. "please excuse me for asking you the question, but if you lose the thousand, it will be all right, i suppose? i mean, you will be able to meet your liabilities?" "sure, you do not take me for a blackleg? of course, i'll be able to pay. isn't it a debt of honour?" "good. then go in and win. isn't that what the boys say when they are fighting? i'll help as far as my power will allow me. will you write to mr. todd--what's his name?" "no," said mr. french. "i'll go to dublin to-morrow and see him." chapter x "vilits, vilits, vilits, your arner!" "oh, bother violets!" said mr. french. he had just come down the steps of the kildare street club, he had lost five pounds at cards, the afternoon was drizzling, and he was being pestered to buy violets. the violet vendor, a fantastical, filthy old woman in a poke bonnet, heedless of the rebuke, pursued her avocation and mr. french, trotting like a dog behind him, chanting her wares, her misfortunes, his good looks. "sure, they're only a penny the bunch; sure, they're only a penny the bunch. oh, bless your han'some face! sure, you wouldn't be walkin' the shtreets widout a flower in yer coat. let your hand drap into your pocket and find a penny, and it's the blessin's of heaven will be pourin' on you before the night's out. sure, it's a bunch i'll be givin' you for nothin' at all, but just the pleasure of fixin' it in your coat, an' they as big as cabbiges and on'y a penny the bunch." it was a kind of song, a recitative, and invocation. "i tell you i have no change," flashed the flowerless one. "i tell you i have no change." the priestess of flora halted and sniffed. "change!" said she. "no, nor nothin' to change." mr. french laughed as he opened his umbrella and hailed a passing outside car. "faith," said he, as he mounted on the side of the car, "she's about hit the bull's-eye." "did you spake, sir?" said the jarvey. "no, i was only thinking. drive me to leeson street. and where on earth did you pick up this old rattletrap of a horse from?" "pick him up!" said the jarvey with a grin. "faith, the last time i picked him up was when he tumbled down in dame street yesterday afternoon, wid a carload of luggudge dhrivin' to westland row." "you seem to have a talent for picking up rubbish, then?" said mr. french. "it's the fault of the p'leece," replied the other with an extension of the grin that nature, whisky, and the profession of car-driving had fixed upon his face. "it's the fault of the p'leece, bad 'cess to them!" "and how's that?" asked mr. french incautiously. "sure, they forbids me to refuse a fare. jay up, y' divil! what are yiz shyin' at? did y' never see a barra of greens before? now thin, now thin, what are you takin' yourself to be, or what ails you, at all, at all?" the car stopped at leeson street. mr. french descended, gave the jarvey a shilling for his fare and sixpence for a drink, and knocked at the hall door. mr. mead was in, and the old butler, who opened the door, showed the visitor straight into the library--a comfortable, old-fashioned room, where, before a bright fire, mr. mead, a small, bright-eyed, apple-cheeked, youthful-looking person of eighty or so, was seated in an armchair reading jorrocks' "jaunts and jollities." "why, there you are!" cried mead, jumping up. "and there you are!" said mr. french, clasping the old fellow's hand. "why, it's younger you're growing every time i see you! did you get my wire? oh! you did, did you? two o'clock! the scoundrels! i sent it off from the shelbourne at twelve. no matter. and how's the family?" "all right," replied mead, putting jorrocks on the mantelshelf and ringing the bell. "billy married last winter. you remember i wrote to you? and kate's engaged--james, a bottle of the blue-seal port!--and what's the news?" "news!" said french with a short laugh. "what news do you expect from the west of ireland except news of men being plundered and cattle maimed? news! i'm leaving the place; and that's why i wanted to see you. see here, mead." mead, who was opening a bottle of the blue-seal port--an operation which he always conducted with his own hands--listened while french poured into his attentive ears the tale of his woes. "the blackguards!" said the old man when french had finished. "and do you mean to say you've gone off and left the horse behind you for these chaps to maim? maybe----" "oh! moriarty is there," replied french. "he's sleeping in the stable, and andy is sleeping in the loft. but it's on my mind that some dirty trick will be played before we get the colt to england, and that's why i've called to see you. look here; you've got that place for your polo ponies down in sligo. will you let me take garryowen over there and finish his training?" "you mean my place at ballyhinton?" "yes." "sure, i've sold it. didn't you know?" "sold it!" "eight months ago." "good heavens!" said french. "that does me. and i've come all the way to dublin to see you about it. was there ever such luck!" "you see," said mead, "i'm not as young as i was. bryan--the chap i had there--was swindling me right and left, so i sold off, lock, stock, and barrel. i'm sorry." "faith, and so am i," said french. the big man, for the first time in his life, felt knocked out. never for a moment did he dream of giving in, but he was winded. besides all the worries we know of, a number of small things had declared against him, culminating in his loss at cards. he felt that he was in a vein of bad luck, under a cloud, and that until the cloud lifted and the luck changed it was hopeless for him to make plans or do anything. he took leave of mead and returned to the shelbourne on foot. the rain had ceased, and as he drew near the hotel the sun broke through the clouds. as he entered the hotel he ran almost into the arms of a young man dressed in a fawn-coloured overcoat, who, with his hat on the back of his head, was standing in the hall, a cigarette between his lips and a matchbox in his hand. "i beg your pardon," said mr. french; then, starting back, "why, sure to goodness, if it isn't mr. dashwood!" chapter xi "come into the smoking-room," said mr. dashwood when they had shaken hands. "this is luck! i only came over by the morning boat. i'm coming down west. oh, i'll tell you all about it in a minute. come on into the smoking-room and have a drink." mr. dashwood seemed in the highest of good spirits. he led the way into the smoking-room, rang the bell, ordered two whiskies and an apollinaris and cigars, chaffed the hibernian waiter, who was a "character," and then, comfortably seated, began his conversation with french. "here's luck!" said mr. dashwood. "luck!" responded french, taking a sip of his drink. "this is the first drink i've had to-day," said mr. dashwood. "i've felt as seedy as an owl. it was an awfully rough crossing, but i didn't touch anything. i tell you what, french, since i saw you last i've been going it hard, but i've pulled up. you see," said mr. dashwood, "i'm not a drinking man, and when a fellow of that sort goes on the jag, he makes a worse jag of it than one of your old seasoned topers." "that's so," said french. "and if you start to try to match one of those chaps, it's like matching yourself against a rum barrel. what drove you to it?" "a woman," said mr. dashwood. mr. french laughed. "two women, i should say. i got tangled up with a woman." "and you tried to cut the knot with a whisky bottle. well, you're not the first. fire away, and tell us about it." "it's this way," said mr. dashwood. "a year ago i met a miss hitchin. she was one of those red-haired girls who wear green gowns, don't you know? and go in for things--herbert spencer and all that sort of stuff, don't you know? i met her at a show a johnny took me to for fun, a kind of literary club business. then, next day i met her again by accident in the park, and we walked round the serpentine. you see, i'd never met a woman like that before. she lived in rooms by herself, like a man, and she had a latchkey. "i wasn't in love with her," continued the ingenuous mr. dashwood, "but, somehow or another, before i'd known her ten days i was engaged to her. awfully funny business. you see, she had a lot of mind of her own, and i admire intellect in a woman, and she was a right good sort. i told her all about my life, and she wanted me to lead a higher one. said she never could marry me unless i did. the strange thing about her was she always made me feel as if i was in a sunday school, though she wasn't pious in the least. as a matter of fact, she didn't believe in religion; that is to say, church, and all that; but she was a socialist. "awfully strong on dividing up every one's money so that every one would have five pounds a week. i used to fight her over that, for she had three hundred a year of her own, and stuck to it; besides, i didn't see the force of making all the rotters in the world happy, and drunk, with five quid a week out of my pocket; but she never would give in; always had some card up her sleeve to trump me with. "you see, i'm not a political johnny, and hadn't studied up the question. but we never fought really over that. men and women don't ever really fight over that sort of thing; and i'd always give in for a quiet life, and we'd go off and have tea at the british museum and look at the mummies and the marbles and things, and after six months or so i got quite fond of her in a way, and i began to look forward to marrying her. "i used to mug up herbert spencer and a chap called marx, and i never looked at another woman, and scarcely ever made a bet: and it might have gone on to us getting two latchkeys only----" mr. dashwood stopped. "only i met another girl," he went on. "that put me in a beastly position, and the long and short of it is i went on the razzle-dazzle from the botheration of it all. miss h. found out, and she cut the knot herself. i'm glad to be free," finished mr. dashwood, "but i wish it had happened some other way. in fact, i wish i'd never met miss h. at all." "and who is the other girl?" asked mr. french. "oh, you know her." "i?" "yes; she's down at your place now." "not miss grimshaw?" "yes, miss grimshaw. and that's the reason i'm going down west. i want to see her and tell her all." french whistled; then he laughed. "you seem in mighty good spirits over her," said he. "how do you know she'll have anything to do with you? have you asked her?" "asked her! no. how could i, when i was tied up like that? that's what drove me off my balance. but i'm going to ask her, and that's why i've come over to ireland." "look here," said mr. french. "yes?" "you said when i met you in the hall you were going to put up at mrs. sheelan's. you're not. come and stay at drumgool, on one condition." "what's that?" "that you don't ask her. first of all, you haven't known her long enough; and she hasn't known you long enough to find out whether you are properly matched. second, i'm not so sure that i'm not going to ask her myself." "i beg your pardon," said mr. dashwood. "oh, you needn't beg my pardon. i'm just telling you what's in my mind. i'm so moithered with one thing and another, i've no heart for anything at present, but just this horse i told you about, you remember--garryowen. and i'm not a man to stand between two young people if their minds are set on each other. but the question is, are they? you care for her, but does she care for you? so, take an open field and no favour. don't go sticking at mrs. sheelan's, seeing her maybe only once in a week, but come right to drumgool. no proposing, mind you, or any of that rubbish. i'm giving you your chance fair and square, and i'm telling you fair and square it's in my mind that i may ask her myself. so, there you are. take the offer or leave it." mr. dashwood paused for a moment before this astonishing proposition, which upset all his preconceived ideas of love affairs; then the straightness and strangeness and sense of it went to his heart. surely never had a man a more generous rival than this, and the sporting nature and the humour of it completed the business, and he held out his hand. "right," said he. "another man would have acted differently. yes, i'll come. and i'll play the game; get to know her better, and then, why, if she cares for me, it's the fortune of war." "that's it," said french, "and now i want to tell you about the horse." he gave the full history of his predicament, of the league, and the money worries, and the enemies who seemed bent on destroying his chance of success. "if i could only get the horse out of the country," said french. "but i can't." "can't you?" said bobby, who had followed the tale with sparkling eyes and rising colour. "who says you can't? i say you can, and i'll show you how." he rose up and paced the floor. "don't speak to me. this is simply frabjous! why, my dear chap, i've got just what you want." "what's that?" "a place where you can train half a dozen horses if you want to." "where?" "where? why, down at crowsnest, in sussex. it's not my place; it belongs, 's'matter of fact, to emmanuel ibbetson. he's chucked horses, and he's going to pull the place down and rebuild when he comes back from africa. i can get a loan of it for three or four months." "what would the rent be?" asked mr. french. "nothing. he'll lend me it. he's just now constructing a big-game expedition, and they start in a few days. i saw him only the day before yesterday at white's. lucky, ain't it, that i thought of it? i'll wire to him now asking for the permit. the place is furnished all right; there's a caretaker in it. it's a bungalow with no end of fine stables. the martens is the name of it." "begad," said mr. french, "this is like providence!" "isn't it? you hold on here, and i'll send the wire. i'll send it to his chambers in the albany, and we'll have the reply back to-night or to-morrow morning." when the wire was despatched, mr. french proposed an adjournment to the kildare-street club, whither, accordingly, the two gentlemen took their way. "if," said he, "we can pull this business off, i'll never forget it to you. you don't know what this means to me. it's not the money so much--though that's a good deal--but it's the outwitting and getting the better of those scoundrels, dick giveen and the rest of them. even if your friend agrees to lend us this place, all our troubles aren't ended. i want to get the horse away without any one knowing where i'm taking him to. i'll have to take moriarty and andy and i can't leave effie behind, for if i did i'd have to write to her, and they open the letters at the post-office in cloyne, and even if they didn't open them they'd see the post-marks. i mustn't leave a clue behind me to tell where i'm gone to, and with that beast of a giveen nosing about like a rat it'll be difficult rather; but we'll do it!" "yes," said mr. dashwood, "we'll do it." the excitement of the business filled him with pleasurable anticipations; and he had not reckoned on emmanuel ibbetson in vain, for when they got back to the shelbourne in the evening they found a wire from that gentleman. it only contained three words: "yes, with pleasure." with this telegram there was another. it was from miss grimshaw, and it ran: "come back at once." chapter xii the day mr. french left drumgool on his visit to dublin it rained. croagh mahon had been winding himself with scarves of mist all the day before, and he had come up so close to drumgool that you might have hit him with a biscuit, to use moriarty's expression. the weather kept the great mountain for ever in fantastic movement, now retreating, now advancing. he grew and shrank in a wizard way with the changes of the atmosphere. to-day he would be immense, slate-coloured, strewn with dim ravines standing beneath the subdued beauty of the quiet winter daylight, a sure sign that on the morrow he would be blotted out. fine weather would cast him far away, and he would stand, heather purple in the blue distance, but still calling you to come to him. when mr. french departed for the station the weather was clear, and miss grimshaw, having watched him drive away, strolled down the garden, then through a little wicket she passed into the kitchen garden, and from there along the uphill path to the cliffs. there was little wind on the cliffs, and the sea was coming in unruffled, yet hugely stirring in league-long lapses of swell. boom! the whole coast answered with a deep organ note to the leisurely breaking of the billows. boom! you could hear the voice of the devil's kitchen, the voices of the seven sisters, the voices of the long black strand, the voices of the headlands, as billow after billow struck the coast--great waves from the very heart of the ocean; and the snarl of the pebbles to the undertow on the strand beneath could be heard shrill like the voice of each dying wave, "i have come from afar--afar--afar!" no other sound. not a whisper from the land stretching away to the distant hills under the dull grey sky; not a whisper from the heaving sea stretching away to the fleckless grey horizon. boom! "i have come from afar--afar--afar!" nothing more except the cry of a gull. the girl stood on the cliff edge, looking and listening. the air was sweet with the recent rain, invigorating as wine, clear as crystal, filled with ozone from the seaweed-strewn shore and the perfume of earth from the rain-soaked land. she could see the seven sisters seated in their rings of foam. miles of coast lay on either hand, cliff, and headland, and bay singing together and being sung to by the waves, tremendous, majestic, desolate, just as they sang and were sung to a million years ago, just as they will sing and be sung to a million years hence. the recollection of mr. giveen, called up in her mind by the sea, brought french and his troubles before her, the league and its pettiness, and old ryan and his cows' tails. before the tremendous seascape all these things shrank to their true proportions, and the booming of the billows seemed like a voice commenting on it all, yet indifferent to the doings, the hopes, and aims of man as death. a spot of rain touched her cheek, and she turned from the cliff and began the descent towards the house. at the gate leading into the kitchen garden a dirty and draggle-tailed girl without boots or shoes, a girl of about fourteen, with a dirty face, was endeavouring to unravel the mystery of the latch--it was a patent latch with a trick bar in the staple--and failing. miss grimshaw came to her assistance, opened the gate, and held it open for the other to pass through, but the damsel did not enter. she stood with eyes downcast. then she looked up, then she looked down, then---- "if you plaze, miss," said she, "are you the young lady ould mrs. moriarty tould me to ax for?" "i'm sure i don't know," laughed violet, then, remembering the name, "do you mean old mrs. moriarty at cloyne?" "yes, miss." "well, why did she send you?" "if you plaze, miss, i'm shusey gallagher." "yes?" "i'm the servant at the blacksmith's, miss, and ould mrs. moriarty sez to me to keep me ears open to hear if the bhoys was afther playin' any tricks on mr. frinch, an' she'd give me a sixpence, miss; so i lays wid me ears open, pretendin' to be aslape, and i heard him say to his wife: 'it's fixed for thursday night,' says he. 'what's fixed?' says she. 'frinch's job,' says he." "yes, yes," cut in miss grimshaw. "but who were these people speaking?" "mr. blood, the blacksmith, miss, and his wife, and i lyin' wid me ears open and they thinkin' me aslape. 'what are they goin' to do?' says she. 'hamstring the coult,' says he. 'garryowen?' says she. 'the same,' says he. 'and how many of them on the job?' says she. 'only one,' says he. 'that'll larn ould frinch,' says she. 'and who's goin' to do it?' 'black larry,' he says, 'and now shut your head, for it's tired i am and wants to go to slape.'" "good heavens!" said miss grimshaw. "yes, miss," replied the taleteller, evidently pleased with the effect of her information. "and ould mrs. moriarty, when i tould her, 'run, shusey,' says she, 'hot-fut to dhrumgool, and ax for the young lady and give her me rispicts, an' tell her what you've tould me, and maybe she won't forget you for your thrubble.'" "that she won't," said miss grimshaw, taking her purse from her pocket and half a crown from her purse. she also took a sixpence, and, giving the child the sixpence, she showed her the half-crown. "i will give you that," said she, "next friday if what you have told me is true, and if you say nothing about this to any one else. tell old mrs. moriarty i will call and see her and thank her very much for sending you. now, mind, if you say a word of this to any one else you won't get the half-crown." susie gallagher, whose mouth had flown open wide at the sight of the half-crown, closed it again. "plaze, miss, is the whole half-crown for me?" "yes, if you don't say a word." "not a word, miss; sure, i'd bite me tongue off before i'd let it be tellin' a word." "and go on keeping your ears open," said miss grimshaw, "and let me know if you hear anything more." "yes, miss." "that'll do," said miss grimshaw, and susie gallagher departed running, taking a hop, skip, and a jump now and then, presumably as an outlet for her emotions. when this desirable and faithful servitor had vanished round the corner, miss grimshaw passed through the kitchen-garden towards the stables. she wanted to find moriarty. the news had shocked her, but as yet she could scarcely believe in its truth. susie gallagher was not a person to bear conviction, however easily she might bear tales, but moriarty would be able to decide. moriarty was in the stableyard with doolan. they were overhauling the fishing-tackle of the past season, deep-sea lines and conger hooks, and what not, while mrs. driscoll stood at the back entrance to the kitchen premises, her apron over her arms, assisting them. she popped in when miss grimshaw made her appearance, and moriarty touched his cap. ever since the bailiff incident he had a great respect for the governess, the respect a sportsman has for a sportsman. "moriarty," said miss grimshaw, "i want to speak to you." "yes, miss," said moriarty, stepping up to her. "i have just had some very serious news about the horses. i had better speak to you about it in the library. come in there." she led the way into the house. when they were in the library she shut the door and told him all. "divil mend them!" said moriarty, who seemed much perturbed. "do you think there is any truth in it?" "i do, miss, and what's botherin' me is the master bein' away." "he's coming back on thursday." "yes, miss. if they'll only hould their hands till thursday. not that i mind tacklin' them alone, but if there's any shootin' to be done, i'd sooner the master was on the primises." "oh, but--you won't shoot them!" "shoot them, miss! faith, if i catch them at their games, i'll shoot them first and bile them afther. today's monday--are you sure it was thursday she said, miss?" "yes." moriarty ruminated. "black larry, you said it was, miss, that was comin'?" "yes." "then he's sure to come single-handed. he always does his jobs alone, and he's never been cotched yet." "is he a dangerous man?" "he's not a man, miss, he's a divil--six fut two and as black as a flue-brush. he was gamekeeper to the masther, and the masther turned him off for bad conduc', and he's swore to be even with him." "of course," said miss grimshaw, "i might telegraph to mr. french, and bring him back, but he has gone on important business, and it would be a pity." "it would, miss." "i'm not afraid," said the girl, "and if you think you can manage till thursday by yourself it would be better to do nothing. i will send him a telegram on wednesday to make sure of him returning on thursday." "yes, miss," said moriarty. "that'll be the best way--and, if black larry comes before the masther is back, heaven help him!" moriarty took his departure, and the girl turned to the window. the rain was falling now, "the long rain of these old, old lands, eternal, fateful, slow!" verhaeren's verse crossed her mind as she looked out at the lowering sky and at the distant mountains, now half-veiled in clouds. as she looked the naked tree branches all bent one way, as if pressed down by an invisible hand, a sheet of rain obliterated everything beyond the middle distance of the landscape, and every window on the west side of the house shook and rattled to the wind that had suddenly risen. she went upstairs to the schoolroom, where effie, kneeling on the window-seat, was engaged in the monotonous occupation of tracing the raindrops on the pane with her finger. chapter xiii it rained steadily from monday afternoon till thursday morning, and then, as if at the stroke of a great broom, the clouds broke up and were driven in piles over the hills, leaving the sky winter-blue and free; cloud shadow and sunshine chased one another over the land, and from the cliffs the sea lay foam-capped and in great meadows of different colour. it had blown half a gale on tuesday night, and the sea was fretting from it still. acres of tourmaline-coloured water showed where the "deeps" lay close in shore, and each glass-green roller came running in, capped with foam and shot through with sunlight till---- boom! a league-long burst of spray told of its death, and from far and near came the sound, the breathing of the coast, like the breathing of a leviathan in its sleep. it was dark when the train from dublin drew in at the station of cloyne, and mr. french and his companion found the outside car waiting for them in charge of buck slane. buck was a helper in the stable, a weedy-looking individual in leggings, with a high, piping voice, red-rimmed eyes, and an apologetic manner. when buck spoke to you on any subject, he seemed to be apologising for it, as though it were something that had to be mentioned or spoken about against his will. "where's moriarty, and why didn't he come with the car?" asked mr. french. "plaze, sorr," said buck, "moriarty's stuck in the stable." "stuck in the where?" "in the stable, sorr--wid the horses. he hasn't left them a minit since monday afternoon, and he tould me to harness the mare and stick her in the car and come to the station." "all right," said french. "hop up, dashwood. here, get the luggage on board, buck, and i'll hold the mare." a couple of minutes later they were on the road to drumgool under the light of a winter moon. it was the road along which mr. dashwood had driven that morning with miss grimshaw, when, after breakfast at the station inn, he had accompanied her to drumgool house. everything on the road recalled her in that poignant language used by inanimate things when they remind us of the people we love. he had spoken no word about her to french since that conversation in the smoking-room of the shelbourne hotel, and french had spoken no word to him. french, having declared his half-formed intention to "ask" her himself, had apparently dismissed her from his mind. i doubt if ever a lover found himself in a more peculiar and difficult position than that which was beginning to surround mr. dashwood. french brought into this affair a mixture of card-room and commercial honesty that was very embarrassing to an ordinary rival. he had said in substance: "here's a girl. you're in love with her. i'm not going to do a mean thing. i'm going to take you to my house and put you together, so that you may know more of each other. if she likes you better than me, you can have her. if she likes me better than you, you can't. i give you just the same chance as i have myself, and i expect you to play the game." there was a splendid self-confidence in the proposition which made it not altogether a complimentary one, but there was also a fine open-heartedness, an absence of that essential malice of love, which made it less a proposition than a law of conduct with all sorts of clauses. generous in a love affair! men may be generous in sharing money, in sharing fame, in sharing the chance of death, but in sharing the chance of love--ah! that's a very different thing. the most extreme socialist has never dared to propound such a community of interests, and yet here was a simple irish gentleman not propounding the idea, but putting it in practice, and as fine deeds are the fathers of fine thoughts, here was an ingenuous lover, in the form of mr. dashwood, determining to play the game and take no advantage of french. to complete the matter, here was miss grimshaw, who had been apprised of the coming of mr. dashwood as a guest, by wire, completing the preparations for the reception of the two gentlemen, and with, in her heart, an equally kindly feeling for each. doolan had caught a large lobster the day before, "blown up on the strand," and this, coral-red and curled on a dish, flanked a round of cold spiced beef on the supper-table. a bright fire was burning in the grate; the light of the lamps shone, reflected by the ruby of port and claret in the decanters on the sideboard; the potatoes, boiled in their jackets, were being kept hot in the oven; and everything was in readiness for the expected travellers, who were late. as miss grimshaw sat by the fire she could hear the faint boom of the sea. to know desolation and the blessing of a visit, you must live in the extreme west of ireland, which, i take it, is the extreme outside edge of european civilisation; and after three days of rain, three days of reading the day-before-yesterday's _freeman's journal_, and "mrs. brown's 'oliday outings," miss grimshaw was in the frame of mind to receive a visitor, more especially when that visitor took the form of bobby dashwood. bobby and his irresponsibilities had found a place in her heart--not the place that women keep for lovers, but the place they keep for cats, stray dogs, and other people's children; a place, all the same, that opens into the real place, an ante-room where, if a man can obtain a footing, he has a chance of being shown into the boudoir. unfortunately for bobby, french had a place there, too; so had norah, the cat, and effie--quite an extraordinary collection of people and animals, but only two men--french and mr. dashwood. "here they are, miss," cried norah, popping her head in at the door, "the car's comin' up the dhrive!" miss grimshaw rose from the fire, and came out into the hall. she saw the car through the open door, and the lamps blazing, and next moment she was shaking hands with bobby dashwood. "where's mr. french?" asked the girl. "he jumped down at the stable entrance," said mr. dashwood, wriggling out of his greatcoat, "and went to see the horses. he asked me to come in and tell you." she led the way into the dining-room. "you've got the same bedroom that you had before," said she--"the one with the glimpse of the sea. mrs. driscoll has put a fire there, and they've been airing sheets and things all day, so you need not be afraid of catching cold. hasn't the weather been awful?" "awful!" said mr. dashwood. "you met mr. french in dublin, i suppose?" said the girl. "yes, i met him in dublin. funny, wasn't it? we were staying at the same hotel, and i was coming down here, and he invited me to stay with him." he stood with his back to the fire, warming himself and glancing about the comfortable room, and there was something in his manner that miss grimshaw could not quite make out--an almost imperceptible stiffness, a want of "spring." it was as though he were on his guard. "was it raining in dublin?" "yes, most of the time. and i suppose you've been having it pretty bad here?" "awful." she was dying to ask him why he had come over from england at this season of the year; why he had come down here. who can tell, but in her heart she knew the reason perfectly, and, knowing it, felt perplexed with his strange manner and stiffness? they talked on indifferent matters--effie and so forth--till french came in. he had interviewed moriarty, and he was full of the business of the horses; and, strange to say, with the entrance of french mr. dashwood's manner completely changed. his stiffness vanished, and he became his old, irresponsible, joyous self again. "think of it! the blackguards!" said mr. french as he carved the round of beef. "coming to try their tricks on the horses! moriarty hasn't left his eye off garryowen since i left, begad! i'll pension him for life if i win the city and sub. but think of the black-heartedness of it!" he went into the details we know, susie gallagher's "information," and the fact that it was almost certain black larry would try the business that night. mr. dashwood's eyes sparkled as he listened. "what are you going to do?" he asked. "catch him if i can," said french. "there mustn't be any shooting. i don't want any police business, for then i'd be held as a witness at the assizes. but if i catch him, i'll give him something to remember to-night by, and let him go." "you'll let me help?" said bobby. "of course i'll let you help. and so it was susie gallagher brought the news?" "yes," said miss grimshaw, "i told old mrs. moriarty--you remember that day you took me to see her?--well, i told her to let me know if she heard of any mischief. i guess she kept her ears open, for i gave her a shilling, and promised her five if she got any information. you'll have to pay that." french chuckled. "ever since you've entered the house," said he, "you've been putting things straight, and saving us all from ourselves. look here, now," said mr. french, resting his elbow on the table and checking off the items with the index finger of his right hand on the fingers of his left. "you've helped to fix the bailiff. that's number ." mr. dashwood applauded, and mr. french continued. "you put old kate moriarty on the scent of these scoundrels. that's number . you put effie on her legs, and you've freed the house of dick giveen. that's number . and you put into my head what to do about garryowen. that's number ." "and now," said miss grimshaw, "i'm going to bed, and to leave you two to your pipes. and that's number . i suppose you will sit up to catch this person?" "we will," said french. chapter xiv miss grimshaw's room was situated at the back of the house, overlooking the kitchen garden. any sound from the stable-yard would reach it, and she determined to lie awake and listen. moriarty's description of the expected desperado, "over six fut and as black as a flue-brush," seemed to promise developments. like most women, she had a horror of fighting, and, like most women, fighting had a fascination for her. she had no fear of the result. mr. french, mr. dashwood, moriarty, and the stable helper, not to mention andy, formed a combination bad to beat, even against a dozen black larrys. all the same, there was a certain heart-catching excitement about the business not altogether unpleasurable, and never did the silence of the great old house seem more freighted with the voices of the past, never did the ticking of the huge old clock on the landing outside seem more pronounced than just now as, lying in bed with a candle burning on the table by her side and "tartarin of tarascon" open in her hand, she listened. the bed she was lying in was the bed that once had supported dan o'connell's portly person. the tent-like curtains had been removed, so that one could breathe in it, but the pillars remained, and the headpiece and the carvings. it was less a bed than a coign of history, and more conducive to thought than sleep. from this bed and its suggestions, from drumgool, from ireland, the delightful tartarin led miss grimshaw to the land of plane-trees and blue sky. mock heroics are the finest antidote for tragic thoughts, and they fitted the situation now, had she known it, to a charm. now she was at tarascon. tartarin, leaving his house in the moonlight, armed to the teeth against imaginary foes, led her down the white road, past the little gardens, odorous as bouquets, to the house of mme. bézuguet, whence issued the voices of costecalde, the gunmaker, and the tinkling of the nimes piano. now she was seated beside him, and his guns and implements of the chase, in the old dusty african stage coach, bound for blidah, listening to the old coach's complaining voice. "ah! my good monsieur tartarin, i did not come out here of my own free will, i assure you. once the railway to beaucaire was finished, i was of no more use there, and they packed me off to africa." miss grimshaw paused in her reading. was that a shout from the night outside? the clock on the landing, gathering itself up for the business of striking with a deep humming sound, began to strike. it struck twelve, and at the last leisurely and sledge-hammer stroke resumed its monotonous ticking. the faint boom of the sea filled the night, but all else was silence, and the old stage-coach continued her complaint. "and now i have to sleep in the open air, in the courtyard of a caravanserai, exposed to all the winds of heaven. at night jackals and hyenas come sniffing round my boxes, and tramps, who fear the evening dew, seek refuge in my compartments. such is the life i lead, my worthy friend, and i suppose it will continue till the day when, blistered by the sun and rotted by the damp, i shall fall to pieces, a useless heap, on some bit of road, when the arabs will make use of the remains of my old carcase to boil their kousskouss." "blidah! blidah!" shouted the conductor as he opened the door. * * * * * miss grimshaw awoke. the candle had burnt itself out, and a ray of early morning sunlight was peeping in through the blinds. she could still hear the clank of the old stage-coach--or was it imagination? she rubbed her eyes. yes, there it came again. the window was half open, and the sound came from the kitchen garden below--a metallic sound that had broken through her sleep, filling her dreams with pictures of the blidah coach and the illustrious tartarin, with his guns, hunting-knives, and powder-horns. she sprang out of bed, went to the window, pulled aside the curtains, and looked out. in the kitchen garden down below she saw an object that had once been a man--more desperate even than the immortal tartarin. the once-man was on all-fours; he could not get on his feet because his ankles were hobbled together with a piece of rope. he could not untie the rope because on each of his hands was firmly tied a boxing-glove. try to untie a knot with your hands encased in boxing-gloves, if you wish to realise nightmare helplessness in its acutest form. a tin stable bucket was tied down over the head of the figure, and, as a last artistic touch one of old ryan's cow's tails was tied to a band round the waist and hung down behind. the creature was trying to get out of the kitchen garden. miss grimshaw could not help thinking of the blind and hopeless antics of an insect imprisoned under a wine-glass as she watched. the garden, strongly railed in, formed a sort of pound hopelessly ungetoutable. the whole thing seemed so like a joke that the girl at the window for a moment did not connect it with the obvious. opening the window more, she leaned further out. "hi!" cried miss grimshaw. "what are you doing there?" the thing rose up on its knees, the boxing-gloves, like great paws, seized the bucket on either side, in a frantic endeavour to wrench it off, failed, and then from the bucket broke a volume of language that caused the listener to draw hastily in and shut the window. she guessed. at this moment eight o'clock struck from the landing, and norah knocked at the door with hot water. for a moment she thought of asking the servant the meaning of it all. then she decided not. half an hour later she entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid. mr. french and mr. dashwood were already there, both spick and span and looking like people who had enjoyed an undisturbed night's rest. but there was a jubilant look in mr. dashwood's face and a twinkle in mr. french's eye such as seldom appears on the face or in the eye of man before breakfast. during the meal the conversation turned upon indifferent matters. mr. dashwood had several attacks of choking, but mr. french seemed quite unmoved. when the meal was over, and cigarettes were lit, mr. french, who had been scanning through his letters, stretched out his hand to the bell-pull which was close to him. "norah," said mr. french when that damsel appeared, "go down to the stable and send up moriarty." he lit a cigarette, and miss grimshaw, who had been preparing to leave the room, waited. a few minutes passed; then came a knock at the door, and moriarty, cap in hand, stood before his master. "moriarty," said mr. french, "there's a pig got into the kitchen garden." "a pig, sorr!" "yes, it's escaped down here from cloyne. at least i'm going to send it back to cloyne. get the cart." "yes, sorr." "and a pig-net. get it into the cart with the net over it and take it to cloyne. i don't know who it belongs to, so just dump it in the market-place. this is market-day, so there'll be some one to claim it, or it will find its way home." "yes, sorr." "and, see here, bring the cart round to the door before you start." "yes, sorr." moriarty departed. "now," said mr. french, "let's talk business. miss grimshaw, we're leaving ireland to-morrow--you and i and effie and garryowen, the servants, and all. i've got a place----" "to train garryowen?" "yes, and here's the man that's got me it. it's in sussex, down at a place called crowsnest. there are too many pigs in ireland, poking their noses into my affairs, to do any good with the business here." "good!" said miss grimshaw, with a rising colour. to escape from the rain, and the awful loneliness of drumgool had been the chief desire of her heart for days past. she knew sussex, and loved the country, and a great feeling of gratitude towards mr. dashwood, the provider of this means of escape, welled up in her heart. "so," said mr. french, "we'll find our work cut out to pack and all before eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. i'm sending andy and the horses on by this night's train to dublin; he'll put up with them at bourke's livery stables. i'm leaving only buck slane and doolan behind to look after the house. janes, my agent, will pay them their wages. i'm not even telling janes where i'm going. i want to make a clean sweep. i'm safe till the debt to lewis becomes due. if that beast of a giveen knew my address he'd put lewis' man on to me the minute he came here claiming the money. i must cut myself off as completely from the place as if i were dead." "well, there's one thing," said the girl. "if you can get away from here without any one knowing where you are going to, they'll never dream of looking for you in sussex. i shouldn't think they know the name of the place here. but can you?" "how do you mean?" "well, you must take tickets at the station here. you must take tickets to dublin, first of all. well, that's a clue to where you are going." "i've thought of that," said mr. french, with a chuckle. "i'm going to take our tickets to tullagh; that's half way. the express stops at tullagh, and i'll hop out of the train there and book on to dublin. mr. dashwood here is going on with the horses to-night, and then on to crowsnest to have the house ready. faith, i never can thank him for what he's done or what he's going to do." "bless my soul!" said dashwood, "i don't want thanks. it's the greatest lark i ever came across. i wouldn't have lost last night for a thousand pounds. i mean, you know, it's tremendous fun; beats a comic opera to fits." "please, sir," came norah's voice at the door, "the cart's round and waiting." mr. french rose to his feet and led the way from the room, followed by the others. at the hall door steps a manure cart was drawn up. in the cart was something covered with a pig-net. doolan, whip in hand, was standing at the horse's head. "let up!" came a voice from the cart. "what are yiz doin' wid me? where am i, at all, at all? oh, but i'll pay yiz out for this! i'll have the laa on yiz--and--and--yer sowls!" "shut your ears," said mr. french to the girl; then he took doolan's whip, and with the butt of it prodded the thing in the cart. what seemed a great tin snout resented this treatment. then the cart moved off, doolan at the horse's head, and disappeared down the drive. "did you see what was in the cart?" asked mr. french when miss grimshaw uncovered her ears. "yes," she replied, "and i saw it in the garden this morning, and i spoke to it, and asked it what it was doing, and--well, i don't wonder at your wanting to leave ireland." "not while there's things like that in it," said the master of drumgool, following doolan and his charge with his eyes till they disappeared from sight. "and now, let's get to work." the sunlight of the early morning had vanished, and almost as the cart and its contents turned from the avenue drive into the road the rain began to come down again in great sheets--thunderous pourings, as if to make up for lost time. but it was a merry rain, at least in the ears of the girl. "you're going, you're going!" the rain beat a tattoo to the words on the zinc roof of outhouse and window-pane. "to-morrow," slobbered the overflowing water-butts, and "sussex" hissed the schoolroom fire, as the raindrops down the chimney hit the burning coals. no one but a woman knows the things to be done in a sudden disruption of a household like this. "everything must be covered up, and everything must be turned over," is a broad axiom that only just covers the situation when a house is to be left uninhabited for a number of months. that is to say, carpets must be taken up, beaten, and folded, pictures and looking-glasses taken down, covered in brown paper, and placed on the floor. a sort of spring cleaning, petrified half-way through and left in a state of suspension, is the ideal aimed at by the careful housewife. miss grimshaw never had possessed a house of her own, but she was descended from long generations of careful housewives, and she had an instinct for what ought to be done. but she had also a clear brain that recognised the impossible when it came before her. to put drumgool in order in twelve working hours, and with a handful of disorganised domestics, was impossible, and she recognised the fact. so the carpets were to be left unbeaten, the pictures still hanging. doolan had orders to light fires in the rooms every week, and to be sure to take care not to burn the house down. at four o'clock, in a burst of sunset which lit up the heaving atlantic, the rain-stricken land, and the great hills unveiled for a moment of clouds, mr. dashwood departed for the station. andy and the horses had left at three. "i'll have the bungalow jolly and comfortable for you," said mr. dashwood. "you'll be there day after to-morrow evening, if you stay in london for a few hours' rest. send me a wire when you reach euston. well, good luck!" "good luck!" said mr. french. "good-bye!" said the girl. they watched the car driving down the avenue, the wheel-spokes flashing in the sunlight. then they turned back into the house. "to-morrow!" thought miss grimshaw, as she lay in bed that night listening to the rain that had resumed business and the ticking of the clock in the corridor making answer to the rain. "oh, to-morrow!" then she fell to thinking. what was the matter with the two men? when she and they were gathered together they were as jolly as possible, but the instant she found herself alone with one of them, that one wilted--at least, became subdued, lost his sprightliness and gaiety. more than that, each, when alone with her, became, if the subject turned that way, the trumpeter of the other's praises. yet when they were all together they would try as much as they could to outshine each other, mr. french setting up his wit against mr. dashwood, mr. dashwood retaliating. just as two male birds before a hen strut and spread their tails, so these two gentlemen would show off their mental feathers when together. parted they drooped. a bell-man could not have told her the fact that they had lost their hearts more plainly than intuition stated the fact when, all three together at afternoon tea, just before mr. dashwood's departure for the station, that young gentleman with a plate of toast in his hand, had dallied attendance upon her, while mr. french had urged the dubious charm of crumpets. yet, behold! on the departure of the younger man the elder had presumably found his heart again, and at supper had become almost tiresome in his almost fulsome praise of dashwood. it was horribly perplexing. a woman's intuitive knowledge teaches her how to act in every situation love can place her in, from the first glance to the last embrace; her male and female ancestors whisper to her what to do down the long whispering gallery of the past. they whispered nothing now. miss grimshaw had relatives long dead, who, fur-covered, tailed, and living in trees, had dropped cocoanuts on the heads of rivals; these gentlemen and ladies could give her no advice. cave-dwelling ancestors, whose propositions were urged with stone clubs, were equally dumb. even her more near and cultivated forebears had nothing to say. it was an entirely new situation in love. two men "playing the game," and determined to take no mean advantage one of the other--even love himself found the situation strange, and had no suggestions to offer. the next morning was dull, but fine. the sky had lifted, thinned, and become mackerelled. between the ribs of cloud a faint, bluish tinge here and there told of the blue above. the mountains sat calm and grey upon the horizon. they had drawn a great way off as if to make way for the coming sunshine. fine weather was at hand. in the hall of drumgool the luggage was piled, waiting for doolan and the wagonette. the servants and the luggage were to go in the wagonette, and so carefully had mr. french thought out the problem before him that he had hired the horses and the wagonette the day before, not from cloyne, but from inchkilin, a small town twelve miles south of drumgool. the dancing mistress and the outside car were to be sold off by his agent, and the money held till his return. the train started at eleven. at eight o'clock the wagonette and its contents drove away from the house, and at ten minutes to nine the car, with mr. french, miss grimshaw, and effie followed. doolan was driving, and just as they were turning out of the avenue the whole east side of drumgool house lit up to a burst of sunshine from over the hills. it seemed a lucky omen. that and the lovely winter's morning through which they were driving put the party in good spirits, and doolan's deafness allowed them to talk as freely as they liked about their affairs. "i hope dick giveen hasn't seen the wagonette," said french. "if he has, he'll be following to the station to find out what's up. if he sees us, it won't so much matter, for he'll think, maybe, we are only going for a drive, but the servants and the luggage would give the whole show away." "has he any sort of trap to follow us in?" asked miss grimshaw. "he has an old shandrydan of a basket pony-carriage. maybe he's not up yet, for he's not an early riser. anyhow, we'll see when we pass the bungalow." they were drawing near drumboyne now; the bungalow inhabited by mr. giveen lay at the other end of the tiny village. it was a green-painted affair, with an outhouse for the pony and trap; a green-painted palisading, about five feet high, surrounded house and garden, and as the car passed through the village and approached the danger zone, miss grimshaw felt a not unpleasant constriction about the heart. effie seemed to feel it, too, for she clasped "mrs. brown's 'oliday outin's," which she had brought to read in the train, closer under her arm, and clasped miss grimshaw's hand. there was no sign of the ogre, however, in the front garden, and the girl heaved a sigh of relief, till french, who had stood half up to get a better view of the premises, suddenly sat down again, with a look of alarm on his face, and cried to doolan to whip up. "what is it?" asked miss grimshaw. "the blackguard's putting the old pony to," said mr. french. "i caught a glimpse of him in the back yard. he's got wind of our going, and he's after us. whip up, doolan." "there's not much use whipping up," said miss grimshaw, "for the train won't go till eleven. the question now is, can his old pony get him to the station by eleven?" "if it does," cried french, now in a towering passion, "i'll--i'll--b'heaven, i'll shoot him!" "you haven't anything to shoot him with. let's think of what's best to be done." "doolan!" shouted french into the hairy ear of the driver, "do you know mr. giveen's old pony?" "do i know misther giveen's ould pony?" creaked doolan. "sure, who'd know her better? do i know misther giveen's ould pony? sure, i knew her mother before she was born. an ould skewbal', she was, till micky meehan battered her to death dhrivin' roun' the counthryside, wid that ould cart he got from buck sheelan of the inn, before he died of the dhrink, and dhrunk he was when he sould it." "bother buck sheelan! can the old pony get mr. giveen to the station by eleven?" "d'you mane, can it get him from his house to the station, sorr?" "yes." "well, sorr, it all dipinds. she's a rockit to go if she's in the mind for it; but if she's set aginst goin', you may lather the lights out of her, and she'll only land you in the ditch. but if she's aisy in her mind and agrayable, faith! i wouldn't wonder if she could, for that ould clothesbasket of misther giveen's doesn't weigh more'n a feather." "curse him and his clothesbasket!" cried french. "whip up!" to be opposed by a villain is not nearly so vexing as to be thwarted by a fool, and the vision of dick giveen in his basket carriage, soft, malevolent and pursuing, filled french with such a depth of rage that had he possessed a gun his better nature would certainly have made him fling his ammunition away over the nearest hedge so as to be out of the way of temptation. "look!" said miss grimshaw, "isn't that smoke away over there--cloyne! we'll soon be there now, and there is no use in worrying. if he does follow us, we'll manage to give him the slip at tullagh." "that'll mean the whole lot of us, servants and all, will have to get out at tullagh, and lose the train and stay the night; and then we're not sure of escaping him. he'll stick to us like a burr. you don't know dick giveen. who the divil ever invented relations?" miss grimshaw could not answer mr. french's question as to who invented relations which many a man has, no doubt, asked, and no more was said till the long, dreary street of cloyne, destitute of life and colour, lay before them. it was fifteen minutes to eleven when they reached the station. the train was drawn up at the platform. mrs. driscoll and norah had taken their seats in a third-class carriage, and moriarty was seeing the luggage stowed in the van. french took the tickets, chose a first-class compartment, and the hand-bags and wraps having been stowed in it, they walked up and down the platform, waiting and watching. there was one point in their favour. mr. giveen's meanness amounted with this gentleman almost to a monomania. he would do incredible things to save a half-penny. would he incur the expense of pursuit? cannibalism among the passions is a law in the mental world. one vice often devours another vice, if the other vice stands between the devourer and its objective. were the jaws of mr. giveen's spite wide enough to engulf his meanness? this was a question that mr. french was debating vaguely in his mind as he paced the platform with miss grimshaw and effie. a regiment of live christmas turkeys were being entrained, not in silence; the engine was blowing off steam; the rattle of barrows, the clank of milk-cans--all these noises made it impossible to hear the approach of wheels on the station road. "i believe we'll do it," said mr. french, looking at his watch, which pointed to five minutes to the hour. "anyhow, we'll be off in five minutes, and i'll break the beast's head at tullagh if he does follow us." he walked down the train to the third-class carriage where the servants were, and at the door of which moriarty was colloguing with norah. he told moriarty in a few words of the pursuit, and then returned to his own compartment. "take your sates, take your sates for tullagh, kildare, and dublin!" the van door was shut on the turkeys, the last of the luggage was in the train, the last door was banged to, and the train was just beginning to move, when out of the ticket-office entrance rushed mr. giveen with a ticket in his hand. he had asked the ticket-collector where mr. french had booked to, and, being told tullagh, had done likewise. he had just time to reach the nearest carriage and jump in when moriarty, who had been observing everything, interposed. "mr. giveen, sorr," cried moriarty, protruding his head and shoulders from the window of the third-class carriage, which was now in motion. "mr. giveen, sorr, here's the shillin' i owe you." a shilling fell on the platform at mr. giveen's feet. he stooped to grab it as it rolled in a leisurely manner towards the booking-office door, missed it, pursued it, and was lost. at least he lost the train. moriarty's profound knowledge of the psychology of the horse often stood him in good stead when dealing with higher animals--or lower. chapter xv crowsnest lies upon a hill. it consists of a post-office, a tiny butcher's shop, a greengrocer's, an italian warehouse, and a church. the london road climbs the hill, passes through the village, descends the hill, and vanishes from sight. trees swallow it up. century-old elms cavern it over. when the great-grandfathers of these elms were young the roman road leading over the hill to the sea was old. as it was then, so is it now, and so will it be when these elms are coffin-boards, enclosing the bones of vanished and long-forgotten people. at the foot of the hill passes a nameless river, which the roman road crosses by a bridge whose stones are as old as the road itself. on a summer's afternoon, leaning one's elbow comfortably on the moss-grown balustrade of this bridge, the river and the road hold one's mind between them; the river leaping amid the weed-green stones, here in the cave-like twilight of the foliage, here diamond bright where the sun dazzle strikes through the leaves; the road steadfast and silent, with a silence which the motor-horn cannot break--a silence that has been growing and feeding upon life since the time of tiberius. the place is tremulous and vibrating with life; the wagtail by the water, the water itself, the leaves dancing to the breeze, and the birds amid the leaves: the lost butterfly, the gauze-blue dragonfly, the midges in their interminable dance, all keep up an accompaniment to the flute-like tune of the river. then, as one muses, the thousand snippets of beauty and life, gay and free and ephemeral, that make up the beauty of a summer's afternoon, suddenly, as if touched by a magic wand, lose their ephemeral nature and become their immortal selves. "they were old when i was young. the wind blew their songs in the faces of the legionaries; before the phalanx flew the butterfly, and the water wagtails before the glittering eagles." thus speaks the road in answer to the river, making the charm of this place--a charm felt even by the teamsters of a summer's afternoon as they halt their horses for a rest. on either side of the road, down here, stretch woods; mellow-hearted english woods, nut copses, beech glades, willow brakes; the home of the squirrel and the pheasant and the wood-dove. the cork-screw note of the cock pheasant answers the poetical lamentation of the dove; that caressing sound, soothing, sleep-drugged, and fatuous. in spring the children of crowsnest come here for the wood violets burning blue amid the brown last autumn leaves; the glades are purple with the wild hyacinths, and the voice of the cuckoo here is a thing never to be forgotten. in autumn the children come for nuts. no poem of tone or word conceived by man can approach the poetry of these glades; no picture their simple beauty; they are the home of oberon and titania, and they are rented by colonel bingham. the colonel lives, or lived at the time of this story, at the hall, which is the chief house of the neighbourhood--a neighbourhood parcelled up into small country seats. three acres and a house would about constitute one of these seats, and they stretch right round the hill of crowsnest, invading even the rise of the downs. the bungalow is situated on the downs; a good road of fairly easy ascent leads up to it, and looking from the verandah of the bungalow you can see, below, the roofs of all the country seats, the walls forming their frontiers, and, with a good glass, the seat-holders promenading in their gardens. from here the roman road looks like a white cotton ribbon; the woods and gardens, the tennis lawns no bigger than billiard-tables, the red-tiled houses no larger than rabbit hutches, form a pretty enough picture to smoke a cigarette and ponder over on a warm afternoon. the people down there seem playing at life, and finding the game pleasant enough, to judge from their surroundings. they look very small even when viewed with the aid of a lens. raising your eyes suddenly from those toy houses, those trim and tiny lawns, those gardens threaded with the scarlet of geraniums, you see sussex in one great sweep of country, just as by the river you saw the past in the monolithic roman road. woods upon woods, domes and vales of foliage, and, to the south, the continuation of the downs on which you are standing. emmanuel ibbetson had built the bungalow and stables in a moment of enthusiasm about racing. it was certainly an ideal spot for training. just here the downs are level as heart of man could wish. a great sweep of turf, a tableland where nothing moves but the grazing sheep and the shadow of the bird and cloud, extends from the stables due south, ending in an outcrop of chalk and a rise leading to the higher downs and the sea. the higher downs shelter it in winter from the wind. there was stabling for half a dozen horses; everything about the place was of the best, from the tiles to the roof, from the patent manger to the patent latch of the doors. there was a patent arrangement with a prong for conducting the hay from the loft above to the manger below. this nearly stabbed garryowen in his suddenly upflung nose, and moriarty, who had a contempt for everything patent, including medicine, broke it--but this in parenthesis. the bungalow, where the human beings were stabled, was a much less elaborate affair in its way. built for a bachelor and his friends, it just held the frenches, leaving a spare room over for mr. dashwood. this is a vague sketch of the buildings and premises called the martens--heaven knows why--and situated like a marten-box on the eminence above crowsnest, that highly respectable residential neighbourhood where residents knew nothing yet of the fact that the place had been let--or, rather, borrowed--and nothing yet of the nature of the borrower. chapter xvi "my dear," wrote miss grimshaw in another letter to that lady friend, "here we are at last. we arrived the day before yesterday evening, horses and all, including the servants. i once heard an old lady in the states giving good advice to a young woman just married. one sentence clung to me, and will, i think, by its truth, cling to me for ever. 'never move servants.' "we took with us from ireland mrs. driscoll, the cook, and norah, the parlour-maid, besides the menservants. i am not referring to the men when i repeat that axiom, 'never move servants,' but to the womenfolk. "we had not started from holyhead when mrs. driscoll broke down. she weighs fourteen stone, and does everything in a large way. she broke down from homesickness. she had travelled well up to that. the crossing had been smooth, and she had not made a single complaint, fighting bravely, i suppose, all the time, against the growing nostalgia. then on the platform at holyhead, before the waiting irish mail, it all came out at once. it sounds absurd, but really the thing was tragic. real grief is always tragic, even the grief of a child over a broken toy, and this was real grief, and it taught me more in five minutes about ireland and why the irish in america hate england than i learned from all my months spent in the country itself. "it did not seem grief for a lost country so much as for a lost father or mother, and, mind you, she was with people she knew, and she was only being 'expatriated' for a few months. what must they have suffered in the old days, those people driven from their homes and holdings to a country three thousand miles away, never to come back?" miss grimshaw, in her letter, continued: "mr. french got mrs. driscoll brandy from the refreshment-room, and we took her in the first-class carriage with us, but all her cry was to go back, and what lent a grim humour to the situation was the fact that none of us can go back to ireland from this expedition into england till a certain something has been accomplished. "there seems something mysterious and sinister in that statement, but there is really nothing sinister in the situation. only a horse. however, to return to the servants. mrs. d. has recovered somewhat, but norah, the parlour-maid, has now broken down. she is a pretty girl with black hair, grey eyes, and beautiful teeth, and she is sitting at the moment in the kitchen, with her apron over her head, 'eating her heart out,' to use mrs. driscoll's expression. the curious thing is that both these women have no relations of any account to tie them to ireland. it's just ireland itself they want--and it seems to me they won't be happy till they get it. "the woman from crowsnest, whom mr. dashwood got to tidy the place up and light the fires and have supper for us the evening we came, has left. she did not get on with the others; and now this place is all irish with the exception of me--a bit of the west coast planted above a most staid and respectable english village. i wonder what the result will be as far as intercommunication goes? "no one has called yet; but, of course, it is too soon. but i hope they will stay away. i have several reasons.--yours ever, violet." miss grimshaw had several very good reasons to make her desire seclusion for herself and the family which she had taken under her wing. i say "taken under her wing" advisedly, for since the day of her arrival at drumgool she had been steadily extending the protection of her practical nature and common sense to her protégés. in a hundred ways too small for mention in a romance of this description she had interfered in domestic matters. mrs. driscoll, for instance, no longer boiled clothes in the soup kettle, prodding them at intervals with the pastry roller, and norah no longer swept the carpets under the sofas, lit the fires with letters left on the mantel-piece, or emptied pails out of the windows; and these sanitary reforms had been compassed with no loss of goodwill on the part of the reformed towards the reformer. she had emancipated effie from her bondage to an imaginary disease, and she had pointed out to french the way he should go, and the methods he should use in carrying out his assault on what, to a lower order of mind than miss grimshaw's, would have seemed the impossible. common sense of the highest order sometimes allies itself to what common sense of a lower order would deem lunacy. when this alliance takes place, sometimes great and world-shaking events occur. french had conceived the splendid idea of winning a great english race with an unknown horse in the face of debts, enemies and training disabilities. miss grimshaw had, with misgivings enough, brought him the aid of her practical nature. the first move in the game had been made; the knight's gambit had been played; garryowen had been hopped over three squares and landed in sussex; nothing threatened him for the moment, and miss grimshaw's mind, turned from the big pieces, was now occupied with pawns. norah was a pawn. she had a grand-aunt living in cloyne, and should she forsake the martens and return, driven by home-sickness, to the roof of her grand-aunt, the game might very easily be lost. mr. giveen, who had inklings of french's debt, would discover, by hook or by crook, the sussex address, and when lewis' man arrived to find drumgool empty, the information he would receive from giveen would be fatal as a loaded gun in the hands of an unerring marksman. mrs. driscoll was another pawn in a dangerous position; but the small pieces most engaging the attention of our chess-player at the moment were literally small pieces--half-crowns and shillings. she had carefully worked out the money problem with mr. french, and, allowing for everything, and fifty pounds over, to take them back to ireland, in case of disaster, there was barely three pounds a week left to bring them up to the second week of april. "oh, bother the money!" french would say. "it's not the money i'm thinking of." "yes, but it's what i'm thinking of. we must be economical. we should have travelled here third-class, not first. you sent that order to mr. dashwood's wine merchant for all that champagne and stuff." "i did, i know, but that won't have to be paid for a year." "well, it will have to be paid some time. however, i don't mind that so much. what is frightening me is the small amount of actual money in hand. we have four months before us, and only a little over sixty pounds for that four months. now, i want to propose something." "yes?" "it's this. why not give me that sixty pounds to keep and pay the expenses out of? if you keep it, it will be gone in a month." mr. french scratched his head. then he laughed. "faith, perhaps you're right," said he. "i know i am right. it is only by saving and scraping that we will tide over these four months. now you have that money in the bank. we calculated that it will just cover your racing expenses; the money you will require for bringing the horse to colonel what's-his-name's stable at epsom before the race, the money you will require for backing the horse--in fact, for the whole business--leaving fifty pounds over in case of disaster." "yes." "well, i want you to lock your cheque-book up in a drawer and give me the key, and promise not to touch that money on any account." "i won't touch it," said french, with the air of a schoolboy making a resolution about apples. "i know that's what you say and feel now; but there are temptations, and it is vital that you should be out of the way of temptation. you remember jason, and how he stopped his ears with wax not to hear the songs of the sirens?" "faith," said french in a tender tone, "if the sirens' voices were as sweet as----" he checked himself. "that may be," said miss grimshaw hurriedly, "but, sweet or not sweet, there are always voices calling for money; even coming through london a five-pound note went on nothing. so you must, please, put that cheque-book in a drawer and lock it, and give me the key. will you do this?" "i will, i will. the thing's all right, but if you want it done, i'll do it." "well, let's do it now, then." "i will in a minute, when i've seen moriarty----" "no; now. there's nothing like doing things at the moment." "well, all right," said french. "let's do it now." he produced his cheque-book from his desk, and miss grimshaw locked it up in the drawer of an escritoire. "and now," said she, "how about that sixty pounds?" the badgered one produced a pocket-book and took three twenty-pound notes from it. "that leaves me only three pounds ten," said he, taking the coins from his waistcoat pocket and exhibiting them as he handed over the notes. miss grimshaw cast a hungry eye on the gold. "when that's gone," said she, "i will have to allow you pocket money out of my household expenses. we are in exactly the position of shipwrecked people on a raft, with only a certain amount of food and water, and when people are in that condition the first thing they have to do is to put themselves on a strict allowance. i want you," said miss grimshaw, "to feel that you are on a raft--and it might be much worse. you have a house for which we have to pay no rent. you have wine and all that which need not be paid for yet. how about cigars and tobacco?" "oh, there's lots of smokes," said french rather drearily. "and bewlays know me, and i can get anything i want on credit--only i'm thinking----" "yes?" "there may be other expenses. in a place like this people are sure to call, and how about if they want to play bridge, or----" "don't let's think of it," said the girl. "bother! why couldn't it have been summer?" "they play bridge in summer as well as winter." "yes, i suppose they do. but the fools spend their energy on tennis as well, and that makes the disease less acute. well, if you have to play bridge, i'll try to find the money for it somehow, even if i have to keep the household on oatmeal. what other expenses are likely to turn up?" "there's sure to be subscriptions and things. and, see here. if we're invited out, we'll have to return any hospitality we receive." visions of mrs. driscoll's fantastic cookery, crossed by visions of big bills from benoist, rose before miss grimshaw's mind, but she was not a person to be easily cast down. "if they do, we'll manage somehow. we have wine, and that's the biggest item. besides"--a brilliant inspiration seized her--"i'm only the governess. people won't call on me. you are really in the position of a bachelor, so you'll only have to invite men." mr. french looked troubled for a moment, then he said, "i was going to have told you something." he stopped and lit a cigarette. "well?" "dashwood----" "well?" "well, he said--in fact, he said that these old english folk round here are such a lot of stuck-up old fools that, as a matter of fact, you'd have a bad time here as a governess. so he said that he said to a man that lives here i was bringing my niece with me. d'you see?" miss grimshaw laughed. she knew at once what french meant. over in clean ireland no one thought anything of a pretty young governess living in the house of a widower and looking after his daughter; but here it was different. the morals of the rabbit-hutch, which are the morals of english society, had to be conformed to. she had never thought of the matter before, and lo and behold! bobby dashwood had thought of the matter for her. "but i'm not your niece," said miss grimshaw. "no," said french, "but, sure, you might be. and how are they to know? lot of old fools, they think the position of a governess beneath them--not that you are a governess. sure," finished he, apologetic and laughing, "we're all at sixes and sevens, and the easiest way out is to cut the knot and claim kinship. i don't know but one of the frenches mayn't have married some of your people in the past." "that would scarcely make me your niece. anyhow, i don't care, only the servants----" "faith, and it's little the servants will say. they're dead-set against the english folk, and won't have a word with them. only this morning i heard mrs. driscoll with a chap that had come round selling vegetables. 'away with you,' says she, 'or i'll set the dog on you, coming round to my back door with your turnips and your rubbish!' the sight of an english face sets her off going like an alarm clock. but little i care about that, so long as she doesn't go off herself." "well, then, i'll go now and see what effie's doing and how the servants are getting on. mr. dashwood is coming down for the week-end, is he not?" "yes; he'll be down on friday." "the great comfort about him," said she, "is that he takes us just as we are, and there's no trouble or expense with him." she left the room. it was the second morning of their stay at the martens, and before going to look after effie and the servants she passed out on the verandah and stood there for a moment, looking at the winter landscape and then down at the houses of the crowsnesters. she felt dimly antagonistic to the people who lived in those comfortable-looking, red-tiled houses set about with gardens. she fancied women sitting by those fires whose smoke curled up in thin wreaths through the winter air, women who would cast their noses up at the idea of a governess, and their heads and eyes after their noses at the idea of a supposititious "niece." she imagined gentlemen addicted to bridge who would drain, perhaps, her narrow resources. one thing pleased her. the neighbourhood looked prosperous, and the charitable appeals, she thought, could not be very exacting. on this she reckoned without the knowledge that a large amount of english charity begins and ends abroad. then she turned, and, still delaying before going to see after the servants and effie, she passed round to the stableyard. andy, who was passing across the yard with a bucket in his hand, touched his cap, put down the bucket, and with a grin on his face, but without a word, opened the upper door of the loose-box that held the treasure and pride of the frenches. scarcely had he done so than the sharp sound of horse-hoofs on flags was heard, and a lovely picture framed itself in the doorway--the head of garryowen. leaving aside the beauty of women, surely above all things beautiful and sentient the head of a beautiful horse is supreme. where else in the animal kingdom will you find such grace, such sensitiveness, such delicacy, combined with strength? where else, even in the faces of men, such soul? even in the faces of men! the girl thought of the faces of the men she had come across in life, and she contrasted those heads, stamped with dulness, with greed, with business, or with pleasure--she contrasted these images of god with the finely chiselled, benign, and beautiful head of garryowen. could it be possible that mr. giveen would have the impudence to call garryowen a lower animal? even andy's "mug" looked like the mask of a gargoyle by contrast, as she turned from the loose-box and made her way back to the house. chapter xvii "what's the matter?" asked mr. dashwood. "botherations!" replied miss grimshaw. "look at this." she handed him a neatly-printed card, folded in the middle. it looked like a ball programme. nearly four months had passed. the frenches had settled down at the martens. the whole neighbourhood had called; there had been several small dinner parties at the bungalow, and garryowen was turning out a dream. training a horse is just like painting a picture; the thing grows in spirit and in form; it has some of you in it; the pride of the artist is not unallied to the pride of the trainer. when you see swiftness coming out, and strength, endurance, and pluck, you feel just as the artist feels when, of a morning, he uncovers his canvas and says to himself: "ah! yes, i put some good stuff into that yesterday." on the dull, clear winter mornings, in the bracing air of the downs, french knew something of the joy of life as he watched garryowen and the cat taking exercise. sometimes young ladies from crowsnest would appear on the edge of the downs to watch mr. french's "dear horses." they little knew how apt that expression was. * * * * * mr. dashwood examined the card. it contained the programme and the rules of a small poetical club presided over by a miss slimon. each member was supposed to invent or create a poem on a given subject each month and to send the result to miss slimon, who would read it. but the matter did not end there. miss slimon, by virtue of her self-constituted office, would send in due course each member's poem to each of the other members for criticism, and the results would be made known and published in a small pamphlet at the end of the year. the subscription was a guinea, and to this society for the circulation of rubbish miss grimshaw had been invited to subscribe. hence the trouble. "she asked me if i liked poetry, and i said i did, like a fool, and then she asked me to join, and i agreed. i can't back out now. she never told me the subscription was a guinea." "it's beastly bad luck," said mr. dashwood, who by this time knew the financial affairs of the frenches thoroughly to their innermost convolutions, and who was at the moment himself in the most horrible condition of penury, a condition that made the purchase of his week-end ticket to crowsnest (he came down every week-end) a matter of consequence. "and that's not all," went on the girl. "here's a bazaar coming on, and, of course, we'll have to subscribe to that in some way. they want me to take a stall. you haven't any aunts or anyone who would do embroidery for it, have you? it's to be on april ." "no," said mr. dashwood, "i don't think i have any female relatives any good in the fancy needlework line. i've got a charitably-disposed elderly female cousin i might land for a subscription, though." "i wouldn't trust myself with the money. no matter. i daresay we will manage somehow. i want to go down to crowsnest and post these letters. will you walk with me?" "rather," replied mr. dashwood, and, taking his hat, he followed her out on the verandah. it was a clear march morning, without a trace of cloud in the sky, and with just a trace of frost in the air. the country, still half wrapped in the sleep of winter, had that charm which a perfect english early spring day can alone disclose, and there was something--something in the air, something in the sky, some indefinable thrill at the heart of things that said, spirit fashion, to whoever could hear, "all this is drawing to a close. even now, in the woods, here and there, you will find primroses. in a week or two you will find a million. my doors are just about to open, the cuckoo is just preening for flight, the swallows at luxor and carnac are dreaming of the pine trees and the north. i am spring." mr. dashwood was not given to poetical interpretations of nature's moods, but there was that in the air to-day which raised to an acute stage the chronic disease he had been suffering from for months. he had seen a lot of his companion during the last ten weeks or so, but he had played the game like a man. not a word had he said of his mortal malady to the author of it. but there are limits to endurance. this could not go on any longer; yet how was he to end it? french had said nothing since that interview in the shelbourne hotel, and a subject like that, once dropped between two men, is horribly difficult to take up again. what did french propose to do? was he waiting till garryowen won or lost the city and suburban before he "asked" miss grimshaw. no time limit had been imposed. "i'm giving you a fair field and no favour," mr. french had said. "if she likes you better than me, well and good. if she likes me better than you, all the better for me." that was all very well, but which did she like best? this question was now calling imperatively for an answer. miss grimshaw alone could answer it; but who was to ask her? no third person could put the proposition before her. only one of the two rivals could do so, and to do so would be to propose, and to propose would be dishonest. of course, a seemingly easy solution of the difficulty would be to go to french and say: "see here. i can't stand this any longer. i'm so much in love with this girl i must speak. what do you propose to do?" seemingly easy, yet most immensely difficult. in the shelbourne, when the young man had spoken, he had spoken in one of those outbursts of confidence which men rarely give way to. to reopen the question in cold blood was appallingly hard. not only had he got to know the girl better in the last few months, but he had also got an entirely different view of french. the good, easy-going french had turned for mr. dashwood from another man who was a friend into a friend who was a sort of fatherly relation. the difference in years between them showed up stronger and stronger as acquaintanceship strengthened, and french had taken on an avuncular manner. the benevolent and paternal in his nature had unconsciously developed; he was constantly giving bobby good advice, warning him of the evils of getting into debt, holding himself up as an awful example, etc. french, in the last ten weeks, had shown no symptoms of special feeling with regard to the lady. was he, too, playing the game, or had he forgotten all about his intentions towards her? or was his mind taken up so completely with the horse and his money troubles that he had no time at the moment to think of anything else? "isn't it delightful?" said miss grimshaw. "which?" asked bobby, coming back from perplexed meditations to reality. "this! the air! the country! look! there's a primrose." they were taking the downhill path from the martens. a pale yellow primrose growing in a coign of the down side had attracted her attention, and she stooped to pick it. "now, i wish i hadn't. what beasts we are! we never see a flower but we must pick it, or a bird but we want to shoot it. this might have lived days if i had left it alone, and now it will wither in a few hours. here." she stopped and fixed the primrose in mr. dashwood's buttonhole. she was so close, touching him, and her felt hat almost brushed his face. there was no one on the path. it was the psychological moment, yet he had to let it go. "thanks," he said. miss grimshaw looked at the flower critically for a second, with her pretty head slightly on one side. "it will stick in without a pin," she said. "come on, or i'll miss the post. no, thanks, i can carry the letters all right. i like to have something in my hand. why is it that persons always feel lost without something in their hands? look, that's miss slimon's house, the ranch. she's immensely rich and awfully mean, and lives there alone with three servants. she's always dismissing them. i don't know why unless they steal the poetry. there's nothing else much to steal, for she's a vegetarian and lives on a shilling a day, and keeps the servants on board wages. and i have to give her a guinea out of my hard-earned savings for that poetical club. i'm going to make effie write the poetry. it will give the child something to do. that's colonel creep's house, the roost. they were the first people to call on us. sort of spies sent out by the others to see how the land lay. do you know, i've never thanked you for something?" "no? what's that?" "do you remember your forethought in making me a niece to mr. french? well, i never felt the benefit of your benevolent intention so much as the day when the creeps called on us, and when they crept into the drawing-room, three girls like white snails, followed by an old gentleman like a white cockatoo. it was so pleasant to think they thought i was on a social and mental equality with them, and so pleasant to think they were wrong!" "wrong!" cried dashwood, flying out. "i should think they were wrong! not fit to black your boots." "perhaps that's what i meant, from my point of view," said miss grimshaw modestly, "and perhaps it wasn't. anyhow, the situation was not without humour. our relationship with the crowsnest people has been a long comedy of a sort. you know all our affairs, but you don't know the ins and outs, and how the wild irish on the hillside----" "yes?" miss grimshaw laughed. "do you remember that little dinner party mr. french--my uncle, i mean--gave in january to colonel bingham and the smith-jacksons?" "yes." "you remember how colonel bingham praised the pheasants? well, they were his own pheasants." "his own pheasants!" "moriarty poached them." mr. dashwood exploded. "i did not know at the time," went on miss grimshaw virtuously. "i entrusted the marketing to mrs. driscoll. i explained to her privately that we would have to be very economical. she quite understood. i will say for the irish that they are quicker in the uptake than any other people i know. she said she could make ends meet on two pounds ten a week, and she has done so. more, she has made them lap over. i am not very good at the price of things. still, pheasants at a shilling each seemed to me very cheap. of course, i thought most probably she was dealing with some man who got the things in some contraband way, and i suppose it was very wicked of me, but--the pheasants were very nice. then there were vegetables. "you can't poach vegetables?" "i think i said before," went on miss grimshaw, "that the irish were quicker than any other people i know in the uptake, and i'm very much afraid that moriarty has uptaken, not only all the potatoes that have come to our table this winter, but the turnips as well." again mr. dashwood exploded. "of course you can't poach vegetables," she went on, "but you can poach eggs, and, as a matter of fact, i believe our fried eggs are poached eggs. could such a statement ever occur out of ireland and carry sense with it? it's awful, isn't it?" "i think it's a jolly lark," said mr. dashwood. "gloats! to think of old bingham gobbling his own turkeys!" "pheasants, you mean. don't talk of turkeys, for we've had three since christmas, and i don't know what's been going on in the kitchen in the way of food, but i know they had jugged hare for supper last night." "when did you find out about it?" "yesterday morning i began to guess. you see, i had been wondering for a long time how mrs. driscoll had been managing to produce such good food for two pounds ten a week. she pays for the groceries and everything out of it. well, yesterday morning she brought me six pounds that she had 'saved' out of the housekeeping money; she said it might be useful to 'the master.' "i must say it was a perfect godsend, but i thought it more than peculiar, and i tried to cross-question her. but it was useless. she swore she had been saving the money for months--before we left drumgool even--so i could say no more. "however, things came to a climax last night. i was lying in bed; it was long after eleven, and the moon was very bright, and i heard a noise in the stable-yard. my window looks on to the stable-yard. i got up and peeped through the blind, and i saw moriarty and andy with a sheep between them. they were trying to put it into one of the loose boxes, and it didn't seem to want to go. now, when you are trying to drive a sheep like that against its will, it bleats, doesn't it?" "i should think so." "well; this sheep didn't bleat--it was muzzled!" they had reached the post-office by this, and miss grimshaw stopped to put in her letters; then she remembered that she required stamps and a packet of hooks and eyes, so she left mr. dashwood to his meditations in the street and entered the little shop. it was a very small shop that competed in a spirited way with the italian warehouse. it sold boots, too--hobnailed boots hung in banks from the ceiling--and a small but sprightly linen-drapery business went on behind a counter at right angles to the counter that sold tinned salmon and tea. chopping, who owned this emporium, was a pale-faced man, consumptive, and sycophantic, with a horrible habit of washing his hands with invisible soap when any of the carriage people of crowsnest entered his little shop. this is a desperately bad sign in an englishman; as a symptom of mental and moral depravity it has almost died out. in the early and mid victorian age, in the era of little shops and small hotels, it was marked; but it lingers still here and there in england, and when one meets with it it makes one almost a convert to socialism. mr. chopping washed his hands before miss grimshaw, for, though the frenches were not carriage people, they owned horses and were part of the social state of crowsnest; and miss grimshaw wondered if mr. chopping would have washed his hands so vigorously if he had known all. there was a big notice of the forthcoming bazaar hanging behind the drapery counter. this bazaar had become a bugbear to the girl. amid her other distractions she was working a table-cover for it, and effie, who was clever with her needle, was embroidering a tea-cosy. if the thing were a failure, and the sum necessary for reconstructing the choir stalls in the church were not forthcoming, there was sure to be a subscription, and money was horribly tight, and growing tighter every day. things had managed themselves marvellously well up to this, thanks to french's luck. the unfortunate gentleman, whose pocket-money under the strict hand of miss grimshaw did not exceed ten shillings a week, had managed to make that sum do. more than that, he wore the cloak of his poverty in such a way that it seemed the garment of affluence. the ready laugh, the bright eye, and the jovial face of mr. french made the few halfpence he jingled in his pocket sound like sovereigns. he played bridge with so much success that he just managed to keep things even; and the rare charm of his genial personality made him a general favourite. "shall we go back, or go for a little walk down the road?" asked miss grimshaw, as she left the post-office and rejoined her cavalier. "a walk, by all means," replied mr. dashwood. "let's go this way. well, go on, and tell me about the sheep." "oh, the sheep! yes, there it was, struggling in the moonlight; they were trying to get it into the loose box next the one the cat's in; and they did, andy jostling it behind and moriarty pulling it by the head. then they shut the door." "yes?" "that's all. i saw the light of a lantern gleaming through the cracks of the door, and i felt as if i had been accessory before the fact--isn't that what they call it?--to a murder. of course, i saw mrs. driscoll this morning, and i taxed her right out, and she swore she knew nothing about it. at all events, i told her it mustn't occur again and i think i frightened her." "that chap moriarty must be an expert poacher," said mr. dashwood. "expert is no name for it, if he's done all i suspect him of doing. it's a most strange position, for i believe they don't see any harm in it. you see, they seem to look upon the people about here as enemies and sussex as an enemy's country, and really, you know, they have still a good deal of the original savage clinging to them. i found a notched stick in the kitchen the other day, and i found it belonged to norah. every notch on it stood for a week that she had been here." "they used to do that at cricket matches long ago to score the runs. i've seen an old rustic johnny--they said he was --doing it." "let's stop here for a moment," said the girl. miss grimshaw and mr. dashwood had reached the little bridge on the roman road at the foot of the hill. the river, wimpling and sparkling in the sunlight, was alive as in summer, but all else was dead--or asleep. dead leaves had blown in the river bed and floated on the water, or were mossed in the crevices of the stones here and there. they found a brown carpet amid the trees of the wood. you could see far in amid the trees, whose leafless branches formed a brown network against the blue winter sky. from amid the tree, from here, from there, came occasionally the twitter of a bird. not a breath of wind stirred the branches, and the place had the stillness of a stereoscopic picture. this spot, so haunted by poetry and beauty in summer, in winter was not entirely deserted. on a day like this it had a strange beauty of its own. temptation comes in waves. the all but overmastering temptation to seize the girl in his arms and kiss her, which had assailed mr. dashwood on the hillside, was now returning gradually. she was leaning with her elbows on the balustrade of the bridge; her clear-cut profile, delicately outlined against the winter trees, held him, as one is held by the graceful curves of a cameo. down here, to-day, everything was preternaturally still. the essential and age-old silence of the roman road seemed to have flooded over the country as a river floods over its banks; the warbling and muttering of the water running beneath the bridge served only to accentuate this silence and point out its intensity. "what are you thinking of?" said mr. dashwood. the girl started from her reverie, and glanced sideways at her companion, one of those swallow-swift glances whose very momentariness is filled with meaning. mr. dashwood had spoken. in those five words he had let his secret escape. in the words themselves there was nothing, but in the tone of them there was much. they were five messengers, each bearing a message. five volumes of prose could not have told her more. i doubt if they could have told her as much. she glanced away again at the river. "i don't know. nothing. that's the charm of this place. i often come here and lean on the bridge and look at the water. it seems to mesmerise one and take away the necessity for thought. don't you feel that when you look at it?" "no," said mr. dashwood. "i wish to goodness it did." she cast another swift side glance at him. the alteration in his tone made her wonder. his voice had become hard and almost irritable. he spoke as a man speaks who is vexed by some petty worry, and the words themselves were not over complimentary. she could not in the least understand what was the matter with him. ever since his return to drumgool, while her mind had been engaged in the intricate problem of mr. french's affairs, her subliminal mind had been engaged in the equally intricate problem presented by the conduct of mr. french and mr. dashwood. there were times when, alone with her supposititious uncle, the original man in him seemed just about to speak the old language of original man to original woman. there were times when, alone with mr. dashwood, the same natural phenomenon seemed about to happen. yet something always intervened. french would seem to remember something, check himself, turn the conversation, and, with the bad grace of a bad actor playing a repugnant part, change from warmth to indifference. dashwood, even a worse actor than french, would, as in the present instance, suddenly, and for no apparent reason, become almost rude. not in the least understanding the position of the two gentlemen one towards the other, and the fact that they looked upon each other as rivals in a game whose rules of honour had to be observed, she had passed from amusement to vague amazement when these sudden changes of temperature took place, and from amazement to irritation. "perhaps," said miss grimshaw, "you never feel the necessity." "for what?" "want of thought." "being a person who never thinks, how could you?" was what her tone implied. "oh, i dare say i feel it as much as other people," he said. "in a world like this, it seems to me that the happiest people are the people who don't think." "how happy some people must be!" murmured she, gazing at the rippling water and speaking as though she were taking it into cynical confidence. "thanks," said mr. dashwood. "i beg your pardon?" "i only said 'thanks.'" "what for?" "your remark." "my remark?" "yes." "what on earth was there in my remark to thank me for?" "if there's one thing i hate more than another," burst out mr. dashwood, "it's sarcasm misapplied." "why do you misapply it, then?" "i never do. i never use it, so i couldn't misapply it. it's you." "what's you?" "you who are sarcastic." "i sarcastic!" said the girl with the air of a sacristan accused of theft. "when was i ever sarcastic?" the linnets in the trees must have heard the raised voices; the humans were quarrelling in good earnest then; no doubt, seeing the young man seize the young woman, then flew away thinking tragedy had arrived on the old roman road with all her pomp and circumstance. for a moment the astonished girl had a vision of being hauled over the bridge to drown in the six-inch river, and then she lost consciousness to everything but the embrace of the man who had seized her in his arms. lips, eyes, and mouth covered with burning kisses, she leaned against the parapet, gasping for breath and--alone. mr. dashwood had gone; vaulting over the low fence of the wood, he had vanished amid the trees. no criminal ever escaped quicker after the commission of his crime. "mad! oh, he's mad!" she gasped, half laughing, gasping, and not far from tears. it was not the outburst of fervent passion that astonished or shocked her--it was the running away. the deep throb of a motor-car topping the hill brought her to her senses, and she had composed herself, and was leaning on the parapet again, looking at the river, as it whizzed by. then she took her way back to the martens, walking slowly and thinking the situation over as she walked. chapter xviii mr. dashwood in his delirium had penetrated deep into the wood beyond sight of road or house before he recovered his normal senses. then that unpleasant candid friend who lives in the brain of every man had his say. "oh, what a fool you have made of yourself! oh, what a fool you have made of yourself!" said the friend who only speaks after an error has been committed, and then in a gloating voice. "what will she think of you?" went on the tormentor. "you have acted like a hooligan. but that wouldn't matter, for passionate men are apt to be hooligans, and women don't mind that--but to run away! to run like a rabbit! she does not know about your absurd compact with french. she only knows that you have behaved like a hooligan or an ass. yes, my friend, an ass, with a capital 'a.'" there were nut groves here, and one required the instincts of a bush pig to make one's way in any given direction. mr. dashwood, moving blindly and swiftly, spurred on by a mad desire to get back to the martens, pack his bag, escape to london, and explain everything in a letter, took, by chance, the right road, and struck a right of way that led through the woods skirting the hill of crowsnest and bringing him on the road to the downs. he ascended the steep path leading to the martens at full speed, and, out of breath, flushed, and perspiring, he was making his way to the bungalow, when he met french, amiable-looking, cool, and smoking a cigar. "hullo!" said french. "what's up?" "everything," said mr. dashwood. "don't keep me, like a good fellow. i'm off to london." "off to london! why, i thought you were staying till monday." "i'm not." "where's miss grimshaw?" asked french, following the other to the house. "did you leave her in the village." "no, i left her by the bridge--i mean on the bridge, down by the river." french followed the young man into his bedroom. bobby dashwood, who seemed like a sleeper half-awakened from a horrible nightmare, pulled a kit-bag from the corner of the room and began stuffing it with clothes. french took his seat on a chair and puffed his cigar. "botheration!" said french, who saw love's despair in the erratic movements of his companion. "botheration! see here, dashwood." "yes--oh, what!" "don't go getting in a flurry over nothing." "nothing!" said mr. dashwood with a hollow laugh, stuffing socks and hairbrushes into the yawning bag. "when you've been through the mill as often as i have," said french, "you'll know what i mean. there never was a girl made but there wasn't as good a one made to match her." "i'm not thinking of girls. i'm thinking of myself. i've made--i've made an ass of myself." "faith, you're not the first man that's done that." "possibly." "and won't be the last. i've done it so often myself. ass! faith, it's a herd of asses i've made of myself, and jackasses at that, and there you go getting into a flurry over doing what every man does. did you ask her?" "no," said dashwood, viciously, clasping the bag, "i didn't." "then how on earth did you make an ass of yourself?" asked french, without in the least meaning to be uncomplimentary. "how?" cried dashwood, infuriated. "why, by trying to act straight over this business. now i must go. i'll write from town. i'll explain everything in a letter. only, promise me one thing--don't say anything to--her. don't ask her questions." chapter xix bag in hand, mr. dashwood made for the door. to reach the station by road would mean the risk of meeting miss grimshaw. by the downs side, skirting the allotments and the episcopalian chapel, ran a path that led indirectly to the station. this mr. dashwood took walking hurriedly, and arriving half an hour before the . to victoria was due. crowsnest station was not a happy waiting-place. few railway stations really are. to a man in mr. dashwood's state of mind, however, it was not intolerable. rose gardens, blue hills, or the music of chopin would have been torture to him. pictures illustrating the beauty of rickman's boot polish and the virtues of monkey brand soap fitted his mood. he arrived at victoria shortly before three, and drove to his rooms at the albany. it was a feature of mr. dashwood's peculiar position that, though heir to large sums of money, endowed with a reasonable income, and with plenty of credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute of ready cash as any member of the unemployed. hatters, hosiers, tailors, and bootmakers were all at his command, but an unlimited credit for hats is of no use to you when your bank balance is overdrawn and boots fail to fill the void created by absence of money. when he paid his cab off in piccadilly he had only a few shillings left in his pocket. it was late on a saturday afternoon, and the desolate prospect of a penniless sunday lay before him, but left him unmoved. there is one good point about all big troubles--they eat up little ones. * * * * * this was mr. dashwood's letter to miss grimshaw, received and read by her on monday morning: "you must have thought me mad; but when you know all you will think differently. i hope to explain things when the business about the horse is over. till then i will not see you or mr. french. i cannot write more now, for my hands are tied." mr. french also received a letter, by the same post, which ran: "my dear french:--when, at the shelbourne hotel in dublin, i agreed to come down to drumgool house as your guest, you said to me frankly and plainly that, with regard to a certain young lady, you would give me 'a fair field and no favour'; you intimated that you yourself had ideas in that quarter, but that you would do nothing and say nothing till the lady herself had a full opportunity for deciding in her own mind--or at least for seeing more of us. "i undertook not to rush things, and to do nothing underhand. well, i have carried out my word. i have played the game. by no word or sign have i tried to take advantage of my position till saturday, when my feelings overcame me, and i made a fool of myself. the agony of the thing is i can't explain to her my position. it's very hard, when a man has tried to act fair and square, to be landed in a beastly bog-hole like this. "i only can explain when i ask her to be my wife--which, i tell you frankly, i am going to do, but not yet. i know how your plans and affairs are in a muddle till this race is over, and i propose to do nothing till then. then, and only then, i will write to her, and i will tell you the day and hour i post the letter. i expect you to do to me as i have done to you, and not take advantage of your position. "i will not see you till the event comes off, when i hope to see you at epsom, and not only see you, but your colours first past the winning-post." a youthful and straightforward letter, and sensible enough, considering the extraordinary circumstances of the case. french, when he read it, scratched his head. when he had made the compact with bobby dashwood in the smoking-room of the shelbourne hotel, he had done so half in joke, half in earnest. violet grimshaw had appealed to him from the first just as a pleasant picture or a pretty song appeals to a man, but, till the day at the shelbourne hotel, he had no views regarding her. she was in his house, under his protection. he looked on her more as a daughter than a stranger brought under his roof by chance, and had bobby dashwood not intervened, he might have continued so to regard her. but the instant mr. dashwood spoke mr. french became aware that miss grimshaw had become a necessity to him, or, rather, a necessary luxury. he was not in love with her, but she was a charming person to have in the house. she carried brightness with her. he did not want to lose her, and here was dashwood proposing to carry her away. recognising that bobby was very much in earnest, and knowing that, when he had passed his irresponsible stage, he would make an excellent suitor for any girl, french, large hearted and generous, was not the man to put barriers in the way of a good match for the homeless orphan from the states. but he would have no engagement on a half-formed acquaintanceship. if, when they had got to know each other well, violet preferred bobby to anyone else, well and good. if she preferred him (french), well and better. but since that compact at the shelbourne, though french had been so occupied by the horse that he had scarcely time to think of anything else, the bonds had been strengthening between him and the girl, and his kindly feeling for bobby had been increasing. he did not recognise the facts fully till he put down mr. dashwood's letter and summed up the situation exactly and precisely in the word "botheration!" everything had been going so well up to this. garryowen was in the pink of condition. though the debt to lewis was due, lewis might have been dead for all the trouble he gave, or could give, unless by any chance dick giveen found out the sussex address, which was next to an impossibility; and now this bother must turn up, driving dashwood away and so splitting up their pleasant little party. dashwood was an invaluable aide-de-camp, but french was mourning him more as a lost friend, when, breaking in upon his meditation, effie entered the room. disaster, when she appears before us, often comes at first in a pleasant disguise, and effie looked pleasant enough this morning, for she never looked pleasanter than when full of mischief. "papa," said effie, "what's to-day?" "monday," said mr. french. "i know it's monday. i mean, the day of the month?" "the thirtieth of march." effie absorbed this information in silence and occupied herself making cocked hats out of an old bill for straw that was lying on the floor, while her father occupied himself at the writing-table with some accounts. miss grimshaw, the good genius of the family, fate had decoyed out on the downs to watch garryowen, with andy up, taking his exercise. "papa," said effie, after a while. "what?" asked mr. french in a bothered voice. "how long does it take for a letter to go from here home?" "two days, nearly," said french. "why do you want to know?" "i was only thinking." "well, think to yourself," replied her father. "i'm busy, and don't want to be interrupted." effie obeyed these instructions, making incredibly small cocked hats out of the bill-paper and pursing up her lips during the process. at last french, tearing up some calculations and throwing the pieces in the wastepaper basket, rose to his feet, lit a cigar, and strolled out. "won't you come out on the downs?" said he as he left the room. "no, thank you," said effie; "i'm busy." she waited till she heard his footsteps on the verandah; then she rose from her cocked-hat making, and went to the writing-table. she got on the chair just vacated by her father, took a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, dipped a pen in ink, and began to address the envelope in a sprawling hand. "mr. giveen, "the bungalow, "drumboyne, "nr. cloyne, ireland," wrote effie. then she dried the envelope, and hid it in the blotting-pad. she took the sheet of paper, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote on the paper with care and labour: "april fool!" then, having dried these words of wisdom, she placed the sheet of notepaper in the envelope and gummed it. then, getting down from the chair, she ran to the window to see that nobody was coming, and, assured of the fact, ran to the writing-table and stole a stamp from the drawer in which they were kept. having stamped the latter, she placed this torpedo in her pocket, and, running out, called for norah to get her hat and coat, as she wanted to go out on the downs. every day at this hour miss grimshaw was in the habit of going for a walk and taking effie with her. to-day, returning from looking at the horses, she found, to her surprise, effie dressed and waiting. "which way shall we go?" asked miss grimshaw. "let's go through the village," said effie. "i like the village." it was a moist day, damp and warm, with just the faintest threat of rain. it was the last day of the season for the west sussex hounds. they had met at rookhurst, some seven miles away, and there was a chance of getting a glimpse of them. as they passed the spot where, on saturday, miss grimshaw had plucked the primrose and placed it in mr. dashwood's coat, she noticed that several more were out. "i say," said effie, as though she were a thought reader, "why did mr. dashwood go 'way saturday?" "i'm sure i don't know," replied the girl with a start. "what makes you ask?" "i don't know," replied effie. miss grimshaw glanced sideways at her companion. effie had lost considerably the elfish look that had been a striking feature in the child during her long, imaginary illness, but she had not lost it entirely. there was still something old-fashioned and vaguely uncanny about her at times, and she had, without doubt, now and then, the trick of saying things so opposite as to hint at a more than natural intelligence. parrots have this peculiarity, too. "if i tell you something," said effie suddenly, "you won't tell it to anyone else, will you?" "no." "say, ''pon my honour.'" "'pon my honour." "well, i heard something." "what did you hear?" "i heard mr. dashwood saying he was an ass." "effie," said miss grimshaw hurriedly, "you must never repeat things you hear." "there you go!" said effie. "and you told me to." "i didn't." "you did. you said, 'what did you hear?'" "yes, but i did not know it was anything that mr. dashwood said." "why shouldn't i tell you what he said?" "oh, you can tell if you like. it doesn't matter to me. where did you hear him say it?" "in his bedroom, when he was packing his bag. papa was with him; the door was open, and i heard him say it; and i heard papa say there was never a girl made but there wasn't a better girl made to match her, and that mr. dashwood wasn't to bother himself----" "you needn't tell me any more." "i can't, for norah came, and i ran away." "where were you?" "listening at the door." "well, you certainly are frank!" "what's that mean?" asked effie. "it means that you deserve a whipping. come on. and, see here, effie, you mustn't say anything about that to anyone. have you told anyone else?" "only norah." "what did she say?" "she only laughed." miss grimshaw felt as though she were walking through a veil of blushes. happily there was no one to see. bobby dashwood's extraordinary behaviour by the bridge was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fact that he had told about it to mr. french. to kiss, to run away, to tell! she knew nothing of the position of the two men towards one another; she only knew just what had occurred on the bridge, and what effie had told her. the uphill path to the village went between a double row of poplar trees and debouched on the roman road just by the village pump. "are you going to the post-office?" asked effie as they drew near the road. "no. i haven't anything to do there." "i heard papa say he wanted some postcards." "well, i've forgotten my purse, so i must get them to-morrow." "couldn't you put them down in the bill?" "no. post-offices don't give credit." effie hung lovingly on her companion's arm. they passed into the village street and, just as they made the turning, the thin, insignificant sound of a hunting horn came on the wind. "there's the hounds," said effie, and scarcely had she spoken the words than, topping the crest of the hill, came the scarlet-clad figures of the master and whips, the hounds, and after the hounds the hunt. the fox had run to earth in blankney woods, and they were going now to draw fairholt's spinney. "come on," said effie. the child made a bolt across the road, and so swiftly that miss grimshaw had no time to follow. hounds and horses blocked the road, but not so densely as to prevent her from seeing effie run to the post-office letter-box and pop something in. when the press had gone by, and the road was clear, miss grimshaw crossed. "what was that you put in the letter-box, effie?" "nothing," said effie with a laugh. "don't say that. i saw you putting something in. was it a stone?" "no," said effie. "it wasn't a stone." "you know what they do to children who put rubbish in letter-boxes?" "no." "they put them in prison." "well, they won't put me in prison." "yes, they will. and if you don't tell me what it was, i will go in and ask mr. chopping to open the box and then send for a policeman." effie, who had heard her elders ridiculing and vilifying mr. giveen for the past three months, had thought it a fine thing to play a joke of her very own upon him. she knew nothing of the disastrous nature of her act, but suddenly interrupted like this and put off her balance she did not want to confess it. besides, she had stolen a postage stamp. "don't," said effie, turning very pale. "i will, if you don't tell." "well, it was only a letter." "a letter?" "yes." "who gave it you to post?" the suggestion created the lie. "papa." "well, if he gave you it, why did you hide it and post it secretly like that?" "pa told me not to let you see it," said effie. she was not a liar by nature, but children have streaky days in their moral life, just as men have, and to-day was a very streaky day with effie. she had awakened that morning predisposed to frowardness; a slight bilious attack had made her fretful, and fretfulness always made her impish. the devil, taking advantage of this pathological condition, had incited her to make an april fool of mr. giveen, to steal, and to lie. "oh!" said miss grimshaw. they walked away from the post-office, taking the downhill road to the bridge. they walked hurriedly; at least, the girl did--effie had almost to trot in order to keep up with her. a nice thing, truly. here, for months, she had been working for the interests of a man who to-day had taken a child into his confidence, given it a letter to post, and instructions to keep the matter hidden from her. worse than that, she had a dim suspicion that the letter was to mr. dashwood, and had to deal with that "affair." she had taken the road to the bridge unconsciously, and when she reached it, and found herself at the very place where the affair had occurred, she could have wept from sheer mortification, only for the presence of the culprit at her side. "don't tell your father that you told me that, effie," said miss grimshaw, after she had leaned for a moment on the parapet of the bridge, deep in troubled thought. "no," said effie, "i won't." miss grimshaw resumed her meditations, and effie, very quiet and strangely subdued, hung beside her, looking also at the river. even in the time of the roman legionaries lovers had haunted this place. what a story it could have told of lovers and love affairs gone to dust! but from all its wealth of stories, i doubt if it could have matched in involution and cross-purpose the love affair in which figured mr. french, mr. dashwood, and the girl in the homburg hat, who was now gazing at the wimpling water and listening to the moist wind in the branches of the trees. she was of the order of people who forgive a blow struck in anger readily, but not a slight, or a fancied slight. french had slighted her, and she would never forgive him. she had helped him, plotted and planned for him, and it had all ended in this! there was nothing for it but to leave the martens as quickly as might be, and return to london; and it was only now that she recognised, fully shown up against the background of her resentment, the pleasant ties and interests that bound her to these people, ties and interests that would have to be broken and dissolved. so, in a fever of irritation, she told herself as she leaned on the low parapet and looked at the river, while effie broke pieces of mortar from the cracks between the stones. what, perhaps, rankled deepest in her heart was the expression used by french and repeated by effie. "there is never a girl but you'll find a better one to match her"--or words to that effect. dinner at the martens was a mid-day function. at half-past one, when mr. french came home from a walk over the high downs, he found dinner waiting for him. miss grimshaw during the meal seemed to be suffering from a dumbness affecting not only her speech, but her manner; her movements were still and formal, and inexpressive, and she never once looked in his direction, but engaged herself entirely with effie, who also had a wilted air and appearance. at tea it was the same. after tea, mr. french lit a cigar and went out on the verandah to smoke. he could not make it out at all. something had happened in the space of a few hours to make all this difference in the girl. what could that something be? at eleven o'clock she had been all right, yet at half-past one she was a different person. he was not a man to keep up a misunderstanding without knowing the reason of it, and, having smoked his cigar half through, he went back into the house and to the sitting-room, where the girl was curled up on the sofa, reading "punch." "look here," said french, "what's the matter?" "i beg your pardon?" said miss grimshaw, uncurling herself and sitting half erect. "what's the matter? something is wrong. have i done anything, or what is it?" "i'm sure i don't know. nothing is the matter that i am aware of, specially." "well, now, see here," said mr. french, taking a seat close by, "i thought, maybe, you seemed so silent, that something had gone wrong, or i'd done something that displeased you. if i have, just let me know it." miss grimshaw had risen erect, and now she was making for the door. "i don't know what you call wrong. i call subterfuge wrong. perhaps i am mistaken. it's all a matter of opinion, i suppose--but, anyhow, it is not worth discussing." then she was gone, leaving the astonished mr. french to amuse himself with the problem of how he had employed subterfuge, and against whom. she did not appear at supper, alleging a headache. she went to bed at nine. chapter xx towards midnight, miss grimshaw was awakened from her slumbers by a sound as of some person weeping and wailing. she sat up in bed and listened. it was effie's voice, and she heard her own name called repeatedly. "miss grimshaw! miss grimshaw! miss grimshaw!" in a moment she was out of bed and wrapped in a dressing-gown. the next, she was in effie's room. the child was sitting up in bed in the moonlight. her subliminal mind had constructed a nightmare out of a gallows, a guilty conscience, and a stolen postage-stamp. "i took it out of the drawer of the writing-desk. i didn't mean it. i did it for fun," cried effie, her face buried in the girl's shoulder. "and i dreamt. ow! ow!" "what on earth's the matter?" it was mr. french, in a dressing-gown, with a lighted candle in his hand. you cannot weep and wail in a pitch-pine bungalow, resonant as a fiddle, without disturbing the other occupants, and behind mr. french moved figures dimly suggestive of the chorus of the greek drama waiting to come on. "i don't know what the matter is," said miss grimshaw, her mind divided between effie and a feeling of thankfulness that she had her slippers on. "she seems to have taken a postage stamp or some nonsense. it's night terror. now, effie, don't stop crying if you feel you want to, but just tell me it all. once you have told me it all, the bad things will go away." "i stuck it on the letter," sobbed effie, who had passed from the howling to the blubbering stage, "an' i stuck the letter in the box; and i dreamt mr. chopping and the p'leeceman were going to hang me." "well, they aren't. mr. chopping and the policeman are in bed. so it was a letter? and how about the letter your father gave you to post?" "i never gave her a letter," put in mr. french. "i only made it up," said effie. "father never gave me anything. it was only my letter to cousin dick." "your what?" said french, who had taken his seat on the end of the bed, and was now holding the flat candlestick so that the candle-light showed up effie with rembrandtesque effect. "i wrote to make an april fool of him." "what did you say?" asked french; and there was a tension in his voice unperceived by his daughter, but very evident to miss grimshaw, and even to norah and mrs. driscoll, who were listening outside. "i only said 'april fool,'" replied effie, who had passed now into the sniffling stage, a wan smile lighting up her countenance. "did you put any address on the paper?" "no. you remember, when i wrote to him last year on the st of april, and you said i ought to put 'april ass'? well, i put 'april fool' just the same as then." "he'll know her writing," groaned french, speaking aloud, yet to himself. then, as if fearing to trust himself to speak to the child, he turned and told the servants in the passage to be gone to their beds. "come with me," he said to miss grimshaw, when effie had at last lain down, eased of her sin and its terrors, "come into the sitting-room." they went into the sitting-room, and mr. french put his candle on the table. "here's a kettle of fish," said he. "she put no address on the paper," said miss grimshaw, "but----" "the post-mark." "yes, the post-mark. i was thinking of that. there is one comfort, however; the post-mark may be illegible. you know how difficult it is to read a post-mark very often." "listen to me," said french, with dramatic emphasis. "this post-mark won't be illegible; it will be as plain as nelson's pillar. i know it, for it's just this sort of thing that happens in life, and happens to me. the letter won't get lost; if the mail packet was to sink, a shark would rout it out from the mail-bags and swallow it, and get caught, and be cut open, and the letter would go on by next mail. we're done." "don't lose heart." "we're done. i know it. and to think, after all our plotting and planning, that a child's tomfoolery would come, after all, to ruin me. i could skin her alive when i think of it." he stopped suddenly and turned. a little white figure stood at the door. it was effie. seized with an overwhelming spirit of righteousness, hearing her father's voice colloguing, and touched with desire for adventure and a kiss, she had bundled out of bed and run into the sitting-room. "i want a kiss," said effie. the next moment she was in her father's arms, and he was kissing her as though she had brought him a fortune, instead of ruin. the next moment she was gone, seeking her warm bed rapidly, and as the sound of her pattering feet died away the girl turned to french, her eyes filled with tears. "we aren't done," said she, speaking rapidly and with vehemence. "we'll get the better of them yet. we'll do something, and we have time to prepare our defence against them, for the letter won't reach cloyne till the day after to-morrow." "if they manage to do me in this," said french, "i'll shoot garryowen with my own hand, and i'll hang for dick giveen, by heavens!" "hush! there is no use in giving way to anger. we must have a council of war, and collect all our forces. i say----" "yes?" "mr. dashwood----" the girl paused for a moment, then, as if the desperate nature of the situation made everything else of small account, she went on: "mr. dashwood behaved very foolishly the other day, and ran away off to town. we must send him a wire to-morrow morning to come at once. i'll send it. and look here. you know how grumpy i was after tea. well, effie, in that fit of lying, told me you had given her a letter to post which she was to hide from me. of course, i ought to have known you wouldn't do anything of the sort. i apologise. goodnight." they had been talking to each other attired only in their dressing-gowns and slippers. if crowsnest society could have seen them, its doors would have been shut against them from that night forth for evermore. chapter xxi mr. dashwood's chambers in the albany were furnished according to the taste of that gentleman, high art giving place in the decorations to the art of physical culture. some old rowlandson prints decorated the walls, together with boxing-gloves, singlesticks, and foils; the few books visible were not of the meditative or devotional order of literature, ruff, surtees, and pitcher being the authors most affected by mr. dashwood. he had spent a very miserable sunday. having written and posted his letters to miss grimshaw and french, he had fallen back on gloomy meditation and tobacco. he had spent monday in trying to imagine in what manner miss grimshaw had taken his letter; he had taken refuge from his thoughts at the bridge club, and had risen from play with twelve pounds to the good and feeling that things had taken a turn for the better; and on tuesday morning, as he was sitting at breakfast, a telegram was brought to him. "come at once; most important.--grimshaw, crowsnest." "french has dropped dead, or the place has caught fire," said mr. dashwood, as he sprang from the breakfast-table to the writing-table in the window and opened the pages of the a b c railway guide. "robert, rush out and get a taxicab. i've just time to catch the . from victoria. don't mind packing. i'll pack some things in the kit-bag. get the cab." he stuffed some things into the bag, and ten minutes later the cab, which had been brought up to the vigo-street entrance of the albany, was taking him to the station. that some disaster had happened he was certain. never for a moment did he dream of the truth of things. the vision of french lying dead, garryowen stricken lame, or the martens in flames alternated in his mind with attempts to imagine how the girl would meet him, what she would say, and whether she would speak of the occurrence at the bridge. he had sent a wire from victoria telling the train by which he was coming, and as they drew in at crowsnest station she was the first person he saw upon the platform. as they shook hands, he saw at once that the past was not to be referred to. "i'm so glad you've come," said the girl. "you have a bag? well, they'll send it on. we can walk to the house, and i can tell you everything on the way." "what has happened?" "disaster! but it's not so much what has happened as what may happen. effie----" "has she had an accident?" "no, she hasn't had an accident, but the little stupid posted a letter yesterday morning to mr. giveen." "a letter to him! who wrote it?" "she did. she wanted to make an april fool of him, so she wrote 'april fool' on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, directed it, and posted it." "good heavens! he'll know your address now, and give lewis warning, and you'll have the bailiffs in, and the house will be seized." "exactly." "but stay a moment," said dashwood. "did she put any address on the paper?" "no. an april fool letter like that isn't generally addressed from anywhere, is it? but the post-mark----" "i was thinking of that," said mr. dashwood. "the only thing is this," said she. "the post-mark mayn't be legible. some of these country post-offices use die-stamps that are nearly worn out. now, can you remember? i have written you several letters since we came here, asking you to bring down things from london. can you remember whether the post-marks were legible or not?" "no," said mr. dashwood. "i can't." then, blushing furiously, "but we'll soon see." he dived his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought out a small bundle of letters. there were only four letters in the bundle, and they were tied together with a narrow piece of silk ribbon. when the girl saw the silk ribbon, she bit her lip. "look!" said he, slipping the ribbon off and thrusting it into his pocket. he showed her the first of the letters. it bore the crowsnest post-mark, large as a penny, clear, and legible. the three others were the same. he put the letters back in his pocket, and they resumed their way in silence. you would never have imagined that the last time these two people parted the young man had held the girl in his arms, kissing her wildly. it was the girl who broke silence first. "mr. french said last night we were 'done,' and i'm afraid he never spoke a truer word." "the only thing i can think of," said mr. dashwood, "is for me to go over to ireland and try to talk giveen over." "you don't know him. he's a fool, and a vicious fool at that. you can't talk a man like that over." "well, we might bribe him." "mr. french has no money to bribe him with. all his money is on this race." "the city and suburban is run on the th," said mr. dashwood meditatively, "so we have more than twelve days. bother! so has this man lewis. i say, this giveen must be a beast. what makes him so anxious to have his knife into french?" "i believe i have something to do with mr. giveen having his knife into mr. french," said miss grimshaw. "didn't mr. french tell you about the boating affair?" "no," said mr. dashwood. "well, mr. giveen took me out in the boat at drumgool to see the coast." "yes." "he rowed into a sea cave, the most awful place you have ever seen, and then----" "yes?" "he rocked the boat, pretending he was going to drown me." "brute!" "that's what i said to him. he was laughing all the time, you know. he wanted me to--to----" "yes?" "give him a kiss. ugh! and i was so frightened i promised him one if he put me on shore. well, mr. french was waiting for us when i got back, and i told him what had happened." "what did he do?" "he kicked mr. giveen." "good!" said mr. dashwood. "if i'd been there i'd have drowned him." "mr. french wanted to. at least, he wanted to duck him." "i'll tell you what," said dashwood. "if this beast comes near crowsnest, i won't be answerable for what i'll do to him." "that would be the worst policy in the world," said miss grimshaw. "if he comes here we must meet him with his own weapons if we can--but he won't come here." in this she was wrong. "i wouldn't mind so much," she finished, "only for this wretched bazaar on the th. i have to help at a stall. you can imagine what it must be to keep a straight face and smile at people one doesn't particularly care for, standing all the time, as it were, on a powder magazine. besides, just imagine, if a man in possession came down, and if the fact leaks out, how all these crowsnest society people will snub us and sneer at us! you don't know them. i do." "there are an awful lot of old cats here," conceded mr. dashwood, not knowing what else to say. "makes one feel one would like to put out poisoned milk for them," said the girl. "well, here we are, and there's mr. french." they had reached the top of the path, and french, who was standing in the verandah of the bungalow, like a watchman on the look-out for enemies, hailed them. chapter xxii that night, at a consultation held between these three conspirators against misfortune, it was decided that nothing could be done but wait. there was no use in attempting to remove garryowen to another training ground; it would be impossible to do so without being traced; besides, there was no other place available. there was nothing for it but to sit still and wait for the thunderbolt to fall, if it were going to fall. the bazaar was to take place on the th, and as day followed day without disaster appearing in the form of a bailiff, miss grimshaw began to recognise that the forthcoming function was a blessing in disguise. it was, at least, a visible and tangible bother, and helped to distract the mind from gloomy speculations. it was to take place in the school building, and on the th, much to the delight of the school children, a holiday was proclaimed. benches and blackboards were turned out of the big schoolroom, the walls stripped of maps and hung with ivy and flags, and stalls erected. as money-making was the primary object of the function, things were done as cheaply as possible. colonel bingham lent his gardener, the smith-jacksons lent the weedy-looking boy who rolled their tennis lawn and cleaned their shoes, miss slimon lent her housemaid, and the village carpenter, fuming at heart, but constrained to please his customers, lent his services--for nothing. miss grimshaw was to assist miss slimon at the needlework stall. mr. dashwood had already lent his services, toiling all day valiantly in his shirt-sleeves, nailing up green stuff on the walls, tacking baize covers on the tables, even carrying baskets of crockery-ware and provisions, and to such good effect that when, at ten o'clock at night, they closed the doors and locked them, everything was in place and ready for the next day's orgy. "look here," said mr. dashwood as they sat at breakfast next morning; "giveen got that letter on the st, didn't he? well, if he had been up to any mischief he would have communicated with lewis at once. i bet my life he would have telephoned to him. well, this is the th. three days have gone, and nothing has happened." "what's three days?" said french. "there are ten days before the race, and i can't move the horse to epsom till the th, so that gives them eight days to work in." "does giveen know lewis' address in london?" "faith, i don't know, but he can easily get it from lewis' bailiff, who must have been down at drumgool, kicking his heels, a week now." "what sort of moneylender is this lewis?" "what sort? why, there's only one sort of moneylender, and that's a beast. there's nothing to be done with lewis. if he gets my address here, he'll put in a man to seize garryowen, and i'll be kiboshed. sure, it's enough to make one want to tear one's hair. the colt's in the pink of condition. another week, and he'll be perfect. there's nothing that puts hoof to turf will beat him, and to think of him being barred out of the race by a beast of a moneylender and a bum-bailiff is enough to drive one crazy." "look here," said mr. dashwood, "why not go to lewis, explain all, and offer him half-profits if the horse wins and he doesn't interfere with its running?" "give him half-profits!" shouted french, nearly upsetting his teacup. "i'd cut his throat first!" "they wouldn't be much use to him after," said miss grimshaw, rising from the table. "what time is it now? ten? well, shall we go down to the schoolroom, mr. dashwood, and see if there is anything more to be done? effie can come too; it will keep her out of mischief." it was a glorious spring morning, the herald of a perfect spring day. the hedges were sprinkled with tiny points of green, and the crowsnest children, free of school, were gathering wild violets and snowdrops and primroses in the woods for bazaar purposes. the bazaar had its hand upon the countryside for miles round. the church, calling for new choir-stalls, had sent the little children into the woods to pick flowers for sale; the farmers' wives to their dairies to make butter; the farmers' daughters answered the call with crewel-work and pin-cushions; even the cottagers were not behind with gifts. there was something so pleasant in this response from the fields and the hedgerows, as it were, that it made one almost forget the snobbishness, small-mindedness, and pride of the prime movers in the affair. for the fantodds, who lived at mill house, were snobbish, and would rout out trade in your family-tree, even if the disease were hidden deep and forgotten at its roots; and not only rout it out, but sniff and snort over it. colonel bingham--i think i called him general before, but we will reduce him, for punishment, to the rank of colonel--colonel bingham was an army snob; a well-born, kindly, and handsome old gentleman, but still a snob. the creeps were puffed up with pride; a drunken baronet who had married a cousin of colonel creeps acted in this family just as a grain of soda acts in a mass of dough, leavening the lump. the smith-jacksons, the dorian-grays (most unfortunate name, assumed in the seventies), the prosser-joneses all suffered from this perfectly superfluous disease. the schoolroom, when they reached it, was having a last finishing touch put to the decorations by miss slimon; so, finding nothing to do, they returned to the martens. they were in that condition of mind that, going even for a short walk, dread would be ever present in their minds that on returning to the house they would find garryowen "seized" and a bailiff sitting in the kitchen. this dread, which had something of pleasant excitement about it, this ever-present fear of danger, had drawn french, mr. dashwood, and the girl together again in a family party, a corporate body. love, though he hovered over them, could not divide or disunite them till the adventure they were bound together in was completed. they were united against a common enemy, so united that, by a process of telepathy, gloom affecting one would affect the rest: hilarity likewise. to-day at luncheon they were hilarious, as an offset to their gloominess at breakfast. a bottle of pommery assisted their spirits; they drank confusion to lewis and benightment to mr. giveen. they were fey. the bazaar was to be declared open at half-past two by mrs. bingham, and at half-past two a long line of carriages stood in the roadway outside the red-brick school-house; the place inside was hot and stuffy, crammed with the élite of crowsnest and smelling of glue, raw pine boards, and coffee. a huge coffee urn, with steam up, at the refreshment stall, spoke of the rustics who would invade the place at three o'clock, when the price of admission was to be lowered to sixpence, and answered with a cynical hissing the announcement of mrs. bingham that the bazaar was now open, and the little speech which that excellent lady had been preparing for three days and rehearsing all the morning. miss grimshaw, whose place was at the fancy-work stall, and whose duty it was to assist miss slimon in the most nefarious, if undisguised, robbery of customers, found time in the midst of her duties to take in the doings of her neighbours. bobby dashwood was much in evidence, buying nothing, but officiating as an unsolicited and highly successful salesman, flirting with mature spinster stallholders, and seeming to enjoy his position immensely. miss grimshaw noted with a touch of regret this flaw in his character, but she had not time to dwell upon it. the six-penny barrier was now down, and the place that had been full before was now all but packed. farmers and their wives and daughters, cottagers, and humble folk permeated the crowd. every now and then the throb of a motor-car coming to rest announced some fresh arrival from a distance. mr. french was not there. he had said that he might look in later in the afternoon, but he had not yet arrived. it was now four o'clock, and the girl, half-dazed by the stuffy air of the place, the buzz of tongues, and the endeavour to make correct changes, was resting for a moment on a ledge of the stall, when a voice brought her to her senses and made her start to her feet. "no, thank you, i don't want dolls," said the voice. "sure, what would i be doing with dolls at my age? no, thank you, i don't smoke, and if i did i wouldn't do it in a smoking-cap. no, thanks; i just looked in to see what was going on. i'm strange to the place. i've only left ireland the day before yesterday, and it's half moidthered i am still with me journey." as a gazelle by the banks of the zambesi starts from her couch of leaves at the voice of the leopard, so miss grimshaw, at the sound of this voice started from the ledge of the fancy-work stall and looked wildly round her. in the crowd, beset by two ardent spinsters, one armed with a smoking-cap and the other with a teddy bear, she saw a bubble-faced gentleman in grey tweeds. almost with the same sweep of the eye she caught a glimpse of bobby dashwood at the bran-pie corner. the wretched bobby, in his glory was standing on a tub inviting speculators to take a dip. next moment she had reached him, plucked him by the sleeve and was leading him to the door. she did not speak till they were in the porch, which was deserted. "bobby--mr. dashwood--he's here!" "who?" "mr. giveen." "good heavens!" said mr. dashwood. "giveen!" "yes. they're trying to sell him dolls. quick, we haven't a moment to waste. he doesn't know you, does he?" "no. he never came to drumgool when i was there." "get close to him, get to speak to him. don't lose sight of him. pump him. oh, use your--your intellect now! i don't know what you can do, but try to get hold of his plans." "trust me," said mr. dashwood. "i'll do my best." "well, go at once. i'll follow you back. if you get to talk with him much, pretend you're an enemy of mr. french's. he's in grey tweeds, with an irish voice. you can't mistake him." "trust me," said mr. dashwood. next moment, he was in the midst of the sweltering mob, boring his way diligently through it, his eyes and ears on the alert for the sight of the grey tweeds and the sound of the irish voice. it was at the refreshment stall that he found his prey. mr. giveen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a bun in the other, was talking to miss smith-jackson, who was replying in icy monosyllables. "faith, and the country about here is very different from the country i come from. you don't know where that is, do you? do you, now? well, i'll tell ye; it's the country of pretty girls and good whisky. not that i ever drink it. what are you smilin' at? i give you me oath, a sup of whisky hasn't passed me lips these twenty years." "one and six, please," replied miss smith-jackson, in still icier monosyllables. "i beg your pardon?" said mr. giveen, who had swallowed his bun and was now "saucering" his tea, anglice drinking it, for coolness, out of the saucer. "one and six, please." "and for what, if you please? do you mane to tell me you're going to charge me one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?" "our charge is one and sixpence." "may i never swallow bite or sup again if this isn't the biggest 'do' i ever came across! and i paying sixpence at the door to get in, and they told me, when i asked them, the refreshments were free. i won't pay it." "then please take it as a gift." "a gift!" cried mr. giveen. "when did ever a giveen take food and drink as a gift? is it a tramp you're takin' me for? here's sixpence, and that's tuppence too much, but you can keep the change." "colonel bingham!" said miss smith-jackson, perfectly unmoved. the colonel, who had overheard the end of mr. giveen's remarks, came to the table. "now, sir," said colonel bingham, "what's the trouble?" "trouble! here's sixpence--a fair price for what i've had. one and sixpence, she asked me--one and sixpence for a cup of tea and a bun!" mr. giveen, who had never been to a bazaar in his life, and who, justly enough, felt outraged, held out his sixpence, this time to colonel bingham. colonel bingham looked from the sixpence to mr. giveen, and from mr. giveen to the sixpence. "i think, sir," said colonel bingham, "you have mistaken the place where you are. if you will kindly step outside with me, i will point you out the way to the village inn, and your admission fee will be returned to you at the door." it was at this moment that mr. dashwood struck in. the crowd immediately in their vicinity had stepped back slightly, making a small arena, as people do around a street accident or a dog-fight. in the middle of this arena stood the outraged mr. giveen, facing the colonel. a moment more, and who knows what might have happened only for the intervention of bobby? "excuse me," said bobby, addressing the colonel, "but this gentleman is irish and unacquainted with our customs. the whole of this, i believe, is a mistake, and if he will step outside with me, i will explain everything to him. i am sure that, as an irish gentleman, he will agree with me that little affairs about money are better settled in private." "now, that's common sense," said the gentleman from ireland. "i haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, but i place me honour in your hands." "come on, then," said mr. dashwood, and, taking the other by the arm, he led the way through the crowd towards the door. "now we're all right," said he, when they found themselves in the open air. "i say, you're well out of it, and i wouldn't go back if i were you. do you mean to tell me they wanted to rook you of one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?" "they did that," replied the other, with a chuckle. "they thought they'd caught an omadhaun asleep; but, faith, they thought wrong!" "you were too sharp for them," said mr. dashwood. "i saw you come in. i'm down here for the day, and i just dropped into the place; then i heard you talking to the girl behind the stall, and chaffing her, and telling her you were irish; then i heard the row and came to your assistance. i like irish people. are you staying here?" "no," said mr. giveen. "i just came down for the day. do you live here?" "no," said mr. dashwood. "i just came down for the day. i live in london. but i'm jolly glad to have met you; it's a relief to come across a genuine irishman with some wit in him. i say, i'm jolly glad you put that girl in her place. she's a cheeky beast. come along into the inn and have a drink." they had been walking towards the inn, and mr. dashwood, taking his companion's arm, guided him, nothing loth, through the entrance and into the bar-parlour. "now we're all right," said bobby, taking his seat and rapping on the counter with a half-sovereign. "cock yourself up on that stool. what'll you have?" "thanks, i'll have a stone gingerbeer and a biscuit, if it's all the same to you." "a whisky and soda, a stone gingerbeer, and some biscuits, please, mrs. stonnor." then, while the landlady was serving them, "you are staying in london, i think you told me?" "yes," said mr. giveen. "i'm on a little holiday, and i just ran down here to-day to see the country. do you know the country round about here?" "rather!" "and the people?" "most of them." "now, look here," said mr. giveen. "do you happen to know any one of the name of french that's staying in the neighbourhood?" "michael french, do you mean?" "that's him." "oh, good heavens! i should think i did. an awful chap. i had a row with him." "did you, now? so you had a row with him? faith, he's always rowing with people, and it's my belief he'll do it once too often." "do you know him?" said bobby, who in his few minutes' knowledge of mr. giveen had taken a hearty and whole-souled dislike to him that amounted almost to a hatred. "know him!" said mr. giveen. "none better. i just came down to ask after him, but since i've met you, you can tell me all i want to know." "delighted, i'm sure." "he's got some horses down here?" "yes, so i believe." "and he's got his little daughter and the governess with him?" "yes, i believe he has a child and a young lady is staying with him, a miss--grim--something." "grimshaw." "that's it--grimshaw." "that's all i want to know," said mr. giveen, and there was a satisfied malignity in his tone which, combined with the soft stupidity of his manner and face, made mr. dashwood think of reptiles and those jellyfish that blister and sting. a mad desire to kick mr. giveen off the high stool he was perched on was overcome by a tremendous effort. the young man recognised that the whole of french's fortune and future was in his hands, and that it all depended on how he played his game whether this noxious, soft, and venomous enemy was to be frustrated in his plans or not. bobby, at the moment, had no plans, but he had this advantage--he knew giveen's game, and giveen did not know his. "the row i had with french," said the artful bobby, "showed me what the man was. i was up on the downs one day when he was exercising his beastly horses, and he asked me what i was doing there. what i was doing there! as if the downs belonged to him! and i told him to go and hang himself, and--as a matter of fact, he threatened to kick me." "yes," said mr. giveen, "he's great at kicking, is michael. but he'll kick once too often one of these days." he rubbed his hands together softly and chuckled to himself. "he will," said bobby. "i'd give anything to get even with him and pay him back. i say, what brought you into that bazaar place?" "what brought me in?" said giveen. "why, what else but a girl?" "a girl?" "faith, the prettiest girl i ever saw. i was coming along the street here, looking for someone to ask them where french lived, when a motor-car stopped at that red-brick place, and out of a motor-car steps a girl with a face like a tea-rose. the instant her eye lit on me she smiles. now, when a girl smiles at a fellow like that, what does it mean?" "that she's fallen in love with you, of course," replied mr. dashwood, looking at the face and figure of his companion as one looks at a toby jug on a hogarth print, allured yet repelled by its grotesqueness. "well," went on mr. giveen, "what does a fellow do when a girl looks at him like that but follow her? so in i went, and a chap at the door stops me. 'sixpence,' says he. 'what for?' says i. 'to go into the bazaar,' says he. 'what are they doin' there?' says i. 'selling things,' says he. 'i want a cup of tea,' says i, 'but i'm not goin' to pay sixpence to go in and get it.' 'oh,' he says, 'they give refreshment away for nothing to such as you.' so in i went." "just so," cut in mr. dashwood. "see here, when are you going back to town?" "by the half-past five train." "are you in a hurry to get back?" "faith, and i am. i've done my business here, and i've more business to do in town." "look here," said bobby. "i've been thinking you're just the man who might help me. i want to play this fellow french a trick." "sure," said the other, "our minds are jumpin'. a trick? why, that's the game i'm after myself." "i was thinking," said bobby, "of rotting him by sending him a telegram from town to tell him to come up at once, as some relation was ill. the only thing is i don't know if he has any relations in town." "that's no use," said giveen. "you leave me to play him a trick. see here." "yes?" "the chap's rotten with debt." "debt! why, i thought he was a rich man." "rich! he's as poor as brian o'lynn. and, look here--he's down here in hiding!" "hiding?" "aye, hiding from the bailiffs." "good heavens!" cried bobby. "why, everyone here thinks he's a great swell." "he's run away from ireland, him and his horses, and done it so cleverly that no one knows where he's gone to; but i've found out. it's the truth i'm telling you. well, now, see here. he owes a chap in london no end of money; the chap's name is lewis, and lewis sent a man to french's house over in ireland to take possession. hammering away at the house door, the man was, and it empty. well, i got an inkling from a letter that michael french himself and his daughter and his governess and his horses were down here, and here i've come to find out; and here he is, and it's to-morrow morning i'm going to see lewis, and it's to-morrow night the bailiffs will be in at french's." "gloats!" cried bobby. "oh, this is too much of a good thing all at once. why, it will crack french up and ruin him! all the people here will cut him. he'll be done for, utterly done for!" "he'll get such a twisting he'll never get over it," said giveen. "it'll mean pretty nigh the workhouse for him and his brat. cocking her up with a governess! and, see here----" "yes?" "that governess is all me eye!" mr. giveen accompanied this cryptic remark with a wink that spoke volumes of libel and slander, and mr. dashwood rose from his seat and executed a double-shuffle on the bar-room floor. "what are you doing?" asked giveen. "doing? i feel as if i were going to burst! to think of getting even with that man! see here, you must come up to town and dine with me." "sure, with the greatest pleasure. but i haven't the honour of knowing your name yet. me name's giveen." "and mine's smith. where are you staying in town?" "i'm staying at swan's temperance hotel, in the strand." mr. dashwood looked at his watch. "it wants ten minutes to five. we may as well get to the station. have another drink?" "well, i don't mind if i do," said mr. giveen, who worked on a fixed principle of never refusing anything he could get for nothing. bobby dashwood called for more gingerbeer, which his companion consumed. then they started for the station. the only plan mr. dashwood had in his mind for the moment was to cling to his companion. if the worst came to the worst, he would, at least, have the satisfaction of kicking the traitor into the street out of lewis' office, where he determined to accompany him. but he felt dimly there was a chance between this and to-morrow morning of doing something to save french. if giveen had only been a drinker, the path would have been clearer. the man who gets jolly has always soft spots one can work on. but mr. giveen had no soft spots. he was soft all over, with hard spots in him here and there, and the hardest of all these spots was his hatred of french. chapter xxiii mr. dashwood, piloting his undesirable companion, led the way to the station, where they arrived ten minutes before the train was due. he had seven pounds, the remains of the twelve pounds he had won at the bridge club, and he thanked fervently the powers above that he had the money about his person. to have left mr. giveen while he rushed back to the martens for the sinews of war would have been a highly dangerous proceeding. he felt intuitively that giveen was one of those people who, incapable of trust, have no trust in others, and that once this gentleman's suspicions were aroused, the affair would be hopeless. above bobby's intense desire to save french and thwart his enemy was the desire to shine in the eyes of violet grimshaw, to execute some stroke of finesse, to trump the ace that fate had suddenly laid down on the card-table on which french was playing the greatest game of his life. and he had not a trump-card, to his knowledge. the train came steaming in, disgorged a few passengers, received some baskets of country produce, and steamed out again, with mr. dashwood and his antagonist seated opposite to one another in a third-class smoking carriage. dashwood was by no means an "intellectual," yet before they reached victoria the unintellectuality of mr. giveen had reduced him from a condition of mild wonder to pure amazement. an animal of the meanest description would have been a far preferable companion to this gentleman from over the water, childish without the charm of childhood, ignorant, and little-minded. as mr. dashwood stepped out of the carriage at victoria he saw, amid the crowd on the platform, a figure and a face that he knew. a tall girl with red hair and a good-looking but rather masculine face, dressed in a tailor-made gown of blue serge, and wearing pince-nez--that was the apparition that brought mr. dashwood to a pause and caused him for a moment to forget mr. giveen. it was miss hitchen, the high-minded girl with the latchkey, the student of eugenics and sociology, the lady who, in a moment of mental aberration, had engaged herself to mr. dashwood, and who, after recovering her senses, had disengaged herself, much to mr. dashwood's relief. she was evidently looking for some friend expected but not arrived. for a moment mr. dashwood paused. he had never loved miss hitchen, but he had always felt a profound respect for her intellect and a grasp of things. in his present quandary, with french's fate literally in his hands, and with no idea how to preserve it, the clever and capable face of miss hitchen came as a light to a man in darkness. they had parted in amity. in fact, the last words miss hitchen had said to him were of a nature almost prophetic. "bobby," she said, "if your irresponsibility ever gets you into any scrape, and i can help you, let me know, for you are just the sort of boy that gets into scrapes that only women can help a man out of." "wait for me a moment," said mr. dashwood to mr. giveen. then, pushing through the crowd, he touched miss hitchen lightly on the arm. she turned. "bobby!" "i'm so awfully glad to see you--you can't tell. i say, i'm in a scrape--not me, but another man. i can't explain everything at once. don't think there's anything wrong, but a man's whole fortune is hanging in the balance, and i want you to help to save it. just look round there. do you see that fellow in grey tweed, with a face like an--i don't know what?" "yes," said miss hitchen, gazing at mr. giveen. "is he the man in the scrape?" "no, he's the scrape. see here--will you drive with us to the albany, and i'll leave him in there, and we can speak about the thing. he's a gentleman, and all that, but he's slightly mad, and the whole thing is most curious." "yes," said miss hitchen. "i came here to meet a girl, but she hasn't turned up. if i can help you in any way, i'm willing." "well, then, i'll introduce you to him, and i wish you'd study him on the way to the albany. i can't tell you the importance of all this till we have a moment together alone." mr. dashwood left his companion and made through the crowd towards mr. giveen. "i say," said mr. dashwood. "i've just met a lady friend, a most charming girl, and she wants to be introduced to you." "sure, with pleasure," replied the lady-killer. "well, come along, then." he led him by the arm towards where the girl was standing, and effected the introduction. "now," said he, "as you say you are going in my direction, if the presence of myself and my friend giveen here will not bore you, may i ask you to take a seat in my cab?" "oh, you won't bore me," replied miss hitchen, who with a searching glance had taken in the face, form, and bearing of giveen and who felt for this new type of individual something of the interest a naturalist feels on coming across a new species of insect. "you'll amuse me." "faith, we'll try our best," said mr. giveen, while bobby dashwood went in search of a taxicab. "there's nothing like fun, is there? and, faith, it's fun we've been having to-day, mr. smith and i." "mr. smith?" said miss hitchen, and then recognising in a flash that the pseudonym was part of some artless plan of bobby's, "oh, yes, mr. smith. you mean my friend who has just introduced us. and what have you been doing? i mean, what did your fun consist of?" "faith, it mostly consisted of a girl." "yes?" mr. giveen tilted his hat and scratched his head. he did not shine as a conversationalist, and as miss hitchen watched him, something of disfavour for this humourist with the shifty manner of a self-conscious child stole into her mind. "yes?" said miss hitchen. "i beg your pardon?" said mr. giveen. "you were saying something about a girl," said miss hitchen. "oh, ay, it was a girl down at a place in the country, and, faith, by the same token, she was old enough to be my aunt," said mr. giveen. "it was a bazaar." "yes?" "and she was selling tea behind a counter and up i went, and 'what can i serve you with?' says she. 'a cup of tea,' says i, 'and a bun.'" "how funny! what did she reply?" "faith, i forget, but the next she says to me, 'one and sixpence,' she says." "yes?" "one and sixpence!" suddenly burst out mr. giveen. "why, you might have knocked me down with a feather. and i put me hand into me pocket, and 'here's sixpence for you,' says i, 'and that's tuppence too much; but you can keep the change.' with that she called an old gentleman up with a red face, and then mr. smith came and took me by the arm, and out we went." "and the sixpence?" "faith, i've got it still in me pocket." "how awfully amusing! but look, mr. smith has got us a cab. thanks, no, i never take gentlemen's arms; it is quite unnecessary." they took their seats in the taxi, miss hitchen and mr. dashwood in the back seat, mr. giveen sitting opposite to miss hitchen. "the albany, piccadilly end," said mr. dashwood to the driver, and they started. before they had well cleared the precincts of the station miss hitchen was alive to the fact that mr. giveen was "making eyes at her"--ogling her. mr. dashwood noted the same fact, and with his elbow touched his companion's arm as if to implore her patience. to have stopped the taxicab and kicked mr. giveen out of it would have been apples of gold in pictures of silver to mr. dashwood, but he controlled himself, contemplating french's possible salvation as a buddhist controls himself by contemplating nirvana. at the piccadilly end of the albany the taxicab drew up, and miss hitchen, who was on the kerb side, alighted hurriedly. she stood on the pavement waiting, while mr. dashwood paid the driver off, and then the three entered the albany. mr. dashwood's rooms were situated half-way up, on the right-hand side, and at the entrance of them he stopped and turned to mr. giveen. "will you come in and wait for me a few minutes? miss hitchen will excuse me if i run in for a moment with you to show you the way. you can sit and wait for me a few minutes while i see miss hitchen into a cab. come, this is the way." mr. giveen held out his hand to the girl. "it's sorry i am to have seen so little of you," said mr. giveen, "but, sure, if we have any luck, we may meet again." "yes, i suppose so," replied miss hitchen, releasing her hand. "good evening." she waited. in less than a minute and a half mr. dashwood reappeared. "bobby," said miss hitchen, as she turned with him to the vigo street entrance, "i have forgiven you many things, but that thing is too much to be forgiven without a very complete explanation. do you know that it put its toe on my foot in the cab?" "beast!" said mr. dashwood. "can you imagine my fix, tied to it? i feel as if i were going to burst. now, look here. here's my situation in a nutshell. i know a man called french, the nicest fellow in the world. he's almost broken; but he has one thing left--a racehorse. the horse is almost sure to win the city and suburban, and if he does french will make a fortune. well, french is training the horse down at crowsnest, in sussex. french owes a moneylender named lewis a lot of money, and lewis doesn't know where french is. if he knew it, he would send down a man to-morrow and collar the horse. do you see?" "yes." "giveen is french's cousin." "poor mr. french!" "and he has a mortal hatred to french. he has been hunting for his address for the last long time, and he has found it. he went down to crowsnest to-day to make sure. he strayed into a bazaar that was going on there, and i met him. he was acting like a cad, refusing to pay for a cup of tea. miss grimshaw, french's governess, pointed him out to me, and told me who he was, and i froze on to him. i said my name was smith, and i told him i hated french, and he unbosomed himself to me. well, here's the position now. to-morrow morning he's going down to lewis, the moneylender, and is going to put lewis on to french. now, you see the position i'm in. for heaven's sake, try to think of what's to be done." "when is the race?" asked miss hitchen. "on the th." "well, unless you murder him i don't see that anything is to be done. if the race were to-morrow or next day, you might chloroform him, or lock him up in your rooms, but you can't lock a man up for ten days." "he ought to be locked up for life," said bobby. "idiot! if i could only make the beast tipsy, i might do something with him, but he drinks nothing--only stone gingerbeer." "ah!" suddenly said miss hitchen, pausing. "what is it?" asked mr. dashwood. "an idea." "yes?" "why not sequestrate him?" "what's that?" "hide him away." "where on earth could i hide him?" "good gracious, bobby, haven't you any imagination?" "not much," replied the unfortunate bobby. "i was never any good at working out things, and now i'm so addled i can't think." "well, now, listen to me. i don't want to be accessory before the act in this business, and i only make suggestions. tell me, do you not sometimes go duck-shooting?" "yes." "where do you go?" "essex." "where in essex (i know, because you have several times told me, but i want you to fully answer my question)--where in essex do you go duck shooting?" "why, you know very well it's flatmarsh, down near canvey island." "where do you stay there?" "uncle james' hole of a cottage." "is uncle james' hole of a cottage occupied now?" "no." "no one lives near it?" "not within six miles." "good. can you drive a motor-car?" "should think so!" "and hire one?" "yes; i've got tick at simpson's. oh, by jove! i see what you mean!" "i'm glad you do; otherwise i would have fancied that your mental sight was defective." "i see what you mean. but, look here, if i got him down there, how would i feed the beast and keep him hid?" "biscuits and tinned meat can be bought, and enough for a fortnight wouldn't cost more than, say, three or four pounds." "and there's a well there, so we'd have plenty of water," said mr. dashwood. "i say, you are a ripper. i'd never have thought of all that." "would simpson, or whoever he is, let you hire a car for a fortnight?" "'course he would. i always pay up my bills, though he has to wait sometimes; but i paid him my last bill a month ago." "where is his place?" "just close here, in regent-street." "now, another thing--can you imagine what it would be to live for nearly a fortnight alone in a cottage with a person like that, acting as his gaoler?" "oh, heavens!" said bobby. "you think everything! no, i can't, but i'll do it to save french." "bobby," said miss hitchen. "yes?" "do you know what i have discovered?" "no." "that i'm a fool." "you a fool?" "yes. i thought you were only an irresponsible boy, but i find you're a man." "thanks, thanks," said bobby. "anyhow, i'll try to be." "you needn't thank me. now, have you any money?" "about five pounds." "well, i'll lend you another five pounds. no, i won't, but i'll buy the provisions myself. if i left that to you, you'd forget the essentials. are there plates and things at the cottage?" "lots." "well, now, like a good boy, go at once to simpson's, and order the car, and get back before that animal takes it into his head to escape." "do you mean i ought to take him to-night?" "of course i mean it." "will i see you again this evening?" "no, but you can write and tell me the result. same address. the provisions for your excursion will be sent to the albany by special messenger within the hour. and, oh, bobby!" "yes." "do be artful. say you are taking him out to dinner at a country house. once he's in the car----" "once he's in the car," said bobby, "he'll stick in it, or i'll smash him up. oh, leave him to me. but i can never thank you enough. what makes you so awfully clever?" "he squeezed my foot," said miss hitchen. chapter xxiv mr. giveen, left alone in mr. dashwood's chambers, took a comfortable seat in an arm-chair and gazed around him. he felt that he had fallen on his feet. he had extracted two bottles of ginger-beer, some biscuits, and a drive in a taxicab from his new-found friend. he was going to extract a dinner. he was about to have his revenge on french. all these things combined to cast him into a pleasant and amused state of mind, and he looked with satisfaction at all the evidences of well-being around him. then he got up and began a circuit of the room, looking at the prints on the wall, examining his own face in the looking-glass, touching the boxing-gloves and foils. then he examined the writing-table. fortunately there were no letters with mr. dashwood's name on them, and when he had turned over the books and taken another peep at himself in the glass he resumed his seat, and presently fell into a doze which deepened into slumber. he had slept like this for some three-quarters of an hour, when he was awakened by the entry of his new friend. "well," said bobby in a cheerful voice. "how are you getting along? been asleep, hey? now, look here, i want you to come out to dinner with me." "right you are," said mr. giveen, rubbing his eyes. "i'm with you--hay yow!--i'm half moidhered with all me travelling. and what's become of miss what's-her-name?" "she--oh, we're going to meet her at dinner. she's gone on in her motor-car." "so she keeps a motor-car, does she?" said mr. giveen, rising and pulling down his waistcoat. "rather! she keeps two. why, she has half a million of money of her own. and, look here," said the artful bobby, "i'm only taking you to dinner with her on one condition." "and what's that?" "well, i'm rather sweet on her myself, do you see?" "oh, faith, you may trust me," said mr. giveen, in high good spirits. "i'm not a marrying man, or i'd have been snapped up years ago, musha! but oughtn't i to go back to me hotel for a black coat?" "oh, you won't want any black coats where we're going to," said bobby with grim jocularity. "they are most unconventional people. but, maybe, you'd like to wash your hands. this is my bedroom." he ushered his guest into the bedroom and left him there. when he returned to the sitting-room he found robert waiting for him with the announcement that some parcels had come. "let's see them," said mr. dashwood. four large brown-paper parcels were on the floor of the landing; they had just arrived from thompson's, the big italian warehouse in regent street. "that's right," said bobby. "i'm taking them down to a place. and, see here, robert, i may be away a few days. i've got a car coming; it will be at the vigo street entrance in a few minutes. just keep a lookout for it, and let me know when it arrives." "yes, sir. shall i pack you some things?" "yes; shove a few things into a bag--enough for a week--and stow the bag and these parcels in the back of the car when it comes." twenty minutes later, to mr. dashwood and his companion appeared robert, with the announcement that the car was in readiness. bobby led the way to the vigo street entrance, where, drawn up at the kerb, stood a -h. p. daimler car with lamps lit. bobby looked at this formidable locomotive with an appreciative eye, and the chauffeur sent with it by simpson getting down, he mounted and took the steering collar. giveen, innocent of danger as a lamb entering the yard of the butcher, got in and took his seat beside mr. dashwood. "right!" said bobby. he backed into cork street, and then, turning again into vigo street, passed into regent street. "how far is it, did you say, to miss kitchen's?" asked mr. giveen. "i didn't say--but it's not far--at least, with this car. are you used to motors?" "no, faith, i've never driven in one before. and are you used to driving them?" "oh, pretty well." "do you ever have accidents?" "accidents! rather. that's half the fun. the last accident i had the car turned turtle and pinned the fellow that was with us under the engine. the petrol spilt on him, and a spark set it on fire." "good heavens!" said the horrified giveen. "was he burnt?" "was who burnt?" "the chap with the petrol on him." "burnt! why, they gathered up his ashes in a bucket. didn't you read about it in the papers?" "no," said mr. giveen. "i didn't." they passed down the strand. the night was clear and warm for the time of the year, a fortunate circumstance for mr. giveen, as he had no overcoat. they passed up fleet street, by st. paul's, and down bishopsgate street. "is it anywhere near here?" asked giveen as they passed whitechapel church and turned into the old coaching road to ilford. "is what near here?" asked bobby. "the place we're going to." "oh, it's about sixty or eighty miles." "sixty or eighty miles!" "yes. that's nothing to a car like this. you just see how i'm going to make her hum. i haven't had a car like this to drive since i came out of that beastly asylum place." "i beg your pardon?" said giveen, cold shivers going up his back. "did you say--did i understand you to say--which asylum place was it, did you say?" "don't bother me with questions," replied mr. dashwood, "for when people talk to me when i'm driving, i'm sure to do something wrong." chapter xxv when miss grimshaw saw bobby leading mr. giveen to the bazaar entrance she returned to her duties with so distracted a mind that she sold a seven-and-six-penny teacloth to mrs. passover, the sanitary inspector's wife, for two and sixpence, and was only conscious of the fact when she was reminded of it by miss slimon, the presiding genius of the stall. on the pretext of a headache, she released herself at five o'clock and made directly for the martens, where she found mr. french smoking a cigar and reading a novel, and utterly oblivious of the fact that he had promised to attend the bazaar. "what's up?" said french, putting his book and reading glasses down and staring at the girl, whose face and manner were eloquent of news. "he's come." "who?" "mr. giveen." the owner of garryowen sprang to his feet. "he's come, has he? where is he? he's come, has he?" "stop!" she said, half frightened with the ferocity of the outraged french. "it mayn't be so bad as you think. mr. dashwood is with him, and is going to do what he can. there's no use in violence. sit down and listen to me, and i'll tell you all about it." french sat down in the chair from which he had just arisen. the animal fury which the idea of giveen excited in his mind might have given cause to grave results had the image come within striking distance; and little blame to him, for here was garryowen trained to a turn. weeks and months of care and the genius of moriarty had brought the colt to that point of perfection which leaves nothing to be desired but the racing day. only a few days separated them from the supreme moment when, if fate were propitious, the black-and-yellow colours of drumgool would be carried first past the winning-post. the possibility of winning a small fortune was almost becoming a certainty, and now, to thwart him of his desire and cripple him for life, here came dick giveen. "but what took him into the bazaar?" asked he, when the girl had finished her story. "providence, i believe," replied miss grimshaw. "just fancy, if he hadn't come in! he has come down here evidently to make sure that you are here. if he hadn't wandered into the bazaar, he might have found out what he wanted and gone back to london without our knowing, and then the next thing would have been a man in possession." french rose up and paced the floor several times without speaking, then he broke out: "i don't see what dashwood is to do with him. unless he murders him, he'll never stop him from going to lewis and blowing the gaff. what's the good of following him? might as well leave him alone. better to have it over at once and done with. well, let them do their worst, but they'll never get the horse, for as sure as lewis takes possession i'll shoot him." "shoot mr. lewis?" "no, the horse." he strode out of the room, and by the back entrance to the bungalow found the stableyard. moriarty was in the yard, completing a trap of his own invention, a thing simple as sin, fatal as death, and artful as the mind of its maker. miss grimshaw had spoken strongly to mrs. driscoll about the poaching. catching rabbits and such things might be excusable, said miss grimshaw, but poaching sheep and eggs was indefensible. it was robbery, in fact, and should it come to her ears again she would inform mr. french. stoutly denying all knowledge of the fact, mrs. driscoll, all the same, listened to the words of the governess and conveyed them to moriarty. "sheep?" said moriarty, with a wink at his informer. "what sheep does she mane?" "faith, i dunno, but she says she saw you and andy draggin' a sheep into the loose-box be the wan the cat's in." "oh, that ould bell-wether? sure, it was to keep him from the cowld we put him there. and was it our fault if he committed suicide and killed himself and skinned himself and then hung himself up in quarthers?" all the same, from that day he paid no more attention to the comfort of the sheep of the neighbourhood, confining himself to smaller game. "moriarty," said mr. french, "mr. giveen has found out where we are. he's been down here to-day and it's all up with us." "faith, sorr," said moriarty, "and i'm not surprised. the only wonder to me is he didn't find us out before." "well, he's found us out now, anyhow, and be hanged to him! there's only one thing. mr. dashwood has got hold of him, and is sticking to him. not that i expect he'll do much good." moriarty, who had put his trap down on the window-ledge of the kitchen, pursed his lips and stood with one hand caressing his foxy chin. "and where has mr. dashwood got him, sorr?" asked he after a moment's silence. "i don't know." "be any chance, sorr, d'you think he's left the place yet. for if he hasn't, and we could speak him fair, and get him up here----" "yes?" "well, sorr, there's a loose-box beside the wan the cat's in." "you mean we might lock him up there?" "yes, sorr." "he'd never come, and if he did, he'd shout the place down." "faith, he'd be silent enough, sorr, wid a rope gag in him." "we couldn't keep him ten days, and he'd have a tearing action against us--not that i'd care about that. see here, moriarty." "yes, sorr." "down with you to the village and station, and if by any chance you see him with mr. dashwood--well, b'gad, i'll do it. get him up here; tell him i want to see him. we may as well try." "yes, sorr." moriarty went into the stables and slipped on his jacket. an hour later he returned from the village with the news that mr. dashwood and the strange gentleman had departed for london by the five o'clock train. early next morning, with the letters, arrived the telegram that mr. dashwood had despatched the night before. "giveen safe." mr. french, having read it, put on his dressing-gown, and, crossing over to the door of miss grimshaw's room, knocked and pushed the envelope under the door. "read that," shouted mr. french. "good!" came the girl's voice when she had read it. "i knew he'd do something. oh, what a relief!" at breakfast, with the open telegram on the table, they discussed it. "it was handed in at regent street last night at eight o'clock," said miss grimshaw. "what, i wonder, can he have done to him, or how can he have got round him?" "i don't know what he's done to him," said her companion, "but i know one thing, he'll never get round him, and if he thinks he's talked him over he'll find he's made a mistake." "well," said the girl, "whatever has happened has happened. we have done our best, and if we are beaten, it won't be our faults. and there is some satisfaction in that." the day passed, bringing no news from mr. dashwood. the next day also passed without news; but by the early post of the third day arrived a letter. the envelope was shabby and dirty, and the address was written in pencil. mr. french tore the thing open, and read: "dear french,--i've bottled him. i'm scribbling this with pencil as i have got no ink, and i don't know how i will post it. anyhow, i'm writing it on the chance of finding some means of doing so. i got giveen up to my rooms in town, and when i had him there i didn't in the least know what to do with him. the beast hates you. i got it all out of him by pretending you were an enemy of mine. "he told me straight out that he was going to set lewis on you, and, upon my soul, there were moments on the journey up to town when i could have flung him out of the railway carriage. anyhow, when i got him to my rooms, a brilliant idea occurred to a friend of mine whom i consulted. i hired a motor-car, bought some provisions, got giveen into the car, and motored him down here to a cottage which belongs to an uncle of mine, and which he used for duck-shooting. "it's the most god-forsaken place in the world, on the essex coast; not a soul within miles, only sea-gulls. of course, giveen bucked coming down, but only mildly. a happy thought occurred to me, and i pretended to be slightly balmy. i told him i was the king of siam--that quieted him. he's dead certain he's in the grip of a lunatic, and asks no questions. i make him do the cooking, such as it is, and the washing up. "i never let him out of my sight for a moment, and i sleep at night with my bed drawn across the door. the whole thing is like what you'd read of in a book; but it's too awful for words. he can talk about nothing, and we are living on tinned meat and biscuits, and now my tobacco is giving out. i'd ask you to send me some, only i daren't, for if the postman came here, giveen would be sure to make a bid for freedom. "be sure i will stick to him, like grim death, and give my kind regards to all at the martens." french read this important despatch to miss grimshaw as they sat at breakfast, and the girl listened with sparkling eyes. "i always hated motor-cars," said she, when he had finished. "but i'll never hear a word against them again. wasn't it clever of him? and the cleverest thing in the whole business is the king of siam part, for if there's any bother afterwards, he can put the whole affair down to a practical joke. there are only five days now to the th. you are moving the horse to major lawson's stables at epsom on the th, aren't you?" "i am," said french. "i had a letter from him only yesterday, asking after the colt. by george, but i believe we'll pull the thing through, after all!" he rose from the table in high excitement, went to the window, and stood, jingling the keys in his pocket and gazing at the view. it seemed to him that at last fortune was beginning to make a way for him. a few days only separated him from his goal. if bobby dashwood could only keep giveen "bottled" till the th, or even the th, all would be well. could he do this? time alone could answer that question. chapter xxvi it will be remembered that the night of the th of april was the date of the kidnapping of mr. giveen. early in the morning of the th mr. dashwood awoke from his slumbers with a start, looked around him, and remembered. the cottage contained only two bedrooms and a living-room. he had taken a bed the night before from one of the bedrooms and dragged it in front of the living-room door, which was also the hall door. here he had slept, literally making a barrier of his body to the escape of giveen. his first thought was of his prisoner, but he was reassured as to his safety by loud snores coming from the bedroom where he had deposited him the night before. the morning reflections of mr. dashwood, as he lay watching the mournful dawn breaking through the diamond-paned window, were not of the most cheerful description. in seizing the body of mr. giveen and forcibly deporting it from london to essex, he had broken the law. the fact that giveen was an enemy of french and about to do him a cruel injury would, mr. dashwood felt, weigh very little with a jury should the said giveen take an action against him for wrongful imprisonment; and he felt distinctly that giveen, despite all his softness, was just the man to take such a course. the great craft of giveen was fully demonstrated by the way in which he had acted on the night before. believing himself in the power of a lunatic, he had adapted himself to the situation, feigning unconcern as a beetle feigns death. besides gloomy forebodings as to the ultimate issue of his illegal proceedings, mr. dashwood had to face the immediate prospect of giveen's close companionship for ten days or so. but, as a set-off to these undesirabilities, he had the pleasant vision of french liberated from his difficulties, garryowen passing the winning-post with a beaten favourite behind him, and last, but not least, violet grimshaw's face when he told her all. enlivened by the thought of this, he sprang out of bed, pulled the bed away from the door, and opened it. the bleak morning had broken fully now upon the marshlands and the sea. a cold wind was blowing from the southeast, bending the wire grass and bringing with it the chilly sound of small waves breaking on the shore. electric white gulls were circling and crying by the distant sea-edge, and the marble-grey clouds were running rapidly overhead. he shut the door on this dismal prospect, and turned his attention to the fireplace. he remembered that the last time he was here there was some coal and firewood in the little outhouse at the corner adjoining the shed under whose shelter he had placed the car. he went out now, and, opening the outhouse door, found several hundred-weight of coal stacked in a corner of the shed and a dozen or so bundles of firewood by the coal. an old basket stood by the coal, and filling this with fuel and sticks, he returned to the cottage. giveen was still snoring, and mr. dashwood, who had no desire for his company, left him to his slumbers while he proceeded to the business of lighting the fire. then he undid the package of provisions, and spread the contents on the dresser. tinned meat and biscuits formed the store--nothing else, unless we include two small jars of olives, and as mr. dashwood looked at the row of biscuit bags and tins, he came to the conclusion that, however learned in eugenics and sociology, miss hitchen was somehow deficient in her knowledge of household management. when he had untinned a tongue, put some biscuits on a plate, and boiled some water which, if you drink it hot enough and with your eyes shut you cannot distinguish from tea, he called his companion, and they sat down to their cheerless meal, giveen amiable and even cheerful, seeming to find nothing extraordinary in his position, but fencing with the subject whenever bobby brought the conversation in the direction of siam, and--mr. dashwood noted--with his eye ever wandering to the door. after breakfast mr. dashwood wrote the letter we have seen to mr. french, and put it in his pocket, with a view to finding some means of sending it later. then he took his charge out for a walk on the salt marshes. after dinner, with an old pack of cards, which he discovered in the dresser drawer, they played beggar-my-neighbour, and dusk closed on that terrible day and found them sitting without candles or lights of any sort by the embers of the fire, mr. giveen still amiable and even mildly cheerful. had he been obstreperous or quarrelsome, had he even asked questions as to bobby's intentions, had he been irritable, the situation would have been more bearable; but he sat uncannily composed and amiable, and giving no hint of dissatisfaction with his position and no sign of revolt or evasion, with the exception of the tell-tale wandering of his eye every now and then towards the door. bobby's watch had run down, and mr. giveen had no timepiece, time being to him of no account, and, at an indeterminable hour, mr. dashwood, yawning, dragged his bed to the door by the light of the flickering fire and his prisoner retired to the bedroom, and, judging by the sound of snoring that soon filled the cottage, to sleep. it was long past midnight, when mr. dashwood was aroused from sleep by cries from the night outside. the clouds had broken and a full moon was casting her light through the diamond panes of the window as, sitting up in bed, he strained his ears to listen. it was giveen's voice, and giveen was shouting for help. he dragged the bed from the door, opened the door, and, without waiting to dress, rushed out into the night. the cries were coming from the back of the cottage. running round, he came upon the object of distress and the cause. the front end of mr. giveen was protruding from the tiny window of the bedroom. this window had possessed a bar across it, which bar the prisoner, by a miracle of patience and dexterity, had removed. he had got his head and one arm and shoulder through, and there he was stuck. "help!" cried mr. giveen. "i'm stuck!" "try back!" cried bobby. "don't push forward, or you'll be stuck worse. what made you try to get out of that window, you sainted fool? it's not big enough for a child. push back!" "back, is it?" cried the perspiring giveen. "back or front is all the same. i tell you i'm stuck for good. help! murder! thieves!" "come forward, then," cried bobby, seizing the free arm, "and shut that row. now, then, all together! push while i pull." "let up, or you'll have the arm off me!" cried the afflicted one. "holy mary! but you're murdering me! go round to the room and pull at me legs if you want to pull. maybe you'll get me in, for, be the powers, you may pull till you're black, but you'll never get me out." "right," said bobby. he ran round, entered the bedroom, which was in darkness, owing to the occlusion of the window, groped for the afflicted one's legs, found them, and pulled. loud bellows from the night outside was the only result. first he pulled face fronting the window, and with one foot against the wall for purchase; then with his back to giveen and with one leg under each arm, pulling like a horse in the shafts, he pulled. "good heavens!" said mr. dashwood at last, taking his seat on the bed and wiping the perspiration from his brow, "i don't know what we're to do with the bounder, unless we pull the cottage down." chapter xxvii on the morning of the th of april mr. french awoke from a night of pleasant dreams to find the sun shining broad and strong through the window of his bedroom. he had dreamt of the great race; he had seen in a glorified vision the field sweeping round tattenham corner, garryowen a length ahead of the favourite; he had heard the roar of the crowd, and had been congratulated by all sorts of dream-people, and the exhilaration of the vision clung to him as he dressed and accompanied him as he breakfasted. not a word had come from mr. dashwood since the letter announcing the "bottling" of giveen, but no news in this case was good news. only three days now lay between him and the eventful th, and if dashwood could only keep his prisoner safe for three days more, all would be well. the chance that garryowen might not win the race never even occurred to french. he was certain; and one of the reasons of his certainty was the opposition that fate had put in his way. he felt dimly that fate would never have taken all this trouble to thwart him, would never have put so many obstacles in his path, if she were not sure that when the flag fell the victory of garryowen would be a certainty. after breakfast he went out on the downs to watch the colt taking his exercise. the length of the city and suburban course had been marked out on the great flat table-land, and here garryowen and the cat, the swiftest thing save garryowen that french had ever possessed, were now exercising, andy up on garryowen and buck slane on the cat. moriarty, a straw in his mouth, was watching them. "we'll do it, moriarty," said french, as he took his stand beside his henchman and fixed his eyes on the distant horses that were being walked back towards him. "i'm beginnin' to b'lave we will, sorr," replied moriarty. "we'll just hit the cruck in the middle be the th. there's not a bit of overthrainin' about the colt. i've been keepin' him back for the last few days, for a horse all fiddle-strings is no more use on the course than a barber's cat at a concert. "and did yiz ever hear of thim college chaps, sorr, that goes up for their 'xaminations wid the stuff stickin' out of their heads, and nothin' in their heads but addlement? faith, mr. casey, of thrinity college, told me of thim when he was down for the shootin'. "he said he'd seen thim college boys, some of thim, larnin' up their stuff right till they were forenint the 'xaminers, wid their book in their hands till the last minit, and thim sort of chaps, says he, always gets stuck, for their 'rithmetic gets jammed in their latin, and, when they open their gobs to spake, their g'ography comes out when it's greek they ought to be answerin'. but you take the boys that aise off before the 'xamination day, says he, and they git through because they're the wise ones. well, it's just the same wid a horse, sorr! addle his legs wid overthrainin', and you do for him." "he's a good starter, he's a good goer, and he's got a jockey that knows him," said french as he watched the horses approaching, "and the jockey's a lot." "a lot, sorr! it's everything, be the powers! same as a wife to a man. and what is a wife, sorr, to a man, if she's a decent wife, but a jockey that brings him first past the winnin'-post if he's got the go in him?" mr. french assented to this sage pronouncement of moriarty's, and returned to the house in high good spirits. he had just reached the verandah, when the sight of something coming up the path made him catch his breath. this something was a telegraph boy. "french?" said the boy, presenting an envelope. mr. french tore it open. "giveen loose--clean got away--motoring down.--dashwood." "any answer, sir?" "no," said mr. french, "there's no answer." he stood for a moment with the paper crushed in his hand. he could hear the boy whistling as he went down the hill. then he passed into the bungalow. "norah," cried mr. french. "yes, sir." "fetch me the whisky decanter, and ask miss grimshaw to come here." he went into the sitting-room. "giveen loose--clean got away." the words danced before him and sang in his ears, turned somersaults, and stood on their heads like a troop of tormenting gamins. in the crisis of a complex and fantastic tragedy such as that of french's, the most galling thing is the inability to seize the whole situation and meet it philosophically. a bank smash which sweeps away one's fortune is a four-square disaster, seizable if stunning; but this business of garryowen's was ungraspable, and unmeasureable, and unfightable as a nightmare. the horse was in apparent safety one moment, and the next in imminent danger. fortune was quite close now, and holding out her hand; now she was at a distance, and her hand, fingers extended, was at her nose. yesterday the dreaded giveen was safe in ireland; to-day he was attending the village bazaar. now mr. dashwood had him a safe prisoner down in the wilds of essex, and now he had escaped. the fight for fortune had been a long one, vast obstacles had been overcome. was it all to end at the last moment in disaster? when miss grimshaw entered the room she found mr. french seated at the table, with the open telegram before him, and at his side a glass of whisky and water and a decanter. "read that," said he. she took the message and read it with a constriction at the heart. "well," said he, "what do you think of that?" miss grimshaw, before answering, took the whisky decanter from the table and put it on the side table. "oh, you needn't be afraid of me," said french. "i'm too much at the end of my tether to care very much what happens. faith, i wouldn't take the bother to get drunk." "all the same," said the girl, "we must meet this with as cool a head as possible. 'motoring down.'" (she was reading the message.) "who does he mean, i wonder? of course, he must mean himself, because he evidently does not know where mr. giveen is, or what he's doing. it was handed in at regent street this morning at . ; received here at . . it is now nearly eleven." "listen!" said french. sounds came very clearly up here from the lower land, and the sound which had attracted french's attention was the throb of a motor-car approaching along the station road. moved by an identical impulse, they approached the window leading on to the verandah. mr. french opened it, and they passed out. miss grimshaw and mr. french could see the car--a large touring car--approaching slowly; there was only one individual in it, and--"that's him!" said miss grimshaw, forgetful of grammar, leaving the verandah and taking the down-hill path to the road. french followed her, and they reached the road just as the car was coming to a halt. it was mr. dashwood, in very truth, but a more different edition of the joyous and irresponsible bobby it would be hard to imagine. his hat on the back of his head exposed fully his face, grimy, unwashed, and weary. he had, altogether, the disreputable appearance of a person who has been out all night, and as he crawled out of the car, his movements suggested old age or rheumatism. "something to eat!" said bobby as he took french's arm with his left hand and held out his right to miss grimshaw. "i'm nearly done. giveen is loose, but i'll tell you it all when i get up to the house. thanks, may i lean on you? the car will be all right here." "come along up," said french. no word was said till mr. dashwood was seated in the sitting-room, with a glass of whisky and soda in his hand. "oh, this is good!" said he. "i haven't had a drink since i don't know how long." "don't drink till you have had some food," said the girl. "i'll get something for you at once. there's a tin of tongue----" "don't!" said mr. dashwood. "don't mention tinned meat or biscuits to me. i've lived on them. oh, heavens! don't let me think of it!" "an egg?" "yes, an egg--anything but tinned meat. it's almost as bad as giveen." in five minutes the egg was boiled, and half an hour after mr. dashwood, young again, smoking a pipe of french's, began his recital. he told all we know--how he had "shanghaied" mr. giveen, how that gentleman had tried to escape, and had stuck in the window. "i pulled and hauled," said bobby, "but it was all no use; and, upon my sam! i thought it would be a business of pulling the cottage down." "how did you get him loose at last?" asked french. "and why the deuce didn't you leave him stuck there till the race was over? you could have fed him from the outside." "upon my soul, i never thought of that!" said mr. dashwood. "i felt i had to get him free somehow, and then i thought of a patent dodge. i'd heard of a chap lighting a fire of straw under a horse that wouldn't go, and i knew the only way to free the beggar was to make him use all his exertions, and even more; so i got some straw out of the outhouse place and made a big wisp of it, and lit it. made a torch, you know. 'what are you doing?' he said. 'you wait and see,' i replied, and jabbed it in his face. you wouldn't believe it, but he went in 'pop' like when you push a cork down into a bottle. then i ran round and secured him. "well, i pointed out to him next morning the error of his ways, and he promised to make no more attempts to escape. 'look here,' said i, 'i've been pretending to you i was cracked. i'm not. i just got you down here because i'm a friend of french, and i don't want you to set lewis on him, and here you'll stay till i choose to let you loose. it's as bad for me as you--worse, for you're a beastly slow companion. anyhow, here you are, and here you'll stick till i give you leave to go.' "at that he began saying that he had no enmity to you at all, and that if i'd only let him loose he'd go back to ireland and make no more trouble; but i told him straight out i wouldn't trust him, and there the matter ended. i had written a letter to you, and i had it in my pocket. a half-witted sort of boy came round the place, and i gave him the letter and sixpence to post it. did you get it?" "we did." "i felt when i gave him it like old noah letting the dove out of the ark, and then we settled down to our tinned meat and biscuits. oh, heavens! i don't want to talk or think of it. we played beggar-my-neighbour with an old pack of cards. then my tobacco gave out. giveen didn't mind. he was quite happy on the tinned meat, and he doesn't smoke or drink, and i had to go through it all without complaining, and that was the worst of it." "i think it was splendid of you," said the girl. "go on." "faith, and 'splendid' is no word," exclaimed french. "you're certainly a friend in a million. go on." fortified by these praises, the weary one continued his narrative. "well, day after day passed, till i began, like those chaps that get shipwrecked, to lose count of time. i heard church bells ringing the day before yesterday, for instance, and then i knew it was sunday, somewhere, for it didn't seem sunday or any other day in that beastly cottage. time seemed to have stopped. you see, there were no books there, no newspapers, nothing, and my tobacco had given out; and against all that misery the tinned meat and biscuits began to stand out in such high relief that mealtime became a horror. oh, heaven! don't let me talk about it! i want to try to forget it. "well, things went on like that till it came to yesterday, and i said to myself: 'this can't go on any longer, for i'm beginning to hear voices, and the next thing will be i'll see things. southend is only ten or eleven miles away. it's a flat road, and there's a car outside. i'll lock giveen up in his room, make a dash for southend, in the car, get some tobacco and a bottle of whisky and some books, and dart back again. i'll do the whole thing in an hour or so, and it's better to take the risk than lose my reason.' "so i just told giveen i was very sorry, but he'd have to accommodate himself to circumstances, and i got a fishing-line of the uncle's, and fastened his wrists behind his back. then i fastened him with a rope and a rolling band knot to the iron bedstead in the bedroom, told him i wouldn't be more than an hour away, locked the door on him, jumped into the car, and drove off. "i got to southend in record time. i only ran over one hen, but i very nearly had an old woman and a dog. i piled up with sixpenny novels and comic papers at the first bookshop, got three bottles of whisky, half a pound of navy-cut, and some matches, and started back. it was half-past three when i left southend, and i hadn't gone more than two miles when the car came to a dead stop. i don't know the 'innards' of a car. i only knew that the thing had stopped, that i was nine miles from the cottage, and that the car was right in the fair way blocking the road. "a butcher's cart came along, and the butcher got down and helped me to push her out of the middle on to the side of the road. he said he didn't know of any repairing-shop or blacksmith's nearer than southend. i asked him to lend me his horse to drag the car back to southend, but he couldn't. he had his meat to deliver, but he said i'd be sure to find help before long, as there was a lot of traffic on the road. so off he went and left me. "i thought of leaving the old car to look after herself, and going back to the cottage on foot; but i couldn't do that, as i'd never have been able to come back for her, and she's worth eight or nine hundred. so i just sat in her and smoked a pipe and waited. "i tell you, i was in a stew, for i didn't know if i'd made the fishing-line too tight for giveen's wrists, and if they swelled, mortification, or goodness knows what, might have come on; and i began to think of having to support him for life if his hands had to be cut off; and then i began to think that maybe he might die of it, and i'd be hanged for murder or gaoled for life. "presently a big touring car came along, with a young fellow and a chauffeur in it, and i signalled them to stop, and it pulled up, and who should it be but billy bones! he's lord st. ivel's second son, you know; they call him 'billy bones' because they say he never eats anything else but grilled bones at three o'clock in the morning. last time i'd seen him was at the rag-tag club, in cork street, at two o'clock on a sunday morning, playing bridge with one eye shut to see the pips on the cards. billy is one of those men who know everything, and he knows all about the inside of a motor-car--or thinks he does. "'hello!' said billy, 'what's up?' "i told him, and he hopped out of his car, and said he'd have everything right in a minute. he got out his repairing tools, whipped off his coat, and got right under the car with his tools, lying on his back in the dust of the road. he's one of those fellows who don't care what they do. i could hear him under the car, and he seemed taking the whole thing to pieces. you could hear the nuts coming out and the pipes being unscrewed and the petrol escaping. he was stuck under there for half an hour or so, and then he came out, looking like a sweep, and he said it was all right, and i only had to start her. but she wouldn't stir. "he got under her again, and spent another half-hour tinkering at her, and then he came out and said it was all right this time, and told me to start her. i started her, but she wouldn't budge. then billy told his chauffeur to see what he could do, and the chauffeur didn't get under the car; he just examined the petrol supply business, and in about sixteen seconds she was all right. 'i thought i'd done it,' said billy, putting on his coat. "there was an hour clean gone, and, i tell you, if i came fast to southend i flew going back. i got her under the shed and went to the cottage. as soon as i went in i saw something was wrong, for the bedroom door was open. i looked into the bedroom, and giveen was gone." "bad cess to him!" said french, who had been following the raconteur with deep interest. "i went to the door and looked around," said mr. dashwood, "and then i saw, far away on the road, the idiot chap that had taken my letter. he must have come to the cottage looking after more sixpences and let giveen loose. it was now getting on for five, and the dusk was closing in. i rushed to the car, got her out of the shed, and started off on the london road. you see, i knew he hadn't taken the southend road, or i'd have met him, and there was nowhere else for him to go, unless he'd taken to the marshes, or gone into the sea. "i turned the car so sharp from the by-road into the london road that i nearly upset her, and then i let her loose. i had a chapter of accidents, for my hat blew off, and i had to stop and get it. three children were making mud-pies in the middle of the way right before a cottage, and i as nearly as possible made hash of them. a fellow left the cottage and chivied me half a mile, and took a short cut where the road bent like a hairpin, and as nearly as possible nailed me. he wanted to get my number, i suppose--but he didn't. "then i remembered that i ought to have my lamps lit," continued mr. dashwood. "it was getting on for an hour after sundown, and those police on the country roads don't mind swearing to ten minutes. i wouldn't have minded if it had been an ordinary affair, but it wasn't by any means, and i didn't want to be summoned or else i couldn't swear an alibi if giveen took an action against me for kidnapping him. so i stopped the car and got down and lit the lamps." mr. dashwood paused. "yes," said his listeners. "only for that piece of confoundedly foolish carefulness, i'd have collared giveen." mr. french swallowed hastily, as if he were swallowing down something unpleasant, then: "go on," he said. "think of it!" said mr. dashwood. "i've always taken chances and come out all right, and the first time i'm careful there i go and spoil everything. isn't it enough to make a fellow cuss?" "it is," said french, "and it's just the same way with me. but go on." "i got the blessed old lamps alight," said bobby, "and the blessed old car going, and i'd gone scarcely half a mile when i saw before me, after i'd rounded a bend of the road, a cart going full speed. it was one of those gipsy sort of carts that fellows hawk chickens and things about in, harness half string, and an old horse like a scarecrow to look at, but like a steam engine to go. there were two men in the cart, and one was giveen. though it was pretty dusk, i could tell him, for he'd taken his hat off, and his bald head shone like a stone. he evidently met the cart and paid the man for a lift. "'now,' said i to myself, slowing down a bit so that i could think, 'what am i to do? if i try to seize him by force the fellow he's with will help him to resist, maybe, and, if he doesn't, he's sure to tell about the affair at the next village, and i'll have the police on to me. i know--a smash-up is the only thing. i'll ram them full speed and hang the damage. i stand as good a chance to be killed as either of them. if giveen is killed, or the sweep he's with--well, it's the fortune of war. if none of us is killed, i'll sit on giveen's head and send the other johnnie for help. then, while he's gone, i'll nobble giveen and drag him back to the cottage, across country this time, and leave the old motor to look after herself.'" "did you really intend to do that?" asked violet grimshaw, looking at bobby with a mixture of wonder and admiration. "intend to do it? why, i did it, only the old car didn't. i shoved the lever full speed ahead, and what does she do but stop dead and shoot me on to her bonnet!" "did giveen see you?" asked french. "no. he never looked back once, and he and the old cart he was in vanished in the dusk. it was when i got down to light the lamps that something happened to the machinery. i must have pulled up too sharp, for i heard something go in the fore part of the engine. anyhow, i was done for. "well, there was nothing for me to do but look for help, and at last i got a farmer chap to hire me two horses to drag the old rattle-trap back to southend. that was cheerful, wasn't it? at southend i found a motor-repairing shop, the only one in the town, and the mechanic who did the repairing out with a car that wouldn't be back till midnight. so i paid for the horses and sent them off, and got a bed for the night. "well, to cut it short, i was up at six this morning, got the car mended in less than a quarter of an hour, and back i went to london full speed. but the repairs and the horse hire and the bed had taken all my money, and i had only sixpence in my pocket; and i hadn't eaten for i don't know how long. i stopped at a village on the way and had a drink of water at a pump. "'never mind,' i said to myself, 'when i get to the albany i can borrow something from robert'--he's my servant, you know. but when i got to the albany robert wasn't there, and my rooms were locked up. you see, he thought i wasn't coming back for some time, and i always send him a wire the day before i come. it was just eight o'clock, and i was as hungry as anything, but i was in such a tearing rage that i never thought of borrowing money from anyone, as i might have done. sixpence is no use for food in the west end, so i sent you a wire with it, got some more petrol at simpson's, and came down here full speed." french got up and took mr. dashwood's hand and shook it. "if i live to be five hundred," said the emotional french, "i'll never forget this to you." "rubbish!" said bobby. "it was nothing. i--i enjoyed it--at least, part of it. anyhow, i'd do it over again to-morrow for the excitement of the thing." "i think," said miss grimshaw, speaking as though she were criticising some work of art, "that the finest part of the whole thing was your determination to run into the cart at full speed and smash it up. i suppose it was wicked, but it was fine!" "see here," said mr. dashwood, anxious to turn away praise from himself, "what we have to think of now is giveen. what's to-day? the th, isn't it? well, he'll see that man lewis to-day, as sure as nuts." "if he does," said french, "lewis will have a bailiff here to-morrow, and i'll be done for." "i'm not so sure of that," said mr. dashwood. "how do you mean?" "i've been thinking the thing out on the way down. if he puts a bailiff in, let's corrupt the bailiff." "sure, i've got nothing to corrupt him with," said french. "money's the only thing to corrupt a man with, and i haven't any." "we might offer him a percentage of the profits if he'll just shut his eyes and let us take the horse to epsom," said mr. dashwood. "we don't want to run away with the horse. we only want a loan of him for the race." "that's not a bad idea," said miss grimshaw. "if the man has any sporting instincts," said mr. dashwood, "it ought to be easy enough. give him a few glasses of whisky and get him jolly, and the thing's done." "faith, and it's not a bad idea, after all," said french. "i was thinking myself of getting hold of the chap and making a prisoner of him in one of the loose-boxes, same as moriarty suggested for me to do with giveen; but i've thought it over, and there's no use in it. it would only mean that they'd stick me in prison and heaven knows what. it would ruin me entirely. but if we can get the chap to consent, that's a different matter." "oh, yes, it would never do to make him a prisoner," said the girl. "that would be a common, brutal sort of thing to do. but if you can persuade him just to let the horse run the race, it won't hurt the horse and it may make your fortune. even that, i'm afraid, is scarcely right. it's tampering with his conscience." "but none of these chaps have consciences," said bobby. "at least, none to speak of." "then, of course," said miss grimshaw, "you can't tamper with them." chapter xxviii when bobby had sufficiently rested himself, he took the car to the inn at crowsnest and put it up, and then came back to the martens, where a bed was made up for him, and where he slept the sleep of the just for ten hours, reappearing at half-past nine that night for some supper and a pipe. then he retired to rest, and put another ten hours of slumber behind him, awakening in the morning a new man. nothing important came by the post, only a few circulars and a postcard effusively thanking miss grimshaw for some flowers which she had sent to a female friend. as the day wore on, and as nothing appeared in the form of a bailiff, the hopes of the party rose steadily. mr. dashwood had suggested that the horse should be taken right away to epsom, but french was too old a practitioner to make such a false move as that. for, if a bailiff arrived and found the horse gone, it would be the easiest thing in the world to track him. you cannot entrain a racehorse without the fact being known. even if he were ridden up to london, a telegram would have to be sent on to get a horse-box for the journey to epsom. there was nothing to be done but wait and trust in luck. the morning of the th broke fair and unclouded, with no threat--at all events, in the weather--of bailiffs. french had made all his arrangements for moving the horse on the morrow. a horse-box was to be attached to the : train from crowsnest; also to the london train for epsom that started at : . in less than twenty-four hours now the horse would be out of crowsnest, and the day-after-the-day-after-to-morrow was the race. garryowen was not even mentioned in the betting lists. white moth was favourite, vodki was second favourite; after vodki you might have read such names as your fancy wills, but not the name of garryowen. only in the lists of the big english and continental betting agents did this name obscurely appear. french had been getting his money steadily on the horse at and to . he reckoned that when the flag fell he would stand to win seventy-five thousand pounds, and the thought of this, when it came on him now and then, put him into such a fever that he could not sit still. they were all sitting at luncheon to-day and merry enough for the moment, when a knock came to the door, and norah entered. "plaze, sorr," said norah, "there's a man wants to see you." french half rose from the table. "a man?" "yes, sorr. he came round be the kitchen way and 'what are yiz doin' in me yard?' says mrs. driscoll. 'is your masther in?' says he. 'if he is, tell him a person wants to see him.'" french, without a word, rose and left the room. "he's come!" said bobby, putting down his knife and fork. "it sounds like it," said the girl. "but it may be only a tradesman." "shall i go out and listen at the kitchen door?" asked effie, half slipping from her chair. "no," said miss grimshaw, "sit still. you are too fond of listening at doors, and only for you, you naughty child----" she checked herself. only for effie and her mischievous letter they might have been in security now, and not threatened like this. "only for me, what?" asked effie. miss grimshaw had no time to reply, for at that moment mr. french re-entered the room. his face was flushed; he shut the door; and then, "may the divil fly away with dick giveen!" he said. "he's got me at last, confound him! it's the bailiff." "oh, heavens!" said bobby. "what's he like?" asked miss grimshaw the practical. "like!" cried french. "he's like a chap you see in a nightmare--white as tallow and no legs to him, and he's going out now to inspect the horses. mark you, that chap's no use to us; he's one of the methodist-parson type, and he's not got the heart in him to help us." "what is his name?" asked the girl. "piper," replied french, pouring himself out some whisky. "well," she said, "wait here, both of you; one never knows what one can do till one tries." she left the room hurriedly, and sought the stableyard, where she found moriarty. "moriarty," she said, "the bailiff has come, and he's just going to look at the horses. be sure that, whatever you do, you be civil to him." "yes, miss," replied moriarty. "tell andy the same." "yes, miss." "i'm going round to the kitchen now to bring him." "yes, miss." she left the stableyard and sought the kitchen. seated in the kitchen, hat in hand, was an individual of uncertain age. french's description hit him off to a "t." pale-faced, scanty-haired, with a trace of side-whiskers, he had about him a suggestion of aggressiveness and a suggestion of weakness very disheartening to his new beholder, who, however, smiled upon him as she entered. "mr. piper, i believe?" said violet, speaking in a hurried and offhand and friendly manner. "i have come round to take you to see the horses. but have you had any luncheon?" "yes, thank you," said mr. piper, rising to his feet. "may i not get you a glass of wine, or something after your journey?" "no, thank you. i never touch liquor," said mr. piper. "oh, well, then, will you follow me?" she led the way to the stables round by the kitchen entrance. all this was french's duty, if any one's, but the girl would not trust him; she determined to show mr. piper that the horses were safe, treat him as civilly as possible, and try to gauge his corruptibility in the process. "you know, i suppose, that this is a hired house," said she, as she led the way, "and that there is nothing here belonging to mr. french but the horses?" "yes," said mr. piper. "i asked at the station about that, although my instructions mainly concerned the horses. house and furniture belong to mr. emmanuel ibbetson. still," concluded he, "i must attend to it that nothing is moved from here, neither stick nor stone, till further orders." "if mr. ibbetson wanted to take his furniture away," said miss grimshaw, almost losing command of her temper, "i don't think you could stop him." "that's not the question at isha," replied mr. piper. "i'm thinking of french." "you mean, i presume, mr. french?" "precisely." "moriarty," said miss grimshaw, "show this--man the horses." moriarty opened the upper door of a loose-box, and the cat thrust her evil head out. the cat by isonomy ii. out of express, would have won her owner much money, only for her temper. she had a fleering eye. the cat's under lip and the cock of her ears were the two points you noticed at close quarters, till she nobbled you, and took a piece out of your arm, or let fly, and, to use the language of moriarty, "kicked you to flinders." "look out!" yelled moriarty. he wasn't a moment too soon, for in another second the cat would have had the bailiff. piper stepped back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. to be snapped at by a horse is not a pleasant experience. "it's only her play," said moriarty, "but don't you ever open the door of the box be yourself, for, begad, if she once got a hoult of you, it's into the box she'll have you, over the dure top, and after that, begorra, it id be all over but the funeral. here's the other horse." he opened garryowen's box. garryowen projected his lovely head and expanded his nostrils at the stranger. miss grimshaw looked from the horse to the bailiff, and from the bailiff to the horse, contrasting the two animals in her mind. "are these carriage horses?" asked mr. piper, as miss grimshaw retired to the house, leaving him in charge of moriarty. "carriage what?" "horses." "sure, where were you born that you never saw a racehorse?" "if you arsk me where i was born, i was born in peckham," said mr. piper, "and if you arsk me if i have ever seen a racehorse, i am proud to say i have not, nor a race-meeting; and if you arsk me what i'd do with jockeys and publicans and all those who corrupt the people and take honest men's wages out of their pocket--i say, if you arsk me what i'd do with them, i'd answer you that i'd put them in a sack and the sack in the thames." "faith," said moriarty, contemplating his vis-a-vis, "if i hadn't fallen into conversation wid you i'd never have guessed there was so much 'arsk' about you; but, faith, you're right. it's the whisky and the horses that plays the divil and all wid men. now, i'd lay, from your face, you'd never been dhrunk in your life." "i've never even tasted alcohol," said piper. "neither alcohol nor tobacco has ever sullied my mouth, nor shall it ever sully a child of mine." "have you any children?" "no, i have not." "that's a pity," said moriarty, "for with such a father they couldn't help turnin' out fine men. may i ax, are you a liberal or a conservative?" "i'm a socialist." "the masther has tould me about thim," said moriarty, closing the door of garryowen's box and taking his seat on a bucket. "you're wan of thim that b'laves every man is born equal, and we should all share alike. d'you mane to tell me that, now?" mr. piper, led on to his favourite topic, expanded, taking his seat on the edge of an old bin by the stable door. "so," said moriarty, "thim's your opinions? a big puddin', and every man wid a plate and spoon. and who, may i ax, is to make the puddin', and who's to wash the plates?" mr. piper explained that every man would help to make the pudding, and every man would wash his own plate. "and s'pose," said moriarty, "one chap takes a double helpin' before his turn, or cracks his plate over another chap's head?" mr. piper explained that every man would be equally ungreedy and equally well disposed to his neighbour. "and where are you going to get thim men?" asked the tireless moriarty. "and, see here, they're not going to be all men, unless you smother the women. and, droppin' the puddin', for the sake of argument, and comin' to the question of bunnets, d'you think one woman is going to be content wid as good a bunnet as her next-door neighbour, and the same price? d'you think mrs. moriarty won't be sayin' to her husband, 'mick, you blackguard, why don't you stir your stumps and make more money to buy me a hat and feather that'll squash mrs. mooney's?' and mick, he'll say, 'sure, norah, how'm i to make more money when these social chaps won't let me earn more'n five pound a week?' and what'll she say but 'be hanged to socialism, i want a blazin' big hat wid a feather twice as big as mrs. mooney's, and i'm goin' to get it.'" "that's not the point at isha." "isha or not, you see here. you may plot and plan and collar your masther's money and pay it out all round to the likes of yourself, but it's the wimmen'll quare your pitch, for begob, a man may get rid of a masther, but he'll never get rid of a misthress as long as the world rowls, and wather runs. tell me," said moriarty, with his eyes examining mr. piper's legs critically and not complimentarily, "tell me now, are you wan of them chaps the masther spakes of who're always boo-hooin' about the souldiers and ba-haain' about the sailors and wishin' to live in pace and contintment, sittin' on your starns under fig-trees wid the figs droppin' into your open gobs?" mr. piper explained that he was a peace party man. "i thought you was," said moriarty, still with his eyes fixed on his examinee's legs, "and faith, i'm almost converted meself to the cause whin i look at you. we had a man wanst, and he might ha' been your twin brother, and he came down to cloyne, lecturin' on all thim things, and settin' up to contist the seat in parli'mint wid ould mr. barrin'ton, of inchkillin haal. ould mr. barrin'ton stud six-fut-four. he'd never missed a meet of the houn's for sixty years, 'cept whin he was lad up wid broken limbs or sittin' in parli'mint. this chap called ould mr. barrin'ton his 'ponent, said he was wastin' the money of the people keepin' houn's and horses, and went on till wan day the bhoys got hold of him--and d'ye know what they did to him?" "no." "faith, they headed him up in a barr'l, and rowled him into the river." moriarty, without another word, got up, left mr. piper to his meditations, and strode towards the kitchen. "where's the masther?" asked moriarty of norah. "in the sittin'-room," replied norah. he passed through the kitchen, crossed the little hall, and knocked at the sitting-room door. "come in," said french's voice, and he entered. french, miss grimshaw, and bobby dashwood were seated about the room. the men were smoking and in arm-chairs, miss grimshaw was at the table, sitting erect, with her elbows upon it. her lips were pursed, for they had been discussing mr. piper. "if you plaze, sorr," said moriarty when french bade him speak, "i've been takin' the size of that chap in the yard." "and what do you think of him, moriarty?" "faith, sorr, i'm thinkin' he was one of the leftovers whin they was makin' parr'ts, and the divil thried to make a monkey of him, and spiled it in the bakin'. he's no use at all, sorr, to be talked over or talked under." "we couldn't bribe the man, do you think?" asked mr. french. "no, sorr," replied moriarty, "he's not the man to take a bribe to do a decent turn. he's wan of those chaps that hates his betthers--soci--what d'you call 'em, sorr?" "socialists?" "that's thim." "oh, lord!" said bobby. "i thought he looked like it," said miss grimshaw. "hang him!" said french. "i thought there was something wrong with the beast besides white liver and board school----" "if you plaze, sorr," said moriarty, with a grin, "i've had a long talk wid him, and he's convarted me." "hullo!" said french, staring at his henchman, "what's this you're saying?" "i've come to b'lave, sorr, in sharin' and sharin' alike. if you plaze, sorr, have you everythin' ready for gettin' the horse away in the mornin'?" "getting the horse away!" burst out french, forgetting moriarty's conversion and everything else in an outburst of rage. "how the dickens do you think i'm to get him away with that beast stuck here?" "all the same, sorr," replied moriarty, "if you'll lave things to me, you won't find any thrubble in the mornin', and not for some days afther, i'm thinkin." "what do you propose to do?" "if you plaze, sorr, i'd rather just keep me tongue shut in me head. it's not that i aren't wishful to tell you, sorr, but it's the divil to spake whin you're fishin'. do you remimber, sorr, young mr. james and his wife, whin they came to drumgool, and went out fishin' the black water? him and she wid a luncheon-basket and tame minnows presarved in bottles of glycerin' and the hoight of fine rods and patent hucks, and landin' nets, and groun' bate, and the lord knows all; and you could hear thim chatterin' to wan another half a mile away, and the wather thick wid fish. and the divil a thing they caught in three days but a craw-been." "moriarty is right," said miss grimshaw, who had a profound belief in the capacity of moriarty for doing the right thing just in the right way, when the thing was a matter of diplomacy. "look here, moriarty," said french, "are you thinking of making a prisoner of this chap? for that won't do." "no, sorr," said moriarty. "i'm not." "he doesn't drink?" "no, sorr." "you're not going to bribe him?" "no, sorr." "well, all i can say is, if you can find some other means of putting him out of action you're a cleverer man than i am." "if you'll just lave it to me, sorr, you may rest contint." french poured out a glass of whisky, which moriarty swallowed neat. then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and saluting the company assembled, he left the room. "he'll do it," burst out mr. dashwood, who seemed suddenly and for the first time to fully comprehend the possibilities and impossibilities of moriarty. "faith," said french, "i believe he will. i've never known moriarty fail yet. upon my word, i haven't. looking back now, i never remember him not getting the better of any man he crossed the foils with. do you remember that blackguard who came to hamstring garryowen? and the best of the matter is he always does things in such a way the laugh is on his side, and the law, begad! do you remember that bailiff he drove to the old castle? well, the law couldn't have touched him for that. the man wanted to be driven to my house, and that was my house, though i didn't live there." "it's a man like moriarty that comes over to the states with a bundle under his arm," said miss grimshaw, "one moment a poor exile from erin, standing on a shore that is lonely and chill, and the next day, to quote one of our poets, he's 'alderman mike inthrodjucin a bill.' i wonder why the moriartys are so much nicer in their own country." chapter xxix moriarty, when he left his master, betook him to the stables and his duties. mr. piper had vacated the stableyard, and was making a tour of the premises, admiring the view from all points, and quite on the alert for strategical moves. he was by no manner of means a fool in his profession; watchful as a stoat, unobtrusive, when his mouth was closed, fitting into corners, and unremarkable, he made an excellent bailiff. he had always been a careful and saving man, and his character had never been developed by vice. what lay in the subliminal depths of mr. piper, mr. piper himself could not say. that unrest lay there was evidenced by his socialistic tendencies. he inhabited rooms at balham or brixton, i forget which. he never swore, he never drank, he never smoked, or looked at the female population of the british islands with a view to matrimony or the reverse. the man was without a visible vice, and he had several visible virtues. it was this fact that made the problem of him so interesting and made the attentive student of him pause to ask, "what makes him so beastly?" you know the man. moriarty, having watered the horses and seen to them with the scrupulous attention of a nurse, called andy to him. "andy," said moriarty, "did you see the chap that's come to collar the horses?" "seen him?" said andy, for once loquacious. "faith, i was near pitchforkin' him as he was standin' there, afther you'd left him. sure, wasn't i listenin' to him----" "shut your head," said moriarty, "and listen to your betthers. go fetch me a big truss of straw." andy, obedient as a dog, went off for the straw, and returned with it on his back. moriarty opened the door of the loose-box next to the cat's. "stick it here in the corner," said moriarty, indicating the corner in question. andy flung the truss of straw in the corner. "that's right," said moriarty. he took a five-shilling-piece from his pocket, and, leading andy to the side of the bungalow, gave him the coin, gave him some instructions, and pointed in the direction of the village. andy, with a grin on his face, started. at half-past eight that evening mr. piper, seated in the kitchen finishing his supper, heard andy's voice. he was colloguing in the scullery with mrs. driscoll, and what he said was distinctly audible in the kitchen. said andy, "is the bailiff chap still at his supper?" "faith, and he is," replied mrs. driscoll. "then kape him there for another half-hour, for moriarty's goin' to play him a trick and get the horses away unbeknownst to him." mr. piper fell into the trap. he rose from the table, used the back of his hand as a serviette, strolled to the kitchen door, and contemplated the evening. the sky was cloudless, and a full moon was rising over the hills. from the stables came occasionally the stamping of horse-hoofs. he strolled around to the yard, where he met moriarty, who was lighting a stable lantern. "fine evening," said mr. piper. "fine which?" "evening." "oh, faith, it's fine enough. andy, where were your blitherin' skylights when you stuck this wick in the stable lanthern?" he got it alight and closed it. then he swung off with it, followed by andy, and the pair disappeared. "done 'em that time," said the bailiff to himself. "i doubt but it will be a question of me setting up all night and sleeping in the day." he made a tour of the premises. he left them, and took a walk on the road down below, enjoying the beauty of the evening. an hour and a half later found him again in the stableyard. it had just gone ten, and mr. piper had scarcely entered the yard than moriarty, with the lantern in his hand, appeared. "why, i thought you were abed," said moriarty. "are you frightened the horses will fly away wid themselves, or what is it that ails you?" "my duty is my duty, and yours is yours," replied the bailiff. "we'll keep 'em apart, if you please, and so be better friends." "friends," said moriarty with a horrible leer on his face. "sure, that's what i'm wishin' to be, only you're so cowld. come here wid me now," said moriarty, taking the other's arm and leading him towards the loose-box next the cat's, "and i'll show you me intintions. maybe it's the likin' i've taken for you, or maybe it's just the stringth of your arguments, but you've convarted me to the sociality bizness, and i'm goin' to share and share alike wid you." he opened the loose-box door, and there in the darkness stood andy, like a horrible gnome. "why, what are you doin' here, andy?" asked moriarty, with an undercurrent of jocularity in his tone that struck mr. piper as being out of place and allied to the sinister. "i?" said andy. "nothin'." "i've brought a friend wid me," said moriarty, speaking as though piper were an absolute stranger to andy. "he's comin' into the loose-box wid us to help me dhrink his health." "thank you," said piper, "i never drink." he took a step backwards, but moriarty's hand fell on his arm. "just for wanst, now," said moriarty, in the tone of sweet persuasion that a boon companion uses to a boon companion. "just for wanst." "thank you, i never drink," said piper, with a rising inflexion that did not improve his voice. "and i'd thank you to release my arm." "come on, andy," said moriarty, "and help me to persuade misther piper to jine us. now, then; come quiet. that's it. sure, i knew you'd listen to raison." miss grimshaw, who had retired early, was just in the act of undressing when voices from the stableyard outside her window made her raise the slats of her blind and peep out. by the full moonlight she saw moriarty and andy at the loose-box door. piper was between them, moriarty was gently persuading him from behind, applying the vis a tergo; the vis a fronte was supplied by andy, who had fast hold of the bailiff's left arm. she could not help remembering the sheep which she had seen one night, not so very long ago, haled into the same loose-box, moriarty pushing it behind, andy assisting its movements from in front. the loose-box door closed on moriarty and his victim, just as it had closed on the sheep. miss grimshaw, half horrified, half amused, filled half with curiosity, half with alarm, waited for sounds to tell of what was going forward; but no sound came, and nothing spoke of tragedy save the gleam from the lantern, a topaz pencil of light that shone through the latch hole of the door and dissolved in the moonlight of the yard. "put your fut agin the door, andy," said moriarty, when piper, knowing himself in a trap, and knowing the uselessness of calling out or resisting, was safely inside the loose-box. he hung the lantern on a hook, and then, pointing to three buckets that stood upside down close to the heap of straw in the corner, "take a sate," said moriarty. piper took a seat on the end bucket near the door. "not that wan," said moriarty. "the middle wan. then andy and i'll be able to sit on either side of you, and the bottle'll pass more convanient." he produced a bottle, a jug, and a glass. it was a bottle of teach's "old highland mountain dew." andy had fetched it from the inn at crowsnest. this old highland mountain dew was a fine, old-fashioned, fusil-oil-tinctured fighting spirit. in any properly constituted community the man who distilled and sold it would be executed, instead of raised to the peerage as teach was the other day. it is this stuff that makes murders down at the docks, wrecks little homes in hackney, casts men on the streets, and ships on the rocks, and souls on perdition. "look here," said mr. piper, when he saw these preparations for conviviality, "i don't know what gime you're up to, but i give you warning----" "sit down wid you," said moriarty, pressing him down on the middle bucket and taking his seat on the bucket to the right, while andy took his seat on the bucket to the left. "sit down wid you, and listen to raison. here's a glass of good whisky and wather, and here's a toast i'm goin' to give you, and that's 'good luck to garryowen!'" he swallowed the contents of the glass, wiped his mouth, refilled the glass, and passed it to andy. "good luck to garryowen!" said andy, drinking it off, and handing the empty glass back to moriarty, who refilled it and held it towards piper. "no, thank you," said that gentleman. "dhrink it off," commanded moriarty, "and wish good luck to garryowen. sure, it's a glass of good whisky never did man or woman harm yet. off wid it," continued moriarty, in the tone of a person inciting a child to take a dose of medicine. "and it's a different man it will make of you." "i tell you, i don't drink," replied the unconvivial one. "if you choose to make beasts of yourselves, do so. i don't." "listen to him, andy," cried moriarty, digging piper in the ribs till he knocked against the jockey. "who're you jogglin' aginst?" cried andy, returning the dig till piper was nearly in the arms of moriarty. mr. piper tried to rise, but his legs were twitched from under him by moriarty, and down he sat on the bucket again with a bang. "you'll be breakin' the buckets next," said moriarty. "why can't you sit aisy?" "i see your gime," cried the bailiff. "faith, then, you can feel it, too," cried moriarty, and next moment mr. piper was on his back on the truss of already prepared straw and moriarty kneeling on his arms. "now thin, andy," said the master of the ceremonies, "fetch me the funnel and the bottle and the glass, and i'll drinch him." andy fetched a small funnel which he had procured from mrs. driscoll, and piper, who had tried to shout, kept silent by reason of fear of moriarty's thumb, which was applied to his thyroid cartilage. "mix a glass of grog, and not too strong," commanded moriarty. "that's right. now, thin, open your teeth, you omadhaun, and if you let a sound out of you i'll scrag you. it's not for me own pleasure i'm wastin' good dhrink on you, but to save the masther. stand between him and his fortune, would you? you owl of the divil, wid your sociality and your jaw about aiquil rights! it's aiquil rights i'm givin' you in me bottle of whisky. down wid it, and if you let a sound out of you, i'll throttle you." while moriarty held the funnel between the patient's teeth and induced him to swallow, andy gently poured. with the skill of an expert chloroformist, moriarty held his head. he knew his patient's constitution, and he knew the strength of the medicine. helpless intoxication was not his object; his game was deeper than that. in the middle of the third glass the victim began to show signs of merriment--real merriment. all his anger had vanished. strange to say, he still resisted, tossing his head from side to side, as much as he was able, but all the time he was laughing as though he were being tickled. "he's comin' up to the scratch," said moriarty. "aisy does it. let him be for a minit, for we have to reckon on the cowld night air, and i want him to keep his pins. well, mr. piper, and how are you feelin' now?" "whatsh your name?" cried piper, sudden anger seizing him. "i'll give you shomething. come on!" he struck out with his foot, and sent andy flying, bottle, glass, and all. next second, his legs now released, he landed moriarty a kick in the face that would have stunned an ordinary man. "come on!" cried piper wildly laughing, still on his back and striking out with his feet. "come on! one down, t'other on!" "he's proper and fit now," said moriarty, his face streaming with gore, but seemingly utterly oblivious of the fact. "come on, and we'll run him down to the p'leece office before the fight's out of him." he rushed in on the resisting one, got another kick--this time in the stomach--and, seizing the maniac by the collar of his coat, got him on his legs, using him as gently as though he were dealing with a refractory child. another man, had he received the kicks that moriarty had received, would have paid them back in ill-treatment, but moriarty never lost his temper, and it was a rule of honour with him that a drunken man should be treated with all possible tenderness and consideration. he would just as soon have struck a priest, a woman, or a child as a man in liquor. once on his legs, all fight seemed to die out of mr. piper. wild hilarity and attempts at song took the place of bellicosity. bad language also came to the surface, and found expression. "he'll do," said moriarty. "he'll do. andy, clip howld of his other arm. now, then, open the door, and down to the village with him. the thing that's thrubblin' me is he's gone undher so quick that maybe he's only shamming." "faith," said andy, "i know why he's gone undher so quick. it's be raison of me givin' him the second glass nate. i forgot to put the wather in it." miss grimshaw, who had been unable to tear herself away from the window, had increased her powers of observation by opening the sash. she heard moriarty's voice, and the voices of the others. what they could be doing to the bailiff was quite beyond her power of imagination to discover. then, as time passed on, she heard laughter. piper was laughing. she knew the voices of the two others too well to make a mistake. such long-continued laughter she had never heard before. then the laughter ceased, and she heard the bailiff's voice crying to the others to come on. after this came more laughter and snatches of song. greatly wondering, she waited and watched till, the door of the loose-box bursting open, andy and moriarty emerged, supporting a drunken man between them. then she understood in part. fortunately for her curiosity, she had not undressed, and, catching up a shawl, she wrapped her head in it, left her room, and crossed the hall to the sitting-room, where mr. french and mr. dashwood, who had not yet gone to bed, were sitting smoking. "i've found out moriarty's plan," said miss grimshaw. "come out on the verandah and i'll show you something. but don't make a noise." she opened the window on to the verandah, and the others followed her. the bailiff and his supporters were now on the downhill path to the road, they and their shadows very visible in the moonlight. "look!" said the girl. "he's the middle one." "why, he's drunk!" said mr. dashwood. "mad drunk," said french. "this is moriarty's work. and he a teetotaler! how on earth did moriarty do it?" "i heard them in the yard," said the girl. "they dragged him into the loose-box next to the one the cat's in, and shut the door. after a while, i heard him laughing and singing--and now, look at him!" "after them," said mr. dashwood, "and let's see what they'll do with him." he led the way down the hill. when they reached the road, the others were a couple of hundred yards ahead. the wind blowing from them brought the songs and shouting of the convivial one, on whom, now, the extra stimulus of the cold night air was acting. "i've seen a good many drunken men," said french, "but, begad! this fellow takes the cake. look, he's trying to fight now! now they've got him between them again. come on and let's see what moriarty is going to do with him." they followed up hill to the village street. here in the moonlight, before the highly respectable cottage bearing the tin sign inscribed "county police," the trio stopped, moriarty clinging to his charge while andy rang the bell. mr. boiler, the crowsnest constable, had not yet started on his night rounds. he was drinking a cup of coffee in the bedroom upstairs when the summons came. opening the window, he put his head out. "who's there?" asked the constable. "dhrunken man," said moriarty from the road. "i've got him here. he called at the martens, dead dhrunk, and 'saulted me. look at me face. come down wid you and gaol him, or he'll tear the village to pieces, bad luck to him!" "one minute," said mr. boiler, "and i'll attend to his business for him." next moment he was in the street, where moriarty, with a deft touch on the adductor tendons, had deposited mr. piper on his back. "now then, now then! what's all this?" asked the constable, approaching the disciple of la savate. the kick on the knee-cap which the constable received made him assume the attitude of a meditative stork for some seconds. then he closed with his prey. * * * * * * * "if you ax me what's best to be done, sorr," said moriarty later in the night, as he stood in the sitting-room after being complimented on his work, "i'd have mr. dashwood go over to hollborough in the morning, where this chap will be had before the magistrates, and pay the fine. it'll be a matther of two pounds, sure, boiler tould me, and fetch piper back here, and tell him to sit aisy, and the horse will be back afther the race. you see, sorr, we've got the weather gauge on the chap now. if the men that employed him knew he'd been dhrunk and gaoled, he'd lose his job. we'll keep it dark for him if he'll keep it dark about the horse. "it's not a plisint job for mr. dashwood to go payin' the fines for dhrunken men, but, sure, it's all in the game. and if you plaze, sorr, i'm thinkin' it wouldn't be a bad thing if you was to sit down now and write a letther to mr. lewis, tellin' him the bailiff was here in possession, and that the money would be paid in a day or two. that would keep him aisy, and it would make it more natural like if you was to let a little abuse into it and say you'd been very hardly thrated. "no, sorr, i won't go to bed to-night. i'll just sit up wid the horse. everything's ready now for getting him in the thrain to-morrow mornin'. thank you, sorr, just half a glass. and here's good luck to garryowen!" chapter xxx mr. giveen, on his enlargement, had returned hot-foot to london. the chicken-higgler's cart that had given him a lift on the road had deposited him at blankmoor station, where he had managed to get the last train up to town. too confused and shaken up with his adventures to do anything that night he had repaired to swan's temperance hotel in the strand, where his luggage was, told his tale to the landlady, received her commiserations, and gone to bed. next morning, at ten o'clock, he appeared at the office of mr. lewis in craven street. "is mr. lewis in?" asked giveen. "what name, please?" asked the clerk. "just tell him a gentleman from ireland wants to see him," replied giveen. "tell him it's on important business about mr. french. he'll know." a moment later he found himself in the inner office, before a desk table, at which an elderly gentleman with grey whiskers was opening his morning letters. "mr. lewis?" said mr. giveen. lewis bowed. "i've come to you about a matter of importance," said giveen. "you sent a man over to ireland to seize the goods of a relation of mine--michael french, of drumgool house." "i did not," said lewis. "my agent in dublin moved in the matter." "well, sure, it's all one and the same thing. french has skedaddled. he's taken his horses away, and you don't know his address. come, now, isn't that the truth?" "yes, it is. by any chance, do you know his address?" "i do." "then," said mr. lewis, "i must ask you for it." "oh, must you, faith? and how are you to make me tell you? see here, now--a bargain is a bargain, and i'll sell you it for a fiver." half an hour later he left the office of mr. lewis with the promise of a five-pound note should his information prove correct and the satisfaction of having revenged himself on his kinsman. he turned into o'shee's in the strand. though he only drank gingerbeer and soda-water he frequented o'shee's, finding there compatriots whom he could bore with his conversation. he had arranged to return to ireland on the th, and on the th, the night before the city and suburban, wandering into o'shee's, he fell into conversation with an affable gentleman adorned with rings, whose name, given in the first few moments of conversation, was paddy welsh. "so you're off to the ould counthry on thursday," said mr. walsh. "and what are you doin' to-morrow?" "nothing," said mr. giveen. "well, then," said mr. welsh, "you're just the bhoy afther me own heart, and i'll give you a thrate you'll remimber to your dyin' day." "and what's that?" asked the other. "i'll take you down to the city and suburban wid me, and give you a dinner and do you fine. whisht, now, and don't be tellin' any one! do you know what me thrade is? well, i'm a bookmaker. you'll see me make, maybe, two hundred pounds to-morrow. i'm not wan of the big bookies; i just dale wid the ordinary men; ha'ff-crowns and five shillin's is what i mostly take. whisht, now, and listen to me, and i'll tell you what you can do. faith, it's an idea that has just struck me. would you like to earn a ten-pound note?" "faith, wouldn't i?" "well, you can come down and act as me friend. now, listen to me. we'll take our stand, meself on a tub and you beside me. i'll take the bets, and you'll see the five shillin's and ha'ff-crowns pourin' in; then, when the race is begun, i'll lave you to mind the tub while i run round to see the clerk of the course." "and what will you want to see him for?" "whisht, now," said mr. walsh, "and i'll tell you. but you must swear never to split." "oh, you may be easy on that." "well, he and me is hand in glove. he lets me into all the saycrits, and i give him ha'ff profits on the winnin's. i'll tell him how me bets lie, d'you see? and afther the race, when the jockeys come to be weighed in, he'll kibosh the weights so that the horse that wins will be disqualified, if it suits me book. you tould me you knew nothin' of racin's, so i can't 'xplain the inthricacies of the thing to you, but that's how it lies. then i'll come back to the tub to find you, and you and me will go and have a good dinner, and there'll be a ten-pound note for you." "there's nothing against the law in all that, is there?" asked the cautious mr. giveen. "law! of course, there's not, for you and me. if the clerk of the course chooses to earn an honest penny by doin' what he chooses, it's his lookout; no one can touch him either but the jockey club, and they daren't say a word, for they're all in it. why, man alive, what's the jockey club for but to jockey the public out of their money? afther every big race they hold a meetin' and divide the profits; as much as a hundred thousand sometimes is split up between them, the blackguyards! where did you say you was stayin'? shepherd's temp'rance hotel? well, i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll call for you in the mornin' and take you with me. i'll pay the thrain, for you needn't bother a bit about money when you are along with me." "right," said mr. giveen. chapter xxxi the city and suburban morning broke fine; one of those april mornings fresh and sweet as spring herself. mr. french, staying with major lawson at badminton house, just outside epsom, had awakened from a night of dreams, feeling pretty much as a man may be supposed to feel who expects the hangman as an after-breakfast visitor. he awoke from sleep with the dead certainty of failure upon him. months and months of anxiety had passed, obstacle after obstacle had been overcome. the last obstacle was now before him--the race. that, he felt, was insurmountable, and for no special reason. garryowen had arrived safe at lawson's stables; the horse was in the pink of condition; andy was fit and well; the favourite had been scratched two days before; several good horses had been scratched; the betting list had altered considerably since we referred to it last, and wheel of fortune was now favourite, white moth second. these new conditions were not unfavourable to the irish horse; all the same, the sense of coming disaster weighed on french. before breakfast he visited the stables with lawson who had nothing running in the race, and who was therefore free to admire with an unjaundiced eye the excellencies of garryowen. andy had been taken over the course the day before, and had studied its peculiarities, receiving sage advice from lawson and his master, all of which he listened to with an appearance of respect, but which was scarcely of much profit to him, as his keen eye and judgment could give him, unaided, the ins and outs of any racing track better than the oldest user and frequenter of it. after breakfast mr. french went out to smoke a cigar and think things over; lawson seeing the nervousness and agitation of his friend had promised to look after everything and act as second in this duel with fortune. the downs even now showed an animated appearance. a few hours more and the great race-trains would pour their thousands upon thousands to swell the throng. gipsies and tramps, pickpockets, all sorts of undesirables had camped on the downs or tramped from london. cocoanut-shies were going up, costers' barrows arriving, and gingerbeer stalls materialising themselves. just outside the house mr. french met moriarty. "the horse is all right, moriarty?" asked french. "yes, sorr, right as rain and fresh as paint. you needn't be unaisy, sorr. barrin' the visitation of heaven, he'll win." "if garryowen wins," said french, "i'll win sixty-five thousand pounds, and if he doesn't, begad, i'm beggared." "he's nothin' to fear, sorr, but wheel of fortune," said moriarty. "i've been lookin' and listenin' and talkin' ever since i came down, and it's my opinion there's nothin' here to give its heels to garryowen, and if you'll let me give you a bit of advice, sorr, it's this: go for a walk, and don't bother your head about the matther. major lawson is lookin' afther everythin', and me and andy will pull everythin' through." "i know, i know," said french. "you'll do everything you can. well, there's no use worrying. i'll do what you say." he took moriarty's horny hand and shook it. then turning, he walked off over the downs. * * * * * * * it was twenty minutes or so before the race. a hundred thousand people lined the course and filled the air with the hum of a british crowd on a race day, which is different from the sound emitted by any other crowd on earth. mr. french, whose nervous agitation had utterly vanished, was entering the paddock when someone touched his arm. it was bobby dashwood. "hullo!" said french. "good! when did you arrive?" "last train," said mr. dashwood. "i say it's all right. i paid that chap's fine, and lugged him back to the martens, and he's there now, as peaceable as pie, waiting for the horse to come back." "heavens, dashwood," said french, "inside this hour, i'll be either a rich man or broke to the world, and i feel just as cool as if i hadn't a penny on the race. funny, that, isn't it?" "not a bit," said bobby. "i always feel that way myself when it comes to the scratch. by jove, there's garryowen, and isn't he looking fit!" "don't let us go near him," said french. "we've got him here, but i feel if i go near him my bad luck may stick on him. come into the ring." he led the way to the ring, followed by dashwood. lawson was just leaving the ring. "it's twenty-five to one against garryowen now," said he. "they've sniffed him, and, begad, i wouldn't wonder if he started ten to one. you can't grumble, french; you're having a run for your money. sixty-five to one you told me you got on at. i've just put seven hundred on at twenty-five, so that's my opinion of garryowen. now stick here and don't bother. i'm going to have a word with your trainer. leave everything to me and him, and stick here; but don't put any more on, you mustn't pull down your average." "right," said french, and lawson left him. "i haven't any average to pull down," said mr. dashwood. "haven't a penny on; but i captured twenty pounds yesterday, and here goes." he approached sam collins, a bookmaker beknown to him, and, lo and behold! garryowen's price was now fifteen to one, and at that he put his twenty pounds on. "three hundred will be useful," said mr. dashwood. "gad, i wish i'd been here sooner, and i might have got on at twenty-five to one. however, there's no use in grumbling. look! there's the numbers going up!" french watched the numbers going up. "sixteen runners," said dashwood. "ay, ay," replied french. "sixteen, it is." "garryowen is number ," said dashwood. "look!" said french. the horses were leaving the paddock. wheel of fortune was first out--a bad omen, according to racing men; after wheel of fortune came white moth, royal george, satiety, and garryowen. they were a beautiful picture in the bright april sunlight. "it's wheel of fortune or garryowen," said dashwood, who was half-mad with excitement. "french, i'd put my last penny on garryowen, but the wheel's a wonder. ain't they beauties, the pair of them! make the rest look like dowagers!" french contemplated his horse as it galloped up the course following wheel of fortune. he could not but admire the favourite, but at the moment garryowen dominated his every thought, and the extraordinary thing was he had almost forgotten money in connection with the race; a mad longing to win for the sake of winning possessed his whole soul. it pleased him garryowen was so well matched. to beat wheel of fortune would be a triumph. and now that adjustment of prices which always takes place just before starting was evidenced in the price of garryowen. "listen!" cried dashwood. "the price has gone to ten to one. listen!" the roar of the ring flared up, the horses were now at the starting-post, caracoling and curveting. french saw andy's black-and-yellow jacket and the purple-and-white of lofts on wheel of fortune. would the flag never fall? a false start, another false start, and they were off! the purple jacket of white moth was to the fore three full lengths; after white moth came satiety and garryowen. garryowen was going as a cloud shadow goes, sweeping and without effort; with him, and drawing slightly ahead, went wheel of fortune. they were racing along the rise now. satiety had drawn well to the fore, and now, of a sudden, with kaleidoscopic swiftness and effect, the field had changed, and satiety was no longer to the fore. white moth had fallen away, the field was fanning out, wheel of fortune and garryowen were leading, dragon fly, a rank outsider, had drawn up to garryowen, and the whole moving cloud of horses were making for tattenham corner, the cape horn of luck, where so many a fortune has been wrecked. wheel of fortune was going superbly, and as they drew on the corner a roar like the roar of a sea surged up and down the course. as they swept round the bend, garryowen was close on the rails, dragon fly had drawn wide and was losing ground, satiety was moving up as though pushed by some unseen finger, and as they swept down the hill only some six horses were left with a chance. down the hill the pace was tremendous, heart-catching, sublime, if speed can have sublimity. wheel of fortune, halfway down, shot forward, and again the roar, like the roar of a tormented sea, burst out, and rushed up the course, a wave of sound, and died away and rose again. "look! look!" cried dashwood, with his eyes glued to his glasses. the horses had reached the bottom of the hill and beyond, satiety had fallen back. the struggle was now between garryowen and wheel of fortune. wheel of fortune was a length ahead, and the distance was shortening--shortening--shortening. "they're running neck and neck," yelled dashwood. "look! they're nearly on the judges' box. look! he'll win! garryowen for ever!" "you can't tell," cried french. "you can't tell from here. it's a deceiving course. but i believe he will. garryowen for ever!" on the hill, away down the course, from tattersall's ring--itself a little hell of sound--now rose an outburst, one long, never-ceasing roar. a snow of waving handkerchiefs made the stands look as if beset by a million white butterflies. "wheel of fortune wins! wheel of fortune wins!" flash! they are past the winning-post, and the race is ended. "look! look!" cried dashwood. it was impossible to tell the winner from the ring. till the number went up the two men stood eyes fixed on the man at the board. "seven!" cried french as the number went up, and in the voice of a person who sees what he cannot believe. "hurroo!" cried dashwood. "i told you he would! garryowen for ever!" * * * * * mr. giveen and his new-found friend, mr. welsh, arrived at epsom by an early train and took up a position near the ring. giveen was quite unconscious that his kinsman french had entered garryowen for the city and suburban. he knew that the horse had been destined to run in some race, but he knew as little about race-meetings as bazaars, and he never even glanced at the race-card which mr. welsh gave him. he was entirely taken up by the crowd, and half addled by the noise around him. mr. welsh had been joined at the station by a very evil and flashy-looking individual who frankly called himself lazarus, perhaps because it would have been a waste of time and energy to have called himself anything else; and mr. welsh, having introduced mr. lazarus to mr. giveen, the trio proceeded to the course. here mr. welsh, who was dressed for the occasion in the most amazing check suit that ever left petticoat-lane, took his stand on a tub provided by mr. lazarus, and proceeded to address the crowd in a language that was greek to mr. giveen. but the effect of mr. welsh's words was quite understandable to him. individuals came forward, one after another, talked more greek to paddy welsh, received coloured tickets from mr. lazarus, and handed him money, which he deposited in a bag by his side. as time wore on, and the moment of starting drew near, mr. welsh on the tub became less a man than a volcano emitting sound instead of lava, and the more mr. welsh shouted, the more individuals were sucked towards him, and the more money poured into the bag of the perspiring lazarus. all at once the crowd surged away. a shout filled the air, "they're off!" and mr. welsh jumped from his perch. "now," said mr. welsh, "i'm off wid me friend lazarus to see the clerk of the course. here's the bagful of money for you to keep; and, mind, we thrust you. we'll be back in two minits. you stick here, and wait for us." next moment, he and the israelite had vanished, leaving the luckless giveen, bag in hand, standing by the tub. "they're off!" these words often include in their meaning bipeds as well as quadrupeds on city and suburban day. giveen, with the bag in his hand, was torn by conflicting emotions. suppose paddy welsh and mr. lazarus could not find him again because of the crowd? then what would he do with the money in the bag? faith, what else but take it back to london, and as he was off to ireland next day, what else could he do but take the bag with him? his mind played with cupidity and theft as a puppy plays with its mates. he would not steal the money, but he would stick to it if the others, by any chance, missed him. and he determined to give them every chance of so doing. he would wait a decent time--say, two or three minutes--after the race was over, and then wander back to the station. besides, there was ten pounds due to him. paddy had promised him ten pounds anyway. engaged in these thoughts, he scarcely heard the shouting around him as the horses were sweeping round tattenham corner. the desire to look at the money in the bag now came on him irresistibly, and, opening the clasp, he peeped in. pebbles and pieces of brick met his gaze and confounded him. what on earth did it mean? then he guessed. he had been done! paddy and mr. lazarus had levanted with the money. they must have had two bags, and substituted this one. withered leaves and desolation! he would never get his ten pounds now. that was why they had bolted. instead of flinging the accursed bag away and bolting himself, the unfortunate man, who knew nothing of welshers and his own abominable position, slung the bag over his shoulder by its long strap, and, to complete the business, mounted on the tub. from this position he scanned the crowd eagerly, looking for the defaulters. he did not see them. he saw a wide expanse of ape-like and fatuous faces; every face was adorned by a wide-open mouth, and every mouth was yelling. "wheel of fortune! wheel of fortune!" ten thousand voices made the sky ring with the shout. garryowen, leading by a neck, was passing the winning-post, but the crowd, deceived by the course and their own desire, fancied still the favourite was the winner. then the numbers went up, and the shouts were not so triumphant. garryowen wheel of fortune satiety "here you are. ten shillings. i backed wheel of fortune for a place two to one!" "what are you saying?" said mr. giveen, tearing his eyes from the course and looking down at a youth with a weak mouth, a bowler hat, and a screaming check suit, who was holding a pink card in his hand, and addressing him. "i want my money." "i haven't got your money. i'm lookin' for a big man with a red face and a----" "here you are. fifteen bob. satiety for a place." "here you are. forty-five half-crowns for garryowen." "go to blazes with you!" shouted mr. giveen to the ring of individuals surrounding his tub and demanding their money. "who are you taking me for?" "he's got the bag," shouted one voice. "he was with the other chaps," shouted another. "welsher!" cried a third, and at the last cry mr. giveen was off his tub and being hustled. the bag was plucked from him and opened. then the real business began, and where the police came from it would be impossible to say, but they were only in time to save mr. giveen's shirt and trousers. his coat and waistcoat and hat had vanished utterly and like smoke when four stalwart constables surrounded him and began to fight for his life. several other welshers in the neighbourhood had done their business and got clean away; the crowd was in a nasty temper, for they had lost over the favourite, and the gods, with a certain poetic justice, had offered up giveen as a dripping roast to the fury of the people. "pull him in pieces!" "duck him!" (there was not a pond within miles.) "jump on him!" "down with the police!" "welsher!" "look!" cried dashwood. french, half delirious with delight, french, the winner of a big fortune, to say nothing of the stakes and the glory, was being led from the ring by mr. dashwood when they came across a maelstrom of howling humanity, amid which, like rocks, stood forth the helmets of the constables. "it's a welsher, poor devil!" cried french. "the police have him. hi! i say--by heavens! it's giveen!" he had caught a glimpse for a moment of the face of his cousin. the next he was in amid the throng, helping the police. "michael!" yelled the half-naked one. "lend us a hand, or i'll be torn in bits. musha! listen to the devils! help!" next moment french was knocked aside. fourteen constables had charged the crowd like a wedge, and giveen was surrounded and safe, and being marched off to the lock-up. "did ever a man see a thing like that!" cried french. "after winning the race and all to have a disgrace like this fall on me!" "come on," said dashwood. "you can go to the police-station after you have seen the horse. the bounder is all right now. and serve him jolly well right! it's some mistake. he'd never have the brains to try to welsh people. come on." two hours later mr. french, major lawson, and mr. dashwood, having celebrated the victory in champagne cup, drove up to the epsom police-station. the major made himself known, and obtained permission for mr. french to interview his relative. mr. giveen was seated in a police cell with a police blanket over his shoulders. "well, there you are!" said french. "and a nice disgrace to me and the family! what brought you down here at all? do you know what you'll get for this? six months, if you get an hour." "oh, glory be to god!" said giveen. "sure, i don't know what's been happening to me at all, at all. what have i done that you should all be going on at me like this?" "what have you done?" cried french. "you've betrayed me to lewis, you scoundrel! that's what you've done, sorrow mend you! you came sneaking down to crowsnest to get my address. you're a bad, black-hearted beast, that's what you are, and it's glad i am to think you'll spend the next six months, or maybe the next year, picking oakum or dancing on the treadmill. come now and tell the whole truth. what have you been doing?" urged to the tale, mr. giveen told all about paddy welsh and mr. lazarus, french listening and scarcely able to contain his merriment. "paddy welsh!" said he. "oh, faith, that makes it worse and worse! oh, faith, you've done for yourself now, and it's maybe two years you'll get. now, listen to me, and i'll give you a chance. if you'll promise me to go back to ireland by the next train, i'll talk to the magistrates to-morrow morning, and i'll tell them you're my relation and that you're a fool. you can tell them what you've told me, and maybe, backed by my word, they'll believe you. do you understand me?" "i do." "will you go back to ireland?" "i will." "and never interfere in my affairs again?" "i'll take me oath to that." "well, you'll have to stay here all night, for they won't let you out till you've been before the magistrates. there's no use in going on like that; here you'll have to stay, and when you come before the magistrates in the morning----" "sure, and i'll pretend to be soft," said mr. giveen. "you needn't pretend at all," said mr. french. he left the cell and heard with a deep satisfaction the cell door close upon the prisoner; then he drove back to badminton house with his companions. half an hour later, mr. dashwood drew him into the smoking-room, which was deserted. "i sent that wire to miss grimshaw," said mr. dashwood, "telling her that garryowen has won." "that's right," said french. "look here," said mr. dashwood, "i'm just going to write to her. we won't be able to get back to the martens till the day after to-morrow, with this giveen business on hand, so i'm going to write to her and tell her straight out that--that, well, as a matter of fact, that i want her to marry me. i'm going to tell her that she knows me now as well as ever she'll know me, and that if she doesn't like the business, i'm game, and can take her answer and still be friends. we'll all be friends, whatever happens, she and i and you; but i think it's best to make the position clear as soon as possible, for we can't go on like this. and a letter is the best way to do it." chapter xxxii "you're right," said french. "faith, the horse has nearly driven everything else out of my mind. it's a queer business the way that girl come to my house and saved my fortune. i tell you straight, she put the come'ither on me so that i'd follow her through the black bog itself, if she beckoned me, with both eyes shut. she's a jewel, begad, she's a jewel! look, now, at what she's done for me--saved and scraped, put me on an allowance of pocket-money--she did that--kept the house together; and it was she put the idea of taking the horse away from drumgool into my head. then, again, only for her you would never have come about the place, and what have you done? why, you've saved me twice and three times over. my dear boy," burst out french, seizing mr. dashwood's hand, "it's you that's been the making of me, for if you hadn't nobbled that black beast of a giveen, i'd have been done for entirely, and i hope she'll have you and make you happy." "it's all a toss up," said mr. dashwood, as he wrung french's hand. "you never know what a woman will do, and, i tell you this, if she chucks me, and if you--if you--well, as a matter of fact, if you marry her, i'll forget i ever cared for her, and we'll all be friends just as we've always been." "you say you are going to write to her?" "yes. i'm going to write now." "well, then," said french, "i'll do the same and write to her myself." * * * * * on the morning of the th, when the men had departed, mr. french for epsom, with the horse, and mr. dashwood to hollborough to bail out the bailiff, miss grimshaw found herself alone and, for the first time in many months, lonely. the society of women can never make up to a woman for the society of men, and the society of men can never make up to a man for the society of women. french and dashwood had taken away a genial something with them; the place seemed deserted. she had grown fond of them both, extremely fond of them, and if she had cross-questioned herself on the subject, she could not have discovered, i think, which man she cared for most as a companion. bobby dashwood had youth on his side, and youth appeals to youth; but then french had experience--though it had never done him much good--and personality. there was a lot of sunlight about michael french; one felt better for his presence, and, though he would knock a man down for two pins, though he made sport out of debt and debts over sport, and drank whisky enough to shock the modern tea-and-toast and barley-water man, he was a christian when it came to practice, and a friend whom no disaster could alienate. i cannot help lingering over him, for he belongs to a race of men who are growing fewer in an age when coldness and correctness of character veil, without in the least diminishing, the essential brutality and savagery of man. miss grimshaw, left to herself, made a tour of the rooms, set effie some sums to keep her quiet, and then retired into the sitting-room and shut the door. it was now that the really desperate condition of things that underlay the comedy of garryowen appeared before her unveiled. "if the horse does not win?" the ruin that those six words have so often postulated, rank, raw, cold, and brutal, rose before her. horses, cards, dice, wine, tobacco--one's dislike of the pipers who cry these down is accentuated by the truth that underlies their piping. they are the prophets of the awful telegram which heralds the misery, the pinching, and the poverty that will grip you and your wife and your children till you are in your coffins. they are the prophets of the white dawn that shines into your rooms at oxford when the men are gone, shines on the card-strewn floor where, like a fallen house of cards, lies the once fair future of a man. they are the physicians who prognose inefficiency, failure, old-age at forty--mental death. effie would have two hundred a year. nothing could touch that. but what of the jovial french? she knew enough of his financial affairs to know that he would be absolutely and utterly ruined. tears welled to her eyes for a moment; then she brushed them away, and her colour heightened. enthusiasm suddenly filled her; the desperate nature of the adventure appealed to her adventurous soul. never did a doubter do any great work or carry any high adventure to a successful close. garryowen would win! she felt that to doubt it would be the act of a traitor, and to believe it would help the event. shortly after three the dog-cart hired at the inn for the purpose of bailing out mr. piper arrived with mr. dashwood and his charge. mr. piper looked literally as though he had been bailed out. the unfortunate man, besides receiving a severe rebuke from the magistrates, had been fined two pounds, which mr. dashwood had paid. in mr. piper's morning reflections, conducted in the police cell at crowsnest, he had recognised his false position, and the uselessness of kicking against the pricks. he knew full well the ridicule that attends the unfortunate who tries to explain away the reason of his drunkenness; to say that he had been made tipsy by force would, even if it obtained his discharge, be so noticeable a statement that the london press would be sure to seize upon it. if the horses had been taken away, it would be far better to put the fact down to the evasion having been effected whilst he was asleep, and as he had some money about him, he felt sure of being able to pay any fine that might be inflicted on him. he was unconscious of the fact that he had kicked the constable. mr. dashwood, having released him, paid his fine, and given him some soda-water at the hollborough inn, sketched for him the true position of affairs, making him understand that the horse, once the race was over, would be religiously brought back, and that the only course for him in the midst of these circumstances was to return to the martens, accept its hospitality, and wait. having left him there, the young man, after a short interview with miss grimshaw, returned to london. chapter xxxiii the spring was early that year. the swallows must have known it, for they had returned several days before their time, and to-day, the th of april, the silence of the roman road was broken by their twittering and crossed by their shadows. the trees in the woods were green again, the little river beneath the bridge was foaming in spate, and from far away in the wood depths came the moist, sweet sound of the cuckoo, singing just as he sang in chaucer's time, just as he will sing in times a thousand years unborn. the girl had freed herself from effie and had wandered down to the bridge, where she stood now watching the wimpling water and the brown weeds, listening to the cuckoo and the chatter of the blue-tits in the branches of the trees. a telegram had brought her, yesterday, the grand news of garryowen's victory, and this morning's post had brought her two letters--one from mr. french and one from mr. dashwood. from what she could gather in the perusal of these letters, each man was in love with her, yet each was proposing that she should not look coldly on the other. they would return that evening. she would have to make up her mind on the question, and she had come here, apparently, to argue the question out. now that she was brought face to face with the matter, the chivalry of these two gentlemen one towards the other was the thing that perplexed her most. she had come here, apparently, to argue the matter out, but, in reality, her subliminal mind had already made the decision as to which of these two gentlemen she would choose as her natural protector for life. she had no one to confide in, no one to make a confidant of her choice; she had taken her seat on a little ledge of the parapet, and, with that charming impulse which prompts a woman to put her name on paper coupled with the name of the man she loves, the girl, with the point of her parasol, dreamily and like a mesmerist under the dictation of a spirit, wrote upon the dust of the old road's face-- violet then, with a half-blush, she was preparing to add the fateful other name, and the blue-tits in the branches above were craning their necks to see, when from beyond the hilltop the sound of a motor-car rapidly approaching broke the spell. as it passed she was standing looking at the river, and name on the dust of the road there was none, nor anything to hint of love but the graceful figure of the girl and the beauty of the morning. light come, light go [illustration] macmillan and co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago atlanta · san francisco the macmillan co. of canada, ltd toronto [illustration: the trente-et-quarante of the past. from a scarce print by darcis. _frontispiece._] light come, light go gambling--gamesters--wagers the turf by ralph nevill "d'un bout du monde a l'autre bout, le hasard seul fait tout." macmillan and co., limited st. martin's street, london contents i page the gambling spirit inborn in mankind--its various forms in reality identical--resemblance of gamblers to the alchemists of old--capriciousness of fortune--importance of small advantages at play--an extraordinary run at hazard--napoleon and wellington little addicted to cards--blücher's love of gaming--he wins his son's money--avaricious gamesters--anecdotes of the miser elwes--long sittings at the card-table--modern instance in london--two nights and a day at whist at the roxburgh club--casanova's forty-two hour duel at piquet--anecdotes of fox, the duke of devonshire, sir john lade, beau nash, and others--country houses lost at play--"up now deuce and then a trey"--the canterbury barber ii the spirit of play in the eighteenth century--the duke of buckingham's toast--subscription-houses, slaughter-houses, and hells--the staff of a gaming-house--joseph atkinson and bellasis--raids on king's place and grafton mews--methods employed by bow street officers--speculative insurance--increase of gaming in london owing to arrival of _émigrés_--gambling amongst the prisoners of war--the duc de nivernois and the clergyman--faro and e.o.--crusade against west-end gamblers--the duchess of devonshire and "old nick"--mr. lookup--tiger roche--dick england--sad death of mr. damer--plucking a pigeon iii former popularity of dice--the race game in paris--description of hazard--jack mytton's success at it--anecdotes--french hazard--major baggs, a celebrated gamester of the past--anecdotes of his career--london gaming-houses--ways and methods of their proprietors--ephraim bond and his henchman burge--"the athenæum"--west-end hells--crockford's--opinion of mr. crockford regarding play--the act of --betting-houses--nefarious tactics of their owners--suppression in iv craze for eccentric wagers at end of eighteenth century--lord cobham's insulting freak and its results--betting and gaming at white's--the arms of the club--the old betting-book and its quaint wagers--tragedies of play--white's to-day--£ , lost at hazard at the cocoa tree--brummell as a gambler--gaming at brooks's--anecdotes--general scott--whist--mr. pratt--wattier's club--scandal at graham's--modern gambling clubs--the park club case in --dangers of private play v talleyrand whilst at cards announces the death of the duc d'enghien--"the curse of scotland"--wilberforce at faro--successful gamblers--the rev. caleb colton--colonel panton--dennis o'kelly--richard rigby--anecdotes--strange incidents at play--aged gamesters--a duel with death--general wade and the poor officer--anecdote of a caprice of fortune--stock exchange speculation--a man who profited by tips vi colonel mellish--his early life and accomplishments--his equipage--a great gambler--£ , at a throw!--posting--mellish's racing career--his duel--in the peninsula--rural retirement and death--colonel john mordaunt--his youthful freaks--an ardent card-player--becomes aide-de-camp to the nawab of oude--anecdotes--death from a duel--zoffany in india and his picture of mordaunt's cock-fight--anecdotes of cock-fighting vii prevalence of wagering in the eighteenth century--riding a horse backwards--lord orford's eccentric bet--travelling piquet--the building of bagatelle--matches against time--"old q." and his chaise match--buck whalley's journey to jerusalem--buck english--irish sportsmen--jumping the wall of hyde park in --undressing in the water--colonel thornton--a cruel wager--walking on stilts--a wonderful leap--eccentric wagers--lloyd's walking match--squire osbaldiston's ride--captain barclay--jim selby's drive--mr. bulpett's remarkable feats viii gambling in paris--henry iv. and sully--cardinal mazarin's love of play--louis xiv. attempts to suppress gaming--john law--anecdotes--institution of public tables in --biribi--gambling during the revolution--fouché--the tables of the palais royal--the galeries de bois--account of gaming-rooms--passe-dix and craps--frascati's and the salon des Étrangers--anecdotes--public gaming ended in paris--last evenings of play--decadence of the palais royal--its restaurants--gaming in paris at the present day ix public gaming in germany--aix-la-chapelle--an italian gambler--the king of prussia's generosity--baden-baden--m. de la charme--a dishonest croupier--wiesbaden--an eccentric countess--closing of the tables in --last scenes--arrival of m. blanc at homburg--his attempt to defeat his own tables--anecdotes of garcia--his miserable end--a spanish gambler at ems--roulette at geneva and in heligoland--gambling at ostend--baccarat at french watering-places--"la faucheuse" forbidden in france x the principality of monaco--its vicissitudes--early days of the casino--the old prince and his scruples--monte carlo in and --its development--fashionable in the 'eighties--mr. sam lewis and captain carlton blythe--anecdotes--increase of visitors and present democratic policy of administration--the _cercle privé_ and its short life--the gaming-rooms and ways of their frequenters--anecdotes--trente-et-quarante and roulette--why the cards have plain white backs--jaggers' successful spoliation of the bank--the croupiers and their training--the staff of the casino--the _viatique_--systems--the best of all xi difficulty of making money on the turf--big wins--sporting tipsters and their methods--jack dickinson--"black ascots"--billy pierse--anecdotes--lord glasgow--lord george bentinck--lord hastings--heavy betting of the past--charles ii. founder of the english turf--history of the latter--anecdotes--eclipse--highflyer--the founder of tattersall's--old time racing--fox--lord foley--major leeson--councillor lade--"louse pigott"--hambletonian and diamond--mrs. thornton's match--beginnings of the french turf--lord henry seymour--longchamps--mr. mackenzie grieves--plaisanterie--establishment of the pari mutuel in --how the large profits are allocated--conclusion index illustrations in colour face page the trente-et-quarante of the past. from a scarce print by darcis _frontispiece_ the beautiful duchess throwing a main. by rowlandson la bouillotte. from a scarce print after bosio the chaise match the palmy days of the palais royal. from a contemporary print a gaming-table in the palais royal véry's in plan of roulette table, as used at monte carlo betting. by rowlandson in black and white the spendthrift. from an eighteenth-century print a raid on a london gaming-house sharpers and bucks in a billiard room light come, light go a row in a fashionable hell count d'orsay calling a main at crockford's the arms of white's _p._ the gambling-room at brooks's. from a water-colour drawing in the possession of the club the cock-fight at lucknow, with key. engraved by r. earlom, after zoffany roulette in the eighteenth century facsimile title-page of "guide du spéculateur au trente-quarante et à la roulette" gambling at homburg. drawn by the late g.a. sala e.o. on a country race-course. by rowlandson mrs. thornton i the gambling spirit inborn in mankind--its various forms in reality identical--resemblance of gamblers to the alchemists of old--capriciousness of fortune--importance of small advantages at play--an extraordinary run at hazard--napoleon and wellington little addicted to cards--blücher's love of gaming--he wins his son's money--avaricious gamesters--anecdotes of the miser elwes--long sittings at the card-table--modern instance in london--two nights and a day at whist at the roxburgh club--casanova's forty-two hour duel at piquet--anecdotes of fox, the duke of devonshire, sir john lade, beau nash, and others--country houses lost at play--"up now deuce and then a trey"--the canterbury barber. the passion for speculation which, throughout all ages, has captivated the great bulk of humanity, would seem to be an innate characteristic of mankind. it assumes various forms and guises which often deceive those over whom it exercises its sway, and becomes in numberless cases a veritable obsession, causing its victims to devote the whole of their time, thoughts, and money--sometimes even their lives--to its service. devotees of the simpler forms of gambling, such as are to be procured at the card-table and on the race-course, are often looked down upon by people who are themselves under the sway of other insidious, if more reputable, modes of tempting fortune. for all speculation, whether it be in pigs or wheat, stocks and shares, race-horses or cards, is in essence the same--its main feature being merely the desire to obtain "something for nothing," or in other words to acquire wealth without work. gambling, of no matter what kind, is thus a conscious and deliberate departure from the general aim of civilised society, which is to obtain proper value for its money. the gambler, on the other hand, receives either a great deal more than he gives or nothing at all. all conditions of life being more or less disquieted either with the cares of gaining or of keeping money, it is but natural that mankind should be allured by the idea of discovering and utilising an easy and quick road to riches. alas, the prospect of speedy wealth, which exercises such an irresistible fascination over certain natures, is in the vast majority of cases nothing but a delusive mirage, as tempting to covetous folly as the "philosopher's stone." indeed, the votaries of chance in a great measure resemble the alchemists of old, who were ever seeking, but never found, a method of producing untold gold. so convinced were these searchers of the possibility of eventually discovering the secret of manufacturing riches, that they laughed even at successful gamblers, deeming them to be mere drudges and sluggards on the golden road. there was a time, indeed, when students of what gibbon termed "the vain science of alchemy," were actually called "multipliers," and their unbounded confidence naturally made a deep impression upon the credulous ignorance of their age. so much so that our henry iv. appears to have become seriously alarmed at the prospect of the country being flooded with precious metals manufactured by the "multipliers," for a statute passed during his reign decrees that "none from henceforth shall use to multiply gold or silver or use the craft of multiplication, and if any the same do he shall incur the pain of felony." his majesty might just as well have issued an edict against gamblers making use of a sure method of winning! one of the most remarkable things about gambling is that no one ever seems to win--certainly the vast majority of those addicted to play, even the most lucky, generally declare that on the whole they have lost. a number of these, however, probably leave out of their calculations the large amounts which they have spent whilst fortune was in a generous mood; for gamblers when in luck are apt to fling their money about very freely, and even when they are losing they do not as a rule practise a rigid economy. this is not the case, of course, with followers of methods and systems who take their gambling seriously; these are often frugal men who, though quite callous about losing large sums in the pursuit of their hobby, regard money spent on enjoyment or luxuries as wasted. this is the type of gambler who racks his brains with calculations, and takes immense trouble to obtain really sound information about the chances of some race-horse, or of the rise or fall of some stock. but even to such sober gamblers the result is usually disappointing. all methods, systems, and combinations do little to assist gamblers to win--the most they can effect is to put a limitation on their losses; and as regards special information, those who are addicted to racing know only too well how expensive it is to be acquainted with any one in a position to give really good "tips." more than that, information which emanates from owners, trainers, and jockeys would soon break the bank of england were that institution to decide to risk its capital on such advice. not that in many cases these men are not really anxious to give their friends winners; but somehow or other the good thing hardly ever comes off. it is indeed not at all unlikely that the race-goer who knows no one connected with the turf has a distinct advantage; for when regular racing men possess reliable information as to a horse which has been reserved for some coup, they are obviously not at liberty to divulge its name, and consequently the "tips" they give are little more than hints of vague possibilities. although as a matter of fact the goddess of chance--not erroneously called "fickle"!--is in the long run pitilessly severe upon her votaries, one and all, there are times and occasions on which she seems not indisposed to smile. to propitiate her is, therefore, the first ambition of all gamblers, and in their efforts to attain this end many of them exhibit an almost childish superstition. yet we must remember that the wisest of the roman emperors kept a golden image of fortune in their private apartments, or carried it about them. they never sent it to their successor till they were near expiring; and then it was accompanied with this declaration--that in the whole course of their achievements, they were more indebted to fortune than to any skill or dexterity of their own. always feminine, fortune is to all appearances essentially wayward and capricious. she requires to be constantly tended, silently expected, and approached with due caution and prudence. rough and refractory behaviour scares her away; irritation at her eccentricities banishes her altogether; whilst levity and ingratitude, when she is in a beneficent mood, soon causes her to escape. moderation is the only chance of securing her constant presence. in short, fortune, or luck, is a phenomenon, the ground and essence whereof is to a great degree inexplicable. for the most part we know it only from its effects, and can give no certain account either of its nature or of its mode of action, and of the always increasing or diminishing greatness of it. to the gambler fortune appears to be an occult power, the aid of which is not infrequently invoked by means of various fanciful fetishes, which for the moment acquire a real virtue, as being likely to propitiate the invisible influence which presides over speculation. the movements of fortune have been well compared to those of the sea, which for the most part seems to affect a serene and smiling aspect, broken only by tranquil ripples. from time to time, however, furious tempests and storms disturb its surface, calm being often re-established as quickly and suddenly as it was originally broken. like the sea, fortune would at heart appear to be inclined towards tranquillity, though her fury, when roused, is inclined to conceal this tendency. whilst fortune generally seems to distribute her favours in a somewhat haphazard way, there is no doubt that those who study the so-called laws of chance are the most likely to receive them. for although chance is generally considered to be effect without design, this is not strictly true. throughout the universe of nature, indeed, all events appear in the end to be governed by immutable laws which have existed from the beginning of time, no matter what partial irregularities may arise at certain periods. in any game, for instance, equality in play is likely to restore the players in a series of events to the same state in which they began; while inequality, however small, has a contrary effect, and the longer the game be continued, the greater is likely to be the loss of the one player and the gain of the other. as has been very soundly said, this "more or less," in play, runs through all the ratios between equality and infinite difference, or from an infinitely little difference till it comes to an infinitely great one. the slightest of advantages, whether arising from skill or chance, will as surely "materialise" in the course of play as does the carefully calculated profit of a commercial expert. an event either will happen or will not happen; this constitutes a certainty. some events are dependent, others independent. the difference is very important. independent events have no connection, their happenings neither forwarding nor obstructing one another. choosing a card from each of two distinct packs includes two independent events; for the taking of a card from the first pack does not in any way affect the taking of a card from the second--the chances of drawing, or of not drawing, any particular card from the second pack being neither lessened nor increased. on the other hand, the taking of a second card from a pack from which one has already been drawn is a dependent event, as the composition of the pack has been altered by the abstraction of one particular card. the surprising way in which an apparently small advantage operates may be judged from the following example:--a and b agree to play for one guinea a game until one hundred guineas are lost or won. a possesses an advantage on each game amounting to chances to in his favour. mathematical analysis of this advantage proves that b would do well to give a upwards of ninety-nine guineas to cancel the agreement. further, many speculative events, which at first sight seem to be advantageous to one side, are demonstrated by mathematical investigation to be of an exactly contrary nature. a bets b thirty-two guineas to one that an event does not happen, and also bets b thirty guineas even that it does happen in twenty-nine trials. besides this a gives b one thousand guineas to play in this manner six hours a day for a month. here b would appear to have some advantage. mathematical investigation, however, proves that in reality the advantage of a is so great that b ought not only to return the thousand guineas to a, but give him, in addition, another ten thousand guineas to cancel the agreement. every game of chance presents two kinds of chances which are very distinct--namely, those relating to the person interested (the player) and those inherent in the combinations of the game. that is to say, there is either "good luck" or "bad luck," which at different times gives the player a "run" of good or bad fortune. but besides this, there is the chance of the combinations of the game, which are independent of the player and which are governed by the laws of probability. theoretically, chance is able to bring into any given game all the possible combinations; but it is a curious fact that there are, nevertheless, certain limits at which it seems to stop. a proof of this is that a particular number at roulette does not turn up ten or a dozen times in succession. in reality there would be nothing astounding about such a run, but it is supposed never to have happened. on the other hand, the numbers in one column at roulette have been known not to turn up during seventeen successive coups. all the same, extraordinary runs do occur at all games. in , a well-known betting man of the name of ogden laid one thousand guineas to one guinea, that calling seven as the main, a player would not throw that number ten times successively from the dice-box. seven was thrown nine times in direct sequence! mr. ogden then offered four hundred and seventy guineas to be let off the bet, but the thrower refused. he took the box again but threw only twice more--nine--so that mr. ogden just saved his thousand guineas. in a game of chance, the oftener the same combination has occurred in succession the nearer we are to the certainty that it will not recur at the next coup. it would almost appear, in fact, as if there existed an instant, prescribed by some unknown law, at which the chances become mature, and after which they begin to tend again towards equalisation. this is the secret of the pass and the counter-pass, and also of the strange persistence which certain numbers at roulette sometimes show in recurring--they are merely making up for lost time. at the end of a year all the numbers on a roulette board would be found to have come up about the same number of times--provided, of course, that the wheel is kept in proper working order, a state of affairs which is assured at monaco by scrupulous daily inspection. the considerations set forth above apply more especially to games like roulette and trente-et-quarante played at public tables, where all players have an equal chance against the bank, and where the personal element, which is so important in private play, is to a large extent eliminated. it is at public tables that the real gambler finds his best chance. there, whilst having a fair field and no favour, he may, if lucky, win very large sums with the certainty of being immediately paid; and he is not exposed to various unfavourable influences, which tell against men of his disposition when gambling amongst acquaintances and even friends. wherever a number of careless, inattentive people possessed of money chance to be assembled, a few wary, cool, and shrewd men will be found, who know how to conceal real caution and design under apparent inattention and gaiety of manner; who push their luck when fortune smiles and refrain when she changes her disposition; and who have calculated the chances and are thoroughly master of every game where judgment is required. occasionally men of this stamp have been known to have accumulated a fortune, more often a respectable competency, at play. if they had been interrogated as to the exact means by which they had made their success, they would, had they been desirous of speaking the truth, have replied in the words of the wife of the maréchal d'ancre, who, when she was asked what charm she had made use of to fascinate the mind of the queen, "the charm," she replied, "which superior abilities always exercise over weaker minds." the minor forms of gambling, which serve to gratify the speculative instincts of ordinary mortals, have generally possessed little attraction for great men, whose minds would seem to have been occupied by more ambitious, though perhaps in essence not less speculative, designs. napoleon, for example, was a very poor card-player, and from all accounts never indulged in any serious gambling. the great duke of wellington, though he was once accused of being much addicted to playing hazard, would also seem to have entertained no particular fondness for play. in the course of a letter which he wrote in to a mr. adolphus, who had publicly referred to his supposed love of play, the great captain wrote "that never in the whole course of his life had he ever won or lost £ at any game, and that he had never played at hazard or any game of chance in any public place or club, nor been for some years at all at any such place." nevertheless, the duke became an original member of crockford's in , though there is no record of his ever having played there. another great soldier, on the other hand, repeatedly lost large sums at play. this was blücher, who was inordinately fond of gambling. much to his disgust this passion was inherited by his son, who had often to be rebuked by his father for his visits to the gaming-table, and was given many a wholesome lecture upon his youth and inexperience, and the consequent certainty of loss by coming in contact with older and more practised gamblers. one morning, however, young blücher presented himself before his father, and exclaimed with an air of joy, "sir, you said i knew nothing about play, but here is proof that you have undervalued my talents," pulling out at the same time a bag of roubles which he had won the preceding night. "and i said the truth," was the reply; "sit down there, and i'll convince you." the dice were called for, and in a few minutes old blücher won all his son's money; whereupon, after pocketing the cash, he rose from the table observing, "now you see that i was right when i told you that you would never win." if, however, it would seem to be the case that few, if any, of the world's very greatest minds have been addicted to gambling, it is no less true that outside this select band all classes have been, and are, equally subject to the passion. nothing, indeed, is more extraordinary than the fact that it has been observed to exercise the same fascination on men of the most diverse characters and dispositions--on rich and poor, educated and uneducated, young and old, learned and ignorant. moreover, unlike other passions, the love of gambling generally remains unimpaired by age, and instances of people of advanced years expending their few remaining energies at the card-table are not rare. there is the story of the venerable old north-country lady whom a visitor found looking very red-eyed and weary. "i fear you are suffering from a bad cold?" he inquired, solicitously. "eh, i'se gat na cauld," was the reply; "some friends kem from kendal on tuesday that love a game a whist dearly, and i'se bin carding the morn and e'en, the e'en an' the morn, twa days." "indeed, and what might you have won?" "eh," she replied, with considerable satisfaction, "it mun be a shilling." at first sight, also, one would think that avarice and passion for play were absolutely incompatible; yet there are not a few striking instances of the two vices being combined--by men to whom the spending of a few shillings was agony, but who would risk thousands at cards with comparative equanimity. such an one was the celebrated mr. elwes, who combined a passion for gambling with habits of the greatest penury. he was originally a mr. meggot, the name of elwes being assumed under the terms of the will of his uncle. sir harvey elwes. sir harvey was himself the perfect type of a miser. timid, shy, and diffident in the extreme, he kept his household, which consisted of one man and two maid-servants, chiefly upon game from his own land and fish from his own ponds; the cows which grazed before his door furnished milk, cheese, and butter for the establishment; and what fuel he burned his own woods supplied. as he had no acquaintances and no books, the hoarding-up and the counting of his money was his greatest delight. next to that came partridge catching--or setting, as it was then called--at which he was so great an adept that he was known to take five hundred brace of birds in one season. what partridges were not consumed by his household he turned out again, as he never gave anything away. at all times he wore a black velvet cap much over his face, a worn-out, full-dress suit of clothes, and an old great-coat, with worsted stockings drawn up over his knees. he rode a thin thoroughbred horse, and the horse and his rider looked as if a gust of wind would have blown them away together. at the time mr. meggot succeeded to the name and fortune of his uncle he was over forty, having for about fifteen years previously been well-known in the most fashionable circles of the west end. he was a gambler at heart, and only late in life did he succeed in obtaining any mastery over his passion for play. his losses were great, but this was mainly because while he himself always paid when he lost, his opponents were not always so scrupulous, and it was notorious that the sums owed to him in this way were very considerable. but he professed the quixotic theory that "it was impossible to ask a gentleman for money"; and to his honour, but financial disadvantage, he adhered strictly to this rule throughout his life. the acquaintances which he had formed at westminster school and at geneva, together with his own large fortune, all conspired to introduce mr. elwes (then mr. meggot) into whatever society he best liked. he was at once admitted a member of the club at arthur's, and of various other similar institutions; and as a proof of his notoriety as a gambler, it may be mentioned that he, lord robert bertie, and some others, are noticed in a scene in _the adventures of a guinea_ for the frequency of their midnight orgies. few men, even on his own acknowledgment, had played deeper than himself, or with such varying success. he once played two days and a night without intermission; and the room being a small one, the company were nearly up to their knees in cards. he lost some thousands at that sitting. the duke of northumberland was of the party--another man who never would quit the gaming-table while any hope of winning remained. even at this period, mr. elwes' passion for gaming was equalled by his avarice, and in a curious manner he contrived to mingle small attempts at saving with pursuits of the most unbounded dissipation. after sitting up a whole night playing for thousands with the most fashionable and profligate men of the time--in ornate and brilliantly-lighted salons, with obsequious waiters attendant upon his call--he would walk out about four in the morning, not towards his home, but into smithfield, to meet his own cattle, which were coming up to market from thaydon hall, a farm of his in essex. there would this same man, forgetful of the scenes he had just left, stand in the cold or rain, haggling with a carcass butcher for a shilling. sometimes when the cattle did not arrive at the hour he expected, he would walk on in the mire to meet them; and more than once he actually trudged the whole way to his farm, seventeen miles from london--a tedious walk after sitting up the whole of the night at play! though he never engaged personally upon the turf, mr. elwes was in the habit of making frequent excursions to newmarket, and a kindness which he once performed there is worthy of recollection. lord abingdon, who was slightly known to mr. elwes, had made a match for £ which it was supposed he would be obliged to forfeit from an inability to produce the sum--though the odds were greatly in his favour. unsolicited, mr. elwes made him an offer of the money; he accepted it, and won the engagement. on the day this match was to be run a clerical neighbour had agreed to accompany mr. elwes to newmarket. as was the latter's custom they set out on their journey at seven in the morning, and, with the hope of a substantial breakfast at newmarket, the clergyman took no refreshment before starting. they reached newmarket about eleven, and mr. elwes busied himself in inquiries and conversation till twelve, when the match was decided in favour of lord abingdon. the divine then fully expected that they should move off to the town for breakfast; but elwes still continued riding about on one business or another. eventually four o'clock arrived; and by this time his reverence had become so impatient that he murmured something about the "keen air of newmarket heath" and the comforts of a good dinner. "very true," replied elwes, "have some of this," offering him at the same time a piece of old, crushed pancake from his great-coat pocket. he added that he had brought it from his house at marcham two months before, but "that it was as good as new." the sequel of the story was that they did not reach home till nine in the evening, when the clergyman was so tired that he gave up all other refreshment for rest. on the other hand, elwes, who had hazarded seven thousand pounds in the morning, retired happily to bed with the pleasing recollection of having saved three shillings. in later life mr. elwes was elected to parliament, where he proved himself an independent country member and exhibited great conscientiousness. during this time he had the greatest admiration for mr. pitt, and was wont to declare that in all the statesman's words there were "pounds, shillings, and pence." when he quitted parliament, he was, in the common phrase, "a fish out of water." he had for some years been a member of a card-club, at the mount coffee-house, and it was there that he consoled himself for the loss of his seat. the play was moderate, and he enjoyed the fire and candles which were provided at the expense of the club; but fortune seemed resolved to force from him that money which no power could persuade him to bestow. he still retained his fondness for play, and imagined that he had no small skill at piquet. it was his ill-luck on one occasion to meet a gentleman who had the same idea of his own powers in this direction, and on much better grounds; for after a contest of two days and a night, in which elwes continued with the perseverance which avarice will sometimes inspire, he rose the loser of no less than three thousand pounds. the debt was paid by a draft on messrs. hoare, which was duly honoured the next morning. this is said to have been the last bout of gaming indulged in by mr. elwes, and not long afterwards he retired to his country seat at stoke, remarking that "he had lost a great deal of money very foolishly, but that a man grew wiser by time." after this no gleam of pleasure or amusement broke through the gloom of a penurious life, and his insatiable desire of saving became uniform and systematic. he still rode about the country on an old brood mare (which was all he had left); but then he rode her very economically, on the soft turf adjoining the road, so as to avoid the cost of shoes. his household expenses were reduced to a minimum, his few wants being attended to by a man who became almost as celebrated as his master. this extraordinary servant acted as butler, coachman, gardener, huntsman, groom, and valet; and was, according to mr. elwes, "a d----d idle rascal" into the bargain. mr. elwes died in and left an enormous fortune for that day, about five hundred thousand pounds being divided between his two natural sons. mr. elwes' record of having played piquet for two days and a night (thirty-six successive hours) was a remarkable one, for the physical strain involved by playing for such a long period is very considerable. yet the fascination of remaining at the gaming-table for a long stretch of time frequently takes possession of those addicted to play. as a rule it is not by any means caused solely by the consideration of the stakes played for; it would rather seem that the players become mere automatic gaming machines, the mechanism of which runs steadily on. several years ago a noticeable instance of this occurred in a london club, where, on a certain evening, a small party had been playing écarté for fairly moderate stakes. the game began about eleven o'clock; some three or four hours later only two players remained. as the time went on, fine after fine was incurred by this couple, but still they continued playing--until they passed the hour when expulsion was the penalty exacted from any member still remaining in the club-house. they were still playing when morning broke, and though horrified and sleepy-eyed waiters informed them that they could no longer continue, their only answer was to stop the clock, an irritating reminder of the fleeting hours. in this fashion they continued till one o'clock the next afternoon, when, having realised that their escapade was a serious one, they strolled through a crowd of outraged members into the brilliant sunlight which, as if in irony, chanced that morning to be flooding the street. it should be added that before leaving the club-house--for ever, as it turned out--the two culprits prudently wrote out their resignations. the curious thing was that the stakes during this sitting were by no means high, and the sums which changed hands were consequently comparatively small. rowlandson, the artist, who was a well-known figure at most of the fashionable gaming-houses of his time, frequently played through a night and the next day. on one occasion he remained at the hazard table for thirty-six hours without a break, the only refreshment which he took being brought to him in the gambling-room. rowlandson, who was a most honourable man, was generally unlucky, and lost several legacies at play. his imperturbability was remarkable, and he never exhibited the slightest emotion whether he won or lost. at the roxburgh club in st. james's square--at the time when it was kept by raggett, the well-known proprietor of white's--hervey combe, tippoo smith, mr. ward (a member of parliament), and the distinguished indian general, sir john malcolm, once sat from monday evening till wednesday morning at eleven o'clock, playing whist. even then, they would very likely have continued playing, had not hervey combe been obliged to attend the funeral of one of his partners. combe, who had won thirty thousand pounds from sir john malcolm, jocularly told him that he could have his revenge whenever he liked. "thank you," replied sir john, "another sitting like this would oblige me to return to india again!" in all probability, however, the longest duel at cards which ever took place occurred in the eighteenth century at sulzbach, where the famous adventurer, casanova, made the acquaintance of an officer, d'entragues by name, who was very fond of piquet. for four or five days in succession the venetian and this officer played after dinner. at the end of that time, however, casanova declined to play any more, having come to the conclusion that his opponent made a regular practice of rising from the table directly he had won ten or twelve louis. he adhered to this resolution for a day or two, but d'entragues became quite importunate in offers to give him his revenge. "i do not care to play," was the reply of casanova, given with some effrontery. "we are not the same kind of gamblers. i play only for my pleasure and because the game amuses me, whilst you play merely to win." "if i understand you rightly," was the retort, "this is deliberate rudeness!" "i did not mean to be rude; but every time we have played you have left me in the lurch at the end of an hour." "a proof of my solicitude for your pocket, for as you are a worse player than i, you would have lost a great deal had we continued." "possibly, but i don't believe it." eventually it was agreed that they should resume their contest, but that the player who was the first to rise from the piquet-table should forfeit fifty louis to his opponent. the stakes were five louis a hundred points, ready money only to be played for. the game began at three in the afternoon; at nine d'entragues proposed supper. casanova said he was not hungry; whereupon his opponent laughed, and the game was continued. the onlookers, who were fairly numerous, went to supper, afterwards returning to remain till midnight, when the players were left alone with a croupier who attended to the accounts, the only utterances heard being those connected with the game. from six in the morning, when the visitors who were taking the sulzbach waters began to be about, the contest excited the greatest public interest. casanova was now losing a hundred louis, though his luck had not been very bad. at nine o'clock a lady, madame saxe by name, to whom d'entragues was very devoted, arrived upon the scene and persuaded each of the combatants to partake of a cup of chocolate. d'entragues was the first to consent to this; he believed that his opponent was near to giving in. "let us agree," he proposed, "that whoever asks for food, leaves the room for more than a quarter of an hour, or goes to sleep in his chair, shall be deemed the loser." "i take you at your word," was casanova's reply; "and shall be ready to hold to any other irritating conditions you may suggest." the game proceeded. at twelve o'clock another meal was announced, but both players still declared that they were not hungry; at four, however, they took some soup. towards supper-time the onlookers began to think that matters were going too far. madame saxe then made a suggestion that the stakes should be divided, but to this proposal casanova firmly declined to consent. at this moment d'entragues might have risen from the table a winner even after having paid the forfeit, for besides being the better player luck had favoured him. nevertheless, his pride prevented him from abandoning what had degenerated into a mere contest of endurance. his appearance had become that of a corpse which had been disinterred, in striking contrast to the still normal looks of casanova, who, to the remonstrances of madame saxe, replied that he would only give up the struggle by falling down dead. the night wore on, and once more the players were left alone. by this time d'entragues was showing evident signs of complete exhaustion, which was increased by an altercation about some trifling point raised by casanova with the express purpose of further weakening his opponent's resistance. at nine o'clock next morning madame saxe arrived to find her lover losing, and so dazed that he could hardly shuffle the cards, count, or properly discard. once more she appealed to casanova, pointing out to him that he could now rise a winner. in a tone of great gallantry the latter replied that he would agree to abandon the struggle if the forfeit were declared void, a condition to which d'entragues declined to assent. the latter, though very weak, showed considerable annoyance at the manner in which casanova had spoken to madame saxe, and declared that for his part he should not leave the table till either he or his opponent lay dead upon the floor. in due course of time soup was again brought to the players, but d'entragues, who was now in the last stage of weakness, fell down in a dead faint almost immediately after the cup had been raised to his lips, and in this condition he was carried away to bed. on the other hand, casanova, after having given half a dozen louis to the croupier (who had been awake for forty-two consecutive hours), leisurely put the gold he had won in his pockets, and strolled out to a chemist's where he purchased a mild emetic. he then went to bed and slept lightly for a few hours, getting up about three o'clock in the afternoon with an excellent appetite. his opponent did not appear till the next day, when, much to his credit, he told casanova that he bore him no ill-will, and was on the contrary grateful to him for a lesson which he should remember all the days of his life. casanova was not always as successful as this in his gambling enterprises, which indeed occasionally involved him in unpleasant situations; but like most adventurers of his type and age he was seldom depressed by losses. he would appear to have generally dominated other gamesters whom he met--a state of affairs which was probably not unconnected with the venetian's well-known truculence. besides, he was, as a rule, not over-burdened with money, a circumstance which perhaps made him the more ready to engage in a contest. people who are over-prosperous are not given to exhibiting any particular spirit in such affairs. a gentleman, who had been fortunate at cards, was asked to be a second in a duel, at a period when the seconds engaged as heartily as the principals. "i am not," replied he, "the man for your purpose at this time; but go and apply to a friend of mine from whom i won a thousand guineas last night, and i warrant you he will fight like any devil!" though ready to resent any slight, and tenacious of keeping up a reputation for being "cock of the walk" in the circles in which he moved, casanova was possessed of great self-control, and always made a point of being urbane, even whilst sustaining a severe reverse--a pleasing characteristic which, he declared, obtained him access to much pleasant society. it was his constant practice to hold a bank at the various resorts of the pleasure-loving world which he visited during his adventurous career. at aix in savoy (which is still a place in high favour with the votaries of chance owing to its two casinos), casanova was once particularly successful. he himself, with all a gambler's superstition, attributed his good fortune on this occasion to the appearance of three englishmen--one of them fox (then on the threshold of his career), who borrowed fifty louis of the great adventurer, whom he had previously met at geneva. from his earliest years charles james fox had been accustomed to gambling, having been elected a member of brooks's when but sixteen years old. at that time the club in question, now so decorous and staid, was the head-quarters of the fashionable london gamester, and the high-spirited youth fully availed himself of the excellent opportunities for dissipating a fortune which were here at easy command. on one occasion fox sat playing at hazard for twenty-two consecutive hours, with the result that he rose the loser of eleven thousand pounds. at twenty-five he was a ruined man, his father having paid for him one hundred and forty thousand pounds out of his own property. [illustration: _the spendthrift_ deaf to his aged sire's advice, and biggotted to cards and dice; with many a horrid oath and curse, he loudly wails his empty purse. from an eighteenth-century print.] though a most unsuccessful gambler. fox played whist and piquet exceedingly well, it being generally agreed at brooks's that he might have made about four thousand a year at these games had he but confined himself to them. his misfortunes arose from playing at games of chance, particularly at faro, of which he was very fond. as a rule after eating and drinking plentifully, he would repair to the faro table, almost invariably rising a loser. once indeed, and only once, he won about eight thousand pounds in the course of a single evening; part of this money he paid away to his creditors, and the remainder he lost again almost immediately in the same manner. mr. boothby, also an irreclaimable gamester and an intimate friend of fox, speaking of the latter said, "he was unquestionably a man of first-rate talents, but so deficient in judgment as never to have succeeded in any object during his whole life. he loved only three things: women, play, and politics. yet at no period did he ever form a creditable connection with a woman; he lost his whole fortune at the gaming-table; and with the exception of about eleven months he remained always in opposition." before he attained his thirtieth year, fox had completely dissipated every shilling that he could either command or procure by the most ruinous expedients. during his career he experienced, at times, many of the severest privations attached to the vicissitudes which mark a gamester's progress, and frequently lacked money to defray common expenses of the most pressing nature. topham beauclerk--himself a man of pleasure and of letters--who lived much in fox's society at that period of his life, used to say that no man could form an idea of the extremities to which his friend had been driven in order to raise money, after losing his last guinea at the faro table. for days in succession he was reduced to such distress as to be under the necessity of having recourse to the waiters of brooks's club to lend him assistance--even sedan-chairmen, whom he was unable to pay, used to clamour at his door. notwithstanding the numerous petty claims which at times made fox's life unbearable, he could never resist high play, which seems to have completely destroyed his judgment as to the value of money, and prided himself upon the largeness of his stakes. the duke of devonshire, who, much to his honour, made a point of never touching a card, went one day out of curiosity to the thatched house club to see the gambling. after some time, finding himself awkward at being the only person in the rooms who was not participating in the play, he proposed a bet of fifty pounds on the odd trick to charles fox. "you'll excuse me, my lord duke," replied charles, "i never play for pence." "i assure you, sir," answered his grace, "you do, as often as i play for fifty pounds." fox, whilst a gambler of the most hopeless description, and extravagant almost beyond words, had, as is well known, many good points. amongst them was hatred of meanness, which was an abomination of the worst sort in his eyes. finding himself on one occasion in considerable funds owing to a run of luck at faro, he remembered an old gambling debt due to sir john lade, familiarly known at that time as sir john jehu, and accordingly wrote, desiring an appointment so that he might pay what he owed. when they met, charles produced the money, which sir john no sooner saw, than calling for a pen and ink, he very deliberately began to reckon up the interest. "what are you doing now?" cried charles. "only calculating what the interest amounts to," replied the other. "oh, indeed!" returned fox with great coolness, at the same time pocketing the cash, which he had already thrown upon the table. "why, i thought, sir john, that my debt to you was a debt of honour; but as you seem to view it in another light, and seriously mean to make a trading debt of it, i must inform you that i make it an invariable rule to pay my jew creditors last. you must therefore wait a little longer for your money, sir; and when i meet my money-lending israelites for the payment of principal and interest, i shall certainly think of sir john jehu, and expect to have the honour of seeing him in the company of my worthy friends from duke's place"--a locality which at that time swarmed with usurers. though fox rather excelled at card games of skill, horse-racing was his darling amusement, until, from prudential motives, he quitted the turf and all other forms of speculation. he played at games of chance with indifference, and would throw for a thousand guineas with as much sang-froid as he would twirl a teetotum for a shilling. but when his horse ran he was all eagerness and anxiety, always placing himself where the animal was to make its effort, or where the race was likely to be most strongly contested. from this spot he would watch the early part of the race with an immovable look, merely breathing quicker as they accelerated their pace. but when the horses came opposite to him, he rode in with them at full speed, whipping, spurring, and blowing, as if he would have infused his whole soul into the courage, speed, and perseverance of his favourite racer. the race being over, the fact that he had won or lost seemed to be a matter of perfect indifference to him, for he immediately began to discuss the next event, whether he had a horse entered for it or not. the fact that fox was often in the most dire financial straits through his reckless gambling does not seem to have excited any extraordinary astonishment amongst his contemporaries. the men of the eighteenth century were quite accustomed to the vicissitudes connected with gaming, which seems to have been viewed with the greatest leniency in every way. the celebrated beau nash was sometimes in sore straits owing to a run of ill luck at play, and on one occasion, at york, he lost all the money he possessed. in these circumstances some of his companions agreed to equip him with fifty guineas, upon condition that he should stand at the great door of the minster in a blanket as the people were coming out of church; and to this proposal he readily agreed. the dean passing by unfortunately knew him. "what," cried the divine, "mr. nash in masquerade?" "only a yorkshire penance, mr. dean, for keeping bad company," said nash, pointing to his companions. some time after this the beau won a wager of still greater consequence by riding naked through a village upon a cow, an escapade which was considered as a harmless and natural frolic. in the year , a giddy youth who had just resigned his fellowship at oxford, brought his whole fortune to bath; and without the smallest degree of skill in play, won a sufficient sum to make any ordinary man happy. his desire of gain, however, being increased by his good fortune, he plunged more deeply in the following october, and added four thousand pounds to his former capital. hearing of this, beau nash, who was a good-natured man, one night invited him to supper, and told him there would come a time when he would repent having left the calm of a college life for the turbulent profession of a gamester. "you are a stranger to me," said he, "but to convince you of the part i take in your welfare, i'll give you fifty guineas to forfeit twenty every time you lose two hundred at one sitting." the young gentleman refused this offer, and was eventually ruined. this system of tying up was very usual. the duke of bedford, being chagrined at losing a considerable sum, pressed mr. nash to tie him up for the future from playing deep. with this view the beau gave his grace one hundred guineas to forfeit ten thousand whenever he lost a sum to the same amount at one sitting. the duke, however, loved play to distraction, and within a short time again lost eight thousand guineas at hazard. as he was on the point of throwing for three thousand more, nash caught hold of the dice-box and entreated him to reflect on the penalty he would incur should he loose. for that time the duke desisted, but so possessed was he by the love of play, that shortly afterwards, having lost a considerable sum at newmarket, he was contented to pay the penalty. on another occasion nash undertook to cure a young peer of the gambling fever. conscious of his own superior skill he determined to engage the earl in single play for a very considerable sum. his lordship lost his estate, and the title-deeds were put into the winner's possession; finally his very equipage was deposited as the last stake, and he lost that also. nash, however, who showed himself to be the most generous of gamesters, returned all, only stipulating that he should be paid five thousand pounds whenever he should think proper to make the demand. he never did anything of the kind during the nobleman's life; but some time after his decease, mr. nash's affairs being on the wane, he demanded the money of his lordship's heirs, who honourably paid it without hesitation. at the present day gambling is more or less confined to large towns, but a different state of affairs prevailed in the eighteenth century, when whole properties frequently changed hands at the card-table. the owner of warthall hall, for instance, having lost all his money, in a frenzy of excitement finally risked the whole of his estate upon a low cut of the cards. he cut the deuce of diamonds, and in remembrance of his good luck fixed a representation of the lucky card upon the front of his house with the following inscription:-- up now deuce and then a trey,[ ] or warthall's gone for ever and aye. shelley hall in suffolk, the remains of which still exist, was lost at play by thomas kerridge, the last squire, who died in . according to tradition, he gambled away the house room by room; and when all the contents were gone and the house gutted, he pulled down certain portions and gambled away the bricks. blo' norton hall, norfolk, is also said to have been lost at play by its owner, gawdy brampton, who, when he was finally ruined, committed suicide in an attic, from which his ghost is still said to emerge and haunt an adjoining staircase--perhaps because his widow married the man who had won his money and the old hall. many of the small tradesmen in the country towns were eager devotees of chance, and sharpers frequently reaped a rich harvest in provincial centres. indeed, the happy-go-lucky spirit of the eighteenth century was very favourable to such gentry, who pillaged all ranks without distinction. about there resided at canterbury a barber who was famous for the way in which he made natty one-curled hunting wigs, but who was also much given to making bets and to boasting of his discernment and judgment. two blacklegs, coming to canterbury for the races, heard of this barber and immediately formed a plan to shave him in his own way. to accomplish the business, they went to one of the principal inns, where, ordering a capital supper, they sent for the perruquier to bespeak wigs for themselves and their servants. the knight of the strop readily and cheerfully attended; and, having taken the external dimensions of the gentlemen's heads, whilst totally ignorant of the schemes which lay within them, was about to depart, but was prevented by a pressing invitation from his new customers to take supper with them. he was of a convivial turn and fond of company, which in his own opinion afforded opportunities of displaying his great sagacity in the mysteries of betting; and for this reason he politely accepted the invitation. after supper, a game of whist was suggested, but as the barber did not feel himself so great an adept at this as at his favourite game of "done and done," the proposal fell to the ground. as the guest of the evening was a great politician, and his companions were well informed of his manners and character, the conversation turned upon politics, from that unaccountably veering round till wagers became the general topic. highly delighted at the introduction of a subject of which he deemed himself a perfect master, the barber listened with the greatest attention to the conversation, and eagerly offered several bets himself. as his two companions appeared rather shy, and hinted that it would not be safe to bet with a man who calculated matters so shrewdly as generally to win, he became very anxious to get the better of men whom he considered as "pigeons"--though, unluckily for him, they turned out to be "rooks." after many propositions, they offered to bet him ten guineas that he would not repeat one sentence, and that only, during the space of ten minutes. cunningly thinking that he had his men, the barber started up and swore he could repeat any sentence for an hour. after having blithely stepped home for a supply of cash, he returned, and a bet of fifty guineas having been made, both stakes were deposited under a hat on the table, the conditions being that the barber should without intermission repeat the words "_there he goes_," for half an hour's continuance. he accordingly took his station at the table, and, with a watch before him to note the time, began his recital of _there he goes_, _there he goes_, _there he goes_. when he had kept on in a steady and unalterable tone for a quarter of an hour, one of the gentlemen, with a view to lead the barber from his stated subject, lifted up the hat, counted out half the money, and saying "d--n me if i don't go," put the cash in his pocket and walked off. this circumstance, however, had no effect upon the barber. a few minutes later the man who remained coolly pocketed the residue of the money, and added, as the barber repeated the words _there he goes_, "and d--n me if i don't follow him." the barber was now left alone with his eyes riveted on the watch, anxious for the expiration of the short time which still remained to elapse before his bet was won, but more confident than ever. in the meantime, the departure of the two strangers without settling the bill excited the notice of the landlord; he went into the room, and the barber, looking him in the face, kept repeating _there he goes_, "yes, sir, i know it; they have both been gone some time; pray are you to pay the bill?" no answer being given but _there he goes_, the host immediately ran for the barber's wife and a doctor, supposing him in a state of hopeless delirium. they arrived; his wife, taking him round the neck, in vain endeavoured to make him deviate from his purpose; the doctor, after feeling his pulse, pronounced him in a high fever, and was getting ready his apparatus for opening a vein, when the time expired, and the barber in a frenzy of excitement, jumped upon the table and exclaimed, "bravo, i have won fifty guineas of the two gentlemen who are gone out!" the persons present now concluded, beyond a doubt, that he had lost his senses; his wife screamed, and the landlord called for assistance to have him secured. when matters were explained, however, the landlord had a horse saddled, and rode in pursuit of the gentlemen, to remind them of their forgetfulness. after riding about ten miles, he overtook them in a lonely part of the road. here he reminded them that they had not paid their bill, upon which they presented pistols to his head, robbed him of between twenty and thirty guineas, and advised him not to travel again upon such a foolish errand, but to look better after his inn, and tell the barber to be careful how he made his bets in future. footnotes: [footnote : a three.] ii the spirit of play in the eighteenth century--the duke of buckingham's toast--subscription-houses, slaughter-houses, and hells--the staff of a gaming-house--joseph atkinson and bellasis--raids on king's place and grafton mews--methods employed by bow street officers--speculative insurance--increase of gaming in london owing to arrival of _émigrés_--gambling amongst the prisoners of war--the duc de nivernois and the clergyman--faro and e.o.--crusade against west-end gamblers--the duchess of devonshire and "old nick"--mr. lookup--tiger roche--dick england--sad death of mr. damer--plucking a pigeon. during the last ten years of the reign of george ii., "that destructive fury, the spirit of play" wrought great havoc in london. gaming was declared to have become the business rather than the amusement of persons of quality, who were accused (probably with considerable truth) of being more concerned with speculation than with the proceedings of parliament. estates were almost as frequently made over by whist and hazard as by deeds and settlements, whilst the chariots of the nobility might be said to roll upon four aces. as a means of settling disputes, the wager was stated to have supplanted the sword, all differences of opinion being adjusted by betting. in fashionable circles and at court, gambling was especially prevalent. in january it was recorded that "his majesty played at st. james's palace on twelfth night for the benefit of the groom-porter." all the members of the royal family present on this occasion appear to have been winners, the duke of cumberland getting £ . amongst the losers were the duke of grafton and the lords huntingdon, holdernesse, ashburnham, and hertford. the exact amount of benefit which accrued to the groom-porter from the evening's play does not transpire. henry bennet, earl of arlington, had a house near the site of the present buckingham palace, which went by his name. it was afterwards purchased by john sheffield, duke of buckingham, who, after obtaining an additional grant of land from the crown, rebuilt it in a magnificent manner in . during his residence here, the duke was a constant visitor at the then noted gaming-house in marylebone, the place of assemblage of all the infamous sharpers of the time. his grace always gave them a dinner at the conclusion of the season, and his parting toast was, "may as many of us as remain unhanged next spring meet here again." quin related this story at bath, within the hearing of lord chesterfield, when his lordship was surrounded by a crowd of worthies of the same stamp. lady mary wortley alludes to the amusement in this line:-- some dukes at marybone bowl time away. as the century waned, play became more and more popular in london. so great indeed was the toleration accorded to gaming in the west end of the town that what were virtually public tables may be said to have existed. these were well-known under the names of subscription-houses, slaughter-houses, and hells, and were frequented by less aristocratic gamesters than the clubs, where whist, piquet, and other games were played for large sums. at the houses not inaptly called hells, hazard was played every night, and faro on certain nights in each and every week, nearly all the year round. these hells were the resort of gentlemen, merchants, tradesmen, clerks, and sharpers of all degrees and conditions, very expensive dinners being given twice or thrice a week to draw together a large company, who, if they meant to play, were abundantly supplied with wines and liquors gratis. the advantage to the faro bank varied at different stages of the game: the least advantage to the proprietor of the bank, and against the punter, was about three and a half per cent and the greatest twenty-six per cent. it is said that the annual expense of maintaining one of these hells exceeded £ , which of course came out of the pockets of its frequenters. quite a large army of retainers were attached to every well-regulated gaming-house. the first, and of the greatest importance, was the commissioner, always a proprietor, who looked in at night, the week's account being audited by him and two other proprietors. then followed the director, who superintended the rooms; the operator, who dealt the cards at faro, or any other game; the croupier, who watched the cards and gathered the money for the bank; a puff, handsomely paid to decoy others to play; a clerk, who acted as a check upon the puff, to see that he embezzled none of the money given him to play with; a squib, who was a puff of meaner rank, and received but a low salary, whilst learning to deal; a flasher, to swear how often the bank had been stripped; a dunner, who went about to recover money lost at play; a waiter, to fill out wine, snuff candles, and attend the gaming-room; an attorney, the sharper the better; a captain, ready to fight any gentleman who might be peevish at losing his money; an usher, to light gentlemen up and downstairs, and give the porter the word; a porter, who was generally a foot soldier; an orderly man, whose duty consisted in walking up and down on the outside of the door to give notice to the porter, and alarm the house at the approach of the constables; a runner, employed to obtain intelligence of the justices' meeting. beside these, there were link-boys, coachmen, chairmen, drawers, and others, who might bring information of danger, at half a guinea each for every true alarm. finally, there was a sort of affiliated irregular force, the members of which--affidavitmen, ruffians, and bravoes--were capable of becoming assassins upon occasion. a celebrated sporting resort at the end of the eighteenth century was mundy's coffee-house, in round court, opposite york buildings, in the strand, then kept by sporting medley (the owner of bacchus and some other horses of eminence upon the turf). here thousands were nightly transferred over the hazard and card tables by o'kelly, stroud, tetherington, and a long list of adventurous followers. another famous gaming-house was kept by a certain joseph atkinson and his wife at no. under the piazza, in covent garden. here they daily gave elaborate dinners, cards of invitation being sent to the clerks of merchants, bankers, and brokers in the city. atkinson used to say that he liked citizens--whom he called "flats"--better than any one else, for when they had dined they played freely, and after they had lost all their money they had credit to borrow more. it was his custom to send any pigeons who had been completely plucked to some of their solvent friends, who could generally be induced to arrange matters in a satisfactory way. the game generally played here was e.o.,[ ] a sort of roulette. keepers of gaming-houses in london were very liable to be black-mailed by men whose principal means of livelihood was obtaining "hush money." a certain class of individuals existed who for a specific amount undertook to defend keepers of hells against prosecutions. one of the most notorious of these was theophilus bellasis, sometimes clerk and sometimes client to a bow street attorney--john shepherd by name--who would, when it was likely to be profitable, act as prosecutor of persons keeping gaming-houses. the magistrates at last realised the collusion which existed between bellasis and shepherd, and refused to move in cases where the two rogues were concerned. the houses, called by sharpers slaughter-houses, were those where persons were employed by the proprietors to pretend to be playing at hazard for large sums of money, with a view to inducing some unthinking individual to join in the play. when the scheme succeeded, the pigeon, by means of loaded dice and other fraudulent methods, was eventually dispossessed of all his cash, and perhaps plunged into debt, for which a bond was given, the embarrassments of which he felt for some years after. if, however, he returned to play again with the hope of regaining what in such company was past redemption, his ruin was quickly and completely sealed. at one time, the parish officers of st. ann's, soho, set up a number of lanterns and boards with the words "_beware of bad houses_" painted upon them, for the purpose of ridding the neighbourhood of dissolute and abandoned women. in consequence of this having had the desired effect, it was proposed to put up similarly-worded notices near the hells and slaughter-houses of st. james's, but the idea was never carried into effect. places where faro was played abounded about pall mall and st. james's street, and from time to time exciting scenes were witnessed when the authorities decided upon making a raid. in considerable uproar was caused in pall mall by a raid upon nos. and king's place, which were attacked by what were facetiously termed the "bow street troops" acting under a search warrant. these in a very short time carried the place by storm, and took ten prisoners, together with a great quantity of baggage, stores, which consisted mainly of tables for rouge-et-noir and hazard; cards, dice, counters, strong doors, bars and bolts. the attack began by a stratagem put into execution by "general rivett," who was in supreme command of the attacking force. he sought to gain an entrance at the street door of no. ; but this having failed, and all attempts to force it having proved ineffectual, one of the light troops mounted the counterscarp of the area, and descended into the kitchen, while another scaled a ladder affixed to a first floor of no. ; and having each made good their footing, opposition being then abandoned by the besieged who had betaken themselves to flight, the attacking force without molestation opened the gates and let in the main body, after which a general search and pursuit ensued. several gamblers retreated to the top of the houses adjoining, whither they were followed and taken prisoners; one poor devil, the supposed proprietor of no. , was smoked in a chimney, from whence he was dragged down--a black example to all gamesters! three french _émigrés_ were among the captured, one of whom had his retreat cut off just as he was issuing from a house in pall mall, through which he had descended unobserved, and by which way some others escaped. mother windsor and her nymphs, who were well-known residents in the locality, were much alarmed by the operations; and the old lady, who declared that the presence of gaming in the vicinity had long been a scandal, vociferously applauded to the skies the vigilance of the police in putting down such pests of society. [illustration: a raid on a london gaming-house. from a print in the possession of messrs. robson & co., coventry street, w.] about the same time no. grafton mews, fitzroy square, obtained an unenviable reputation as being a veritable temple of fraud, an illegal lottery insurance business being carried on there, which impoverished the poorer class of people residing in the neighbourhood. the house in question, which it was said had been specially built, was to all appearance a square brick tower about fifty feet high--on three sides it presented not the slightest sign of habitation; towards grafton mews, however, it bore the usual semblance of a stable. to this place flocked grooms, valets, and all the silly fry of the district, carrying with them as much money as they could scrape together. business was generally over by the afternoon, when the proprietors, who never made their exit by the door, climbed up to the top of the tower, and got through a hole in the roof--from which, by a ladder, they descended to a slated roof of a back place about twenty feet lower; they then crawled along about twenty feet of wall, and by an aperture in another, like a gun-port, descended into a back yard, and completed their cat-like line of march through a house in hertford street. this, to the astonishment of the neighbours, was done regularly every morning. the place having become a public scandal, townshend, with several bow street runners and four carpenters, went to warren street one morning, three hackney coaches being posted at some distance from the scene of action. on the arrival of the peace officers, the four proprietors of no. came out through the roof, and planted their ladder; but it gave way, and they were obliged to jump upon the slated roof twenty feet below them. by some marvellous chance, however, they escaped uninjured, the slates only being broken. they then jumped upon an adjacent wall, and flung their books into the garden of a gentleman's house. no. warren street, and followed themselves; their idea was to escape through his back door, but the owner was fortunately at home, and resisted this design. they then leaped the wall of the next house, drover's, the hairdresser, with their books, and in this house they were secured. one of them fired a pistol at the officers, which fortunately did no harm. the runners had cutlasses and axes, with which they made their way into the house. the inhabitants of the district, it may be added, did not exhibit any enthusiasm for the officers of the law--on the contrary, they showed considerable displeasure against those who had come there to preserve most of them from misery and ruin. the informer, never a popular character, was a lean, cadaverous old woman. she accompanied the swindlers in the first coach, with the hootings of the rabble in her ears, and the whole cavalcade moved off the ground, escorted by a very hostile crowd which accompanied it to bow street. here the four men, who had been arrested with so much difficulty, were sentenced to six months' imprisonment each in the house of correction in coldbath fields. it would appear that previous to gaming was never conducted upon the methodical system of partnership concerns, wherein considerable capital was embarked. after that period, the vast licence allowed to keepers of fraudulent e.o. tables, and the great length of time which elapsed before they met with any check from the police, afforded a number of dissolute and abandoned characters many excellent opportunities of acquiring property, which was afterwards increased in the low gaming-houses, by nefarious methods at newmarket and other fashionable places of resort, and in the lottery. at length, though these individuals had started without any property, or any visible means of lawful support, a sum of money, little short of one million sterling, was said to have been acquired by a class originally (with some few exceptions) of the lowest and most depraved description. this enormous mass of wealth was employed as a great and an efficient capital for carrying on various illegal establishments, particularly gaming-houses, and houses for fraudulent insurances in the lottery. part of this capital was even said to be utilised in subsidising various faro banks kept by ladies of fashion, whilst a certain proportion was also devoted to fraudulent insurance in the lotteries, where the chances were calculated to yield about thirty per cent to the gambling syndicate, most of the members of which maintained a number of clerks, employed during the drawing of the lotteries, who conducted the business, without risk, in counting-houses where no insurances were taken, but to which books were carried, not only from the different offices in every part of the town, but also from the "morocco-men," who went from door to door taking insurances, and enticing the poor and the middle ranks to become adventurers. in calculating the chances upon the whole numbers in the wheels, and the premiums which were paid, there was generally about £ : : per cent in favour of the lottery insurers: but when it is considered that the people generally, from not being able to understand or recollect high numbers, always fixed on low ones, the chance in favour of the insurer was greatly increased, and the deluded poor plundered. in the early part of the eighteenth century, speculative insurance, which could be effected upon anything, including lives, was a favourite form of gambling in england. any one's life could be insured, including that of the king, and, to such an extent was this carried, that daily quotations of the rates on the lives of eminent public personages were issued by members of garraway's and lloyd's. the highest premium ever paid is supposed to have been twenty-five per cent on the life of george ii., when he fought at dettingen. on the fall of the leaders of the rebellion of very large sums changed hands; whilst a number of insurance brokers were absolutely ruined owing to the escape of lord nithsdale from the tower--an exploit which this nobleman accomplished by the aid of his devoted wife. as time went on these speculative insurances became a public scandal, and they were finally made illegal by the gambling act of . at the time of the french revolution hordes of _émigrés_ of all classes took up their temporary or permanent residence in london, with the result that over thirty gaming-places were, more or less, publicly established in the metropolis. here, besides faro and hazard, the foreign games of roulette and rouge-et-noir flourished, a regular gradation of houses existing, suited to all ranks, from the man of fashion to the pickpocket. the mania for gaming amongst the exiles was confined to no particular class--high and low alike being affected by it. nothing, for instance, could exceed the rage for gambling which possessed the prisoners of war at dartmoor. about two hundred of them, including a number of italians, having lost all their clothes by gaming, were sent to the prison ships in the hamoaze, to be clothed anew, many more being left in rags. these unfortunate men played even for their rations, living three or four days on offal, cabbage-stalks, or, indeed, anything which chance might throw in their way. they staked the clothes on their backs, and even their bedding. it was the custom at dartmoor for those who had sported away the latter article to huddle very close together at night, in order to keep each other warm. one out of the number was elected boatswain for the time being, and at twelve o'clock at night would pipe all hands to turn, an operation which, from their proximity to each other, had to be simultaneous. at four o'clock in the morning the pipe was heard again, and the reverse turn taken. such of the _émigrés_ belonging to the upper classes as possessed funds could easily indulge their passion for play in the fashionable circles where many of them had made themselves popular during previous and more pleasant visits to england. many, like the duc de nivernois, had intimate friends in high places. before the revolution he had been ambassador in england. this nobleman was well known for his love of chess, which on one occasion led to a very pleasant incident. staying with lord townshend, the duc, when out for a ride was obliged by a heavy shower to seek shelter at a wayside house occupied by a clergyman, who to a poor curacy added the care of a few scholars in the neighbourhood. in all this might make his living about eighty pounds a year, on which he had to maintain a wife and six children. when the duc rode up, the clergyman, not knowing his rank, begged him to come in and dry himself, which he was glad to do, borrowing a pair of old worsted stockings and slippers and warming himself by a good fire. after some conversation the duc observed an old chess-board hanging up, and asked the clergyman whether he could play. the latter told him that he could play pretty tolerably, but found it difficult in that part of the country to get an antagonist. "i am your man," said the duc. "with all my heart," answered the clergyman, "and if you will stay and take pot-luck, i will try if i cannot beat you." the day continuing rainy the duc accepted the proffered hospitality, and found his antagonist a much better player than himself. indeed, the clergyman won every game. this, however, in no way annoyed the duc, who was delighted to meet with a man who could give him so much entertainment at his favourite game. he accordingly inquired into the state of his host's family affairs, and making a memorandum of his address, he thanked him and rode away without revealing who he was. some months elapsed and the clergyman never thought of the matter, when one evening a footman rode up to the door and delivered the following note--"the duc de nivernois presents his compliments to the rev. mr. bentinck, and as a remembrance of the good drubbing he received at chess, begs that he will accept the living of x----, worth £ per annum, and that he will wait upon his grace the duke of newcastle on friday next, to thank him for the same." the good clergyman was some time before he could imagine this missive to be more than a jest, and hesitated to obey the mandate; but as his wife insisted on his taking the chance, he went up to town, where to his unspeakable satisfaction he found that his nomination to the living had actually taken place. the habits of dissipation which had prevailed at versailles in some measure affected the english upper classes, many of whom were thoroughly versed in the amusements so popular in france. for a time a positive rage for gaming seized fashionable london, and a number of ladies kept what were practically public gaming-tables to which any one with money could obtain comparatively easy admission. faro is supposed to have been invented by a noble venetian, who gave it the name of _bassetta_; and for the evils resulting from it he was banished his country. in signor justiniani, ambassador from venice, introduced the game into france, where it was called _bassette_. some of the princes of the blood, many of the _noblesse_, and several persons of the greatest fortune having been ruined by it, a severe law was enacted by louis xiv. against its play. to elude this edict, it was disguised under the name of _pour et contre_, "for and against"; and this occasioning new and severe prohibitions, it was again changed to the name of _le pharaon_, in order to evade the _arrêts_ of parliament. from france this game soon found its way to england, where it was first called basset, but in the fashionable circles, where at that time it enjoyed a great vogue, it was invariably known by the name of faro. faro, pharo, or pharaoh, which was fox's favourite game, was supposed to be easy to learn, fair in its rules, and pleasant to play. two packs of cards were used, and any number of people could play, one pack being for the players whilst the banker had another. fifty-two cards were spread out, and the players staked upon one or more which they might fancy. the banker dealt out his pack to the right, which was for himself, and to the left (called the _carte anglaise_) for the players, who instead of their pack often used a "livret," specially adapted for staking. the "livret" consisted of thirteen cards, with four others called "figures." the "little figure" had a blue cross on each side, and represented ace, deuce, and three. the "yellow figure"--yellow on both sides--signified , , and . the "third figure" had a black lozenge in the centre, and stood for , , and . the "great figure" was a red card, and indicated knave, queen, and king. the banker won all the money staked on any card corresponding with a card dealt by him to the right, and had to pay double stakes on any card dealt to the left which players had selected in their own pack. if he dealt two equal cards (called a doublet) he won half of all the money staked upon the card of that value, and on the last card of his pack, did the players win, he only paid even money. in reality the chances were very favourable to the holder of the bank. complaints were very rife as to the way in which these faro parties were conducted. an especial grievance was "card money," a small sum paid by each visitor into a pool for every new pack of cards used. this money was supposed to be a perquisite of the servants, though malicious rumours declared that it never reached them. the advent of french _émigrés_ after the french revolution was also the cause of considerable irritation, it being declared that many of the exiled _noblesse_ completely monopolised some of the tables, round which they formed a circle, and excluded english ladies and gentlemen from taking part in the game. the losses of many of those who played at faro were so heavy and constant that the banks contracted many bad debts; and in addition the fashionable parties in time became full of little tricks and artifices which were to the detriment of those holding the bank. some of the latter found it advisable to employ eight croupiers instead of the four usually attached to each faro table, for the pigeons were all flown and those who remained were little better than hawks. faro, in the female circles of fashion, had given way to a more specious and alluring game called lottery, which, instead of wheels, consisted of two bags, from which prizes and blanks were drawn. the holder of the bank derived an advantage of upwards of thirty per cent. about some of the ladies who gave gambling parties in st. james's square began to add roulette as an increased attraction to those fond of gaming. it was remarked at the time that this was merely the old game of e.o. under a different name. as a matter of fact the two are somewhat alike, though roulette is a far more complicated and amusing method of losing money. an e.o. table was circular in form and as a rule four feet in diameter. the outside edge formed the counter on which the stakes were placed, the letters e.o. being marked all round it. in the centre was a stationary gallery in which the ball rolled, and an independent round table moving by means of handles on an axis. the ball was started in one direction and the table rotated in the other, there being forty compartments of equal size, twenty marked e and twenty marked o, the whole principle being that of roulette without a zero. this very necessary adjunct to a successful bank, was in time furnished by the adoption of "bar holes" into which two of the forty spaces were converted, the practice being that the banker won all the bets on the opposite letter whilst not paying over that into which the ball fell. with such a proportion of two in forty, or five per cent in its favour, the banks did very well. gaming raged throughout society at this time, and it was even declared that young ladies were taught whist and casino at fashionable boarding-schools, where their "winning ways" were cultivated in this direction. one schoolmistress, it was averred, was in despair at the dullness of her pupils, who were quite unable to grasp the comparatively easy intricacies of faro. gillray was quick to grasp the opportunity which such a state of affairs afforded to his powers of satire, and was pitiless in his caricatures of female gamblers. "faro's daughters, or the kenyonian blow-up to gamblers," published in , was one of the most striking of these. in this lady archer and mrs. concannon were shown in the pillory, upbraiding one another. lord kenyon had made some very scathing comments upon the vice of gaming during a recent trial to recover fifteen pounds won at play on a sunday, and had declared that the highest society was setting the worst example to the lowest, being under the impression that it was too great for the law. he himself, he added, should the opportunity arise, would see that any gamblers brought before him, whatever their rank or station, should be severely dealt with if convicted, and though they might be the first ladies in the land they should certainly exhibit themselves in the pillory. gambling in the west end of london amongst ladies had indeed become a public scandal, and in due course the authorities found themselves bound to take action. in a regular crusade was made against faro, and the countess of buckinghamshire, lady elizabeth luttrell, mrs. mary sturt, mr. concannon, and mr. o'burne, were charged at marlborough street with having "played at a certain fraudulent and unlawful game called faro, at the house of the earl of buckinghamshire, in st. james's square." with them was also charged henry martindale, who had financed the bank--the four or five people employed to run the table were each paid half a guinea a night by him, tenpence out of which was deducted for the use of the maids. a witness, joseph evatt by name, deposed that he had seen lady buckinghamshire play every monday and friday, as regular as the days came. her ladyship, said he, used to continue _punting_ and betting, paying and receiving, from night till morning. the lady's counsel, mr. onslow, endeavoured to invalidate this man's testimony by showing that he was a terrible democrat, and disaffected to his majesty's person and government; and also by proving that he wanted to palm an old suit of livery on his master, and to persuade the tailor to charge for a new one, and give him part of the money. to prove the first charge mr. onslow examined the witness evatt himself, and asked him if he had not declared that the government was a bad one, and that he should like to cut the king's head off? the magistrate, mr. conant, would not suffer him to answer such a question. to prove the latter, the foreman of mr. blackmore, a tailor, said that evatt having saved a suit of livery as good as new, wanted mr. blackmore to take it, allow him four guineas, and send it home as a new suit. the magistrate did not consider this such a notorious piece of fraud in a footman, as to prevent his being believed on his oath. joseph burford swore to the fact of lady buckinghamshire playing repeatedly. mr. onslow ended by saying that he trusted the magistrate would not, upon the evidence of such men as evatt and burford, convict lady buckinghamshire, and hold her up as an object for the finger of democratic scorn to point at. notwithstanding this defence, the lady was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty pounds, as were lady elizabeth luttrell, mrs. mary sturt, and mr. o'burne. the case against mr. concannon was quashed owing to his having been described as lucas concannon instead of lucius. martindale was fined two hundred pounds, and in consequence of the scandal produced by the whole affair was eventually made a bankrupt, by which the ladies of the fashionable world were thrown into a state of considerable alarm. martindale it was who supplied the beautiful duchess of devonshire, and many other dashing women of distinction, with sums to support their gambling propensities. his assignees were said to have claims on some of the first families of england to the amount of £ , , and the curious disclosures which were made engrossed much attention in all the sporting circles. many of the great ladies of that day lived only for pleasure, spending enormous sums in dress, and also in carriages and horseflesh, it being a point of honour amongst them to possess a superb turn-out. one lady, well known for the splendour of her equipage at race meetings where she cut a distinguished figure, once apologised to a friend for appearing at doncaster with a humble four-in-hand and four out-riders, saying that her coachman wished to come with six horses as usual, but she thought it right, in such hard times, to come "incog." the gambling ladies of that day came into contact with all sorts of shady characters, many of whom were very unpolished diamonds. such a one was the man known as "old nick," whose principal revenue was drawn from a hazard table where strangers were treated with a hospitality which they generally had good cause to remember. old nick also had a considerable interest in a number of lottery insurance offices, lent money, and gambled himself when able to get in contact with any unplucked pigeon. having once stripped a young man at cards of about £ , with which he had been entrusted for the purpose of paying a bill for the beautiful duchess of devonshire, her grace applied in person to the winner to refund the whole, or, at least, a part of his booty. old nick's answer was: "well, madam, the best thing you can do is to sit down with me at cards, and play for all you have about you; after i win your smock, so far from refunding, i'll send you home _bare_--to your duke, my dear." one of his friends being under trial for a very serious charge and having no defence left but his character, produced old nick in order to vouch for his respectability. the latter's ready eloquence represented him as the most amiable and innocent of the creation. the counsel for the prosecution having smelt a rat, began to ply the witness with such questions as he positively refused to answer. being asked the reason, he answered honestly for once in his life: "my business here was to give the man a good character, and you, you flat, imagine that i'm come to give him a bad one." [illustration: the beautiful duchess throwing a main. by rowlandson.] in the early part of the year the west end was much excited by a statement in a morning paper referring to the supposed discovery by the duke of devonshire of immense losses at play, principally to gamesters of her own sex, incurred by his lovely duchess. her grace's whole loss, chiefly at faro, was declared to amount to £ , , of which a private gentlewoman and bosom friend, mrs. ---- was said to have won no less than £ , . the discovery was made to the duke one sunday; the duchess rushed into his library, and, in a flood of tears, told him she was ruined in fame and reputation, if these claims of honour were not instantly discharged. his grace was thunderstruck when he learned the extent of her requisition, and the names of the friends who had contributed in so extraordinary a manner to such extreme embarrassments. having soothed her in the best manner he was able, he sent for two confidential friends, imparted to them all the circumstances, and asked them how he should act. their answer was promptly given--"pay not one guinea of any such infamous demands!" and this advice, it was supposed, would be strictly adhered to by the duke. her grace was said to have executed some bonds, to satisfy, for a moment, these gambling claimants; but, of course, they could be of no avail. two gentlemen and five ladies formed the snug flock of rooks that had so unmercifully stripped this female pigeon of distinction. a few days later, however, _the morning herald_, which was responsible for the startling news, declared that the fiction of the female gamblers of distinction in a house fitted up near st. james's street for their ruinous orgies, began to die away; for it had been discovered that the supposed pigeoned duchess, declared to have sacrificed half a million sterling of her lord's fortune, had never gambled at any game of chance, whilst her amiable companion, who was a pattern of domestic propriety, instead of having helped to pluck her grace, had never played for a guinea in the course of her life. this denial was probably inspired from influential quarters. the gambling ladies seem to have fallen into obscurity when the nineteenth century began; the "faro dames," as they were called, found their occupation gone. their game, at which few of them had "cut with honours," was up, and their "odd tricks" were no longer of any avail in london. one of the most notorious, mrs. concannon, migrated to paris, where her house continued for some time to be the meeting-place of those fond of deep play. whist now began to be a good deal played at fashionable parties, but in four-handed cribbage became the fashionable game in the west end, and whist, during a temporary eclipse, as it declined in the west, rose with increase of splendour in the east. at a city club the stakes played for were ten pounds a game, and guineas were betted on the odd trick. a select party of business men, well known on the city side of temple bar, once played at whist from one wednesday afternoon till the next friday night, and only left off then because two of the players were unfortunately jews. at another whist party, a lady who had not been accustomed to move in quite as good society as the other guests, won a rubber of twenty guineas. the gentleman who was her opponent pulled out his pocket-book and tendered £ in bank-notes.[ ] the fair gamester observed, with a disdainful toss of her head: "in the great houses which i frequent, sir, we always use gold." "that may be, madam," replied the gentleman, "but in the little houses which i frequent we always use paper!" at this time adventurers abounded, many of whom profited by the speculative tendencies of the age. a character of the first magnitude in the annals of gaming, for instance, was a mr. lookup, who lived towards the close of the eighteenth century. a scotchman by birth, a gamester by profession, he accumulated a considerable fortune by methods of none too reputable a kind. originally an apprentice to an apothecary in the north of england, he acted in that profession as journeyman in the city of bath. soon after the death of his master, he paid his addresses to his mistress, the widow; and, having none of that bashful modesty about him which is sometimes an obstacle to a man in such pursuits, and being a remarkably tall stout man, with a tolerably good figure, he prevailed on the bath matron to favour him with her hand. from his infancy lookup manifested a strong propensity for play, and as he grew up became very expert at several games. till his marriage, however, he was hampered by lack of funds, which prevented him from exercising his skill and judgment to much advantage. finding himself master of five hundred pounds brought to him by his wife, he soon shut up shop, and turned his application from pharmacy to speculation. he became a first-rate piquet and whist player, and soon mastered various other games of chance and skill; in a short time, by incessant industry, greatly increasing his capital. lord chesterfield and mr. lookup, for a long time, played constant matches at piquet together, the former being something of an adept at the game; but mr. lookup's superior skill at length prevailed, with the result that very considerable gains passed into his pocket. lord chesterfield would also sometimes amuse himself at billiards with mr. lookup, and upon one of these occasions the peer had the laugh turned against him by the sharp tactics of his antagonist. mr. lookup had met with an accident by which he was deprived of the sight of one of his eyes, though to any cursory observer it appeared as perfect as the other. having beaten the peer playing evens, lookup asked how many his lordship would give him, if he put a patch upon one eye. lord chesterfield agreed to give him five, upon which lookup beat him several times successively. at length his lordship, with some petulance, exclaimed, "lookup, i think you play as well with one eye as two." "i don't wonder at it, my lord," replied lookup, "for i have seen only out of one for these ten years." with the money he won of lord chesterfield he bought some houses at bath, and jocularly named them chesterfield row. after he had accumulated a considerable sum by play, mr. lookup went to london, and, having buried his wife, married another widow with a very large fortune. his plan of operations was now much enlarged; and, though he played occasionally for his own amusement, or when he met with what is termed a "good thing," he abandoned gaming as a regular profession. he now struck out several schemes, some visionary and others advantageous; among the former being a project for making saltpetre. a foreigner having drawn up a specious plan, presented it to lookup, who, from his superficial knowledge of chemistry, thought the scheme practicable. a considerable range of buildings was erected for carrying on these works near chelsea; salaries were appointed for the directors and supervisors, and large sums expended to bring this favourite scheme to perfection. so sanguine were lookup's hopes of success, that he persuaded a particular friend of his (captain hamilton) to become a partner, with the result that the latter lost many thousands. at length, tired with the fruitless expense and repeated disappointments, he abandoned this project for others less delusive. mr. lookup was concerned in many privateering ventures, several of which proved successful; at any rate he was thought to be a substantial gainer in these enterprises. at the close of the war he engaged in the african trade, and had considerable dealings in that commerce to the time of his decease. as he grew old, however, his darling passion would at times predominate; and within a few weeks of his death he was known to sit up whole nights playing for very considerable sums. it was even averred that he died with a pack of cards in his hand, at his favourite game of humbug or two-handed whist; on which sam foote jocularly observed, "that lookup was _humbugged_ out of the world at last." some description of mr. lookup's favourite game, of which he is said to have been the inventor, may not be out of place. though now obsolete, it was once very popular at the rooms in bath, and in the west end of london. humbug may properly be called two-handed whist, as only two persons play. the cards are shuffled and cut; the lowest deals out all the cards, and turns up the last for the trump. each player has now twenty-six cards in his hand, and the object is to make as many tricks as they can, all the laws of whist prevailing, the cards being of the same value as when four play. but the honours do not reckon any further than they prevail in making tricks by their superiority over inferior cards; the tricks reckon from one to as many as are gained; for instance, if one player has twenty tricks, and the other only six, the first wins fourteen, and if they play a guinea a trick of course wins fourteen guineas. the game finishes every deal, when the balance is settled, and they then commence another game. as each player knows, at first, all the cards his adversary has in his hand, it is common, in order to sort them, to lay them with their faces up; but after they have ranged them, and begun to play, they are as careful of concealing their cards as they are at the common game of whist, it then depending upon memory to know what cards have been played and what remain in hand. as it is allowed only to turn up the last trick to see what has been played, a revoke is punished with the same rigour at this game as at whist; and the forfeiting three tricks is often worth more at humbug than at the former game. the london of the past swarmed with sharpers of every description on the look-out for rich young men. billiard-rooms which are now quite decorous resorts were favourite haunts of these gentry. the noted captain roche, known as tiger roche, was once at the bedford billiard-table, when it was extremely crowded. as he was knocking the balls about with a cue. major williamson, who wanted to talk to him about some business, desired him to leave off, as he monopolised the table and hindered gentlemen from playing. "gentlemen!" exclaimed roche with a sneer. "why, major, except you and i, and two or three more, there is not a gentleman in the room: the rest are all low blacklegs." on leaving the place the major expressed some astonishment at his companion's rudeness, and wondered that, out of so numerous a company, it was not resented. "oh, d--n the scoundrels, sir," said roche; "there was no fear of that, as there was not a thief in the room that did not suppose himself one of the two or three gentlemen i mentioned." a particularly dangerous individual was the notorious dick england, an irishman of obscure origin, who rose to comparative prosperity through gaming and betting. a hard-headed man, england possessed great control over his temper, which, however, when given a free run, could be terrible. having played at hazard one evening with a certain young tradesman of his acquaintance, england lost some three or four score pounds, for which he gave his draft upon hankey, the banker. having persuaded his antagonist to give him his revenge, the luck turned, and england not only won his money back, but as much more in addition. it then being late, he desired to retire, and requested his antagonist to pay in cash or to give a cheque upon his banker for the money which he had lost. the tradesman resolutely refused to do either, on the plea that he had been tricked, and that the money had not been fairly won. england once more demanded the money, and when it was again refused, he tripped up the young man's heels, rolled him up in the carpet, and snatching a case-knife from the sideboard, cut off his long hair close to the scalp. this violent action, coupled with the menacing attitude of england still flourishing the knife, and uttering the most deep-toned imprecations, had such an effect upon the young man in the stillness of past three o'clock in the morning, that he arose, and with the meekness of a lamb wrote a draft for the amount of his loss, took his leave very civilly, wishing the captain a good morning, and never mentioned the circumstance again. [illustration: sharpers and bucks in a billiard room.] dick england was a constant frequenter of all places likely to afford him pigeons worth plucking. at a tennis court he met the honourable mr. damer, who was in the habit of playing tennis for amusement and exercise. one evil day, however, when no one was about, mr. damer played a game with england, who was profuse in his admiration for his opponent's skill. though mr. damer knew england's reputation, and would not have been seen at ranelagh with him, or had him at his table for a thousand pounds, he was not proof against the man's flattery, and england soon became his habitual opponent at tennis. the latter, in league with other sharpers, soon sent to paris for the best tennis player in the world, who on his arrival was instructed to lose unless given signals--the display of a certain coloured handkerchief, the raising of a bat, and similar signs--should be made. england now proceeded to begin the stripping of his dupe by pretending to back him for fifty or a hundred guineas a set, complaining bitterly of his losses when unsuccessful. mr. damer meanwhile was losing three, four, and sometimes five thousand guineas in a day; and with such blind avidity did he pursue this destructive game, that he soon found himself a loser of near forty thousand guineas. at last, he found it prudent to resist the propensity to play with england and his band of sharpers, some of whom were constantly at his house in tilney street, requesting payment. mr. damer offered them post-obits, bonds, or in short the best security he could then offer, his father, lord milton, afterwards lord dorchester, being alive; no, they would have cash. mr. damer could not find it; but, to his high sense of honour be it told, he threw himself at his father's feet; the worthy parent weighed the matter well, and sent his steward from milton abbey with power to pay every shilling, though he knew his son had been cheated of every guinea. the steward, however, arrived only in time to learn that his young master, having sent for five girls and a blind fiddler, had blown out his brains after a roystering carouse at a tavern in covent garden. according to horace walpole it was fox who, with infinite good nature, went to meet mrs. damer on her way to town and prepared her for the dismal news. "can," says walpole, "the walls of almack's help moralizing when £ a year in present and £ , in reversion are not sufficient for happiness and cannot check a pistol!" england was very fertile in expedients in plucking his pigeons. on one occasion, being with other blacklegs at scarborough, and a rich dupe, from whom a good deal was expected, refusing to play after dinner, the party, having made the pigeon drunk and given the waiter five guineas to answer any awkward questions which might be asked in the morning, wrote out on slips of paper "d---- (the pigeon's name) owes me a hundred guineas." "d---- owes me eighty guineas," and so on. england, however, wrote "i owe d---- thirty guineas." the next morning england, meeting the guest of the night before on the cliff, said to him: "well, we were all very merry last night." "we were indeed," replied the pigeon, "and i only hope i did not offend any one, for i must confess that i drank a good deal more than usual." "you were in good spirits, my dear fellow," said england, "that was all; and now, before i forget, let me pay you the thirty guineas i lost to you last night--i am not very lucky at cards." d---- stared, and positively denied having played for a shilling; but england assured him upon his honour that he had. he added that he had paid hundreds to men who having drunk deep remembered nothing till he had shown them his account. mr. d---- thus fell into the trap laid for him, and, being a novice, put the notes in his pocket, thinking england the most upright man he had ever met. shortly after, mr. england's friends presented their cards. mr. d----, thunderstruck at their demands, swore that he had never played with them, and indeed that he did not know of his having played at all, until captain england, very much to his credit, had paid him thirty guineas, though he himself did not remember any cards or dice having been in the room. the leader of the band replied with great warmth, "sir, it is the first time my honour was ever doubted. captain england, and the waiter, will tell you i won a hundred guineas of you, though i was a great loser by the night's play." the victim of the plot, however, fortunately for himself, met some friends who were men of the world, and one of them having cross-examined the waiter, and promised him another five guineas if he spoke the truth, the latter at last admitted that england and his companions were notorious blacklegs, and that mr. d---- did not play at all, or, if he did, it could not have been for five minutes, as the rest of the party were constantly ringing and making punch in their own way. on the advice of this friend d---- ended the matter by sending england back his thirty guineas with five more to pay the cost of the supper; and the blacklegs, finding that the affair was likely to do them no good, left scarborough the next morning. a young kingston brewer, rolles by name, having publicly insulted england by calling him a blackleg at ascot, the latter, who could snuff a candle with a pistol ball, called him out and shot him, after which he fled to the continent, remarking: "well, as i have shot a man i must be after making myself scarce." as an outlaw living in paris, england continued to make money by play till the outbreak of the french revolution, which for a time rather injured the avocation of sharpers in france. it is said, however, that he furnished the heads of our army with some valuable intelligence in its celebrated campaign in flanders; and that, as a reward, his return to this country was facilitated, and an annuity promised him. on his arrival in london, he was tried and acquitted of the murder of mr. rolles. for the remainder of his life he appears to have completely abandoned gambling, and to have lived a very quiet existence near leicester square. footnotes: [footnote : described at page .] [footnote : £ notes existed at this time.] iii former popularity of dice--the race game in paris--description of hazard--jack mytton's success at it--anecdotes--french hazard--major baggs, a celebrated gamester of the past--anecdotes of his career--london gaming-houses--ways and methods of their proprietors--ephraim bond and his henchman burge--"the athenæum"--west-end hells--crockford's--opinion of mr. crockford regarding play--the act of --betting-houses--nefarious tactics of their owners--suppression in . the most popular gambling game of the eighteenth century, at which great sums were lost and won, was "hazard," which emptied the pockets of multitudes in the west end, and proved the ruin of many a country squire fresh to the allurements of town. before itinerant vendors usually carried dice with them, and customers, even children, were encouraged to throw for fruit, nuts, or sweets; and when the floors of the middle temple hall were taken up nearly a hundred sets of dice which had fallen through the chinks in the flooring were found. dice have been out of fashion for many years in the modern world, though quite recently they have begun to enjoy some slight popularity in france in connection with an elaborated form of the race game which at one time was a favourite amusement in english country houses. two clubs, the racing plomb club and the pur plomb club, now exist in paris, the members of which declare that the movements of little leaden horses over a course, in accordance with the throw of the dice, are more amusing and exciting than roulette or baccarat. the little metal steeds used at this game are named after prominent race-horses on the french turf. the races, called after events like the grand steeplechase and grand prix, are begun with three or four dice, continued with two, and end with one, the courses of auteuil and longchamps being realistically reproduced on the race-boards. a leaden horse which wins a certain number of races is accorded some advantage over the rest. for instance, a winner, say of stakes amounting to one hundred francs, advances seven points instead of six on the board when its owner throws a six, and so on in proportion, whilst if it has won sixteen hundred points a throw of six advances it eleven points. this racing game, which, however, is played rather for amusement than mere gambling, was revived by m. fernand vandéreux, who has brought it into popularity in parisian literary and artistic circles. hazard, which is now practically obsolete, seems to have made an irresistible appeal to the gaming instincts of former generations, and the financial ravages for which it was responsible eventually provoked such scandals that the game was rendered illegal in . it was a somewhat complicated form of gambling, and in these days, when so many easy forms of speculation exist, would in all probability have died a natural death even without the intervention of the law. the following is an account of the game as played some fifty years ago, when it still enjoyed some popularity amongst racing men. the players assembled round a circular table, a space being reserved for the "groom-porter" (the term applied to the croupier), who occupied a somewhat elevated position, and whose duty it was to call the odds and see that the game was played according to rule. two dice were used and the player who took the box placed as much money as he wished to risk in the centre of the table, where it was covered with an equal amount, either by some individual speculator, or by the contributions of several. the player (technically called the "caster") then proceeded to call a "main," that is to say, any number from to ; of these he would mentally select the one which either chance or superstition might suggest, call it aloud, then shake the box, and deliver the dice. if he threw the exact number he called, he "nicked" it, as the term went, and won; if he threw any other number (with a few exceptions, which will be mentioned), he neither won nor lost. the number, however, which he threw became his "chance," and if he could succeed in repeating it before he threw what was his main, he won; if not, he lost. in other words, having completely failed to throw his main in the first instance, he should have lost, but did not in consequence of the equitable interference of his newly-made acquaintance, which constituted itself his chance. if a player threw two aces (commonly called "crabs") he lost his stake. for example, suppose the caster "set"--that is, placed on the table--a stake of £ , and it was covered by an equal amount, and he then called in as his main and threw ; the groom-porter would at once call out " to "--meaning that was the number to win and the number to lose. the player then continued throwing until the event was determined by the turning up of either the main or the chance. meanwhile, however, a most important feature in the game came into operation--the laying and taking of the odds caused by the relative proportions of the main and the chance. these, as has been said, were calculated with mathematical nicety, never varied, and were proclaimed by the groom-porter. in the instance given, as the caster stood to win with and to lose with , the odds were declared to be to against him, inasmuch as there are three ways of throwing , and only two of throwing . if a player should "throw out" once, the box passed on to the next person on his left, who at once took up the play. he could, however, "throw in" without interruption, and if he was able to do this half a dozen times and back his luck, his gains would amount to a large sum, sixty to one being the odds against it. the choice of a main was quite optional: many preferred in because they might make a coup at once by throwing that number, or by throwing , which is a "nick" to , but to only. many shrewd players, however, preferred some other main, with the view of having a more favourable chance to depend upon of winning both stake and odds. for example, let us reverse the case given above, and suppose the caster called and threw ; he would then have as his chance to win odds of to in his favour. such was the game of english hazard, at which large fortunes were lost. cheating could only be effected by the use of loaded dice, which were called "dispatches," or by high and low dice having only certain numbers. sharpers often carried these and also "cramped" boxes to make the dice fall in a particular way. so popular were dice with the gamesters of old that one of them left an injunction in his will that his bones should be made into dice and his skin into coverings for dice-boxes. the round table on which english hazard was played had a deeply bevelled edge, intended to prevent the dice from landing on the floor, which rendered a throw void. if either of the dice, after having left the box, should strike any object on the table, such as a man's elbow or stick, except money, it was also no throw. every player had the right of "calling dice," even when the dice were being thrown. this, of course, nullified the throw, another set being handed to the caster by the groom-porter. many a lucky coup was destroyed by some captious player having exercised this privilege--with most irritating effects to the disappointed caster on finding that he had "nicked" his main. when one of the dice remained in the box after the other had been landed, the caster might either throw it quickly, or gently coax it from the box. if one die landed on the top of another, it was removed by the groom-porter and declared a throw. dice were known as the "ivories." at a westminster election, the keeper of a notorious gambling-house in st. anne's parish, on being about to give his vote, was asked in the usual way what his trade was; when after a little hesitation, he replied, "i am an ivory turner." many curious incidents occurred at hazard. on one occasion when two gamesters had deposited a very large stake to be won by him who threw the lowest throw with the dice, one of them, who had thrown three aces, thought himself secure of success. "wait for my throw," cried his opponent. he threw, and with such dexterity, that by lodging one of the dice on the other, he showed only one ace on the uppermost of them. he was allowed by the company to have won the stakes. it used to be said that at hazard, men under the influence of wine were invariably more fortunate than those who played with cooler heads or more collected judgments. of this, perhaps the most remarkable instance ever known was the notorious spendthrift and sportsman jack mytton, of whom the hell-keepers used to say, "there was no use playing against the squire when he was drunk." mytton was indeed rather a formidable figure at the hazard-table, where he was supposed to have won more than he lost. when heated with wine and full of courage he was the dread of the proprietors of the minor gambling-tables at country race meetings, whose banks he was given to breaking in more ways than one--it being his practice to demolish all their gambling apparatus if he observed the slightest suspicion of foul play. at warwick races in , for instance, mytton and some friends not only smashed a rouge-et-noir table to atoms, but soundly thrashed the proprietor and his gang. on another occasion he showed considerable presence of mind when surprised by the mayor of chester during a raid on a hazard hell one sunday. in the confusion which ensued the squire of halston, who was a winner, deftly put his gains in his hat, which he quite coolly placed upon his head, and walked out unnoticed. he was not so careful, however, on one occasion after a great run of luck in london when, having broken the banks of two well-known london hells, he went off with the money--a large sum in notes--to doncaster. on his return from the races in a post-chaise he set to work to count his winnings, the windows of the carriage being open. he soon fell asleep, and when he awoke, the night being far advanced, found that notes to the value of several thousand pounds had been blown out of the window. truly a case of "light come, light go!" [illustration: light come, light go.] when quite a young man mytton had been subjected to plucking by many a rook. as a subaltern of the th hussars in the army of occupation at calais he borrowed £ of a banker at st. omer one day and lost half of it the next at a swindling e.o. table. however, he relieved his feelings by demolishing the whole concern. about the same time he lost no less than sixteen thousand napoleons to a certain captain at billiards, but lord uxbridge, who was colonel of his regiment, having reason to believe that the whole thing was a robbery, forbade him to pay. there are now probably very few people in england who could conduct a game of hazard, the rules of which are practically forgotten. the last man who was thoroughly versed in the intricacies of the game is said to have been a certain well-known bookmaker, atkins by name, who, as late as the 'seventies, used to keep a hazard-table going at brighton during the race week, where considerable sums of money were lost and won. he also presided over a hazard-table at bognor during the goodwood meeting. an associate of his, who was known as "chanticleer" owing to his vocal powers in calling the odds, afterwards proved very successful in another walk of life, where he accumulated a considerable fortune. some thirty-six years ago hazard used to be played at doncaster during the race week, an excellent account of the scenes which used to take place there being given by sir george chetwynd in his _recollections_. french hazard was less rough-and-ready than the english game. every stake that was "set" was covered by the bank, so that the player ran no risk of losing a large amount, though, if successful, he could win but a trifling one; on the other hand, the scale of odds was so altered as to operate most prejudicially against the player. an equal rate of odds between main and chance was never laid by the french "banker" as was insisted on by the english groom-porter; while, again, "direct nicks" alone were recognised by the former. most extraordinary runs of luck have occurred at hazard, a player having sometimes thrown five, seven, and even eleven mains in a single hand. in cases of runs like this the peculiar feature in the french game became valuable, the bank being prepared to pay all winnings, while, generally speaking, a hand of six or seven mains at english hazard would exhaust all the funds of the players, and leave the caster in the position of "setting the table" and finding the stakes totally unnoticed or only partially covered. to show what sums changed hands at hazard in the eighteenth century, it may be mentioned that a celebrated gambler. major baggs by name, once won £ , at hazard, by throwing in, as it is called, fourteen successive mains. this major baggs was an extraordinary character who went to the east indies in on a gaming speculation; but not finding it answer, he returned home overland, encountering many adventures. at cairo he narrowly avoided death by escaping in a turkish dress to smyrna. a companion of his was seized, and sent prisoner to constantinople, where he was at length released by the interference of sir robert anstie, the english ambassador. baggs once won £ of a young gentleman at spa, and immediately came to england to get the money from the peer (lord onslow) who was the father of the young man. terms of accommodation were proposed by his lordship in presence of a well-known banker whose respectability and consequence were well known. the peer offered him a thousand guineas and a note for the remainder at a distant period. baggs, however, wanted the whole to be paid down, and some altercation ensued, in the course of which the banker observed that he thought his lordship had offered very handsome terms. "sirrah," said baggs in a passion, "hold your tongue; the laws of commerce you may be acquainted with, but the laws of honour you can know nothing about." major baggs at one time in his life was worth more than £ , . he had fought eleven duels, and was allowed to be very skilful with the sword. he was a man of a determined mind, great penetration, and considerable literary culture; and when play was out of the case, could be an agreeable, gentlemanlike, and instructive companion. he was very generous to people whom he liked; and a certain naval lord, highly respected, when in rather a distressed situation at paris, found a never-failing resource in the purse of the major, who was open-handed enough at times. for several years he lived at paris in the greatest splendour, and during a stay at avignon, frequently gave splendid suppers to the duke and duchess of cumberland and their friends, whom he followed to naples, getting introduced to the king's private parties, and winning £ of his majesty. major baggs eventually fell a victim to gaming, dying of a chill produced by a night passed in a round-house, having been locked up with other frequenters of a gaming-house which was raided by the police. numbers of such places existed in the london of that day, which were the constant resort of those who, like the major, found access to clubs somewhat difficult. from about to the west end was full of gambling-hells, the most popular of which were generally in the parish of st. james's, and st. george's, hanover square. others also existed in st. martin's-in-the-fields, piccadilly, st james's street, pall mall, st. james's square, jermyn street, bury street, charles street, king street, duke street, bennett street, and the neighbourhood of the quadrant. the games principally played, besides english and french hazard, were rouge-et-noir, roulette, and une-deux-cinque. the principal proprietors of these houses were bond, oldfield, goodwin, bennet, smith, russell, phillips, rougeir, burge, carlos, humphries, fielden, taylor, bird, morgan, kerby, aldridge, barnet, and many others, amongst whom, of course, the celebrated crockford stood forth in almost regal splendour. nevertheless there was a crusade against gambling and betting always carried on by the section of the population which were known as the "methodists," some of whose preachers were very clever and apt. "ah, my brethren," once said one of these, addressing a congregation into which several sporting men had strolled, "why waste your lives thinking so much of what you call 'flimsies.' these, my friends," turning over the leaves of his bible, "are god's bank-notes, and when you carry them to heaven, he will cash them at sight!" another preacher, whilst painting a vivid picture of the tortures which awaited gamesters in a future life, declared that the apartments of satan were filled with cards and dice, and that hoyle was the only book in his library. nevertheless, the denunciations of the "godly" effected little, and though from time to time the authorities organised raids upon the more scandalous resorts, gaming continued to flourish. as late as the early 'thirties of the last century, the west end of london was full of hells, a number of them in the quadrant. hazard was the principal game played. the lowest gaming-houses were generally located in obscure courts or other places not much exposed to public observation. as a rule they were kept shut up as if unoccupied, or else some appearance of a trade was carried on to prevent suspicion. it used to be said that at one or two of these hells individuals were kept on the premises whose sole duty lay in being able to swallow the dice in case of a raid by the authorities. whether this was the case or not, it is certain that there was usually some convenient receptacle contrived in the shutters or elsewhere into which the implements of gaming could be speedily thrown. a house containing a back room sufficiently large to contain forty or fifty people, was the ideal of the proprietors of such places. the man who acted as croupier was, as has been said, known as the "groom-porter," an appellation dating from the eighteenth century, when the court was, on occasion, wont to gamble at the groom-porter's in the palace of st. james. the profits of the house were supposed to be derived from a tax levied on successful players, any one winning three times running being expected to pay a certain sum of money to the table or "cagnotte." a player doing this was called a "box hand," the amount of his contribution varying from a shilling to half a crown according to the rules and standing of the house. [illustration: a row in a fashionable hell.] the main profits of these hells, however, were in the majority of instances derived from shady practices, many of the proprietors being in league with sharks of various kinds who preyed upon the more credulous or foolish players. the least important gambling-houses were generally kept by retired prize-fighters and bullies, who hectored their weaker clients out of such sums as they might chance to win. in the higher class of hells, silver counters, representing certain fractions of a pound, were used; these were called pieces, and one of them was the amount of the tax levied on a "box hand." when a gentleman first appeared at these hells, the hellites and the players were curious to learn who and what he was, especially the former, to calculate the rich or poor harvest to be reaped by him, and they regulated their conduct accordingly. should he be introduced by a broken player, and lose a good sum, his introducer seized the opportunity to borrow a few pounds of the hellites. but if the gentleman was successful, "a few pounds to give his kind friend a chance" was not refused. if the visitor proved unlucky the hellites ventured, after he had lost hundreds, to lend him twenty or thirty pounds, for which his cheque was demanded and given. generally they not only knew his name, but soon ascertained, by underhand inquiries at his bankers, the extent of his account, his connections and resources. upon this knowledge, if his account was good, they would cash him cheques to within a hundred pounds of the balance. instances have been known, after cheques have been cashed and paid in this way, to large amounts, and the balance drawing to a close, that when a cheque for a small amount has been wanted, cashed by the very same parties, it has been refused, the hellite actually telling the party, within a few pounds, the amount he had left at his banker's. one gentleman was once told within five pounds of what he had there. a number of hells masqueraded as clubs, and made some show of only admitting regular members to the delights of play. the following prospectus, issued in the 'twenties of the last century, is a fair sample of those used by the proprietors of gaming-houses in london to attract clients. the house in question was under the superintendence of weare, who was murdered by thurtell. a party of gentlemen, having formed the design of instituting a select club, to be composed of those gentlemen only whose habits and circumstances entitle them to an uncontrolled but proper indulgence in the current amusements of the day, adopt this mode of submitting the project to consideration, and of inviting those who may approve of it, to an early concurrence and co-operation in the design. to attain this object the more speedily, and render it worthy the attention and support it lays claim to, it may be only necessary to mention that the plan is founded on the basis of liberality, security, and respectability, combining with the essential requisites of a select and respectable association, peculiar advantages to the members conceded by no similar institution in town. further particulars may be learned on personal application between the hours of twelve and two at pall mall. in a gaming-house called the athenæum was a public scandal. this gaming-hell was situated at the upper end of st. james's street, on the same side as white's. it was owned by three brothers named bond, one of whom only, ephraim, was publicly recognised as the proprietor. this man bond had had many vicissitudes. once, when quite at the end of his tether, a gentleman came into a house where he was looking on at the play, and having no confidence in his own judgment or good fortune, commissioned bond to make his bets for him, and, being very successful, the gentleman, who was a member of the house of commons, presented him with fifty pounds. this became the nucleus of his future fortune. after working his fifty pounds for some time in various advantageous gaming speculations, he became a small partner in a bury street house and subsequently in gaming-houses in bennett street, pall mall, and piccadilly, until, as before stated, he located all his machinery and performers in the athenæum, in st. james's street, near nos. and . burge, an individual closely connected with bond, was another well-known figure in the gambling world of those days. the "subject," as this man was nicknamed, in consequence of his wretched and cadaverous appearance, was born at glastonbury, in somersetshire, where he was brought up a tailor. shortly after the termination of his apprenticeship he married, but finding business not answer his expectations he removed to london, where he commenced business in a little way, but in about two years became a bankrupt. at this period of his life, when distressed in pocket and harassed in mind, he was introduced into a shilling table hazard-house kept at that time by the celebrated j.d. kelly and george smith in lisle street, leicester square. from the very moment that the "subject" first saw a hazard-table his nature changed, and wife, children, home, and business were totally obliterated from his mind. the few shillings which from time to time he could scrape together from the charity of his own or his wife's friends were all carried to the table, although at this time he was still a perfect novice in all concerning play. he generally lost his money soon after he entered a gaming-house, but even when penniless he always remained until the table was broken up, generally some time before midnight, when he would make his way to a miserable home, only to sleep till the hour for witnessing play again arrived. this state of restlessness and perturbation brought on a serious fit of illness, whilst his wife was compelled to take in washing for the support of the family, who lived amidst scenes of acute misery. nothing, however, diverted the "subject" from the gaming-table; no sooner did he recover and was able to crawl out than he was at hazard again, though many were his quarrels with the table-keepers, who resented his presence in their rooms, as he so rarely brought a shilling to play with. nothing, however, could overcome his infatuation, and had he been turned out for good he would have lain down at the door, and listened to the sound of the dice-box until he died of exposure to the weather. at length smith, a gaming-house proprietor who had removed to oxendon street, coventry street, finding burge determined, by some means or other, to be present during play, installed him as a permanent official in his rooms, with regular duties, the chief of which were to trim the lamps hanging over the hazard-table and to hand a glass of gin to the man who threw in six mains in succession, when he was allowed to say, "remember the waiter, your honour." subsequently, the groom-porter being indisposed, the "subject" mounted the stool and called the main, continuing afterwards sometimes to act alternately in each capacity until the proprietor took the house in jermyn street, when he got a rise in the world and was made a regular groom-porter in a crown-house. the history of the so-called "athenæum" run by bond was curious. at the time when the real athenæum in pall mall was being established there was a swindler upon the town named william earl. although the son of a respectable bookseller, who formerly resided in albemarle street, piccadilly, he committed some very flagrant acts of imposition upon the public. among many other schemes he conceived the plan of pretending that he was the person deputed and authorised by the gentlemen composing the members of the true athenæum club, to take and fit up a house for their accommodation. the house in st. james's street being to let at the time, he (earl) took it on the residue of a lease having between two and three years to run, and, forthwith, when in possession, got tradesmen to fit it up in the most superb manner possible, making it a great favour to recommend them to so good a job, the athenæum management promising that all the money shares should be paid down the moment the house was ready for the reception of the members. the furniture, however, as fast as it was brought into the house, disappeared, being taken away by earl to dispose of for cash to put into his own pocket, preparatory to a final retreat from the scene of action. this being discovered before larger debts were contracted, the creditors, who were already minus about £ , convened a meeting, at which, under a threat of a criminal prosecution, they compelled earl to assign the premises and everything else to three gentlemen, messrs. baines, vincent, and laing, in trust for the benefit of the creditors. these gentlemen, subsequently representing the case of the creditors to the lord chamberlain, obtained a licence for music, the premises being designated and inserted in the licence as known by the name of the athenæum; but this and a juggling speculation failing, it was at length let to ephraim bond, esq., at a rental of £ per month. this was in the early part of the year , during which earl was committed to newgate for swindling a jeweller in st. paul's churchyard out of a gold chain and other property, being subsequently transported for the term of seven years. the notoriety of these circumstances, and the length of time earl's name had been before the public, as being somehow connected with the institution described as the athenæum club in st. james's street, led a vast number of thoughtless young men to visit the house. certain is it, that not a few joined the place under a full impression that they were actually admitted into the real athenæum club: and to this confusion of names did the new proprietor, in a very large measure, owe the extraordinary run of play he had at his tables. among the persons who were employed at this house were kelly, peck, hancock, mayne, and thompson: the two latter were retained by bond as waiters, after having been placed in the house under the following circumstances. earl, as the spurious athenæum progressed, advertised for waiters; when these men applied, he represented in forcible language the responsible nature of their situations, and the great trust which would be reposed in them, informing one that all the linen and glass would be placed in his hands, and the other that he would have charge of plate to the value of some thousands. by these means he induced one to deposit £ and the other £ as security before they entered upon the service of the club. bond thought that the ill-usage of these men gave them some claim upon the premises, and, therefore, installed them into the office which they originally came to fill, that is, as waiters. at many of the gambling-houses the waiters reaped a rich harvest by lending money. at crockford's one of these servants once received £ , nominally as a christmas-box, but really as a recognition of timely financial assistance rendered to frequenters of the hazard-table; £ of this sum was given to him by a nobleman who had in one week won £ , on a moderate sum which had been borrowed from the waiter in question. about gaming-houses were kept open all day, the dice were scarcely ever idle, day or night. all the week, all the year round, persons were to be found in these places, losing their money, and up to there were no less than twelve gaming-houses in st. james's and st. george's. before that the play was higher, but not so general. the increase of gambling-houses was said to be owing to the existence of crockford's. such was the opinion of the honourable frederick byng, as given before the committee of the house of commons. he declared "that the facility to gamble at crockford's led to the establishment of other gambling-houses fitted up in a superior style, and attractive to gentlemen who never would have thought of going into them formerly." he added that in his older days gambling was very high, but the amusement of a very few. mr. byng also said he "could have named all the gamblers in his early days at the clubs. no person coming into a room where hazard was carried on would have been permitted to play for a small sum, and therefore poor people left it alone." the gambling which was carried on in the private rooms of the wine and oyster houses, about , was of the same character as that which had at the same time flourished in the vicinity of st james's. for this reason the blackguards frequenting the former attained the most profound knowledge of the art of robbing at the west-end hells. they visited the saloons every night, in order to pick up new acquaintances amongst inexperienced youth. well-dressed and polite, they carefully scanned every visitor on the look-out for pigeons to pluck, and having found one went soon to work to establish an acquaintance. cards being proposed, the leader of the band provided a room, play ensuing, accompanied by the certainty of loss to the unfortunate guest. if the invitation was rejected, the pigeon was attacked through a passion of a different kind. the word being given to one of their female friends, she threw herself in the quarry's way, and prevailed upon him to accompany her to her house. in the morning the "gentleman," who in vain had solicited him to play at the saloon the night before, would call--as if to pay "a friendly visit." cards would be again proposed, the "lady" offering to be the partner of her friend in the game. numbers of young men were plundered by such schemes of thousands of pounds; and a good deal of demoralisation prevailed amongst small tradesmen and gentlemen's servants, numbers of whom frequented the low gambling-houses. if one of these could scrape together two or three hundred pounds he was able, with the assistance of the keeper of the hell, to lend it to needy losers at sixty per cent. a careful inspection was made of the visitor's appearance by a gaming-house keeper's spies, his dress being strictly scrutinised. he was obliged, before entering the saloon, to deposit his great-coat and cane, or anything else which might facilitate the introduction of some weapon; the value or elegance of these did not save him from the humiliation of having it taken from him at the door. the assaults which were sometimes made on the bankers led to such precautions. the blame for the great increase of gambling in the west end was mostly attributed to crockford, who presided over the most palatial gaming-house ever run in england. william crockford was the son of a small fishmonger who lived next door to temple bar. after his father's death the young man soon abandoned fish-selling for more exciting pursuits. he became a frequenter of the sporting-houses then abundant in the neighbourhood of st. james's, went racing, and, after setting up a successful hazard bank in wattier's old club-house,[ ] became connected with a gaming-house in king street, which, though it frequently got him into trouble with the authorities, put a very large sum of money into his pocket. at king street, crockford, together with his partner gye, is said to have once won the very large sum of £ , from five well-known men-about-town, amongst whom were lords thanet and granville and mr. ball hughes. with the capital amassed in the manner described crockford founded the celebrated institution in st. james's street which was sometimes jokingly called "fishmonger's hall." it was opened at the end of the year . there were about members, exclusive of ambassadors and foreigners of distinction; the annual subscription was £ . the club-house was luxurious beyond anything which had been known up to that time. the decorations alone, it is said, cost £ , , and a salary of £ a year was paid by crockford to his cook, m. eustache ude. the club-house, which still exists in an altered form as the devonshire club, was decorated and upholstered in the somewhat gaudy style popular during the reign of george iv., the apartment known as the state drawing-room being particularly gorgeous and florid in its general effect. the gaming-room was comparatively small. here were card-tables at which whist was occasionally played, whilst in the centre stood the hazard-table, the real _raison d'être_ of the whole establishment. the expenses of running this gambling-club were large, the dice alone costing some two thousand a year! three new pairs at about a guinea each pair were provided at the commencement of every evening's play, and very often as many more were called for either by players or by crockford himself in order to change the luck. by the terms of his agreement crockford was bound to put £ into a bank every night whilst parliament was sitting; as long as any of this capital remained he was not allowed to end the play until an hour previously appointed. during his first two seasons crockford is said to have made about £ , ; he may, indeed, be said to have extracted nearly all the ready money from the pockets of the men of fashion of the day. so much so was this the case, that when crockford retired in it was said that he resembled an indian chief who retires from a hunting country when there is not game enough left for his tribe. mr. crockford's private views as to the likelihood of any player at hazard increasing his fortune were certainly interesting. being one day asked by a young man of his acquaintance what was the best main to call at the game, he solemnly replied: "i'll tell you what it is, young man. you may call mains at hazard till your hair grows out of your hat and your toes grow out of your boots. my advice to you is not to call any mains at all." [illustration: count d'orsay calling a main at crockford's.] this, though undoubtedly sound, was a curious speech from a man who had laid the foundation of a large fortune at the gaming-table, and had himself successfully called all the mains under the sun. whilst many were ruined at crockford's, nobody appears to have made much by the place except the proprietor, who, though latterly rather unsuccessful in speculation, died a very rich man at the age of sixty-nine in may . in a select committee on gaming took a great deal of evidence, crockford himself being examined, though nothing was got out of him. the result of all this was that on the th of august was passed an act to amend the law against games and wagers. the act in question was particularly aimed against hazard, which had undoubtedly done a good deal of harm, lending itself as it did to much trickery and foul play. gaming-houses were now rigorously repressed, but it was not long before gambling began to rage in another form, many betting-houses being started. the first institution of this kind appears to have opened its doors in , the proprietors being messrs. drummond and greville. about , about four hundred of these houses (the vast majority not very solvent), where regular lists of the prices were openly exhibited, flourished, and an epidemic of gambling was declared to have attacked even the poorest class, who were being offered facilities for risking their hard-earned sixpences and shillings. the rise and fall of the odds before any great race was eagerly watched by the keepers of the betting-houses, and scenes of wild excitement occasionally occurred. many of the smaller betting-shops were simply traps for the unwary. the stock-in-trade needed was merely a few flyblown racing prints and some old ledgers. a room was soon hired, often in some derelict tobacconist's shop, and business then commenced. most of these places existed in obscure and dirty thoroughfares; the neighbourhood of drury lane being especially affected by those indulging in this nefarious industry. just before a big race meeting, such as the derby or ascot, numbers of these betting shops would burst into bloom for a short space of time. when the meetings ended, the crowd coming to get paid would find the proprietor gone and the place in charge of a boy, who, generally not at all disconcerted, would announce that his master had gone out on "'tickler bizness," and would not be back till late at night. his wife also had gone out of town for her health till the winter. "will he be back to-morrow?" would cry the crowd. "no, he won't be here to-morrow 'cos it's sunday, and he always goes to church on sunday," a favourite reply which made even the losers laugh. "will he be back on monday, then?" "monday," would say the boy, reflecting, "no, i don't think he'll be here on monday--he's going to a sale on monday." after further inquiries and replies of this sort the crowd would, for the time being, reluctantly disperse, murmuring something about a "sell" instead of a "sale," to return again time after time with the same ill-success, till eventually, realising that they had been duped, the bell-pull was torn out and the windows broken, the proprietor meanwhile doing a flourishing business in some other locality. various subterfuges were employed by betting-shopkeepers to attract clients. one of these places grandiloquently styled itself "the tradesmen's moral associative betting club." the circular issued by this beneficent organisation set forth that a number of persons in business, realising the robberies hourly inflicted upon the humbler portion of the sporting public by persons bankrupt alike in character and property, had banded themselves together to establish a club wherein their fellow tradesmen and the speculator of a few shillings might invest their money with the assured consciousness of meeting with fair and honourable treatment. in all probability the clients of the moral associative club found that, like other institutions of the same sort, its idea was to receive the money of all and close its career by paying none. a man named dwyer, who kept a cigar shop and betting-house in st. martin's lane in , was in the habit of laying a point or two more than the regular odds, and in consequence did the largest business of any list man in london. he was considered to be absolutely safe. it was his custom to pay the day following a big race, but when miss nancy won the chester cup, his doors were found to be closed; and the house being broken into by an enormous crowd of infuriated creditors, everything valuable was discovered to have been removed. dwyer, as a matter of fact, had bolted with about £ , of the public's money. the occurrence of scandals such as this naturally caused a considerable outcry for the suppression of the betting-houses, which, it was declared, were demoralising the public, who, even when they were not swindled, were led into risking sums which they could not afford. a bill for checking the evil was eventually drafted, and in july was passed an act entitled "an act for the suppression of betting-houses," which inflicted on any one keeping or assisting to keep any house, office, room, or place for the purpose of betting, a penalty not exceeding one hundred pounds, or imprisonment with or without hard labour for any time not exceeding six calendar months. footnotes: [footnote : no. piccadilly.] iv craze for eccentric wagers at end of eighteenth century--lord cobham's insulting freak and its results--betting and gaming at white's--the arms of the club--the old betting-book and its quaint wagers--tragedies of play--white's to-day--£ , lost at hazard at the cocoa tree--brummell as a gambler--gaming at brooks's--anecdotes--general scott--whist--mr. pratt--wattier's club--scandal at graham's--modern gambling clubs--the park club case in --dangers of private play. towards the end of the eighteenth century a curious mania for making eccentric wagers seized hold of the bucks of the day. unlike many another craze this was not imported from france, but had its rise and progress entirely in england. during the last illness of louis xiv., lord stair laid a wager on his death, which rather astonished the french, who did not approve of such a form of speculation. at a subsequent period bets about the most trivial incidents became quite common in the west end of london. not infrequently some thoughtless wager would lead to considerable trouble. lord cobham, for instance, once foolishly bet mr. nugent a guinea that he would spit in lord bristol's hat without the latter, who had a reputation for effeminacy, resenting it. the wager itself was singularly lacking in refinement, and the moment chosen for carrying it out was quite in keeping. lord bristol being one day at lady cobham's talking to some ladies, he chanced to lean over a chair holding his hat behind him, into which lord cobham deliberately spat, at the same time asking mr. nugent, who was present, for his guinea; after which he began to make the most profuse apologies to the victim of the outrage, who, remaining apparently quite unmoved, merely asked if his host had any further use for his hat, and then resumed his conversation, and every one considered the incident at an end. lord bristol being to all outward appearance absolutely unruffled. the next morning, however, both lord cobham and mr. nugent received messages demanding satisfaction, to which they returned the most humble answers. the incident, they declared, was all merely a foolish joke, and they were quite ready to make all sorts of submissive apologies. lord bristol, however, would only assent to condone the insult if the aggressors were ready to make a public apology in the club-room at white's, where he was prepared to receive it, and here, amidst a crowd of members, lord cobham and mr. nugent publicly expressed their regret. as the eighteenth century waned. white's club developed into a great gambling centre; its members indeed professed a universal scepticism and decided everything by a wager. there was nothing, however trivial or ridiculous, which was not capable of producing a bet. many pounds were lost upon the colour of a coach-horse, the birth of a child, the breaking off of a marriage, and even a change in the weather. a favourite mode of speculation was backing one man against another, that is, betting that he would live the longest. people of all classes were made the subjects of such bets. an actor was pitted against a duke, an alderman against a bishop, a pimp against some member of the privy council. scarcely a remarkable person existed upon whose life many thousand pounds did not depend. the various changes in the health of any one who was the subject of heavy betting naturally gave rise to many serious reflections in the minds of the people who had wagered large sums on his life or death. some would closely watch all the stages of a total stranger's illness, more impatient for his death than the undertaker who expected to have the care of his funeral; others would be very solicitous about his recovery, and send every hour to know how his health progressed, taking as great care of him as any clergyman's wife who has no other fortune than the living of her husband. great consternation was caused by an unexpected demise. considerable odds were laid upon a man with the constitution of a porter, who was pitted against an individual expected to die every week. the porter, however, unexpectedly shot himself through the head, and the knowing ones were taken in. the main supporters of gaming at white's at this time were george selwyn, lord march, fox, and lord carlisle. the latter was of a rather more serious disposition than the others, and had a wife and children to whom he was devoted. though at times a high gambler himself, he wrote several letters to selwyn, warning him of the dangers of hazard. on one occasion lord carlisle won £ , from a peer, which he never seems to have got, and again indulged in some disastrous play in , after which he wrote to george selwyn to say that he had never lost so much at five different sittings as on this occasion in one night. a note by selwyn in the letter puts the sum at £ , . in after-life lord carlisle entirely abandoned gaming, and settled down into an exemplary country gentleman. another constant player for high stakes at white's was sir everard fawkener, the writer's great-grandfather, who held an important office in connection with the post office. he played cards very badly, and george selwyn used to say that playing with him was as bad as "robbing the mail." in the hall of white's club hangs a carved wooden copy of the whimsical old coat of arms of the club--the original painting of which is at arthur's. this was painted by dick edgecumbe after the design had been concocted one wet day at strawberry hill by the painter, george selwyn, george (known as gilly) williams, and their host horace walpole, who had the arms engraved. the original arms were as follows:-- "vert (for a card-table); between three parolis, proper, on a chevron sable, two rouleaux in saltire between two dice, proper. in a canton sable, a ball (for election), argent. supporters, an old knave of clubs on the dexter, a young knave on the sinister side; both accoutred proper. crest, issuing out of an earl's coronet (lord darlington's) an arm shaking a dice-box, all proper. motto alluding to the crest '_cogit amor nummi_'.[ ] the arms encircled with a claret bottle ticket by way of order." [illustration] the old betting-book at white's contains many curious entries, the first of which dates from . a number of the earliest wagers are concerned with the probabilities of the birth of children to well-known ladies of the day, the duration of life to be enjoyed by certain individuals, and the like. on st march , mr. john jeffries bets mr. dayrolle five guineas that lady kildare has a child born alive before lady catherine petersham. a note is appended "miscarriages go for nothing." on the th of october in the same year lord montfort bets mr. greville one hundred guineas that mr. nash is alive on the same day four years to come. the lord montfort in question was a typical gamester of the time. in the betting-book at white's no less than sixty wagers, amounting to £ , are recorded against his name. most of these were about births, marriages, and deaths. on sporting wagers, the nobleman in question seems to have been content to risk only small sums. a true gambler, he preferred to hazard his fortune, and, as it turned out, his life, on the unforeseen. on the th of november , is entered the following: "lord montfort wagers sir john bland one hundred guineas that mr. nash outlives mr. cibber." this refers to two very old men, colley cibber, the actor, and beau nash, the "king of bath." below the entry in the betting-book, written in another handwriting, is the significant note: "both lord m. and sir john bland put an end to their own lives before the bet was decided." the first of these tragedies took place on new year's day of . lord montfort's death and the circumstances of it attracted great attention. he was considered one of the shrewdest men of his time, and, as walpole said, "would have betted any man in england against himself for self-murder." lord montfort was of course eventually ruined--at white's alone he lost a fortune at hazard. as a last resource, he then eagerly applied (much to the surprise of the dilatory duke of newcastle) for the governorship of virginia or the royal hounds. he got neither, and after spending the last evening of the year at white's, where he sat up at whist till one o'clock, went home in a strange mood, and shot himself next morning. a tragic fate likewise befell sir john bland, who dissipated his entire fortune at hazard. at a single sitting he at one time lost as much as £ , , though he recovered a portion of it before play was ended. sir john shot himself on the road from calais to paris. some of the wagers chronicled in the betting-book are decidedly vague, the following for instance: "mr. talbot bets a certain gentleman a certain sum that a certain event does not take place within a certain time." during the napoleonic era several bets were made as to the chances of the emperor getting back to paris at the close of the russian campaign, about ten to one being wagered on such an event happening. a curious bet, dated february , , is the following: "lord alvanley bets sir joseph copley five guineas that a certain baronet understood between them is very much embarrassed in his circumstances in three years from the date hereof; if one of his bills is dishonoured, or he is observed to borrow small change of the chairmen or waiters, sir joseph is to be reckoned to lose." in , hazard seems to have been allowed at white's, but it was expressly laid down that no member should be permitted to keep a faro bank. this rule was doubtless made to avoid the state of things which had lately prevailed across the way at brooks's. as time went on gambling became a thing of the past within the walls of white's, and the survivors of a reckless era in its history sobered down into grave and somewhat crotchety old men, who, from the stronghold of an accustomed seat, eyed younger members with a freezing gaze. when the question of smoking in the morning-room was raised their indignation knew no bounds, and even infirm old members--fossils who alfred montgomery declared had come from kensal green--tottered into the club to oppose it. so given were these relics of the past to wrapping themselves in a cloak of exclusiveness that at one time the club came almost to a standstill. within recent years, however, white's has taken a new lease of life, and after an existence of one hundred and seventy-three years is now in as flourishing a state as ever. the club-house has been enlarged and various alterations made--always, let it be said, with due regard for the traditions of the past. unfortunately, in the course of time much connected with its former history has disappeared--it does not, for instance, possess a set of old gaming counters, which have a certain historic interest in these more sober days. the club is particularly anxious to acquire any relics connected with its past, and also any representations of the club-house (at the present time under repair) as it existed before the alterations of , when a new façade replaced the old front. lower down st. james's street, on the other side of the road, another club, in old days notorious for high play, still exists. this is the cocoa tree, where very large sums once changed hands. during the year no less than £ , was lost here in a single week. in the same year mr. o'birne, an irish gamester, won £ , at hazard of a young mr. harvey of chigwell, a midshipman, who, by his elder brother's death, had suddenly come into a good estate. "you can never pay me," said o'birne. "i will sell my estate to do so," replied the young man. "no," was the not ungenerous reply, "i will win ten thousand and you shall throw for the odd ninety." the dice were cast and harvey won--still the evening cost him £ , . after waterloo there appears to have been a revival of gaming in the west end, many officers returning to england with long arrears of pay at their command. this wave of gaming ruined brummell. at first he was not particularly devoted to play, and had extraordinary luck when he indulged in it. at one sitting at whist at white's he won £ , from george harley drummond, the banker. it is said that this was the first game drummond ever played at a club; it was probably his last, for it led to his withdrawal from the banking business. but brummell was not a man of large property, and when later he began to play habitually, a few reverses were sufficient to ruin a man of small means who matched his fortune against the much longer purses of his friends. brummell had no illusions as to the ultimate fate of a gambler, and once tied himself up against play, receiving a ten-pound note from pemberton mills on condition that he should forfeit a thousand if he played again at white's for a month. nevertheless, a fortnight later he was playing again. his friend did not claim the thousand but merely said: "well, brummell, you may at least give me back my ten pounds." playing at hazard one night with alderman combe, whom he playfully called "mash-tub" because he was a brewer, the beau, having won a considerable sum, said, pocketing the cash: "thank you, alderman; in future i shall never drink any porter but yours." "i wish, sir," was the reply, "that every blackguard in london would tell me the same." in the end brummell went under, owing, he declared, with all the superstition of a gambler, to the loss of a lucky sixpence with a hole in it, which he had picked up in the small hours of the morning in berkeley square. he gave it away, by mistake, to a cabman, and used to say that he supposed "that rascal rothschild, or some of his set, had got hold of it." one of the greatest gamblers in the early part of the nineteenth century was lord rivers, whose dashing play at parisian tables had earned for him the name of "le wellington des joueurs." during a portion of his career this nobleman was said to have won nearly a hundred thousand pounds by gambling. as a card-player he was cool and skilful, whilst at the same time quick to seize the moment for exchanging caution for dash. at times, however, he was careless--he once lost £ at whist by not remembering that the seven of hearts was still in. crockford's eventually ruined him as it did many others--some it could not ruin. lord sefton, for instance, is said to have lost no less than £ , there. after his death the proprietor presented an acceptance for £ , to his son, which was paid. at the beginning of the nineteenth century young men-about-town were exposed to every sort of dangerous temptation. in a youthful commoner, heir to large estates, was unpleasantly initiated into the mysteries of fashionable play by losing nearly £ , at hazard at a west-end club, it being the first time he had ever played. his single antagonist was a noble lord of considerable experience, who by mere chance held the box so luckily as to throw in seven times successively. a remark being made upon so extraordinary a run of the dice, his lordship insisted upon having them cut up, to manifest that his success had been perfectly honourable--and the bones, on dissection, were found perfectly innocent. gambling flourished at all the fashionable clubs. brooks's in particular was noted for unlimited gambling during the first forty years of its existence. the prevalence of gambling there is shown by one of the old rules, which prohibited "gaming in the 'eating-room' except tossing up for reckonings." the penalty for a breach of this regulation was paying the whole bill of the members present. though a rule existed which forbade the members to stake upon credit, it was more or less treated as a dead letter, mr. brooks being generally ready to make any advance which the members might desire. the result of such confidence in the solvency of his clientele appears to have been disappointing, for after eight years mr. brooks withdrew from the mastership of the club and died in very poor circumstances. all things considered this was not surprising, for he was a man who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, exults to trust, and blushes to be paid. during the gaming period losses and winnings amounting to five, ten, or fifteen thousand pounds were not at all uncommon. lord stavordale, before he was of age, having lost £ , one night, struck a good run at hazard and got it all back. this, however, did not satisfy his lordship, who swore a great oath, saying, "now if i had been playing deep i might have won millions." one member, mr thynne, retired in disgust in march . according to a note written opposite his name in the club books this was because he had "won only £ , during the last two months, and that he may never return is the ardent wish of members." at brooks's, charles james fox found himself amidst the most congenial facilities for ruin, and he did not let them pass. fox, who joined brooks's when he was sixteen, once sat in the club playing at hazard for twenty-two hours in succession, when he lost £ , . at twenty-five he was a ruined man, though his father had paid £ , for him out of his own property. in his friends raised £ , to pay his debts and buy him an annuity--a proof of the affection this curious character inspired. it was at brooks's that lord robert spencer is said at one stroke to have recovered his considerable fortune lost at play. general fitzpatrick and lord robert, having both come to their last shilling, contrived to raise a sufficient sum of money to keep a faro bank, which proved an extraordinarily lucky one. lord robert's share was no less than £ , , with which he retired from the gambling-table for ever, and never played again. another well-known man of fashion lost at brooks's £ , and everything else which he possessed, including his carriage and horses, which was his last stake. charles fox, who was present, and partook of the spoils, moved that an annuity of £ per annum should be settled upon the unfortunate gentleman, to be paid out of the general fund, which motion was agreed to _nem. con._, and a resolution was entered into at the instance of the same gentleman, that every member who should be completely ruined in that house should be allowed a similar annuity out of the same fund, on condition that they are never to be admitted as sporting members; as in that case the society would be playing against their own money. the old betting-book at brooks's is a most curious record. a certain member, for instance, bets another five hundred guineas to ten that none of the cabinet will be beheaded within the following three years. another wagers fifty guineas that mademoiselle heinel will not dance at the opera next year. the whole volume is most characteristic of an age when all fashionable london lived in a vortex of speculation. [illustration: the gambling-room at brooks's. from a water-colour drawing in the possession of the club.] faro, quinze, and macao were the favourite games at brooks's, but at one time whist for high stakes came into great favour. two of the best players at this were a couple of characters known as tippoo smith and "neptune"--the latter an old gentleman who had gained his nickname owing to his having once thrown himself into the sea under the false impression that he could no longer keep his head above water. at brooks's are preserved a number of relics of the old gambling days, including the faro table at which fox played. this has a portion cut away, in order, it is said, to give room for his portly form. a complete set of the old gaming counters--the highest inscribed guineas--is also here, whilst several prints and pictures (one of them reproduced in these pages by the courtesy of the committee) give a good idea of a vanished day. brooks's was much frequented by a famous whist-player, general scott, the father-in-law of george canning and the duke of portland, who is said to have won about £ , at the game, of which he was a past master. the general, indeed, was a very shrewd man where all forms of speculation were concerned, and once won a large wager at newmarket in the following way. just as his horse was about to start for a sweepstake, mr. panton called out to him, "general, i'll lay you a thousand pounds your horse is neither first nor last." the general accepted the bet and immediately gave directions to his rider; his horse came in last, and he claimed the money. mr. panton objected to payment, because the general had spoken to his rider; but the jockey club held that the bet was laid not upon the chance of the place in which the horse would come, if the rider was uninformed of it, but upon the opinion, that he had not speed enough to be first, nor tractability enough to be brought in last. nevertheless, the general, like most gamblers, had his moments of generosity. he was playing one evening with the count d'artois and the duc de chartres, at paris, when a petition was brought up from the widow of a french officer, stating her various misfortunes, and praying relief. a plate was handed round, and each put in one, two, or three louis d'or, but when it was held to the general, who was going to throw for a stake of five hundred louis d'or, he said, "stop a moment, if you please, sir: here goes for the widow!" the throw was successful, and he instantly swept the whole into the plate, and sent it down to her. general scott was an excellent whist-player, and lived in a most careful manner, which gave him a great advantage over his contemporaries, many of whom were reckless to a degree, tossing their money about in all directions, and borrowing from any one when short of cash. general scott followed a regime which assisted him to keep all his faculties in the very best condition for getting the most out of his cards. his dinner usually consisted of a boiled chicken, washed down with toast and water. his memory, coolness, and judgment were remarkable. with players such as these, whist became almost a religious function of a singularly profitable kind. at the present day, when whist has fallen from its ancient high estate, and rendered practically obsolete owing to the popularity of bridge, it is difficult to realise the place which the game held in the estimation of many of our forefathers. at the beginning of the nineteenth century almost as large sums were lost and won at whist as at the hazard-table, which was chiefly the resort of those who, like fox, complained that games of skill afforded no excitement. many who were not entirely devoted to high play found their only relaxation in whist. such a one was lord camden's brother, mr. edward pratt, connected with the east india company, whose sole bond with humanity is said to have lain in whist. by no means an avaricious man, mr. pratt spent little upon his personal comfort, always living in the upper floor of a house owing to its tranquillity, and regularly dining in a room by himself at a tavern every day of the year, his only companion a solitary bottle of port. he was seldom heard to speak, but no circumstance, however urgent, could prevail on him to break silence at whist, the favourite amusement, or rather occupation of his life; and, at the conclusion of each rubber, he could correctly call over the cards in the exact order in which they were played, as well as the persons from whose hands they fell, and enumerate various instances of error or dexterity in his associates, with practical remarks. this extraordinary exertion of the retentive powers was often doubted, and as often ascertained by considerable wagers. abstinence from speech, however, was the favourite, habitual, perhaps the affected, pleasure of his life; to such a pitch did he carry this eccentricity that he deliberately chose to forego many little satisfactions and comforts, rather than be at the trouble to ask for them. in his voyages to india, mr. pratt might have been compared to some eastern mystic, whose eyes and thoughts are immovably riveted by inspiration, madness, or emptiness to the region of the navel. when on voyages by sea it was his invariable custom to present the appearance of one entirely engrossed by his own thoughts, which, it was opined from his countenance, were of a peculiarly morose character. he often doubled the cape without having scarcely uttered a word. during one voyage, when his ship had been detained by a long and troublesome calm, the anxious and dispirited crew were at last revived by the advent of the long-wished-for breeze. amidst general excitement, a miserably dressed seaman on the topmast being at last able to proclaim the welcome tidings of land, mr. pratt alone struck a discordant note, for whilst the officers and ship's company were congratulating each other on the approaching joys of being on shore, though his features were observed to alter and somewhat unbend, no sound escaped his lips. "i knew you would enjoy the sight of land," at length said the first officer. "i saw it an hour before the careless ragamuffin aloft," were the first, the last, and the only words mr. pratt uttered during the voyage. "a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game," was the sole earthly aim of mr. pratt, as it was of the old lady who declared that next to her devotions she loved a good game of whist. players of this sort were not lukewarm gamesters or half-and-half players who have no objection to take a hand if one is wanted to make up a rubber; affirming that they have no pleasure in winning, or that they like to win one game and lose another. keen antagonists, they never desired an adversary who had slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. they loved a thorough-paced partner and a determined enemy. they took and gave no concessions; they hated favours, never made a revoke, or passed it over in an adversary without exacting the utmost penalty. they never introduced or connived at miscellaneous conversation during the progress of a game, for, as they emphatically observed, cards were cards. whist was their business and duty--the thing which they had come into the world to do--and they did it. in the early days of the nineteenth century a great deal of gambling went on at wattier's club, no. piccadilly (now a private house), which made a speciality of macao. this game is said to have been introduced into england by french _émigrés_. wattier's was kept by an old _maître d'hôtel_ of george iv., who, quite a character in his way, prided himself upon the excellence of his cuisine and wines. the life of wattier's was a short and merry one, for it only lasted some twelve years, being closed in , when for a time it became a sort of common gambling-house. byron, beau brummell, and many other men of fashion frequented the club, and, occasionally, says tradition, solaced themselves for their losses by throwing bottles of wine out of the window into the yard of the house just across the way. some sixteen years later there was a good deal of high play at whist at graham's club, and a scandal occurred. lord de ros being charged with unfair play by the _satirist_ newspaper, against which he brought an action for libel. much curious evidence was given during the trial, one witness admitting that he had won no less than £ , in fifteen years at whist. another--captain alexander--estimated his winnings at about £ a year. asked by counsel how long he had played on a certain occasion, he replied: "all night." "after a slight dinner i suppose?" "as good a dinner as i can get." "a small boiled chicken and a glass of lemonade perhaps?" the witness for some reason considered this insulting and excitedly said: "i deny the lemonade altogether--i never take lemonade"--a disavowal which plunged the court into laughter. considerable amusement was also created by another witness who, being asked whether he had ever seen anything suspicious about the prosecutor's play replied: "yes." "what course did you take?" "i always backed him," was the answer. in the end the peer, who was premier baron of england, lost his case. he did not long survive the disgrace, and on his death in the following line was suggested by theodore hook as an epitaph-- here lies england's premier baron patiently awaiting the last trump. towards the middle of the nineteenth century gambling in clubs began to decline, though, as is always the case, intermittent fits of private gambling were frequent at the west end. in the late 'seventies and early 'eighties, however, of the last century there was some revival of gaming-clubs, or rather places called clubs. a considerable number of these, started merely for the purposes of play, sprang up in the west end; and the proprietors in many cases realised large sums by cashing the cheques of players, a certain percentage being deducted from the amount of the sum, which was not infrequently handed over in counters. a clever proprietor would, of course, know how much any particular client was good for, and take care to run few risks. where play was high and the members rich a plentiful harvest was reaped. the most fashionable club of this sort was the park club, park place, st james's, where, in , there was a good deal of high play at baccarat. the existence of what was virtually a gaming-club aroused much comment, and, the matter reaching the ears of the authorities, it was not long before action was taken. as considerable misapprehension exists as to how the english law views gaming, some account of the proceedings which followed may not be out of place. on the th of january , mr. st john wontner attended at bow street on behalf of mr. howard vincent, the director of the criminal investigation department, to apply for process against the park club, park place, st. james's, under the provisions of the gaming acts. mr. wontner, referring to the section of the act under which it was proposed to proceed, said that the summons was applied for against the proprietor, the secretary, the committee, and various members of this club, for keeping the premises as a common gambling-house, where they habitually allowed baccarat to be played. attention was called to the comments of the press on gambling, and it was said that various complaints had been made to the police, in consequence of which an inspector was instructed to intimate to the proprietors of various clubs that the practice of playing games of chance was illegal, and proceedings would be taken were it to be continued. play had been suspended at various clubs, but in the ease of this particular club, messrs. lewis & lewis, solicitors, of ely place, had communicated with the authorities to the effect that it was the intention of those concerned to test the question, and expressed willingness to answer any proceedings that might be instituted. on the st of february , at bow street, before sir j. ingham, jenks (proprietor), dalton (secretary), and certain members of this club and its committee appeared to a summons charging them with a contravention of the gaming act. mr. st. john wontner prosecuted, mr. charles russell, afterwards lord russell of killowen, and mr. poland, instructed by mr. george lewis, defended. the charge against the defendants was that they were concerned in keeping a common gaming-house, and permitting a game of chance to be played called "baccarat." for the prosecution mr. wontner quoted some rules of the game. he said that the regulation bank at this club was fixed at £ , an open bank at £ . as a rule, the banks varied from £ to £ , but were often larger. mr. wontner quoted a printed description of the game of baccarat, and submitted that it was purely a game of chance of a dangerous character, at which excessive gambling took place. playing cards for amusement was not prohibited, but it was contended that excessive gambling was punishable by law. sir j. ingham inquired as to the definition of the word "excessive." mr. wontner submitted that the legislature had defined excessive gambling as criminal, while moderate gaming was not. so the proprietor of a place where excessive gaming was allowed, and who received the profits, was guilty of the offence at common law of keeping a gaming-house, and habitual users of the house were also liable. an ordinary club-house, where the profits went to the members, would be equally a gaming-house if excessive and habitual play were allowed. mr. wontner quoted several decisions, and referred to various acts dealing with gaming, dating from the reign of henry viii., when all games except archery were declared illegal. a subsequent act repealed that act, as far as games of skill went, but the old enactment still held as to games, and he contended that whether unlawful gaming went on in a house, the proprietor of which admitted members on payment of subscription, or whether it took place in an ordinary club, the offence was just the same. inspector swansen, of scotland yard, had had interviews with jenks as to particulars respecting the club. jenks told him the club was open in , and he had bought the lease of the premises. he explained the game of baccarat. after two o'clock the banks were put up to auction. each bank paid one per cent, and each player five shillings for card-money up to a.m. after that time, five shillings until a.m., when £ an hour was charged, in order to make the game prohibitory. the profits so derived went to the proprietor. one per cent was also charged for cashing cheques. the rules of the club prohibited the introduction of any stranger to the card-room. the profits realised were from the subscriptions and the card-money. the kitchen had been a loss, and wine and cigars were sold at cost price. on a subsequent occasion, mr. jenks told witness that members' cheques were cashed, and one per cent was charged as an insurance against bad cheques. he stated that he did not cash cheques beyond a reasonable amount, which he estimated at £ . in cross-examination by mr. russell, witness admitted that jenks had given all information freely. the club, of which he was the proprietor, consisted of from to members, comprising gentlemen well-known in society. the night steward of the park club was called, and gave evidence as to the play in the card-room. baccarat was not played there until mr. jenks took possession of the club. play began about . in the afternoon, and a break would be made about half-past seven for dinner, after which play was resumed and kept up till two, three, four, and sometimes eight o'clock in the morning. the average bank would be about £ . after further evidence had been taken, and speeches made for and against the defendants, sir james ingham, in giving his decision on the summons, said that jenks was substantially charged with keeping a house for unlawful gaming, and the other gentlemen were substantially charged with aiding and assisting him in doing so. the first question to determine was why and for what purpose jenks kept this house open. was it an ordinary club at which gambling was casually introduced, or was it substantially a gaming-house? the question could be answered by the evidence, as the profits arising from the wines, spirits, and tobacco were admitted to be trifling, while the profits from food were absolutely nothing, the kitchen being carried on at a loss. the subscriptions received from members at six guineas per year produced annually £ , which was subjected to very large deductions for rent, taxes, etc. it must be clear to everybody that as a club for social purposes, the business would not be worth the care and attention which it would require. what was the case with respect to gambling? jenks received one per cent upon all banks, and contributions from all players who stayed after certain hours. without going into particulars he calculated on consideration of the number of games that would be played ordinarily in the course of an evening, that jenks must realise from £ to £ per night, and that his annual profits must be £ , to £ , , or perhaps many thousands more. therefore, no one could doubt that the house had been kept and used for the purpose of gambling, for its character as a social club was absolutely ancillary to its business as a gambling-house. the statute, however, required that there should not only be gambling, but gambling at an unlawful game, and the main question was whether the game of baccarat was an unlawful game. it must be admitted that although a great many games had been prohibited by the legislature, baccarat had not, and whether it was unlawful or not, must depend on other considerations. baccarat appeared to be a game of chance, tempered by a certain amount of skill and judgment. many games of mixed chance and skill might be innocently played. it was important to glance at the state of the old law. sir j. ingham then quoted from baker's abridgment on the subject of gaming for recreation and common gaming-houses, "which promote cheating and other corrupt practices, and incite to idleness and avariciousness persons whose time might otherwise be employed to the general good of the community." the principle to be extracted was that gaming productive of the above evils ought to be considered unlawful, and he (sir james) considered that the game of baccarat was not "a game played for recreation, whereby a person is fitted for the ordinary duties of life." a great deal had been said upon the subject of large and excessive gambling, and the argument had been advanced that games which would be large and risky and excessive for a man who was in the position of a shop-keeper, would be nothing, trifles infinitesimal, in the eyes of a man of large property. granted that was so, still there might be cases in which the law could be easily applied, and he thought this was one. referring to the rules of the park club, which was to consist of noblemen, members of the learned professions, officers of the army and navy, and gentlemen, sir james observed that a man at the game in question might lose, with consistent bad luck, £ before dinner, and a considerable sum in addition afterwards. would there be any difficulty in saying that that was large and excessive gambling in the case of members of the learned professions, clergymen, bishops, great leading counsel of the day, or even judges with the largest salaries, physicians, and so forth? gaming such as had been proved to exist would be large and excessive for any of those classes of men, and still more so for officers of the army and navy. he had no hesitation in saying, with reference to the gentlemen composing the club at mr. jenks's house, that gaming had been large and excessive, and that it came within the principle of the law laid down by chief justice abbot in the case of "king _v._ rosier." but he considered the case did not stop there, and proceeded to refer at great length to the act of queen anne, limiting gambling. in conclusion, the learned magistrate held that all the parties, with the exception of mr. dalton (secretary), had been guilty of gaming. he fined mr. jenks £ , the members of the committee £ , and each of the players £ . notice of appeal was given. the appeal was brought on may and , and in giving judgment, sir henry hawkins (afterwards lord brampton), after saying that the facts were undisputed--there was no profit except on the gaming, though from the admirable printed rules one might well conclude that the club was a sociable club, where a gentleman might dine and have his rubber at whist, whilst not on any account allowed to gamble. the rules in question were, however, nightly disregarded, and looking at the nightly doings, it was impossible for any man in his senses to doubt that the house was really opened and kept for the purpose of gaming at the game of baccarat as its main and principal object. he now had to consider the illegality of the gaming and not merely the illegality of the game--the common law did not prohibit the playing at cards and dice, which were not unlawful games, but the keeping of a common gaming-house was at common law an indictable offence. sir henry hawkins, after some comments on what constituted a gaming-house, went on to say that in his judgment it was not necessary for a gaming-house to be a public nuisance, which the park club was not:--a common gaming-house being itself a nuisance, though the gaming there was limited to the subscribers and members of the club. the keeper of such a house could always admit or exclude whom he chose, and the committee elected whom they pleased, provided the list of members did not exceed . it might be and yet still not be a public, but a common gaming-house. as to unlawful games--no games had been in so many words declared by name unlawful, though the legislature intended to cover some games which, being lawful in themselves, were only unlawful when played in particular places or by particular persons. the act of enacted that a house is proved to be a common gaming-house which is kept for playing any unlawful games and a bank is kept by one or more of the players, exclusively of the others, or where the chances of any game played are not alike favourable to all the players. he divided unlawful games into two classes: first, those absolutely forbidden by name, to the gaming at which a penalty is attached. this class included "ace of hearts," "pharaoh or faro," "basset," and "hazard," and any other game with a die or dice except backgammon. second, a number of games not altogether prohibited under penal consequences, nor declared to be altogether illegal, but which, nevertheless, have been declared unlawful by the legislature, because the keeping of houses for playing them, and the play in them therein by anybody, were rendered illegal. the unlawful games of the acts of henry viii. were "bowls," "quoits," "dicing," "tennis," and "carding," most of which would seem to have been games of mere skill. the acts in question were all repealed by and vic. the present unlawful games, then, were "ace of hearts," "faro," "basset," "hazard," "passage," "roulette," and every game of dice except backgammon, and every game of cards which was not a game of "mere skill." he was inclined to add any other game of "mere chance." the question was, did "baccarat" come within this category?--the description of the game given by mr. russell satisfied him that it did. baccarat was a game of cards--a game of chance--and though, as in most other things, experience and judgment might make one player or banker more successful than another, it would be a perversion of words to say it was in any sense a game of mere skill. it was, therefore, in his opinion an unlawful game within the meaning of the statute. it was said that it was a modern game--assuming it to be so, it was just what the legislature intended to include in the phraseology of one unrepealed section of the law of henry viii., which mentioned "any new unlawful game hereafter to be invented." with regard to excessive gaming since the repeal of the statutes of anne and george ii., he did not think excessive gaming at any game would in itself render the game unlawful, for excessive gaming _per se_ was not any longer a legal offence. nevertheless, though excessive gaming was no longer _per se_ unlawful, the fact that it was habitually carried on in a house kept for the purpose of gaming was a cogent piece of evidence to be offered to a jury or other tribunal called on to determine whether a house was a common gaming-house so as to make the keeper of it liable to be indicted for a nuisance at common law. seeing that mr. jenks was the occupier and kept the house open for the purpose of gaming, at, amongst other games, baccarat, an unlawful game within the meaning of the statute, he was of opinion that he was properly convicted. as to the four members of the committee, the only question was whether these appellants had the care or management of the house--he thought they had--they could not but have been cognisant of the rules and of the true character of the club. the second rule of the club placed its internal management in their hands--he thought there was abundance of evidence to warrant their conviction. as to the three players, he found no evidence that they did more than play at baccarat in the house, by which it might be that they somewhat enhanced the profits, but they took no part in the management. adding to the profits was not a legal offence, as assistance in conducting the establishment was--the conviction with respect to the three players ought to be quashed. mr. justice smith followed, and his summing up entirely coincided with that of sir henry hawkins. this lucid judgment is of considerable interest as affecting games played in english clubs, and did much to clear up all ambiguity as to how far a club might allow gambling. it put an end to all open baccarat, though the game was shortly afterwards played for a time at "the field club," near st. james's street, an establishment which much resembled the defunct park club in its diversions, members, and methods, but the police soon interfered, and with its demise club gambling at games of chance has become a thing of the past, except in the low dens of soho, where faro intermittently calls for the intervention of the authorities. police raids upon bogus clubs mainly frequented by foreigners of a low class are often reported in the newspapers. as regards respectable clubs, a certain amount of bridge, usually for very moderate stakes, is indulged in, but gambling for high stakes is strongly discountenanced. members inclined to indulge any tendencies in this direction generally do so elsewhere than in a club. from time to time small clubs in which there is some high play have sprung up and had a brief existence. when bridge first began to capture london, a bridge club was started in the west end where very high stakes were the rule. it lasted but a short time, owing chiefly to the fact that a young and not very astute member lost a very large sum, which created considerable scandal and broke up the club. high bridge is now played in london mostly by wealthy people, well able to take care of themselves. the outcry raised some time ago about young girls being compelled to join in playing for large stakes is not based upon any solid foundation of truth, for as a rule high players are not fond of running the chance of drawing a novice as a partner. a bad player spoils the game. though there is practically no gambling in west-end clubs, a good deal of baccarat and poker is occasionally played in private houses, ladies being not infrequently amongst the players, and here gaming assumes its most undesirable form. temper as well as money is generally lost, whilst the winners are exposed to a by no means remote probability of never being paid. private gambling is especially dangerous to young men, and without doubt a thousand times more harm is done by play of this sort than by all the properly conducted public tables in the world. footnotes: [footnote : the love of money compels.] v talleyrand whilst at cards announces the death of the duc d'enghien--"the curse of scotland"--wilberforce at faro--successful gamblers--the rev. caleb colton--colonel panton--dennis o'kelly--richard rigby--anecdotes--strange incidents at play--aged gamesters--a duel with death--general wade and the poor officer--anecdote of a caprice of fortune--stock exchange speculation--a man who profited by tips. the history of card-playing is connected with many dramatic incidents. if the story be true, one of the most striking of these was when talleyrand, who had been playing very late at "_la bouillotte_" with the duchesse de luynes, suddenly laid down his cards, and in his cold, impassive voice asked, "has the prince de condé any other grandchildren than the duc d'enghien?" receiving an answer in the negative he calmly said, "then the house of condé has come to an end." at that very moment the ill-fated duc was being led out to be shot at the château of vincennes. a grim historical interest is also generally supposed to be connected with the nine of diamonds, which is known as "the curse of scotland," the reason assigned being that the duke of cumberland wrote his sanguinary orders on the back of such a card in . notwithstanding this popular tradition, the nine of diamonds had been known as "the curse of scotland" as far back as thirty years before culloden--perhaps because a somewhat similar design formed the arms of colonel packer, who was on the scaffold when charles i. was executed. another reason given is that there were nine lozenges resembling diamonds in the arms of the earl of stair who made the union. cards have at times attracted the most saintly persons. the first time the philanthropic wilberforce was at brooks's he joined in playing faro--according to his own account--from mere shyness. a friend of his, very much surprised, called out to him, "what, wilberforce, is that you?" george selwyn, who was keeping the bank, resented the interference, and said in his most expressive tones, "oh, sir, don't interrupt mr. wilberforce, he could not be better employed." oddly enough, one of the most remarkable instances of a really successful gambler was an english clergyman, the reverend caleb colton. a man of considerable learning, he was originally a fellow of king's college, cambridge, and curate of tiverton. in he created some slight stir with two poems entitled "hypocrisy" and "napoleon." his literary reputation was further enhanced in , when the author had become vicar of kew, by the publication of a volume of maxims called _lacon: or many things in few words_. this work, however, was not absolutely original, being in a great measure founded upon lord bacon's _essays_, burdon's _materials for thinking_, and the well-known aphorisms of la rochefoucauld. [illustration: la bouillotte. from a scarce print after bosio.] about this time mr. colton began to speculate, and, having dabbled rather recklessly in spanish bonds, his affairs became involved. this frightened the reverend gentleman, and, though there appears to have been no pressing reason for taking such a step, he absconded. his affairs were subsequently put in order, after which mr. colton for a time betook himself to america, eventually returning to europe and settling down in paris. here he took up his abode in the palais royal, at that time the head-quarters of dissipation and amusement--surely the queerest spot ever selected by an english clergyman for his abode. colton now began to make an exhaustive study of the intricacies and mysteries of the gaming-table, every facility for putting theory into practice being at his very door. unlike most searchers after infallible methods of winning, he was completely successful, and in the course of a year or two won over £ , by some method of staking, of which no reliable record seems to exist. more wonderful still, the reverend caleb kept his winnings, part of which he devoted to the purchase of pictures. he was a cultivated man, and published an ode, which was privately circulated, on the death of lord byron. the end of mr. colton was a tragic one, for in he blew out his brains at the house of a friend living at fontainebleau. the act in question was, of course, attributed to the effect of gambling losses. a thrilling story was told which described how the unfortunate clergyman, after ruinous losses at frascati's, had blown his brains out in the forest of st. germain, and, as always follows in such cases, an outcry arose, demanding the suppression of the tables in the palais royal and at frascati's. gambling, however, was in no way responsible for colton's end, the real cause of his suicide having been a disease necessitating a painful operation, to which the successful gambler preferred death. a very fortunate gamester was colonel panton, who in the early part of the eighteenth century suddenly realised a considerable fortune by keeping a gaming-house in piccadilly. though by nature a confirmed gambler he then exhibited extraordinary common sense, and, having invested his winnings in house property and land, entirely abandoned the card-table and the dice-box. his name is still preserved in panton street, haymarket. another sporting character who amassed a large fortune by gambling and the turf was colonel dennis o'kelly,[ ] the owner of the famous race-horse eclipse. the rank of colonel which this irishman was entitled to assume was procured by him in a characteristically curious way. in , when the county of middlesex was very backward in raising sufficient men for its militia, a well-known scotch adventurer, macgregor by name, whose family had suffered a good deal for the stuarts in , seeing a good opportunity of making some money, set about raising a regiment in westminster which the government promised to recognise as soon as three-fourths of the commissions should be filled up. he found, however, difficulty in obtaining officers and had to ransack the town and hold out commissions to all sorts of people, amongst whom was o'kelly, who became an ensign, in due course of time rising to be lieutenant-colonel. o'kelly, though totally ignorant of discipline, is said to have presented the most soldierly appearance of any officer in the regiment. this was not saying much, for the third captain was a tea-dealer, the fourth a tailor, and the fifth a boatswain's mate who had bought an ale-house with prize-money and could just sign his name. the most junior officer was a crippled creature of foreign extraction. when o'kelly became a major, he is described as having put his regiment through certain military evolutions to the entire satisfaction of the king and his staff, whilst his lieutenant-colonelcy was celebrated by a splendid entertainment which many of the aristocracy of leicestershire attended. o'kelly was sometimes known as count o'kelly, a title which was supposed to have been conferred upon him by his fellow-prisoners during a sojourn in the "fleet" when he was a young man. here he met catherine hayes, who lived as his faithful companion through life. though she was never married to him, her position was more or less recognised, and o'kelly left her an annuity which she continued to enjoy till she died, in the second decade of the nineteenth century, at the age of eighty-five. among many racing successes o'kelly won the derby twice--in with young eclipse by eclipse, and three years later again with sergeant by eclipse out of aspasia. his racing colours were scarlet and black cap. whilst there is no doubt but that o'kelly was very lucky in much that he undertook, his originality and penetration were largely responsible for a success which, however, never gained him admission into fashionable circles. though a hospitable man of a certain genial humour, o'kelly was not very open-handed to dependents. in spite of his affluence he was even mean enough to keep jockeys of the poorer class out of their money, season after season, being sometimes even sued by them in the law courts, and personally dunned on the race-course stands. in such a place, on one disgraceful occasion, an old sportsman made the captain look extremely small by apostrophising him as a mean, low-lived, waiter-bred skunk. in spite of these failings o'kelly achieved a certain popularity by the good dinners and excellent wines which he provided at his house at epsom, his dry and truly irish facetiousness affording the highest zest to those entertainments. at his country house he would never allow any betting or gambling. a constant subject of jest amongst his familiars was the tone in which at dinner he used to say, "john, bring the aaples," meaning the pines, and the whimsicality with which he would apostrophise his servant on certain occasions. the latter having announced the non-arrival of fish, "begorra," said his master, "and if you can't get any fish, bring herrings." o'kelly was a gentlemanly and even graceful man in behaviour, a strong contrast to his bear-like figure, dark and saturnine visage, with the accompaniment of his rough striped coat and old round hat. a quite peaceable man, though a true-bred milesian, o'kelly never had the smallest appetite for fighting with any weapon whatever. he was a great contrast in this respect to the bullying dick england, with whom he once became involved in a law-suit. he was ambitious of honour and distinction, a proof of which was his successful pretension to military rank. in the darling object of his life, however, capricious fortune left him in the lurch; the jockey club, whose action in this matter was generally approved, steadily refusing to admit among them a parvenu, not, perhaps, of unequivocal character. this o'kelly, so much of a philosopher in other things, did not possess philosophy enough to forgive, but, in revenge, never failed to characterise the honourable body which refused to admit him by the very hardest professional names which his wit and bitterness could devise. very much aggrieved at not being admitted into certain of the clubs at newmarket and in london, which were frequented by aristocratic sportsmen, he never lost an opportunity of retaliating on those whom he deemed responsible for his exclusion. on one occasion, when making an arrangement to retain the services of a certain jockey, he told him he had no objection to his riding for any other person provided he had no horse running in the same race; adding, however, that he would be prepared to double his terms provided he would enter into an arrangement and bind himself under a penalty never to ride for any of the black-legged fraternity. the consenting jockey saying that he did not quite understand who the captain meant by the black-legged fraternity, the latter instantly replied with his usual energy, "oh, by ---, my dear, and i'll soon make you understand who i mean by the black-legged fraternity:--there's the duke of g., the duke of d., lord a., lord d., lord g., lord c., lord f., the right hon. a.b.c.d., and c.i.f., and all the set of thaves that belong to their humbug societies and bug-a-boo clubs, where they can meet and rob one another without detection." this curious definition of the black-legged fraternity is a sufficiently clear demonstration of how severely o'kelly felt himself affected by his rejection. he made a point of embracing every opportunity of saying anything to excite the irascibility of the sporting aristocracy, whilst shirking no difficulty or expense to obtain that pre-eminence upon the turf which he eventually enjoyed. dining at the stewards' ordinary at burford races, in the year , lord robert spencer in the chair, lord abingdon and many other noblemen being present, matches and sweepstakes as usual, after dinner, were proposed and entered into for the following year--amongst the rest, one between lord a. and mr. baily, of rambridge, in hampshire, for gs. h. ft., when the captain was once or twice appealed to by mr. b. in adjusting the terms, and lord a. happened to exclaim that he and the gentleman on his side the table ran for honour, the captain and his friends for profit. the match was at length agreed upon in terms not conformable to the captain's opinion, and consequently, when he was applied to by b. to stand half, he vociferously replied, "no, but if the match had been made cross and jostle, as i proposed, i would have not only stood all the money, but have brought a spalpeen from newmarket, no higher than a twopenny loaf, that should (by ---!) have driven his lordship's horse and jockey into the furzes, and have kept him there for three weeks." his support of and attachment to ascot was strikingly conspicuous. during the races there he ran a horse each day for years, whilst his presence and his pocket enlivened the hazard-table at night. here it was that, seeing him turning over a quire of bank-notes, a gentleman asked him what he was in want of, when he replied he was looking for a little one. the inquirer said he could accommodate him, and desired to know for what sum. upon which he answered, a "fifty, or something of that sort, just to set the caster." at this time it was supposed he had seven or eight thousand pounds in his hand, but not a note for less than a hundred. he always threw with great success, and when he held the box, was seldom known to refuse throwing for any sum that the company chose to set him; and when "out" was always as liberal in setting the caster, and preventing a stagnation of trade at the table. on the other hand, his large capital and good luck not infrequently captured the last guinea of the bank. it was o'kelly's usual custom to carry a great number of bank-notes in his waistcoat pocket, wisped up together with the greatest indifference. playing at a hazard-table at windsor during the races, as a standing better (every chair being full), a strange hand was observed by those on the opposite side of the table, furtively drawing two notes out of his pocket. the alarm was given, and the hand as instantaneously withdrawn, the notes being left more than half out of the pocket. the company were eager for the offender to be taken before a magistrate, and many attempted to secure him for that purpose, but the captain very philosophically seizing the thief by the collar, merely kicked him downstairs with the exultant exclamation that "'twas a sufficient punishment to be deprived of the pleasure of keeping company with jontlemen." on one occasion, when at newmarket, o'kelly offered to bet a considerable sum with a gentleman who knew nothing about the redoubtable irishman. the stranger, half suspecting that the challenge came from one of the black-legged fraternity, begged to know what security he would give for so large a sum, if he should lose, and where his estates lay. "o! begorra, my dear creature, i have the map of them about me, and here it is, sure enough," said o'kelly, pulling out a pocket-book, and giving unequivocal proofs of his property, by producing bank-notes far exceeding in value the amount of the wager. besides having been owner of the equine wonder eclipse, old o'kelly was in his last years the possessor of a wonderful parrot said to have been purchased at bristol, where it had been bred--the only parrot of this kind ever born in england. this extraordinary bird died at a great age in the early years of the nineteenth century. it was of moderate size, chiefly green in colour, with some grey and red, and spoke with a clear and distinct articulation, and with so little inferiority to the female human voice divine, that when its tones were heard outside in the street, people would dispute as to whether the voice was that of a woman or a parrot. after o'kelly's death it became the property of his nephew and heir, colonel andrew o'kelly, who lived in half-moon street, which quiet thoroughfare was very much enlivened by the performances of the parrot at a window. when pressed to sing by passers-by, lively poll would swear and laugh at them, all the time spreading and fluttering its wings in triumph. the bird's favours were divided between an old lady and the colonel, with both of whom it would converse on a variety of topics. when the latter was returning home. poll, if at the window, would espy him across the street, upon which it would instantly clap its wings, and set up an impatient squalling--"the colonel! the colonel is coming! open the door!" if in a bad mood and asked to talk, poll would sometimes reply sullenly, "i'll see you damn'd first!" at times, especially if not near the window, with the sash up below its cage--which was the bird's favourite place--being asked, "how d'ye do to-day, poll?" the parrot would curtly answer, "why, i don't know," "middling," or "what's that to you?" colonel o'kelly was very proud of his bird and had regular "parrot concerts," on which occasions half-moon street was filled with carriages and an admiring crowd, to such a degree as to be scarcely passable. although solicited by many distinguished people, the colonel did not permit his parrot to leave his home and pay visits. so great became the parrot's renown that his owner was once offered a very large sum, by a well-known caterer of amusements, to allow poll to appear in public, the bird's life to be heavily insured. colonel o'kelly, it should be added, had profited by the good english and french education which his uncle had bestowed upon him. he was lieutenant-colonel in the middlesex militia, and pursued the turf with some spirit. another gambler who achieved prosperity was mr. richard rigby, who rose to affluence owing to an incident on a race-course. having at an early age inherited a comfortable fortune, young mr. rigby proceeded to squander it whilst yet incapable of appreciating the value of money. gaming, racing, and other forms of getting into difficulties occupied his time, with the result that most of his inheritance soon passed into the hands of lawyers and money-lenders. he would probably have sunk into a state of abject destitution had not the turf, which had so largely contributed to diminish his fortune, also been the means of restoring him to opulence. the duke of bedford of that day had given great offence to the gentlemen in the neighbourhood of litchfield, by an improper and unfair interference at their races; and as at the end of the eighteenth century it was by no means safe or easy effectually to punish a man fortified by rank, privilege, and wealth, they at last determined to bestow on this illustrious offender manual correction. the overbearing conduct of the duke in some matter relating to the starting of their horses, and their weights, in which he had no kind of right to interfere, soon afforded the confederates an opportunity of executing their purpose. he was in one moment separated from his attendants, surrounded by the party, hustled and unmercifully horsewhipped by an exasperated country attorney, with a keen sense of his wrongs and a muscular arm. the lawyer persevered in this severe discipline without being interrupted by his grace's outcries and repeated declarations that he was the duke of bedford, an assertion which mr. humphries, the assailant, positively denied, adding that a peer of the realm would never have conducted himself in so scandalous a manner. the matter soon circulated over the course, and reaching mr. rigby's ear, the latter with a generous, if perhaps calculated gallantry, burst through the crowd, rescued the distressed noble, completely thrashed his antagonist, and conveyed the duke to a place of safety. the result of this affair was most fortunate for the spendthrift, who, as a consequence, eventually amassed a huge fortune. the russell family were very grateful for the singular service which mr. rigby had rendered to the duke, whose rescuer was loaded with favours. these eventually culminated in his obtaining the most lucrative office in the gift of the crown, that of paymaster-general; the emoluments arising from which, during the american war, amounted annually to £ , . in , on lord north's retirement, mr. rigby lost his post, and was also called upon to refund a large sum declared to be public money which should have been accounted for. under these circumstances rigby applied to thomas rumbold, who, originally a waiter at white's, had risen to be governor of madras. whilst fulfilling his duties in st. james's street, the latter had often advanced rigby, who was a desperate punter, small sums, and on this occasion his services were once more sought. the ex-waiter had returned to england with immense wealth, procured, it was declared, by very doubtful means. public indignation having been aroused, a bill to strip the anglo-indian of his ill-gotten gains had been introduced in the house of commons. under these circumstances an arrangement was effected, which settled his own difficulties and at the same time saved the fortune of his old friend from white's. the latter advanced rigby a large sum, which enabled him to adjust matters regarding the missing money, whilst the bill of confiscation was dropped, its introducer being an intimate friend of the former paymaster. rigby's nephew and heir soon after married rumbold's daughter, so all ended happily owing, as it was said, to rigby's former devotion to hazard. mr. rigby appears to have been a generous man, as the following anecdote shows. being one evening at a hazard-table in dublin he was very successful; and having won a considerable sum, he was putting it in his purse when a person behind said in a low voice to himself, "had i that sum, what a happy man should i be!" mr. rigby, without looking back, put the purse over his shoulder, saying, "take it, my friend, and be happy." the stranger made no reply, but accepted it, and retired. every one present was astonished at mr. rigby's uncommon beneficence, whilst he derived additional pleasure from being informed that the person who had received the benefit was a half-pay officer in great distress. some years after, a gentleman waited upon him in his own equipage, and being introduced to mr. rigby, acquainted him that he came to acquit a debt that he had contracted with him in dublin. mr. rigby was greatly surprised at this declaration, as he was an entire stranger. "yes, sir," continued the visitor, "you assisted me with above a hundred pounds at a time that i was in the utmost indigence, without knowing or even seeing me"; and then related the affair at the gaming-table. "with that money," continued the stranger, "i was enabled to pay some debts and fit myself out for india, where i have been so fortunate as to make an ample fortune." mr. rigby declined to take the money, but, through the pressing solicitations of the gentleman, accepted a valuable diamond ring. the strange incidents which arose at the old hazard-tables, frequented as they were by all sorts and conditions of men, often produced strange changes in men's lives. general wade had so great a propensity to gaming, that he frequented places of every description where play was going forward, without considering the low company he met there. at one of these places, one night, in the eagerness of his diversion, he pulled out an exceedingly valuable gold snuff-box, richly set with diamonds, took a pinch, and passed it round, keeping the dice-box four or five mains before he was "out," when recollecting something of the circumstances, and not perceiving the snuff-box, he swore vehemently no man should stir till it was produced, and a general search should ensue. on his right sat a person dressed as an officer, very shabby, who from time to time, with great humility, had begged the honour of going a shilling with him, and had by that means picked up four or five; on him the suspicion fell, and it was proposed to search him first. begging leave to be heard, he said, "i know the general well; not he, nor all the powers upon earth, shall subject me to a search while i have life to oppose it. i declare, on the honour of a soldier, i know nothing of the snuff-box, and hope that will satisfy all suspicions: follow me into the next room, where i will defend that honour, or perish!" the eyes of all were now turned on the general for an answer, who, clapping his hand eagerly down for his sword, felt the snuff-box (supposed to have been lost, and put there from habit) in a secret side-pocket of his breeches, made for that purpose. the injustice of his suspicions greatly affected the general, who naturally felt a good deal of compassion for his poor fellow-soldier. overcome with remorse, he at once left the room, having said, "sir, i here, with great reason, ask your pardon, and i hope to find it granted by your breakfasting with me, and hereafter ranking me among your friends." as may be easily supposed the invitation was complied with, and when, after some conversation, the general conjured the officer to say what could be the true reason that he should object to being searched: "why, general," was the answer, "being upon half-pay, and friendless, i am obliged to husband every penny; i had that day very little appetite, and as i could not eat what i had paid for, nor afford to lose it, the leg and wing of a fowl were then wrapped up in a piece of paper in my pocket; the thought of which coming to light, appeared ten times more terrible than fighting every one in the room." "enough! my dear boy, you have said enough! let us dine together to-morrow; we must prevent your being subjected again to such a dilemma." they met the next day, and the general then gave him a captain's commission, together with a purse of guineas to enable him to join his regiment. whilst fortune as a rule seems to delight in favouring novices at play, and is somewhat pitiless to those who have wooed her for years, there have been certain old gamblers who, by making a study of some particular game, have attained to such perfection in playing it as seldom to lose. with some of these play endures as a dominant passion after almost all the other faculties have become impaired. not very many years ago a well-known figure in a certain parisian club, existing mainly for the purposes of play, was an old gentleman who, paralysed below the waist, was most afternoons carried upstairs in an invalid chair, placed in a fauteuil, and propped up with cushions in order that he might hold a bank at his favourite écarté, a game at which he was an expert of the highest kind. up to within a day or two of his death he continued to indulge in a game which was practically his only link with the living world, his faculties, though usually somewhat clouded, recovering all their old vitality as far as concerned the purposes of the card-table. a case of much the same sort was described by brillat savarin, who, in the country where he resided, knew an old guardsman who had served under louis xv. and louis xvi. this aged individual, rather below than above the average of ordinary men in general intelligence, possessed an extraordinary aptitude for games--an expert at all the old ones, he would master any novelty in this line after having played it once or twice. with the advent of old age he had become paralysed--two faculties alone remaining unimpaired--that of digestion and that of play. every day for twenty years he had been in the habit of frequenting a house where he was made welcome. here he would sit in a semi-comatose condition, hidden away in a corner, seemingly indifferent to anything that was done or said. when, however, the card-table was drawn out, he immediately revived, and having dragged himself to a seat, soon demonstrated that his powers as a gamester were as brilliant as in the long dead past when he was a dashing officer at versailles. one day there came down into this part of france a parisian banker who was soon discovered to be a passionate votary of piquet, a game which he declared himself ready to play with any one for very large stakes. a council of war was held, and eventually it was decided that the old guardsman should champion country against town, a war fund being raised by general subscription, winnings or losings to be allocated according to the size of the different shares. when the banker sat down to the card-table to find himself confronted by a grim, gaunt, twisted figure, he at first believed himself the victim of a joke, but when he saw this spectre take the cards, shuffle and deal with the air of a professor, he began to divine that no unworthy antagonist was pitted against him. this conclusion was before long considerably strengthened, for the unfortunate parisian was outmatched in play to such an extent that he eventually retired the loser of a very substantial sum. before setting out for his return journey to paris, the banker in question, whilst thanking all he had met for their hospitality, declared that there was only one thing he had to deplore, which was having been so bold as to pit himself against a corpse at cards. there is an awful story told of a gambler who refused to die, and who, when _in extremis_, had the card-table drawn up to his bedside with strong meats and drinks, and held the cards against death himself; but the grim tyrant held all the trumps, and soon snatched his prey. utter absorption to extraneous influences brands gamblers as with a hot iron, and so great is the fascination which play exercises over certain natures, that there exist people who fully believe that there is only one thing less pleasant than winning--which is to lose. the originator of the maxim in question was lieutenant-colonel aubrey, one of the boldest and most adventurous men that england has ever known, who lived on into the twentieth century. piquet and hazard, particularly the former, were the games in which the colonel was known to excel, and on which he adventured greater sums than any man living in his time. the duke of york, george iv., colonel fitzpatrick, alderman combe, and other distinguished personages were his antagonists and associates at play, and he was always considered an "honourable" man. the domination exercised by gambling sometimes amounts almost to insanity, all sense of decency and proportion being lost. this was the case with a certain english colonel, who was so addicted to gambling, that having one night lost all the money he could command, determined to stake his wife's diamond ear-rings, and going straight home, asked her to lend them to him. she took them from her ears, saying that she knew for what purpose he wanted them, and that he was welcome. the jewels in question proved lucky, and the colonel won largely, gaining back all that he had lost that night. in the warmth of his gratitude to his wife, he, at her desire, took an oath that he would never more play at any game with cards or dice. some time afterwards he was found in a hay-yard with a friend, drawing straws out of the hay-rick, and betting upon which should be the longest! as might be expected, he lived in alternate extravagance and distress, sometimes surrounded with every sort of luxury, and sometimes in dire want of half a crown. nevertheless, he continued gambling all his life. bewailing a run of ill-luck to a serious friend one day, the soldier in question said, "is it not astonishing how i always lose?" "that's not what surprises me," was the reply, "so much as where you get the money to pay." as a matter of fact too many gamblers have taken much the same point of view as was adopted by a certain italian gamester who, after an intolerable run of ill-luck, apostrophised fortune, calling her a vixenish jade. "thou mayest," said he, "indeed cause me to lose millions, but i defy thy utmost power to make me pay them." in certain rare instances fortune seems to delight in suddenly showering her gifts upon some one who is not a gambler. a remarkable exemplification of this occurred in australia not so many years ago, when what was probably the biggest stake ever played for was lost and won. a curious feature of the game having been that neither winner nor loser knew that they were playing for anything but an insignificant stake. a young englishman, who had gone out to australia with a slender capital, was one day standing at the door of his hut, wondering if fortune would ever smile upon him, when two travel-stained men, having much the appearance of tramps, appeared and, saying that they had come a long way, begged that they might be allowed to rest for the night. in accordance with the traditions of colonial hospitality, the young man at once proceeded to do all he could to make his rough-looking guests comfortable, and in due course sat down with them to the best dinner which his slender resources could provide. the meal over, pipes were lit, and conversation (always limited in remote regions), being exhausted, one of the men pulled out of his pocket an old greasy-looking pack of cards and proposed a game. to make a long story short the young man, who, it must be added, was no gambler, eventually consented to hold a small bank at écarté against his two visitors. he stipulated, however, that when either he or his opponents should have chanced to lose such money as they had in their pockets, the game should come to an end. for a time fortune wavered, but a sudden run in favour of the host swept all the modest capital of his antagonists to his side of the table. a discussion now ensued, the guests being anxious to continue the game, declaring that any losings should be promptly remitted on their arrival at the nearest town. the englishman, however, was obdurate. "we agreed to play for ready money only, and ready money it shall be," said he, "your losses after all are trifling. we are all tired and had better turn in." this was not at all to the taste of the losers, who argued and entreated, with, however, complete lack of success, when suddenly one of them said: "bill, where's that bit of paper we got up country, perhaps he'll play us for that." a well-thumbed document was then produced which appeared to be the title to some plots of land up country. the owners did not seem to attach any great importance to it, for after some discussion it was eventually agreed that the document, which the host considered a very flimsy security, should be estimated as worth something like ten pounds; the game was resumed, and luck continuing in the same direction, the englishman went to bed with the slip of paper in his pocket-book. the next morning the men proceeded on their way, having, at the request of their host, given an address so that, should any question arise as to the title of the land, they might be referred to. about a week after this the englishman, who had forgotten all about the slip of paper, which he had sent, with some other securities, to the bank, was once more standing in front of his hut, when a mounted stranger appeared, and saying that he had come a long way, begged for a night's entertainment and lodging. the new arrival, though roughly-dressed, was a man who, it was easy to see, enjoyed the command of a certain amount of money. he was, he declared, anxious to purchase plots of land for which he professed himself ready to give a liberal price. particularly persistent in inquiring of his host if he knew of any claims likely to be sold, he eventually elicited from him the story of the bit of paper, over which he seemed to be very much amused. "i expect," said he, "that it's worth nothing at all, but i've taken a fancy to you and i daresay you won't be sorry to take a tenner for it." the englishman, however, said he would rather do nothing till he had had another look at the paper in the bank. "besides," he added, "i've a fancy to keep it." "well," replied the stranger, "that's queer. i'm a man of fancies too, and though you may think me a flat, i'll give you another chance--£ for the paper!" this offer and yet others of £ , £ , and at last of £ , having met with no better success than the first, the stranger eventually dropped the subject, and the next morning rode off, apparently very much amused at what he called the pigheadedness of his host. about ten days passed and once more the same horseman appeared, this time in a more serious mood. a veritable craving for the little bit of paper, he said, had seized him, and as the thing was positively getting on his mind he had ridden out to say that, to end the matter and do his young friend a good turn, he was ready to give £ (which he had brought in cash) for it. the englishman now began to think that the document was really valuable, and bluntly told his visitor that no offer whatever would be accepted. his estimate was correct. the bit of paper, won in the australian hut from two wandering miners, eventually gave its possessor a fortune of something not very far short of a million pounds, for, owing to the title which it conveyed, he became the largest shareholder in one of the richest mines in all australia. the lucky winner is alive to-day, and makes no secret of the origin of his wealth, which came to him as if by the stroke of some magic wand. it is only fair to say that in due course he provided handsomely for the two miners who had played with him what was almost certainly the highest game of écarté on record. the would-be purchaser, it afterwards appeared, was a speculator in mines, who, having by some means or other learnt the value of the piece of paper, had traced it with the intention of thus acquiring a highly valuable property. the modern english view of gambling is a sadly confused one, the card-table and the race-course being bitterly denounced, whilst speculation in stocks and shares is considered an entirely legitimate method of attempting to make money. as a matter of fact, in a great number of instances, this amounts to no more or less than backing a stock to either rise or fall in value. outside brokers exist, it is even said, who do not always actually buy or sell any shares at all, but simply, as it were, allow their clients to bet with them on a selected stock rising or falling in price. these are to all purpose and effect mere bookmakers, though, for some unknown reason, their calling is not regarded with the same odium which british austerity is generally ready to affix to members of the ring. for those who are not versed in the intricacies of city matters speculation almost invariably results in loss, the odds being about to against the ordinary individual proving successful. speculation on the stock exchange, gambling generally, and betting on the turf are exactly similar from the point of view of the moralist; there is no difference between all three. during the recent debates upon the budget a member stated in the house of commons that ninety per cent of the business of the london stock exchange was of a gambling description, and represented only purchases made with a view to a rise in prices. he wished to see such transactions taxed. the chancellor of the exchequer replied that were this done it might stop such transactions altogether. another member--mr. markham--supported such a tax, adding that he did not wish to appear in a false light, and would admit that he gambled himself, and, like most fools, always lost money--a remark which excited considerable merriment. unimpeachable information about stocks and shares has ruined many a man--nothing indeed is more fatal, as a rule, than so-called good tips about the rise and fall of stocks, which, when originating from an inspired quarter, are so much sought after by speculators. there have, of course, been instances where tips have made people a fortune. a few years ago an author, who, though fairly successful, had made no particular stir in the literary world, and whose books did not seem likely to have had a very enormous sale, suddenly purchased a nice estate in which was included a luxurious country house, where he began to entertain. an old friend of his on a visit frankly expressed himself surprised at this sudden accession of prosperity, and alone one wet day with his host in the smoking-room bluntly asked: "however did you make so much money, surely not by your books?" "no," was the reply, "by speculating in the city." "an experience as rare as it was pleasant--i suppose you were given some good tips." "yes, not taking them was the secret of my success!" the host then proceeded to explain that, chancing to know a number of men in the city who were in the best possible position to have sound information as to the rise and fall of stocks and shares, the thought one day struck him that he might profit by such opportunities. accordingly he let it be known that he had a certain amount of money which it was his intention to try and increase by careful speculation. tips poured in upon him--he was entreated to become a bear of this and a bull of that--people appeared anxious to put him into all sorts of ventures, and he became the recipient of much "exclusive" information. his idea of speculation, however, was original. told to buy a certain stock he invariably sold it; warned of a coming fall, he speculated for a rise; in fact it became his practice to act in a manner exactly contrary to that indicated by his many advisers, whom, meanwhile, he kept in ignorance of what he was doing. by this curious and original method in a comparatively short time he accumulated a comfortable fortune, and then decided to abandon speculation and spend the rest of his days in prosperous ease. as this shrewd and fortunate speculator explained to his friend, human nature must be reckoned with in all things, and in a vast number of cases those who give tips are interested in the particular stocks which they not unnaturally seek to bolster up--a really good thing does not need much puffing. on the other hand, regular schemes to depress certain stocks are often engineered in a most clever manner, adverse rumours being spread as to a probable fall in order to facilitate large purchases at a small figure; these having been made, the stock rises with startling rapidity. the best maxim for speculators, not well versed in city matters, is to take plenty of advice, and in the vast majority of cases to operate in an exactly contrary way. footnotes: [footnote : an excellent account of this adventurer is given by that gifted writer mr. theodore andrea cook, in _eclipse and o'kelly_, published two years ago.] vi colonel mellish--his early life and accomplishments--his equipage--a great gambler--£ , at a throw!--posting--mellish's racing career--his duel--in the peninsula--rural retirement and death--colonel john mordaunt--his youthful freaks--an ardent card-player--becomes aide-de-camp to the nawab of oude--anecdotes--death from a duel--zoffany in india and his picture of mordaunt's cock-fight--anecdotes of cock-fighting. amongst the sporting characters of the past who flung their fortunes to the winds at the gaming-table or on the race-course there were not a few who were possessed of considerable intelligence and charm. such a one was the handsome, gallant, and accomplished colonel mellish, beyond all doubt the admirable crichton of his day. the son of mr. charles mellish, of blyth hall, near doncaster, a gentleman devoted to antiquarian research and obviously of very different disposition from his son, henry mellish was born in , and coming into his kingdom after a long minority, plunged at once with infinite zest into every form of patrician dissipation. it has been said that he was at eton, but his name does not appear in the school lists. at any rate, whatever his school, he seems to have distinguished himself at it by a variety of escapades, which culminated in his running away and flatly refusing to return. in his seventeenth year he joined the th light dragoons, from which he exchanged into the th hussars, the smartest light cavalry regiment of the day, with the prince of wales for its colonel. there is a tradition that mellish was granted perpetual leave lest his extravagance should corrupt the young officers; but his subsequent career proves that he must at least have seen enough of soldiering to have learned his duty. after he had left the th hussars, his name appears in the army list as an officer of the th royal irish regiment, and also as a major of the sicilian legion, in which many englishmen held honorary commissions. at the same time, his name figures in the list of lieutenant-colonels. mellish was no mere fashionable spendthrift. he was a man of many accomplishments. nature, indeed, seemed to have qualified him for taking the lead, and to have given him a temperament so ardent, as made it almost impossible for him ever "to come in second." he understood music, and could draw, and paint in oil colours. as a companion he was always in high spirits, and talked with animation on every subject; whilst his conversation, if not abounding in wit, was ever full of interesting information founded on fact and experience. he had a manner of telling and acting a story that was perfectly dramatic. he was at home with all classes, and could talk with the gentleman and associate with the farmer. in mellish culminated all the best of these various qualities which were considered the appanage of a patrician sportsman of his day. a most expert whip, no man drove four-in-hand with more skill and with less labour than he did; and to display that skill he often selected very difficult horses to drive, satisfied if they were goers. as a rider he was equally eminent: for years after his death his memory lingered in many a hunt, where he had led all the light weights of leicestershire, rutlandshire, and yorkshire, when he was himself riding fourteen stone. his was the art of making a horse do more than other riders, and he accustomed them, like himself, "to go at everything." the following stanza, one of those in a famous hunting song composed when lord darlington, afterwards duke of cleveland, hunted the badsworth country, commemorates the young sportsman, who was well-known as a daring rider with these hounds:-- behold harry mellish, as wild as the wind, on lancaster mounted, leave numbers behind; but lately returned from democrat france, where, forgetting to bet, he's been learning to dance. a melancholy occurrence once gave him an opportunity of displaying, not only his filial affection, but also his determination as a horseman. having heard the alarming intelligence of his mother's illness, he mounted one of his barouche-horses to proceed to london, and actually rode from brighton to east grinstead, a distance of twenty miles, in an hour and twenty minutes; the strain of this feat was so severe that on arrival at his destination the gallant horse which had carried him fell dead. as a runner he was by no means to be despised. he beat lord frederick bentinck (renowned for fleetness of foot) in a running match on newmarket heath. for everything connected with sport colonel mellish possessed a natural aptitude, as was universally recognised. in appearance he was a big man, who even as a youth weighed some twelve stone. nearly six feet high and admirably proportioned, the pallor of his complexion was rendered more noticeable by his black hair and brilliant eyes. in dress he had a great fondness for light hues and usually wore a white "boat hat,"[ ] white trousers, and silk stockings of the same colour. when he arrived on the course at newmarket his barouche, which he drove himself, was drawn by four beautiful white horses, whilst two out-riders in crimson liveries, also mounted on white steeds, preceded this brilliant turn-out. behind rode another groom leading a thoroughbred hack, whilst yet another waited at the rubbing post with a spare horse in case of accidents. at that time he had thirty-eight race-horses in training, seventeen coach-horses, twelve hunters, four chargers, and a number of ordinary hacks. the expenses of his establishment were enormous. besides these he lost very large sums at the gaming-table, where he once staked £ , at a single throw and lost it. at his own home he gambled away vast sums, and a table was formerly preserved at blyth on which its former owner had once lost £ , to the prince regent. at one sitting at a london club--it is said at brooks's, though mellish's name does not appear in the list of former members--he rose the loser of £ , , and was leaving the club-house, when he met the duke of sussex, who, hearing what had happened, persuaded him to return and try his luck once more. this he did, and in two or three hours won £ , off the duke, who paid as much of this sum as he could, promising to settle the rest by a life annuity of £ . it would, however, seem somewhat doubtful whether the entire debt was ever liquidated. as a matter of fact such large sums were often lost at hazard that it was no infrequent thing for losers to compromise their debt by paying an annuity to fortunate opponents. the impression that in old days all gambling liabilities were scrupulously discharged on the spot is not based upon any very solid foundation, and winners sometimes had the greatest difficulty in getting their money. under such circumstances defaulters were occasionally posted. the expression "posting a man" for not having paid a debt of honour is now more or less figurative, but, as recently as the beginning of the nineteenth century, defaulters were publicly posted. in september , for instance, all brighton was surprised to find the following placard posted up at lucombe's library and other places of the same sort:-- brighton, _september , _. twice have i applied to the earl of s. for the settlement of a bet, and twice, having given him the offer of a reference, i was under the necessity of requesting the satisfaction of a gentleman, which he refused. as such, i post the earl of s. as a man who constantly refuses to pay his debts of honour, and a coward. w.t. the above placard is said to have been induced by the refusal of a certain peer to answer a demand of £ , for which no satisfactory claim could be produced. to guard against the possibility of a duel, warrants were issued against the nobleman and mr. w.t. by the local magistrates. the earl was easily found, and bound in a recognisance of the peace. mr. w.t., however, could not be discovered, it being declared that he feared criminal proceedings being taken. most of the gamblers of a century ago were men of careless disposition, and colonel mellish in particular lived in such a whirl of excitement and gambled in such tremendous sums that a few thousands more or less were at this time very little to him. his life was devoted to frolics of every kind. on one occasion after a ball at doncaster, mellish and the duke of clarence sallied out for a lark and assisted in the arrest of a man who had been fighting in the street. when the party reached the prison, mellish locked the royal duke in a cell and went off with the key, which he delivered to his brother the prince of wales. the duke on his liberation took the joke very good-humouredly. it may be added that, like most born gamblers, colonel mellish lost his money with the greatest coolness, ever accepting ill-luck with imperturbable equanimity. the hazardous joys of racing were to him an irresistible lure, and no more ardent supporter of the turf than he ever lived. his career as an owner of racers only extended over about seven years, from to , when financial difficulties obliged him to abandon the sport to which he was devoted. the greatest financial reverse he suffered was when mr. clifton's fyldener won the st. leger in . over a million guineas are said to have changed hands over this race, and colonel mellish lost an enormous sum. nevertheless, as a judge of racing there was no man held to be his equal. if indeed judgment in such matters could preserve any one from ruin, then mellish should have kept his fortune. endowed with mental qualities far above those possessed by most sporting men, the owner of blyth soon attained a remarkable knowledge of the intricacies of the turf, and the best judges used to declare that they never knew a man who was better able to gauge the powers, the qualities, and capabilities of the racer, as well as the exact weights he could carry, and the precise distances he could run. unfortunately there was one side of the turf life of his day which he could not master, that was the rascality of those who took care not to leave to accident the chances which made ultimate success certain. colonel mellish was not only a most excellent judge of a race-horse, but well acquainted with all the intricacies of managing a racing-stable. he was universally admitted to be possessed of an extraordinary capacity for making matches, and as a handicapper was declared to be supreme. a careful investigation, however, of the old racing calendars from to hardly confirms such an estimate of the colonel's abilities in this direction. in those three years he won and received forfeit for matches, losing and paying forfeit for ; that is, he won £ , and lost £ , in stakes. in addition to this he must, of course, have lost very large sums in bets. the most famous of all his matches was that between his sancho and lord darlington's pavilion. there were really three matches. in the new claret stakes at the newmarket first spring meeting, , pavilion beat sancho and some other horses ( to sancho, to pavilion). mellish then challenged lord darlington, and a match was run in the summer at lewes--four miles for three thousand guineas, buckle riding sancho and chifney pavilion. sancho (the non-favourite, to ) won easily. another match was run over the same distance on the same course for two thousand guineas, to on sancho, who broke down badly. mellish on this occasion lost altogether five thousand guineas, though at one moment before the race he had been offered twelve hundred to have it off. a third match for two thousand guineas over a mile at brighton was made in the same year, but sancho had to pay forfeit. colonel mellish's colours were white with crimson sleeves. his trainer was bartle atkinson, who from the time of entering his service in , till , turned out what was probably a greater number of winners than any other private trainer for one owner has ever done in the same period of time. in and he won the st. leger with sancho and staveley, and trained many winners besides. in spite of all these successes, racing proved most disastrous to the colonel's fortune, and like the vast majority of racing-men of this stamp, he left the turf a ruined man. in his palmy days it is said that he never opened his mouth to make a bet under £ . he wanted to be everything at once, and as the saying went, he was "at all in the ring"; till by deep play, by racing and expenses of every kind, and in every place, he found it necessary to part with his estate in order to satisfy the demands which obsessed him on all sides. though the most popular of men, colonel mellish once had a serious altercation with the honourable martin hawke, and the result was a duel, when the following conversation is said to have occurred--it shows the light-hearted spirit of the combatants. _mellish._ "take care of yourself, hawke, for by --- i shall hit you." _hawke._ "i will, my lad, and let me recommend you to take care of your own canister!" the seconds, on hearing this, agreed that they should not take aim, but fire by signal, which was done. the colonel missed, but hawke's shot took effect, by passing round the rim of his opponent's stomach, and eventually penetrating his left arm; on which mellish exclaimed, "hawke, you have winged me! lend me your neckcloth to tie up the broken pinion!" this was immediately complied with, and the arm being bound up, they both returned in the same chaise, as good friends as ever! this duel was fought in in a field by the roadside, and originated in a quarrel about the yorkshire election, from which both duellists were returning in their drags. mellish would appear to have run a great risk of being killed, for the honourable martin hawke was a singularly gifted man and could do incredible things with a pistol. indeed his skill in that direction was probably never equalled. his nerve and courage were of the highest order. mr. hawke once fought a duel near brussels with a certain baron smieten. whilst the seconds were measuring out the distance, he amused himself by drawing a mail-coach with his stick on the bank of a sandy ditch. one of the seconds, a guardsman, came up just as the finishing touches were being put to the coachman's whip, and said "all's ready," to which hawke replied, "just let me put the lash to this fellow's whip." having touched off this, he instantly proceeded to touch up his antagonist, mentioning that as he had put him to so much trouble (they fought over the frontiers) he must give him a touch, but would content himself with spoiling his waltzing for a little; naming where and how he would operate--and this he did to a hairbreadth. at one time the patron of all the superior pugilists, colonel mellish first brought many of them into notice. he arranged the first battle ever fought by the famous tom cribb, who was matched by the colonel against nicholl, who beat him. unfortunately for his gallant backer, cribb on this occasion entered the ring very drunk, and, of course, fell an easy prey to an antagonist whom in future days the champion of england would have beaten in ten minutes. colonel mellish likewise made the match betwixt gully and the game chicken; the former of whom he caused to "give in," much against his inclination. the colonel's humanity on this occasion cost him a large sum, as he had backed gully heavily. nevertheless, he insisted upon his yielding, the man being reduced to such a state of weakness that his supporter was afraid of an accidental blow proving fatal. at the time of the peninsular campaign a regular crisis occurred in mellish's affairs, and sir rowland ferguson appointed him his aide-de-camp, and he went out to spain. previous to the battle of vimeiro, as the general officers were dining together, one of them observed to sir rowland ferguson that if the thing were not impossible, he should have declared that an officer he had seen was a gentleman whom he had left a week or two ago in the cockpit at york, with cocks engaged in the main there--his name he had understood was mr. mellish. "the very same man," returned sir rowland, "he is now my aide-de-camp, and i think you will say, when you have the opportunity of knowing more of him, a better officer will not be found," and this proved to be the case. on many different occasions, indeed, the duke of wellington declared that a better aide-de-camp than mellish he had never observed. the undaunted manner with which he encountered danger, the quickness with which he rode, and the precision with which he delivered his orders, never making any mistake in any moment of hurry or confusion, were circumstances which excited much favourable comment from friend and foe alike. after the battle of busaco, colonel mellish was sent with a flag of truce to the french head-quarters, on a message respecting some prisoners. on his arrival at leiria, massena invited him to dinner, and treated him with great attention and respect. after remaining some time with the army abroad, colonel mellish returned home, and after that period engaged no more in military duties. according to rumour his return was owing to the resumption of his former habits of play, which the duke of wellington had forbidden; but this is not certain. the prince regent, who was so often accused of forgetting those who had served him, certainly did not justify this reproach in the case of colonel mellish; for on his having obtained a small appointment abroad in one of the conquered islands, the prince made him his equerry, in order to enable him to enjoy the emoluments of it whilst remaining at home. in addition to this the uncles of the colonel, who had undertaken the management of his property when he was abroad, enabled him, by their arrangements, to take up his abode at hodsock priory, where he had occasionally lived before, and where at a comparatively early age he ended his days. on his way to this farm he had to pass the magnificent mansion and domain of blyth, the seat of his ancestors and formerly his own, which the vicissitudes of a turf career had obliged him to sell. colonel mellish, however, accepted his lot with considerable equanimity, and lived at his somewhat modest abode without any mortifying regrets. having married one of the daughters of the marchioness of lansdowne,[ ] who brought him a very handsome fortune, his circumstances again became easy, and he was enabled to indulge in those rural pursuits which appear early and late to have been congenial to his disposition. he took to coursing and established a fine stud of greyhounds. he also bred cattle with great success, winning many prizes at northern cattle shows, and obtaining high prices for his stock, and more fortunate than most men of his disposition and tastes, ended his life in comfort and peace. his death, however, occurred at a comparatively early age, for he fell a victim to dropsy in his thirty-seventh year. another gallant sporting man, though of quite another description, was the anglo-indian colonel john mordaunt, a natural son of the earl of peterborough. john mordaunt, as a boy, was too wild to learn much at school, his whole time being devoted to playing the truant; as he often said, "one half of his days were spent in being flogged for the other half." devoted to cards from youth, he received many a castigation in consequence. "you may shuffle, mordaunt, but i can cut," was the remark made to him by his schoolmaster on more than one occasion. in consequence of this unsatisfactory behaviour, when the boy left school he was about as learned as when he first was sent there. his guardians were very much annoyed at this and blamed his master, upon which young mordaunt very handsomely stepped forward to exculpate the latter, whose attention he declared to have been unparalleled. slipping off his clothes, he exhibited the earnestness of the good man's endeavours; humorously observing, that as nothing could be got into his brains, his master had done his best to impress his instructions on the opposite seat of learning. when the moment came for the youth to pass muster before the india directors he could not be found, and it was nearly too late when he was at last discovered playing marbles in dean's yard. no time, however, was wasted in driving him up to leadenhall street, where, more bent on frivolity than on answering the grave questions put by his examiners, he was near being rejected as an idiot, when one of the quorum, who understood such a disposition well and who probably wished to see john appointed, asked him if he understood cribbage. in an instant young mordaunt's attention was thoroughly roused, his eyes glistened, and regardless of every matter relative to his appointment, he pulled out a pack of cards, so greasy as scarcely to be distinguished, and offered "to play the gentleman _for any sum he chose_!" the youth now felt himself at home, and speedily convinced his examiners that, however ignorant he might be of the classics, he was a match for any of them at cards! he was passed, and despatched to portsmouth to embark on an indiaman ready to sail with the first fair wind; but as there seemed no likelihood of this for some days, the person who had charge of him put him on board and returned to town. needless to say, mordaunt at once got away to shore, where he played a number of pranks before the ship eventually set sail. on arriving at madras young mordaunt was received with open arms by all his countrymen; but general sir john clavering, who was then commander-in-chief in india, and who was, accordingly, second on the council at calcutta, having promised to provide for him, mordaunt went on to bengal, where he was appointed an honorary aide-de-camp to that officer, still retaining his rank on the madras establishment. in consequence of this he was afterwards subjected to much ill-will. the young soldier unfortunately was quite uneducated, not being able even to write an ordinary letter without making many mistakes. study was little to his taste, and he made scarcely any effort to remedy this disadvantage or improve himself. nevertheless, he excelled in most things which he undertook entirely by natural intuition. his ignorance of writing was the more remarkable as he spoke english with an excellent diction and even refinement of phrase, though he could not write two lines of it correctly. he spoke the hindoo language fluently, and was a tolerable persian scholar. mordaunt's weakness as a writer was once strikingly demonstrated on an occasion where a friend, having borrowed a horse from him for a day or two, wrote to ask if he might keep it a little longer. the colonel's reply was, "you may kip the hos as long as you lick." subjected to a good deal of chaff on account of this failing, which he himself realised, mordaunt was generally very good-tempered, though quick with an answer when any one he did not care for attempted to make him a butt. on one occasion a very worthy young gentleman of the name of james p----, who was rather of the more silly order of beings, thinking he could take the liberty of playing with, or rather upon him, called out to mordaunt, before a large party, desiring him to say what was the latin for a goose. the answer was brief. "i don't know the _latin_ for it, but the _english_ is _james p----_." it should be mentioned that the above question was put to mordaunt in consequence of his having, in a note sent to a person who had offended him, required "an immediate _anser_ by the bearer." the gentleman addressed, wishing to terminate the matter amicably, construed the word literally, and sent a _goose_ by the bearer; stating also that he would partake of it the next day. this, to a man of mordaunt's disposition, was the high road to reconciliation; though to nine persons in ten, and especially to those labouring under such a desperate deficiency in point of orthography, it would have appeared highly insulting! in addition to his almost complete ignorance of calligraphy, colonel mordaunt knew absolutely nothing of the ordinary rules of arithmetic. he kept no books, but all his accounts were done on scraps of paper in such an eccentric manner that the figures were only intelligible to himself. it was necessary for him at times to register large financial transactions, and he had immense losses and gains to register in the i.o.u. way. yet even the most intricate cases never puzzled him; and, at settling times, he was rarely, if ever, found to be in error. this was one of the points in which he was apt to be peremptory; for no sooner did he hear a claim stated, which did not tally with his own peculiar mode of calculation, than he condemned it, in round terms, and would scarcely hear the attempt to substantiate that which he so decidedly denied. he was a man of most masterful disposition, very impatient of contradiction, especially from his brother harry, who was in india at the same time. the latter possessed little social charm or originality, but john always treated him with particular consideration. when, however, harry tried to oppose or argue with him, the colonel would soon check him with, "hold your tongue, harry, you are a puny little fool, and fit for nothing but to be a lord." excelling at most things which he attempted, mordaunt was so much master of his racket, and was so vigorous, that he would always wager on hitting the line from the over-all, a distance of thirty yards, once in three times. as a matter of fact he could beat most people with a common round ruler. card-playing, however, was the colonel's particular passion. he was an expert at most games, being besides acquainted with all the ordinary tricks in the shuffling, cutting, and dealing way. the following is an instance of his skill. on a certain occasion mordaunt observed that one of his adversaries at whist was remarkably fortunate in his own deals; and, as he was rather a doubtful character, thought it needful to watch him. when mordaunt came to deal, he gave himself thirteen trumps! this excited the curiosity of all, but particularly of the gentleman in question, who was very pointed in his observations on the singularity of the case. mordaunt briefly said, "sir, this was to show you that you should not have all the fun to yourself," and rising from his seat, left the blackleg to ruminate on the obvious necessity of quitting india! here, however, mordaunt's goodness of heart showed itself, for he obtained a promise from the whole party to keep the secret, provided the offender instantly left the country; which he did by the first conveyance. it was well known that the colonel could arrange the cards according to his pleasure, yet such was the universal opinion of his honour, that no one hesitated to play with him, sober or otherwise, for their usual stakes. his decision, in cases of differences, was generally accepted as final, and many references were made to him, by letter, from very distant places, regarding doubtful points connected with gaming. it may readily be supposed that mordaunt was more ornamental than useful in general clavering's office; however, the latter could not help esteeming him, and had he lived, would probably have effected mordaunt's removal from the madras to the bengal army. the madras officers never failed to comment, sometimes, indeed, in rather harsh terms, upon the injustice of having on their rolls an officer who never joined his regiment for nearly twenty years, and whose whole time was passed in the lap of dissipation. being on a party of pleasure to the northward, and near to lucknow, the capital of oude, and the residence of the nawab of oude, asoph ud doulah, the young soldier was naturally curious to see this potentate and his court. the free, open temper of asoph pleased mordaunt, whose figure and manner made a great impression on his illustrious host, who was devoted to most forms of gambling and sport. the nawab in question was an original character. being desirous of becoming a highly efficient swordsman, he determined to get the best practice possible and exercise his arm to some purpose. for some time he used daily to order from his stables five horses and a couple of bullocks, which he would cut down; the same fate befell five tigers, the same number of bears, and two or three nylgaus. in a short time mordaunt became such a favourite, that he was retained by the nawab at his court, in the capacity of aide-de-camp, though he never attended at the palace except when in the mood to do so, or for the purpose of shooting or gambling with its ruler. during this period the various sarcastic attacks directed against mordaunt, as an absentee from his corps for so many years--amusing himself a good two thousand miles away--were disregarded both by himself and by the supreme government, of which all the members were personally attached to the colonel. mordaunt was now in the receipt of a handsome salary, and possessed many distinguished privileges under the patronage of the nawab, who often used to refer europeans to him on occasions requiring his advice; this he not infrequently did when he needed an excuse for not complying with some demand. mordaunt's influence, it should be added, was generally used in a very kindly manner. old zoffany, who had come out to india and resided at lucknow as court painter to the nawab, once, in a humorous moment, painted a full-length picture of that potentate in high caricature. zoffany lived at colonel martine's, whose house was frequented by immense numbers of natives, a number of whom, when the nawab wanted money, took his jewels to the colonel's to be pledged. the picture, of course, was seen by some of these men, and it was not long before the nawab was informed of the joke. the latter, in the first moments of irritation, was disposed to shorten the painter by a head, and to dismiss the colonel, who was his chief engineer, and had the charge of his arsenal. he was, however, unwilling to do anything without his "dear friend mordaunt" to whom a message was despatched, requiring his immediate attendance, on "matters of the utmost importance." this being a very usual mode of summoning his favourite, who would attend, or rather visit, only when it pleased himself. as a matter of fact the message would probably have been disregarded, had not the bearer stated that the nawab was incensed against martine and zoffany. accordingly the colonel betook himself to the palace, where he found the nawab foaming with rage, and about to proceed with a host of rabble attendants to the colonel's. mordaunt, however, having got the story out of the nawab as well as he could, argued him into a state of calmness, sufficient to let his sinister purpose be suspended until the next day, and retired as soon as he could prudently do so; he then, as privately as possible, sent a note to zoffany warning him of the intended visit. the bold painter lost no time, and the laughable caricature was in a few hours changed by his gifted hand into a superb portrait of a most decorative kind, bearing far more resemblance to the nawab than any hitherto painted at regular sittings. next day the potentate arrived, his mind full of anxiety for the honour of his dignified person. he was attended by mordaunt, whose feelings for his friend's fate were speedily dissipated, when, on entering the portrait-chamber, the picture in question shone forth so superbly as to astonish and delight the nawab, who, beaming with pleasure, hurried the picture home, gave zoffany ten thousand rupees for it, and ordered the person who had informed him of the supposed caricature to have his nose and ears cut off. mordaunt, however, again interposed, and was equally successful in obtaining the poor fellow's pardon; and as the nawab declined to keep him as a servant, very generously made him one of his own pensioners. at another time, the barber who cut the nawab's hair happened by a slip to draw blood. this was considered an offence of the highest atrocity, because at that time crowned heads throughout india became degraded if one drop of their blood were spilt by a barber. a drawn sword was always held above a barber performing his duty, to remind him of his fate in case of the slightest incision. in consequence of this prejudice the barber had been condemned to be baked to death in an oven, when mordaunt applied for his pardon. he could only obtain it conditionally, and certainly the condition was both ludicrous and whimsical. balloons were just invented when this happened, and colonel martine being very ingenious, had made one which had taken up a considerable weight for short distances. the nawab changed suddenly from great wrath to a wild hilarity, which continued so long as to alarm mordaunt; who at last was relieved to hear that instead of being baked, the barber was to mount in the balloon, and to brush through the air according as chance might direct him. in due course the balloon was sent up in front of the palace, and the barber carried through the air more dead than alive at a prodigious rate. the poor man, however, sustained no injury, the balloon finally descending to earth some five miles from the city of lucknow. mordaunt never allowed the nawab to treat him with the least disrespect or with hauteur; indeed, such was the estimation in which he was held by that prince, that, in all probability, the latter never showed any sign of wishing to exert his authority. mordaunt's independence is shown by the following anecdote. the nawab wanted some alterations to be made in the howdah of his state elephant, and asked mordaunt's opinion as to the best mode of securing it; the latter very laconically told the nawab he understood nothing of the matter, he having been born and bred a gentleman, but that probably his blacksmith (pointing to colonel martine) could inform him how the howdah ought to be fastened. this sneer, no doubt, gratified mordaunt, who, though extremely intimate with martine, and in the habit of addressing him by various ludicrous but sarcastic nicknames, seemed not to relish that fondness for money, and other doubtful practices, of which he was said to be guilty. lord cornwallis was either unwilling to compel mordaunt to return to the madras establishment, or was prevailed on by the nawab to let him remain on his staff. the marquis, one day, seeing mordaunt at his levee, asked him if he did not long to join his regiment. "no, my lord," answered mordaunt, "not in the least." "but," continued he, "your services may perhaps be wanted." "indeed, my lord," rejoined mordaunt, "i cannot do you half the service there, that i can in keeping the nawab amused, while you ease him of his money." as a bon-vivant, as a master of the revels, or at the head of his own table, few could give greater variety or more complete satisfaction than mordaunt. he had the best of wines, and spared no expense, though he would take very little personal trouble in providing whatever was choice or rare. he stood on little ceremony, especially at his own house, and, at his friends', never allowed anything to incommode him from a bashful reserve. whatever was in his opinion wrong, he did not hesitate to condemn. these observations were very quick, and generally not devoid of humour. his old friend, captain waugh, dining with him one day, made such a hole in a fine goose as to excite the attention of mordaunt, who, turning to his head servant, ordered aloud that whenever captain waugh dined at his house, there should always be two geese on the table, one for the captain, the other for the company. colonel mordaunt was an excellent pistol shot, who could hit the head of a small nail at fifteen yards. nevertheless when he and a friend engaged in a quarrel of a very serious nature with a third, whom they had accused of some improper conduct at cards, he missed his adversary, who, on the other hand, wounded both mordaunt and his friend desperately. this was not owing to agitation, but, as mordaunt expressed in very curious terms at the moment of missing, to the pistol being too highly charged. the colonel never entirely recovered from the effects of the pistol shot which he had received in his breast, and though possessed of a vigorous constitution, seemed to descend, as it were, down a precipice into his grave. a very rochester of his day, inordinately fond of women, he seemed, when at length stricken down, to regret his condition chiefly as depriving him of their society. for some time before this, actuated by that mistaken pride which so often urges men who have done wonders not to allow their decrease of vigour to be noticed or suspected, he had attempted to continue his usual mode of life, and neglecting the warnings given him by one or two serious attacks on his liver, had thus hastened his approach to a most untimely end. he died in the fortieth year of his age, beloved and regretted by a number of friends to whom his many genuine qualities were known. an especial reason for the influence enjoyed by mordaunt over the nawab was the latter's intimate knowledge of everything connected with the branch of barbarity known as cock-fighting. so devoted was the prince in question to this form of sport that he often neglected to attend to important business with the residents at his court in order to indulge in a "main" with him whom he called his "dear friend mordaunt." the well-known print representing colonel mordaunt's cock-fight depicts a famous battle fought at lucknow in . amongst the figures are the nawab, colonel mordaunt, and colonel martine, who founded the martine colleges at lucknow, calcutta, and lyons, and zoffany himself. the picture, which was painted for warren hastings, was carefully preserved in the palace at lucknow, but most unfortunately met with a disastrous fate during the mutiny, when with others of great value it was destroyed. a water-colour drawing of "the cock-fight" was, however, made under the last king of oude in , by "masawar khan," a court miniature-painter, and other copies also exist. the mezzotint of this picture, together with the scarce engraved key published in may , are here reproduced. zoffany was a great favourite of royalty. after the establishment of his reputation in england, he passed many years of his life in india, though in spite of the favour of the nawab he does not seem to have returned from lucknow in very opulent circumstances, his industry not having equalled either his reputation or his ability. an excessive devotion to women, and to the asiatic customs and luxuries, totally precluded the execution of many works which would have brought this painter prosperity. many of his pictures, however, achieved great popularity. this was especially the case with the "water cress girl," which is engraved. the model, it may not be generally known, was a girl of about sixteen who had achieved a certain notoriety by having been one of a group of nymphs, who ran from the fields of paddington, to their lodgings in the vicinity of st. giles's, at noonday, unencumbered with one single habiliment or rag, from head to foot. it was in the summer season, and they had been bathing in a pond, when some wicked wag bundled up and made off with the whole of their clothes. "the cock-fight" was certainly one of the most successful works ever executed by zoffany; the portrait of mordaunt in particular, according to those who knew him, giving an excellent idea of his manly and elegant appearance. [illustration: the cock-fight at lucknow. engraved by r. earlom, after zoffany. from a print in the possession of messrs. robson & co., coventry street, w.] [illustration: key to the cock-fight.] the colonel is represented as in the act of handing a cock, which he has backed heavily, in opposition to a bird belonging to the nawab, who is portrayed in a loose undress on the opposite side of the pit. colonel mordaunt's taste for cock-fighting had, of course, originally been acquired in england, where this somewhat brutal sport would appear to have been most popular towards the middle of the eighteenth century. at that time it was no unusual circumstance to insert clauses in the leases of farms and cottages, which ensured the right of walking a certain number of game-cocks. as the century waned the cockpit began rather to fall into disrepute, but about the years - a revival occurred. great patrons of cock-fighting were lord lonsdale (when sir james lowther); the duke of northumberland, who fought regular annual mains against mr. fenwick at alnwick and hexham, as did lord mexborough with sir p. warburton and mr. halton at manchester; the duke of hamilton with sir h.g. liddell at newcastle, and lord derby with mr. wharton at preston. amongst other lovers of cock-fighting were colonel lowther, mr. holford, mr. bullock, captain dennisthorpe, and mr. george onslow, out-ranger[ ] of windsor forest, who was known as "cocking george." in the cock pit royal, st. james's park, was the scene of more subscription matches than had occurred for some years before, an extra battle, fought on the th of december between two red cocks belonging to colonel lowther and vauxhall clarke for forty guineas, causing particular excitement. throughout this combat the odds were constantly varying, till colonel lowther's cock was suddenly struck down dead at a moment when odds of four and five to one were being laid upon his opponent. one of the most horrible anecdotes connected with cock-fighting was that of a certain mr. ardesoif, the son of a rich cheesemonger, who was at one time well-known in the streets of london, it having been his peculiar hobby to drive his phaeton through those thoroughfares which were the most crowded with traffic. mr. ardesoif lived at tottenham, where he kept a number of game-cocks. one of these birds having refused to fight, the cruel owner savagely had him roasted to death, whilst entertaining his friends. the company, alarmed by the dreadful shrieks of the poor victim, interfered, but were resisted by ardesoif, who threatened death to any who should oppose him; and in a storm of raging and vindictive delirium, and uttering the most horrid imprecations, he dropped down dead. a cockpit was a scene not easily matched. on a race or a prize-fight, the betting is nearly finished when the sport begins; but the same state of affairs did not prevail at a cock-fight, where no one backed a cock till he had had a good look at him. in consequence of this all the betting had to be done in a short time, and the noise and apparent confusion of layers and backers were quite bewildering. the betting changed with considerable rapidity--in many a battle the odds would veer round from to on one cock, to to against the same. the issue of a cock-fight is never quite certain till a cock is actually killed, an apparently moribund bird sometimes proving the unexpected winner. a very striking instance of this once occurred at mr. loftus's cockpit at newcastle, where a gentleman, on a cock being pounded, betted ten guineas to a crown, which he lost in nearly the space of a minute, as the pounded cock, while his antagonist was pecking in triumph, rose, and after a stroke or two, laid him dead. as luck would have it, while the same gentleman was going from the cockpit to the race-course in his carriage, accompanied by some other gentlemen, one of them observed the absurdity of buying money so dear, to which the other replied, he would bet the same on anything, if he thought he could win; the former gentleman said he would take it. "done," says the gentleman, "i will bet £ to a crown that my carriage does not break down on 'going or returning from the race-course.'" the bet was accepted; and after going about yards farther, down came the carriage. and thus, in the course of the same day, he lost his two bets of £ to s. in the course of this week's fighting, there were several guineas betted to shillings, and lost, on the various battles. cock-fights as a rule took place in the evening, seven having been the usual hour appointed for the sport to commence. in the palmy days of cock-fighting there were several celebrated pits in london, the chief of which, of course, was the cock pit royal, which had been much frequented by charles ii. and his courtiers. another well-known cockpit existed at moss alley, bankside, southwark, where great battles were contested. at the new pit, hoxton, in january, , a number of spirited mains were fought, the gentlemen of islington having challenged the gentlemen of hackney for five guineas a battle and fifty guineas the odd battle. hackney easily proved victorious. the royal cockpit in st. james's park was taken down in , never again to be rebuilt. the governors and trustees of christ's hospital, to whom the ground belonged, met on the spot, the very day the lease expired; and, as might naturally be expected from the patrons of such an institution, gave directions for the immediate demolition of the building. a curious custom which was long ago sometimes enforced at cock-fights prescribed that any one indulging in foul play or not paying his bets should be put into a large basket and drawn up to the roof of the cockpit. this was called being basketed. a man well-known to the sporting world, being once in this predicament, and notwithstanding that he had no money in his pocket and could not expect his bets to be taken, had the fever of betting so strong upon him that in spite of his situation in the basket, he could not help vociferating, as the odds varied, "i'll lay six to four--two to one--five to two--three to one--four to one--five to one--a guinea to a shilling--the long odds, ten pounds to a crown," to the no small diversion of the auditors and spectators, who, at length, commiserating his case and attributing his imprudence to an insurmountable passion for play, shortened his punishment; and when a gentleman present gave him a small sum he took the long odds all the way through, went off with a hundred guineas in his pocket, and from this source alone became a very distinguished character on the turf. in hogarth's print of the cockpit, published in , a shadow of mysterious contour is thrown upon the floor of the pit, the origin of which may be seen to be a gambler who, having been basketed for not paying his debts, is vainly offering his watch as a pledge so that he may be let down and allowed to take his place among the somewhat ill-favoured crowd which is watching the battle. the principal figure in this print represents a nobleman (lord bertie) who, though stone-blind, was a zealous patron of cock-fighting, though it is difficult to see how, under these unfavourable circumstances, the sport could have had any attraction for him. the preston race-meetings used to be a great rendezvous for cock-fighters. lord derby long held a distinguished place among the patrons of the sod, and was reckoned one of the best judges of a cock in england. the excellent walks which his lordship owned on his own estates, and the number of cocks he bred, ensured him a plentiful supply of fine young birds; consequently his birds never had a feather wrong; this, joined to their true blood, which made them show fight to the last, and the skill of paul potter, his feeder, caused lord derby to be the winner of many a preston main. the following is a specimen of a challenge to a cock match:-- challenge the gentlemen of windsor forest having lost their annual opponent (who is gone to reside in somersetshire), wish to show thirty-one in the main for five guineas a battle, and twenty the odds. adding byes at two guineas a battle for two days' play, to fight at wokingham, berks, between the present day and whitsuntide. any acceptance of the terms may be made through the medium of this communication, which shall be instantly acceded to and the necessary regulations made in proper form. c.w.t. & m. _february nd, ._ though cock-fighting is now forbidden by law in england, a certain amount of it still goes on in secret, whilst the sport flourishes openly in the north of france and in spain. in former days there were regular families of cock-feeders or trainers. the greatest authority on cock-fighting is said to have been joe gilliver, who fought cocks for george iii. and george iv. in the royal cockpit at windsor. he it was who fought the famous main at lincoln in . on the occasion there were seven battles for five thousand guineas the main and a thousand guineas a battle. five battles were won by gilliver's birds. the great-nephew of old joe gilliver still lives--the last of the cock-fighters--at cockspur, polesworth. over sixty years ago this veteran[ ] fought and won a main against lord berkeley in battersea fields, and within the last two decades he vindicated the honour of the english game-cock at lille, where some birds he took over proved victorious--a particularly fine cock after a successful battle leaping upon the body of its conquered opponent and emitting a series of lusty crows. game-cocks are extraordinarily bold birds, and records exist of their having even attacked men. a gentleman, for instance, passing down park street was once surprised to find something fluttering about his head, and turning round, received the spur of a game-cock in his cheek. he beat off his antagonist, who, however, instantly returned to the charge, and wounded him again in the shoulder. another gentleman, passing by at the same time, was also attacked by this feathered desperado. a game-cock bred by mr. hunt of compton pauncefoot, somerset, in , displayed extraordinary courage when three years old. a fox having seized a hen, her cries drew the attention of the cock, who, discovering the fox in the act of carrying off his prey, flew at reynard, and at one blow killed him on the spot, and saved the life of the hen. in this cock fought a gallant battle at epsom races, and won at high odds against him. the high spirit of the game-cock was once strikingly manifested in a naval action. by some mistake or other a particularly fine bird was sold with a number of other fowls to captain berkeley of the _marlborough_, , for his sea-stock. the purchase was made previous to the departure of the british fleet that sailed under the gallant lord howe, in the month of may , about which time the cock was deposited in the coops on board, for the purpose of being brought to table. on the glorious st of june, the fate of the above ship, the intrepid bravery of whose crew led her into the hottest scene of action, hung in the balance. the enemy's shot had destroyed all the convenience made on her poop for keeping the live stock, and the fowls were flying about in different parts of the ship. some time after the engagement had commenced, all her masts were shot away by the board, and smoke, hurry, and alarm were general. when the main-mast went, broken off about eight feet from the deck, the cock immediately flew to the stump, where he began to flutter his wings, and to crow with all the exultation so commonly observed in a conquering bird; a circumstance so singular in its nature, that the tars who were viewing it conceived a noble resolution from the example, and actually maintained the same sense of triumph as did the cock, until victory and glory crowned the gallant contest. the spirit of the noble bird became the subject of much observation when the ship arrived in the hamoaze, and many curious spectators came from different parts of the country to see the feathered hero who had so proudly vindicated the conquering spirit of old england. some time after a silver medal was struck by the orders of admiral berkeley; it was hung upon the neck of the old game-cock, who in the parks and around the princely halls of goodwood passed the remainder of his downy days in honoured ease. footnotes: [footnote : he is described in contemporary sporting records as wearing this, though the author has been unable to discover exactly what a "boat hat" was. the french still make use of a similar expression, calling a particular kind of straw hat a "_canotier_."] [footnote : this lady's first husband had been sir duke giffard, and mrs. mellish was one of several daughters she had by him. the writer is indebted to mr. henry mellish of hodsock priory for this and other interesting details of his ancestor's career.] [footnote : the outrangership of windsor forest was originally instituted for the protection of the deer between windsor park and the river wey, but in it was decided that no part of surrey except guildford park (afterwards granted away) belonged to the forest, and the post became a sinecure, keeping a salary of £ a year. about the time of the american war, however, when votes were valuable, this was increased to £ .] [footnote : an interesting interview with william gilliver appeared in _fry's magazine_ for march .] vii prevalence of wagering in the eighteenth century--riding a horse backwards--lord orford's eccentric bet--travelling piquet--the building of bagatelle--matches against time--"old q." and his chaise match--buck whalley's journey to jerusalem--buck english--irish sportsmen--jumping the wall of hyde park in --undressing in the water--colonel thornton--a cruel wager--walking on stilts--a wonderful leap--eccentric wagers--lloyd's walking match--squire osbaldiston's ride--captain barclay--jim selby's drive--mr. bulpett's remarkable feats. in the eighteenth century the bloods of the day bet on anything and everything. a well-known spendthrift, for instance, made a practice of backing one raindrop to roll down a window quicker than another--a practice which gave rise to the following lines:-- the bucks had dined, and deep in council sat, their wine was brilliant, but their wit grew flat: up starts his lordship, to the window flies, and lo! "a race!--a race!" in rapture cries; "where?" quoth sir john. "why, see the drops of rain start from the summit of the crystal pane-- a thousand pounds! which drop with nimblest force, performs its current down the slippery course!" the bets were fix'd--in dire suspense they wait for vict'ry pendent on the nod of fate. now down the sash, unconscious of the prize, the bubbles roll--like pearls from chloe's eyes, but ah! the glittering charms of life are short! how oft two jostling steeds have spoiled the sport. lo! thus attraction, by coercive laws, th' approaching drops into one bubble draws-- each curs'd his fate, that thus their project cross'd; how hard their lot, who neither won nor lost! besides the huge sums which were lost at games (in , £ , changed hands in a single day between two players at some billiard-rooms in st. james's street), a great deal of money was frittered away in matches of an eccentric kind. in , for instance, a number of young men subscribed for a piece of plate, which was run for in tyburn road by six asses, ridden by chimney-sweepers. two boys rode two asses on hampstead heath for a wooden spoon, attended by above five hundred persons on horse-back. women running for holland smocks was not uncommon; and a match was even projected for a race between women, to be dressed in hooped petticoats. considerable sums of money are said to have changed hands over these events, whilst a wager of £ depended on a match between the earl of lichfield and mr. gage that the latter's chaise and pair should outrun the earl's chariot and four. the ground was from tyburn to hayes, and mr. gage lost through some accident. in , count de buckeburg, a well-known german author, on a visit to england, laid a considerable wager, that he would ride a horse from london to edinburgh backwards, that is, with the horse's head turned towards edinburgh, and the count's face towards london; and in this manner he actually rode the journey in less than four days. at the end of the eighteenth century an officer trotted fifteen miles from chelmsford to dunmow in one hour and nine minutes with his face to the tail. the eccentric wager made by george, lord orford, an ancestor of the present writer, is well known. the latter, in , bet another nobleman a large sum that a drove of geese would beat an equal number of turkeys in a race from norwich to london. the event proved the justness of his lordship's expectations, for the geese kept on the road with a steady pace, but the turkeys, as every evening approached, flew to roost in the trees adjoining the road, from which the drivers found it very difficult to dislodge them. in consequence of this, the geese arrived at their destination two days before the turkeys. this nobleman, who, by his eccentricities, had acquired the name of the mad lord orford, trained three red deer to draw him in a light phaeton, and in this uncommon equipage he frequently made excursions to some distance, in norfolk and suffolk, till a singular adventure taught him the danger of the practice. one morning in winter, when the scent lay well on the ground, he was taking one of his common drives towards newmarket; his way was over the heath. it happened that a pack of hounds, being out for a chase, took scent of the deer, opened and followed in full cry. the deer caught the death sound, took the alarm, and set off at full speed. it was in vain his lordship endeavoured to pull them in; fear of death was greater than fear of their lord, and they dashed off towards newmarket, a place they were well accustomed to. the dogs were at their heels, but the deer were sufficiently in advance to reach the inn they were accustomed to put up at, when they dashed into the yard, with their terrified lord close at their heels, and the hounds not far behind them; the ostlers, however, exerted themselves to get the gates fastened before the hounds came up, when the whipper-in called them off. in , miss pond, daughter of the compiler and publisher of _ponds racing calendar_, wagered a thousand guineas that she would ride a thousand miles in a thousand hours. this feat she accomplished (it is said on one horse) by the rd of may, having begun in april. a few weeks later mr. pond rode the same horse in two-thirds of the time. even the most trivial things were utilised for losing or winning money. a yorkshire sportsman won a considerable bet on the extreme extent to which a pound of cotton could be drawn in a thread by one of the manchester spinning jennies; the loser betted that it would not reach two miles in length; but, upon measurement, it was found to exceed twenty-three. a young man of the name of drayton undertook for a considerable sum to pull in a pound weight at the distance of a mile, that is, the weight had to be attached to a string a mile in length, and drayton to stand still and pull it to himself. the time allowed for this singular performance was two hours and a half. the odds were against him, but he won his wager. a printer at chester for a wager picked up stones each a yard apart, returning every time with them to a basket at one end of the line, in - / minutes, it having been betted that he would not complete his task within minutes. so great was the love of betting amongst sporting men that when they were on a journey they would wager as to what they might meet with next. this method of gambling was afterwards made into a regular game which was called "travelling piquet." this was defined as a mode of amusing themselves, practised by two persons riding in a carriage, each reckoning towards his game the persons, or animals, that passed by on the side next them, according to the following estimation:-- a parson riding on a grey horse game an old woman under a hedge do. a cat looking out of a window a man, woman, and child in a buggy a man riding with a woman behind him a flock of sheep a flock of geese a post-chaise a horseman a man or woman walking death itself was not infrequently made the subject of a wager. just before two unfortunate men, hung at the old bailey, were _dropped off_, a young nobleman present betted a hundred guineas to twenty "that the shorter of the two would give the last kick!" the wager was taken, and he won; for the other died almost instantly, whilst the shorter man was convulsed for nearly six minutes. so great was the mania for wagers at this epoch, that even the clergy were affected by the prevailing craze. a young divine, in the vicinity of edinburgh, declared himself ready to undertake for a wager of a hundred guineas to read six chapters from the bible every hour for six weeks. the betting was ten to one against him. in france matters were much the same as in england. the duc de chartres, the duc de lauzun, and the marquis de fitzjames once competed in a foot-race from paris to versailles for two hundred livres; this was won by the marquis de fitzjames. the duc de chartres bet a considerable sum with the comte de genlis that the latter would not go from paris to fontainebleau and back before he (the duc de chartres) had pricked , pinholes in a piece of paper. the comte de genlis was the winner by several hours. the wager of the comte d'artois as to the building of bagatelle is historical. he bet marie antoinette , livres that he would erect a palace on a certain site in the bois de boulogne in six weeks. nine hundred workmen were employed night and day, whilst patrols of the swiss guard seized any building materials which might be of use on the roads in the vicinity--these, it must, however, be added, were paid for. at the end of the six weeks the comte d'artois entertained marie antoinette at a splendid fête in the completed house. matches against time were common. in mr. cooper thornhill rode three times between stilton and shoreditch--two hundred and thirteen miles--in eleven hours and thirty-four minutes on fourteen different horses. six years later, captain shafto won £ , by winning a wager that he would cover fifty miles in two hours. he was allowed as many horses as he pleased. not a few of these matches against time were carried out under most whimsical conditions. on nd august , for instance, anthony thorpe, a journeyman baker, at the artillery ground, ran a mile tied up in a sack, in eleven minutes and a half. in a london to york match was run, the winner, a mare, taking forty hours and thirty-five minutes to complete the journey. a sensational match of a more sporting description was the ride of george iv., when prince of wales, to brighton and back, a journey of one hundred and twelve miles, which the royal sportsman is said to have performed on one horse in ten hours. a wonderful ride was that performed in by a featherweight jockey at newmarket, who rode one horse twenty-three miles in two or three minutes under the hour. the duke of queensberry ("old q.") was at one time fond of sporting matches, in which he generally came off victorious, for he was a shrewd man. in , during the newmarket october meeting, he and sir john lade, mounted on a brace of mules, rode from the ditch in for £ . this ludicrous race, which was very anxiously and obstinately contested, terminated in favour of the duke. mr. thomas dale was also the hero of a donkey match at newmarket, where he rode one hundred miles in twenty-two hours and a half on an ass; £ to £ was laid against this being done within twenty-four hours. old q., when earl of march, for a wager, sent a letter fifty miles within an hour by hand, which was cleverly effected by the missive in question being enclosed in a cricket ball and thrown from one to the other by twenty-four expert cricketers. on another occasion old q. made a bet of a thousand guineas that he would produce a man who would eat more at a meal than any one sir john lade could find. the bet being accepted, the time was appointed, but his grace, not being able to attend the exhibition, wrote to his agent to know what success, and accordingly received the following note:-- my lord,--i have not time to state particulars, but merely to acquaint your grace that your man beat his antagonist by a _pig and apple-pye_. (signed) j.p. a curious wager which led to litigation was one between old q., when lord march, and mr. william pigot. the latter and mr. codrington being together at newmarket, it was proposed to run their fathers against each other. mr. pigot's father was upwards of seventy, and mr. codrington's father little more than fifty. the chances were calculated, and mr. codrington, thinking them disadvantageous to him, declined the bet, whereupon lord march agreed to stand in his place, and mutual notes were interchanged. mr. pigot's note was:-- i promise to pay to the earl of march guineas if my father dies before sir william codrington. william pigot. the earl's was:-- i promise to pay to mr. pigot guineas in case sir william codrington does not survive mr. pigot's father. march. the fact was that mr. pigot's father was then actually dead, but that was wholly unknown to the parties. it was contended on the part of mr. pigot, that, as he could not possibly win, he ought not to lose, and it was compared to a ship insurance. if the policy upon a ship had not the words "lost or not lost" inserted, and the ship should be actually lost at the time of making that policy, it would be void. for the plaintiff it was argued that the contract was good, because the fact being wholly unknown to the parties, it could not influence either. the wager was held to be good, and the plaintiff obtained a verdict of £ , the amount of his wager. the most important match made by the "evergreen votary of venus," as old q. was called, was in , when, as lord march, he bet count o'taafe, an irish gentleman notorious for eccentricity, one thousand guineas that a carriage with four wheels could be devised capable of being drawn at not less than nineteen miles within an hour. wright of long acre exhausted all the resources of his craft to diminish weight and friction; the harness was made of silk combined with leather. four thoroughbreds, with two clever light-weight grooms, were selected, and several trials, causing the death of some horses, were run. on august , , the match came off over a course of a mile at newcastle, many thousands of pounds being wagered on the result, which was favourable to lord march, the carriage being drawn over the appointed distance well within the hour. three of the four horses which drew the machine had won plates. the leaders carried about eight stone each, the wheelers about seven, and the chaise, with a boy in it, about twenty-four. the time was minutes seconds. the print (here reproduced) was published in by j. rodger, after the original painting by seymour, which is now, i believe, in the possession of lord rosebery. large sums were laid upon very trivial and useless performances, and a certain number of individuals, well-known for their physical strength, used to undertake to carry out all sorts of queer tasks. in a man called shadbolt, a respectable innkeeper at ware, called goliath on account of his great muscular powers, undertook, for a considerable wager, to run and push his cart from ware to shoreditch church (a distance of twenty-one miles) in ten hours, which he easily performed within the space of six hours and a few seconds, without the least appearance of fatigue. great sums were won and lost on the occasion. all sorts of curious wagers were laid in ireland. the celebrated buck whalley, for instance, once jumped over a carrier's cart on horse-back for a bet. this he did from an upper story of a house, quantities of straw being laid on the other side of the cart. thomas whalley, known as jerusalem whalley, owing to the journey which he made for a wager to jerusalem, was the son of a gentleman of very considerable property in the north of ireland. his father, when advanced in years, married a lady much younger than himself, and left her a widow with seven children. [illustration: the chaise match.] thomas whalley was the eldest son of this family, and had a property of £ , per annum left him by his father. at the age of sixteen he was sent to paris to learn the french language and perfect himself in dancing, fencing, and other elegant accomplishments. the tutor selected to accompany him was not able or desirous of checking young whalley's extravagance. the latter purchased horses and hounds, took a house in paris, and another in the country, each of which was open for the reception of his friends. his finances, ample as they were, were found inadequate to the support of his extraordinary expenses, and, with the hope of supplying his deficiencies, he had recourse to the gaming-tables, which only increased his embarrassments. in one night he lost upwards of £ , . the bill which he drew upon his banker, la touche, in dublin, for this sum was sent back protested, and it became necessary for him to quit paris. on his return to england, however, his creditors (or rather the people who had swindled him out of this money) were glad to compound for half the sum. whalley then went back to ireland and took a house in dublin, where he lived in the most expensive manner, but quickly tiring of rural life decided to return to the continent. while he was still hesitating as to his exact place of destination, some friends, with whom he was dining, and who had heard that he was intending to go abroad, made inquiry of him whither he was going. he hastily answered: "to jerusalem." upon this, certain that he had no such intention, they offered to wager him any sum he did not reach that city. as a result of this, in spite of the fact that he originally had not the faintest idea of such an expedition, he was so much stimulated by the offers made him that he accepted bets to the amount of £ , , and at once made preparations for his journey. a few days later he set out, and having accomplished what was then an adventurous journey, eventually returned to dublin within the appointed time, and in due course claimed and received from his astonished antagonists the reward of his most unexpected performance. after staying some time in dublin, whalley again went to paris, and was witness to the very interesting scenes which occurred in the early part of the revolution in france. he remained in paris till after the return of the king from varennes; and, when it became no longer safe for a subject of the king of great britain to remain in france, he returned to ireland. being of a very active disposition, whalley made constant trips to england, where he frequented the gaming-houses in london, newmarket, and brighton, and soon dissipated a large part of his remaining fortune. he then retired to the isle of man, where he employed himself in cultivating and improving an estate he possessed there, and in educating his children. he at the same time drew up memoirs of his own life, which were discovered a few years ago and published under the title of _memoirs of buck whalley_. another sporting character well known in ireland was the celebrated buck english, who spent the latter part of his life in litigious turmoil, and was a man who experienced infinite vicissitudes of fortune. born to a large estate, the earlier part of his life was spent in scenes of the most unbounded dissipation; but these were curtailed when he got into the hands of a litigious attorney, who, for years, kept him out of his property. mr. english was tried for his life, for the murder of mr. powell, and was with difficulty acquitted, and escaped narrowly from being torn to pieces by the mob in cork. previous to this, he threw a waiter out of a window, and desired him to be "charged in the bill!" in his career, he fought two duels with swords, in the streets of dublin; was a member of parliament, and an excellent speaker; was thrown into a loathsome prison for debt, where his constitution was totally destroyed. he died almost immediately after his liberation, just as he recovered his fortune. in october , at the curragh meeting in ireland, mr. wilde, a sporting gentleman, made bets to the amount of two thousand guineas, to ride against time, viz., one hundred and twenty-seven english miles in nine hours. on the th of october he started in a valley, near the curragh course, where two miles were measured in a circular direction; each time he encompassed the course it was regularly marked. during the interval of changing horses, he refreshed himself with a mouthful of brandy and water, and was no more than six hours and twenty-one minutes in completing the one hundred and twenty-seven miles; of course he had two hours and thirty-nine minutes to spare. mr. wilde had no more than ten horses, but they were all thoroughbreds from the stud of mr. daly. whilst on horse-back, without allowing anything for changing of horses, he rode at the rate of twenty miles an hour for six hours. he was so little fatigued with this extraordinary performance, that he was at the turf club-house in kildare the same evening. the right honourable thomas conolly also rode for a wager of five hundred guineas on the curragh. he was allowed two hours to ride forty miles with any ten hunters of his own. he with ease rode forty-two miles in an hour and forty-four minutes on eight hunters. at this time much money was wagered both in ireland and england upon the leaping powers of the horse, and occasionally the methods employed were none too honourable. a young sportsman, for instance, having boasted of the powers of a recently purchased hunter which he offered to back at jumping against any horse in the world, a friend ridiculed the idea, and said he had a blind hunter that should leap over what the other would not. a wager to no inconsiderable amount was the consequence, and day and place appointed. the time having arrived, both parties appeared on the ground with their nags; when laying down a straw at some distance, the friend put his horse forward, and at the word "over" the blind hunter made a famous leap; while neither whip nor spur could induce the other to rise at all. a very sporting bet was decided in the most fashionable part of london in . on the th of february in that year was accomplished the feat of leaping over the high wall of hyde park from park lane. a bet of five hundred guineas was reported to have been laid between a royal personage and mr. bingham, that the latter's irish-bred brown mare should leap over the wall of hyde park, opposite grosvenor place, which wall was six feet and a half high on the inside, and eight on the out. mr. bingham having sold his mare to mr. jones, the bet, of course, became void. mr. jones offered bets to any amount that the mare should do it, but his offers were not accepted. mr. bingham, to show the possibility of its being done, led his beautiful bay horse, deserter, to the same place, who performed this standing leap twice without any difficulty, except that, in returning, his hind feet brushed the bricks off the top of the wall. as the height from which he was to descend into the road was so considerable, he was received on a bed of long dung. the duke of york, prince william of gloucester, the earl of derby, and a number of the nobility joined the vast concourse of impatient spectators, who were pretty well tired out before the jumping began. another remarkable feat was the leap over a dinner-table with dishes, decanters, and lighted candelabra, performed by mr. manning, a sporting farmer, on a barebacked steed in the rochester room at the white hart inn, at aylesbury, during the steeplechases in . wagers entailing considerable risk and endurance were popular in the past. two gentlemen at a coffee-house near temple bar once made an extraordinary bet of this nature. one of them was to jump into seven feet of water, with his clothes on, and to entirely undress himself in the water, which he did within the appointed time. the present writer, when an undergraduate at cambridge, witnessed a somewhat similar exploit performed in the cam on a particularly cold winter's day. on this occasion, however, the undergraduate, a man of herculean frame, who had wagered that he would undress in the water, was allowed to cancel his bet after he had discarded everything but one sock. as he appeared to be much exhausted, all bets were declared off by mutual consent. the layer of the wager was in a terrible state on leaving the water, but entirely recovered the next day. those fond of shooting frequently wagered on their powers as shots. in the celebrated colonel thornton made a bet that he killed head of game at shots. the result was, he bagged head of game (consisting of partridges, pheasants, hares, snipes, and woodcocks) at shots. amongst these were a black wild duck and a white pheasant cock; and at the last point he killed a brace of cock pheasants, one with each barrel. on the leg of the last killed (an amazing fine bird) was found a ring, proving that he had been taken by colonel thornton when hawking, and turned loose again in . colonel thornton could not bear to hear that any one had outdone him at anything. on one occasion a foreigner was boasting of the sporting powers of the comte d'artois, afterwards charles x., and asserted that the prince in question was, without doubt, considered the greatest shot in europe. on hearing this the colonel looked highly offended, when the foreign sportsman added, "except colonel _tornton_" (thus pronounced), "who is acknowledged to be the longest shot in the world." there was a great deal of bitter-sweet in this, but the colonel wisely interpreted the phrase in a sense complimentary to himself. colonel thornton, though his name has come down to us as a great sporting character, was not by any means universally popular in his own day. notwithstanding that he was of quite respectable descent, and had inherited a comfortable fortune, he was never on familiar terms with the aristocratic sportsmen of his age, with whom it was his darling passion to be able to associate. a well-known member of the jockey club, when the colonel's name was mentioned, once said: "oh! thornton, never let us hear that fellow named; we don't know him." the colonel provoked much ridicule by his overwhelming ambition to excel everybody in everything--a notable instance of which was his taking thornville royal, a palatial house of which his family and suite could only occupy one corner, his means being inadequate to keep up the house and domain in proper style. incapable of restraining an innate tendency to exaggeration, colonel thornton was known to many as "lying thornton," a nickname which was in some degree justified by the palpably mendacious accounts of his exploits, which his craving for notoriety prompted him to disseminate. his conceit was gigantic. he once actually sent an apology for not being present at a royal levee, which absurd conduct caused a great personage many a hearty laugh. the colonel's extravagance, and the lawsuits in which he indulged, often reduced him to great straits for ready money. nevertheless, he was always possessed of considerable property. colonel thornton undoubtedly deserves to be remembered as a sportsman, though his reputation as such would have been greater had he not sought to excel all men in bodily activity and physical exertion, as well as eclipse them in the extent and variety of land and water sports, which was naturally an impossible feat. much given to litigation in life. colonel thornton gave the lawyers employment even after his death. by his will he bequeathed all his remaining property to an illegitimate daughter by priscilla druins, leaving his wife, mrs. thornton, nothing, and his son by her only £ . the will was disputed by the lawyers both in france and england. in the english courts it was decided that the colonel had never ceased to be a british subject, and that, therefore, the will must be valid. the french court, passing a contrary judgment, decreed that the colonel had petitioned in , and obtained a complete naturalisation; that his real domicile being therefore in france, the will must be decided by its laws; and that the property having been willed to a child born in adultery, and otherwise contrary to the laws of france, the will was null and void; and they adjudged accordingly, with costs in favour of mrs. thornton, the lawful wife. the colonel's real property appeared to be very little. he inhabited the château de chambord only as a tenant, but he had purchased the domain of pont le roi, and the vendors sued the colonel's legatees for the purchase money. at the dawn of the nineteenth century long-distance matches continued to be in vogue. the distance between burton, on the humber, and bishopsgate, in the city of london, one hundred and seventy-two miles, was covered in something like eight hours and a half by a sportsman in , who had bet that, with the fourteen horses allowed him, he would accomplish the journey in ten hours. in april a very singular bet, or agreement, was made at brighton between lieutenant-general lennox and henry hunter, esq. the former, after some remarks on the prevalent winds at brighton, proposed to give to the latter, during the space of twenty-eight days, whenever the wind blew from the south-west, one guinea per diem, provided the other would forfeit to him the same sum, during the same period, every day that the wind should blow from the north-east, which proposal was instantly accepted. for the ensuing thirteen days the wind lay mostly in the south-west quarter, upon which mr. hunter remarked that, in spite of south-west gales not being to every one's taste, this was merely another proof of the old adage that "it is an ill wind that blows nobody good." in , captain bennet, of the loyal ongar hundred volunteers, engaged to trundle a hoop from whitechapel church to ongar, in essex, in three hours and a half, a distance of twenty-two miles, for the wager of one hundred guineas. he started on saturday morning, november , precisely at six o'clock, with the wind very much in his favour, and the odds about two to one against him. notwithstanding the early hour, the singularity of the match brought together a numerous assemblage. the hoop used by captain bennet on the occasion was heavier than those trundled by boys in general, and was selected by him conformably to the terms of the wager. the first ten miles captain bennet performed in one hour and twenty minutes, which changed the odds considerably in his favour. he accomplished the whole distance considerably within the given time, as the ongar coachman met him only five miles and a half from ongar, when he had a full hour in hand. a cruel wager was the following, made in december of the same year, when a mr. arnold, a sporting man who resided at pentonville, bet mr. mawbey, a factor of the fulham road, twenty guineas that the former did not produce a dog, which should be thrown over westminster bridge at dark, and find its way home again in six hours, as proposed by arnold. the inhuman experiment was tried in the evening, when a spaniel bitch, the property of a groom in tottenham court road, was produced and thrown over from the centre of the bridge. the dog arrived at the house of her master in two hours after the experiment had been made. little consideration was shown for animals in those days. on a saturday evening in august , a crowd of people assembled at hyde park corner to watch the start of a pony which was, for a stake of five hundred guineas, matched to start with the exeter mail and be in exeter first, with or without a rider. a man leading the pony was at liberty to take a fresh post-horse whenever he liked. the backer of the pony won the match, for though the odds were against it, the game little animal arrived at exeter in very good condition, forty-five minutes before the mail reached that city. several thousands of pounds were wagered on the result. it should be added that the pony drank ale during the journey, and several pints of port in addition. the distance from london to exeter is about one hundred and seventy-four miles. in a very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between cambridge and huntingdon. a gentleman of the former place had betted a considerable sum of money that he would go, a yard from the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles, within the space of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed, except merely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another, and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. he started at the second milestone from cambridge in the huntingdon road, to go six miles out and six miles in; the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the whole in three hours and fifty-three minutes, having thirty-seven minutes to spare within the time allowed him. in the winter of - a bet of £ was made by the duke of richmond, then lord-lieutenant of ireland, with sir edward crofton (who afterwards committed suicide), that the latter should not produce a horse who would leap, in fair irish sporting style (which allows just touching with the hind feet), a wall seven feet high. sir edward brought forward a cocktail horse, called turnip, being got by turnip, a thoroughbred son of old pot o's (a horse imported, like the celebrated diamond, into ireland by colonel hyde), out of a common irish mare. on the day appointed, a gate was removed from its place in a very high park wall, near the phoenix park, and, men and stones being ready, was built up to the required and specified height, in the presence of his grace. while this was being expeditiously accomplished by men used to building up such fences. turnip was kept walking about, by a common groom in jacket and cap. when all was ready, and the signal given, over he went, but had so little run that the duke, thinking the rider was going to turn him round and give him a race at it, turned his head at the moment, and did not see the leap; to reassure him, however, the horse was put over it again. he was a slow horse, and died afterwards from the effects of a severe run with the kildare hounds in an open country, where, though the fences would in england be reckoned severe, they were nothing to the walls of roscommon and galway. about there appears to have been a recrudescence of the craze for eccentric wagers. a good deal of interest was excited in january of that year by the strange performance of a soldier in the guards, who had betted two guineas that he would mark a cross on every tree in st. james's park, that was within his reach, in an hour and ten minutes. he started at ten o'clock in the morning from the first tree in birdcage walk, and completed his task in three minutes less than the time allowed him. a great number of bets depended upon the result. in the same year a french cook, in the employ of lord gwydir, wagered a considerable sum in the neighbourhood of lincoln, that he could roll a round piece of wood like a trencher from grimsthorpe to bourn, a distance of nearly four miles, church-steeple road, at one hundred starts. the bet having been accepted, the frenchman had a groove formed round the edge of the wood, and, with the aid of a piece of cord, he accomplished his task in ninety-nine starts. in the same year an ostler of the dragoon inn, at harrowgate, undertook, for a wager of one guinea, to drag a heavy phaeton three times round the race-course there, being nearly four miles, in six hours. he started at six in the evening, and at fifteen minutes to nine he had performed his singular task. in scrope davis, then a fellow of king's college, cambridge, betted five thousand guineas that he would swim from eaglehurst, the seat of lord cavan, near southampton water, to the isle of wight. this feat, however, he did not attempt, as he received seven hundred and fifty guineas forfeit from the sporting gentleman with whom he made the wager. scrope davis was a particularly cultivated man, who for a time frequented the gaming-table with considerable success. eventually, however, like the great majority of gamblers, he found himself with little to live upon except his cambridge fellowship. he retired to paris and bore his altered fortunes with the greatest philosophy, whilst occupying himself in writing a diary which has unfortunately disappeared. in another literary man of sporting tendencies--a mr. thacker, who had been an assistant master at rugby--undertook at lincoln, for a wager of £ , to make two thousand pens in ten hours; this he performed nearly two hours within the time. it was stipulated that they should be well made; and a person was appointed umpire who examined every pen as he made it. the pens were afterwards sold by auction at the green dragon, where the bet had been decided. in a somewhat novel wager was decided in a tavern in the city. two gentlemen undertook to drink against one another, one to drink wine, and the other water, glass for glass, and he that gave in was to be the loser. they drank the contents of a bottle and a half each, but the wine-drinker was triumphant. the unfortunate water-drinker was afterwards taken ill, being confined to his bed with an attack of the gout. in february a journeyman baker performed a wonderful feat of winning a bet of fifty pounds to ten laid him by a gentleman that he would not stand upon one leg for twelve hours. a square piece of carpet was nailed in the centre of the room, and the time fixed was three o'clock in the afternoon, when the baker made his appearance without shoes, coat, or hat, and proceeded to take up his position upon his right leg. after standing eight hours and a half, before a great number of people, the gentleman, seeing the agony which the baker appeared to be in, offered him one-half of the wager to relinquish the bet; but, to the great astonishment of the spectators, the man refused, saying he would have the whole, or at least try for it; the perspiration was then running off him like rain, but he still persisted, when the bets were fifty to one against him. nevertheless he performed what was in its way a wonderful feat, remaining on the one leg three minutes longer than the stipulated time, when he was put into a chair, and carried home. in may of the same year, a novel bet of £ was laid in a coffee-room in bond street. the wager in question stipulated that a gentleman should go from london to dover, and back, in any mode he chose, while another made a million of dots with a pen and ink upon a sheet of writing-paper. in , lloyd, the celebrated pedestrian, started, on monday the th march, at eight in the morning, to perform thirty miles _backwards_ in nine successive hours, including stoppages, at bagshot, surrey. he went on during the morning at the rate of four miles an hour, although the ground was much against him, and finished his task with apparent ease fourteen minutes within the time. he immediately mounted a friends horse, and proceeded to hartford bridge, where he took up his quarters for the night, and walked on to odiham the next morning (tuesday), where he undertook to walk twenty miles backwards in five hours and a half, which, with the advantage of a good road, he again accomplished seven minutes and a half within his time. the same year a gentleman made a bet that he would cause all the bells of a well-frequented tavern in glasgow to ring at the same period without touching one of them, or even leaving the room. this he accomplished by turning the stop-cock of the main gas-pipe, and involving the whole inmates in instant darkness. in a short period the clangor of bells rang from every room and box in the house, which gained him his bet amidst the general laughter and applause even of the losers. as the nineteenth century crept on, life grew more strenuous, and the eccentric wagers, once so popular, went out of fashion; sporting matches, however, were occasionally made. in , squire osbaldiston, of historic sporting memory, when forty-four years old and over eleven stone in weight, won a thousand guineas by riding two hundred miles in eight hours and thirty-nine minutes, the conditions of the wager stipulating that he should go the distance in ten hours. no less than twenty-eight horses were utilised in this historic match. at . a.m., july , , at newmarket, captain barclay, the famous pedestrian, successfully ended a walk of a thousand miles in a thousand successive hours at the rate of a mile in each and every hour. this great walker had three-quarters of an hour to spare and completed his task with great ease, to being offered upon him on the last morning of his walk. about £ , depended upon this match, of which £ , was won by barclay himself. seventeen years later captain polhill easily accomplished the task of walking, driving, and riding fifty miles in twenty-four consecutive hours, the whole distance of a hundred and fifty being negotiated with five hours to spare. jim selby's coaching feat of driving to brighton and back in eight hours is still fresh in the memory of many. a thousand pounds to five hundred was laid at the ascot meeting of against such a performance. selby started from the white horse cellar, piccadilly, at in the morning of july , and reached the old ship at brighton at . . immediately starting on the return journey, he arrived at the white horse cellars at . , and thus won the bet by ten minutes. in the same year an extraordinary sporting feat was performed by a friend of the writer, mr. charles bulpett (thirty-seven years old at the time), who took £ to £ that he would ride a mile, run a mile, and walk a mile--three miles in all--within sixteen minutes and a half. this he was successful in doing, the exact time occupied being sixteen minutes and seven seconds. it should be added that the extraordinary athletic powers displayed on this occasion were greatly enhanced by the fact that mr. bulpett was suffering from a game leg. the same gentleman also won another sporting match of an original kind. dining one evening at the ship at greenwich (formerly a great resort and the scene of an annual ministerial fish dinner) with some friends, the subject of swimming came under discussion, and in the course of the conversation some one, pointing across the river, spoke of the difficulty of swimming the thames at this spot in ordinary clothes. "i will," said mr. bulpett, "lay you £ to £ that i do it." the bet was taken and the next day, according to the terms of the wager, mr. bulpett entered the water at the ship dressed in a frock coat, top hat, with a cane in his hand. a boat with his friends in it followed his progress. he reached the opposite shore with the greatest ease, though he was carried a mile and a quarter down by the tide, and when he got there offered to lay the same bet that he would then and there swim back to the other shore, but there were no takers. had the wager been repeated, there is little doubt but that another £ would have found its way into the pockets of this redoubtable athlete. a feat of a somewhat similar kind to mr. bulpett's was performed in by mr. j.b. radcliffe, who within the space of fifteen minutes rowed, swam, ran, cycled, and rode a horse the distance of a quarter of a mile, successfully covering the mile and a half in the appointed time. viii gambling in paris--henry iv. and sully--cardinal mazarin's love of play--louis xiv. attempts to suppress gaming--john law--anecdotes--institution of public tables in --biribi--gambling during the revolution--fouché--the tables of the palais royal--the galeries de bois--account of gaming-rooms--passe-dix and craps--frascati's and the salon des Étrangers--anecdotes--public gaming ended in paris--last evenings of play--decadence of the palais royal--its restaurants--gaming in paris at the present day. there has always been much gambling in paris, and up to the middle of the last century that city was the stronghold of public gaming, the goddess of chance wielding absolute sway in the palais royal, where licensed gaming-tables existed. the toleration of public gaming in paris dated as far back as the reign of henri iv. in there were forty-seven "brelans" frequented by any one who cared to play, each of which paid a daily tribute of one pistole to the lieutenant civil, who held an office in a great measure corresponding with that of the modern prefect of police. henri iv. himself was much addicted to gaming, and the celebrated sully attempted to reform him. the king in question having once lost an immense sum of money at play, sully let his royal master send to him for it several times without taking any notice; at last, however, he brought it and spread the coins before him upon a table. the king fixed his eyes upon the vast sum--said to have been enough to have bought amiens from the spaniards--and at last cried out to sully, "i am corrected, i will never again lose my money at gaming while i live." the gaming-resorts of old paris were filled with people whose reputations for probity were generally a good deal more than doubtful. in one of the best of these _tripots_ a gentleman, whose turn to hold the hand had come, delayed the game by insisting on searching for a few pieces of gold which he had dropped on the floor. the other players, eager to pursue their game, remonstrated with him saying, "you know we are all honest people here." "i know that," was the reply, "honest people, one of whom gets hung every week when the law is in a mood to do its duty." scandals of the most disgraceful kind were of constant occurrence, and in consequence of the numerous quarrels relating to unpaid wagers, francis the first once proposed to create a special court of jurisdiction to deal with such cases. a list of judges and officials was even drawn up, but the scheme was never actually put into execution. whilst the ordinary folk flocked to more or less obscure gaming-houses, the _noblesse_ in the seventeenth century were great patrons of the tennis-court known as the "tripot de la sphère," in the marais. a considerable amount of etiquette prevailed, and not a few careers were wrecked owing to the overbearing demeanour of some of the great nobles. cardinal mazarin, however, introduced games of chance at the court of louis xiv. in , and having initiated the king and the queen regent into the pleasures of the gaming-table, as an indirect consequence caused the decadence of tennis, mail (pall mall), and billiards. games involving strength, skill, and exercise became neglected, and the population somewhat demoralised. gaming spread from the court to paris, and from thence to provincial towns, in many cases producing a very disastrous effect. louis the fourteenth was fond of backgammon, at which one day he had a doubtful throw. a dispute arose, and the surrounding courtiers all remained silent. the count de gramont happened to come in at that instant. "decide the matter," said the king to him. "sire," said the count, "your majesty is in the wrong." "how," replied the king, "can you thus decide without knowing the question?" "because," said the count, "had the matter been doubtful, all these gentlemen present would have given it for your majesty." cardinal mazarin himself was generally ready to bet about anything. he was driving in the country one day with a certain count, when the latter proposed that they should wager on the number of sheep they should pass in the fields on each side of the road, one taking the right and the other the left side. the cardinal was a heavy loser over this, as, much to his surprise, both going and returning the side selected by his companion simply swarmed with sheep, whilst very few were to be seen on the other. as a matter of fact, as he afterwards genially hinted, the count had taken measures not to lose his bet, but the cardinal, who was good-natured in such matters, bore him no ill-will. another great ecclesiastic who was equally good-humoured about losses at play was the cardinal d'este, who, one day entertaining at dinner a brother prince of the church, the cardinal de medici, played with him afterwards, and quite carelessly allowed the latter to win a stake of some ten thousand crowns, because, as he told an onlooker, he did not wish his guest to go away in a bad humour, or feel that he had been made to pay for his dinner. hoca was a very popular game about this time. certain italians who had come into france in the train of cardinal mazarin contrived to obtain a concession from the king which enabled them to establish places in which this game might be played, and as they took care always to keep the bank themselves, they soon began to attract unfavourable notice owing to the large sums which fell into their maw. the game in question was prodigiously favourable to the bank, the players having only twenty-eight chances against thirty. in consequence of the public scandal which resulted, the parliament of paris stepped in and threatened severe punishment against these men, whilst it was made punishable by death to play hoca at all. nevertheless, it continued to be in high favour at the court, where many were ruined by gambling. in , louis xiv. determined to put a stop to the evil, and issued an order that no one should engage at faro, basset, and other games of chance on any consideration; every offender was to be fined livres, and the person at whose house any such game was played incurred a penalty of livres for each offence. gamblers were also to be imprisoned for six months. the order in question, however, appears to have effected nothing, for some years later the same prince published a still severer edict, by which he forbade, on pain of death, any gaming in the french cavalry, and sentenced every commanding officer or governor who should presume to set up a hazard-table to be cashiered, and all concerned to be immediately and rigorously imprisoned. about the commencement of the regency all paris went mad over gaming; many of the houses of the great nobles were virtually _tripots_, special lights outside announcing this to passers-by. horace walpole declared that at least a hundred and fifty people of the highest quality lived on the play which took place in their houses, which any one wishing to gamble could enter at all hours. at the mansion of the duc de gevres persons desirous of taking the bank paid about twelve guineas a night. such proceedings were deemed to be no disgrace to the nobles. soon the gambling fever assumed a far more dangerous form than cards or dice, owing to the wild speculation brought into fashion by law. this man, who was born in , was the son of a lawyer at edinburgh. coming up to london he fell in love with the sister of a peer, who, disapproving of such a marriage with an adventurer, challenged law, and fell in the duel. law immediately escaped into holland, and was tried, convicted, and outlawed in england. perhaps it was in holland he acquired that turn of mind which revels in immense calculations; anyhow he became an adept in the mysteries of exchanges and re-exchanges. from thence he proceeded to venice and other cities, studying the nature of their banks. in he was at paris, avid as ever of speculation. at the close of the reign of louis xiv., the french finances were in great disorder; and law, having obtained an audience of that monarch, had almost convinced the bankrupt king of the feasibility of his speculative projects. he had offered to pay the national debt by establishing a company, whose paper was to be received with all possible confidence, and who were to make immense profits by their commercial transactions. the minister, desmarest, however, took alarm and, to get rid of law, threatened him, by one of his emissaries, with the bastille. law quitted paris, and became a wanderer through italy. he then addressed himself to the king of sardinia, who refused the adventurer's assistance, curtly declaring that he was not powerful enough to ruin himself! at the death of louis xiv., the duke of orleans was regent. law saw his chance and ventured again to paris, where he found the regent docile enough. the latter, indeed, was placed in a most trying situation: the finances were all confusion, and no one appeared competent to settle them. at first the regent listened somewhat reluctantly to law, doubtful as to what consequences must follow such colossal schemes as those in which the adventurer dealt. matters, however, going from bad to worse, the numerical quack was called in to relieve, by his powerful remedy, the disorder which no one else would even attempt to cure. law commenced with most brilliant prospects. he established his bank, was chosen director of the east india company, and soon gave his scheme that vital credit which produced real specie. in that distracted time, every one buried or otherwise concealed his valuables; but, when the spells of law began to operate, every coffer was opened, while the proprietors of many estates seemed to prefer his paper to the possession of their lands. all europe appeared delighted; law acquired millions in a morning; whilst the regent, thoroughly duped, felicitated himself on his possession of so great an alchemist. law was honoured with nobility, and created comte de tankerville; as for marquisates, he purchased them at his will. edinburgh, his native city, humbly presented him with her freedom, in which appears these remarkable expressions:--"the corporation of edinburgh presents its freedom to john law, count of tankerville, etc., etc., etc., a most accomplished gentleman; the first of all bankers in europe; the fortunate inventor of sources of commerce in all parts of the remote world; and who has deserved so well of his nation." from a scotchman (says voltaire) he became, by naturalisation, a frenchman; from a protestant, a catholic; from an adventurer, a prince; and from a banker, a minister of state. law's novel system of finance was perhaps most aptly defined by a dissipated and spendthrift member of the french _noblesse_, the marquis de cavillac, who, much to the scotchman's disgust, bluntly accused him of plagiarising from his own methods, which, as he added, consisted in drawing and giving bills which would certainly never be met. meanwhile a veritable rage for speculation prevailed. fortunes were made in a month, and stock-jobbing was carried on even in the narrowest alleys of paris. singular anecdotes are recorded of this time. a coachman gave warning to his master, who begged at least that he would provide him with another as good as himself. "very well," was the reply, "i have hired two this morning; take your choice, and i will have the other." a footman set up his chariot; but, going to it, got up behind, where from force of habit he remained till reminded by his own servant of the mistake. an old beggar, who had a remarkable hunch on his back, haunted the rue quincampoix, which was the crowded resort of all stock-jobbers; here he acquired a good fortune by lending out his hunch for five minutes at a time as a desk. law himself was adored; the proudest courtiers were humble reptiles before this mighty man; dukes and duchesses patiently waited in his ante-chamber; and mrs. law, a haughty beauty, when a duchess was announced, exclaimed, "still more duchesses! there is no animal so tiresome as a duchess!" the court ladies never left law alone. one morning, when he was surrounded by a body of _grandes dames_, he was going to retire. they inquired the reason, which was of such a kind as should have silenced them; but on the contrary, they said, "oh! if it is nothing but that, let them bring here a _chaise percée_ for mr. law." when the young king was at play, and the stakes were too high even for his majesty, he refused to cover them all; young law (the son of the adventurer) cried out, "if his majesty will not cover, i will." the king's governor frowned on the boy of millions, who, perceiving his error, threw himself at the king's feet. the infatuation ran through all classes, and even the french academy solicited for the honour of law becoming their associate--this scotchman was the only speculator they ever admitted into their body. the evil hour, however, at last arrived; the immense machine became so complicated that even the head of law began to turn with its rapid revolutions. in he created credit; but in may , uncounted millions disappeared in air. nothing was seen but paper and bankruptcy everywhere. law was considered as the sole origin of the public misfortune, no one blaming his own credulity. the mob broke his carriages, destroyed his houses, and tried to find the arithmetician in order to tear him to pieces. he escaped from paris in disguise, and long wandered in europe incognito. after some years, he found a hiding-place in venice, where he lived, poor, obscure, yet still calculating. montesquieu, who saw him there, said: "he is still the same man; his mind ever busied in financial schemes; his head is full of figures, of agios, and of banks. his fortune is very small, yet he loves to game high." indeed, of all his more than princely revenues, he only saved, as a wreck, a large white diamond, which, when he had no money, he used to pawn. voltaire saw his widow at brussels. she was then as humiliated, as miserable, and as obscure, as she had been triumphant and haughty at paris. after the collapse of law's schemes the stream of gaming returned to its ordinary channels, and high play continued as formerly to be the pastime of the _noblesse_, some of whom kept more or less public gaming-tables. not, however, till were public gaming-tables, somewhat resembling those still flourishing at monaco, licensed in paris. in that year sartines, the celebrated "lieutenant of police," began to authorise regular "maisons de jeu," the profits of which were in principle supposed to be devoted to the foundation of hospitals, but in reality failed to reach their destined goal of philanthropy. the most popular game played was called "la belle." certain privileged ladies, it may be added, were accorded permission to preside at the twelve gaming-tables of paris twice a week. the bankers gave these attractive sorceresses six louis at each sitting, and paid all other expenses. a third day in the seven was set aside for the benefit of the police, who, once every week, ungallantly pocketed the six golden pieces of each of the presiding goddesses, most of whom were battered baronesses and ruined marchionesses, who had petitioned for the somewhat dubious honour of presiding at these _tripots_. amongst them were madame de thouvenère, la baronne de gancière, and la marquise de sainte doubeuville. the ladies were generally represented by deputies of the fair sex, who received a fair share of the wages of iniquity. the directors of the gaming-houses in question were as a rule the valets of grand seigneurs, the best known being a man called gombaud, who acted as cashier-general. the success of the authorised "houses" led to the establishment of rival and clandestine _tripots_. the most celebrated of these private pandemoniums, which were practically "hells," were kept by madame de selle, rue montmartre; la comtesse champeiron, rue de cléry; and madame de fonteneille. rue de l'arsenal. it was at the last-named place that sartines, who often visited such places as a private individual for his own pleasure, narrowly escaped the blow of a poniard, on being recognised by a ruined gambler. a good deal of crime and misery was declared to arise from the existence of these gaming-houses, and at length, in , after many suicides and bankruptcies innumerable, they were temporarily prohibited. the main cause, however, was that the brother of a favourite mistress of a pet courtier, after ruining himself and robbing a friend in order to obtain funds with which to play, had put an end to his existence, by blowing out his brains, at a gaming-house kept by madame de la serre, place des victoires. after this the demon of gaming took refuge at the court, where shady financiers and well-dressed scoundrels carried on a very lucrative traffic almost under the nose of his most christian majesty. the privileged hôtels of the ambassadors, where the police had no control, became also the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the vampires of that period. in addition to this, after a short lapse of time, the original golgothas were re-licensed, the game called "biribi" displacing "la belle," and becoming the popular road to ruin of the day. biribi is now probably quite obsolete. it was played upon a table which contained seventy numbers, to which there were corresponding numbers enclosed in a bag. these the banker drew out one by one, the player whose money was on the corresponding number on the table being paid a sum equivalent to sixty-four times his stake. as at roulette, there were a great number of other chances--_pair_ and _impair_, _noir_ and _rouge_, _du petit et du grand côté_, _la bordure du tableau_, _les terminaisons_, and the like. there were nine columns of numbers, each of which contained eight, with the exception of the middle column, which was the banker's; this consisted of six numbers only, which were considered zeroes. unattractive as this game must appear to a more sophisticated generation, biribi became a regular craze. about this time another epidemic of domestic horrors and public crimes caused the hells to be denounced to parliament, which cited the redoubtable lieutenant of police, sartines, to its bar, and after a good deal of gesticulation and ultra-moral oratory--most of it from those members of the parliament who themselves kept privileged receptacles of gaming--it was decided that the high court of peers should be convoked, in order that they might deal severely with those minor ruffians, who, in contravention of the laws, carried on clandestine play. the patrician moralists shortly after issued a decree, sanctioned by royalty, that the bankers of unauthorised gaming-houses should be liable to the _carcan_ (pillory), branding with a hot iron, and the _fout_ (flogging). after this the licensed hells carried on their golden commerce in full security, but not entirely without competition, in spite of the aforesaid pains and penalties which were in several cases enforced. a curious and characteristic consequence of such a state of affairs was the use to which certain diplomatic representatives put their mansions, making good, or rather bad, use of the immunity from interference which their office of envoy conferred. m. le chevalier zeno, the venetian ambassador, turned his house into a regular casino, admitting any one into it who would play. for those of the lowest degree a particular room was reserved, known to its habitués as "l'enfer." remonstrances and representations from the authorities were powerless to effect the cessation of what became a public scandal, the venetian embassy continuing to be little but a gambling-hell, till the departure of the ambassador in question. three other ministers also maintained establishments of a similar kind. these were the prussian envoy, who resided in the rue de choiseul, the envoy of hesse-cassel, whose house was in the rue poissonnière, and the ambassador of sweden, whose gambling establishment was on the place du louvre, at a house bearing the inscription "Écuries de m. l'ambassadeur de suède." the somewhat singular methods employed by the enterprising diplomats in question were very freely commented upon in a report issued by the "lieutenant de police" in february , nothing, however, being done to check the scandal. on the contrary, certain members of the _noblesse_, being struck with the pecuniary advantages to be reaped from keeping a gaming-house, followed the example of the ambassadors, m. le marquis and m. le comte de genlis presiding over establishments of this kind in the place vendôme and in the rue bergère. it became no uncommon thing for chevaliers de st. louis to act as bankers or croupiers. owing to the decoration they wore they were not subject to the same jurisdiction as ordinary mortals, besides which, many of them were excellent swordsmen. this naturally gave them a great advantage in the case of any protest on the part of the players against the methods employed by the bank, a circumstance which eventually led to a royal prohibition of further gaming enterprises being undertaken by chevaliers of this order. as the stormy days of ' approached, gambling became more and more prevalent, and during the revolution, notwithstanding the spartan austerity which it was declared was to be a characteristic of the new era, gaming was freely tolerated by the authorities. later, when fouché assumed the office of minister of police, the privilege of keeping gambling-houses was let out as openly and as publicly as the king's ministers had farmed out the duties upon salt, tobacco, or wine to the "fermiers généraux" of the revenue. cards of address to gambling-houses were distributed in all parts of france in the same manner as circulars in london. the sum of money which this system of toleration brought into fouché's pocket reached upwards of ten thousand pounds per month. the prefect at lyons, vermignac, learnt, to his cost, how dangerous it was to meddle with this _lawful_ income of citizen fouché; for, having ordered the suppression of all gambling-houses in that city, fouché represented him in such a light to bonaparte that he lost the honourable place of prefect, and was sent, in disgrace, as minister to switzerland, a situation no prefect's secretary would by choice accept, on account of the unsettled state of that country, and the disagreeable and difficult part a french minister had at that time to perform there. besides what the farmers of the gambling-houses paid to fouché every month, they were obliged to hire and pay , persons employed in their houses at paris, and in the provinces, as croupiers, from half a crown to half a guinea a day; most of these , persons were also supposed to be spies for fouché. in , thiroux de crosne, lieutenant de police, estimated that there were fifty-three houses in paris where illegal games were played; other authorities of that time gave figures far in excess of this. _tripots_ existed in the rue notre dame des victoires, rue des petits pères, place des petits pères, and rue de cléry. no. rue traversière, saint honoré, no. rue de richelieu, and no. rue vivienne were all well-known gaming places. in the palais royal, however, thirty-one different establishments were ready to allure the votaries of fortune. at no. a man named dumoulin, who had been a lackey in the service of the dubarry, acted as croupier; no. was known as the rendezvous of royalists; no. enjoyed a bad reputation as being the cause of a great number of suicides; no. was very decorously conducted, no woman being allowed to enter its doors, whilst non-alcoholic refreshments and a light beer were alone provided in order that the players should run no risk of exciting themselves. in order to further safeguard their clients, the proprietors of no. maintained a regular armed guard who effectually prevented the incursion of undesirable characters. there existed at this period a regular gang of black-mailers, who, headed by a ruffian named venternière, made a practice of entering gaming places and extorting money from the executive under the threat of creating such a disturbance as to cause the tables to be suppressed. the gang in question were, however, thoroughly routed in november when making a determined incursion into no. . they were very roughly handled, their leader being laid senseless upon the pavement. a celebrated parisian gamester at the time of the revolution was monsieur de monville, who was a great deal in the company of the duc d'orléans--a prince whose passion for play was notorious. whilst the projected arrest of the duc was being debated in the convention, this gentleman was engaged in a particularly spirited gambling duel with the regicide philippe Égalité; the players indeed were so absorbed in their game as to cause dinner to be served on the very table at which they were playing. at this moment merlin de douai burst into the room with the announcement of the impeachment of the duc, who, horror-struck at such news, deplored the ingratitude of his accusers, after the many proofs of patriotism which he had given. then turning to monville he cried, "what do you think of such an infamy, monville?" the latter, whilst leisurely squeezing a lemon over his sole, said in the calmest manner in the world, "it is certainly horrible. monseigneur, but what did you expect? the rascals have got all they could out of your highness, who is now of no more use; consequently they are going to treat you as i do this lemon." he then, in the most elegant manner in the world, threw the remains of the fruit in question into the fire-place, remarking the while, "one must never forget. monseigneur, that a sole should be eaten quite hot." m. de monville was a great frequenter of the gambling-rooms over which presided the beautiful madame de st. amaranthe, whose tragic fate on the scaffold excited so much pity. the _tripot_ over which she cast her smiles was at no. in the palais royal, which has been mentioned before, and was the most luxurious in paris. it was said, indeed, that it resembled nothing so much as versailles in the days before the revolution, and here many royalist conspirators were wont to assemble. denunciations of what was described as a reactionary stronghold were being constantly received by the committee of public safety, and the popularity of the presiding goddess of this shrine of chance with the royalists eventually led to her execution. the revolutionary authorities saw reaction in everything, even in playing-cards, and in they arrived at the conclusion that the kings were but antiquated symbols of tyranny, and attempted to substitute a card called the "pouvoir exécutif" in their place. players using these new-fashioned cards, instead of speaking of the king of hearts or clubs, were obliged to say the "pouvoir exécutif" of hearts and so on. citizens dajouré and jaume, however, improved upon this, and invented a new sort of pack in which the king became "le génie," the queen "liberty," the knave "equality," and the ace "law." hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds were changed into peace, war, art, and commerce. the cards in question, it may be added, made no successful appeal to gamblers, who continued to prefer the sort still in general use. they were, however, extremely prettily designed, and are now reckoned amongst the artistic curiosities produced by the revolution. during our war with france some french prisoners at deal were once rather amusingly rebuked for their anti-monarchical tendencies by a private of the west essex militia, which regiment was then quartered at deal. the man in question had been begged by the prisoners to procure them a pack of cards, which he did when off his duty; but before he delivered the cards, picked out the four kings. the frenchmen, discovering the deficiency, said the pack was imperfect, having no kings in it. "why," replied the soldier, "_if you can fight without a king, surely you can play without one_!" the palais royal, called during the revolution the palais Égalité, soon became the most famous gambling-resort in the world--to-day it is but a pathetic shadow of its former self. built in imitation of the piazza san marco at venice by cardinal richelieu and bequeathed by him to louis xiii., the palace in question was in course of time given by the roi soleil to his brother and thus became the property of the orléans family. fantastically extravagant and crippled by debts, philippe Égalité first conceived the idea of putting the noble building raised by the great cardinal to a commercial use, continuing to obtain a very large sum by letting out suitable parts as shops, gaming-houses, and restaurants, some of them of a rather questionable nature. the palais royal, before it contained shops and gaming-tables, had been the resort of all that was most aristocratic in paris. walks and flower-beds abounded, whilst on the southern side was an alley of ancient chestnut trees of great antiquity, the destruction of which provoked much indignation and sorrow. the transformation of the historic palace and grounds into a bazaar effected a great change in the habits of the parisians, who, without distinction of rank or class, flocked to the spot which, since the stately days of anne of austria, had been the evening promenade of good society alone. louis xvi. is said, after hearing of his cousin's decision in this matter, to have remarked: "i suppose we shall now only see the duc d'orléans on sundays--he has become a shop-man!" the prince in question, however, cared little about this as long as he was able to procure the large sums necessary for his wildly extravagant mode of living. the centre of parisian activity, the palais royal was the incarnation of paris in the eyes of all pleasure-loving europe, the famous galeries de bois becoming the resort of all the profligate frivolity of a somewhat unbridled age. the old gardens, sad and deserted to-day, have witnessed some strange scenes in their time. here it was that one summer's day camille desmoulins uttered those burning words which heralded the approach of the revolution. it was on the palais royal that philippe Égalité let his eyes linger as the tumbrel bore him through a hooting mob, past the splendid old home which he had once inhabited, to where the guillotine awaited him in the place de la révolution--now the place de la concorde. from the windows of that self-same palais royal, in july , did the son of Égalité look hopefully yet half-fearfully expectant on another mob, yelling and triumphant, which, after storming the louvre and sacking the tuileries, came screeching the marseillaise, roaring "vive la charte!" "vive la république!" "vive lafayette!" and most portentous of all for him, "vive louis philippe!" the last cry won the day; and louis philippe, duke of orleans, went forth from the palais royal to become the citizen king. many queer characters haunted the galleries of the palais royal. as late as the early years of the reign of louis philippe there could on most days be seen there an aged individual who was pointed out as "valois collier." he had been the husband of the infamous jeanne de st. remy, "comtesse" de la motte, who was wont to boast (mayhap with some probability of truth) that a strain of the royal blood of the valois ran in her veins. on the side of the galerie d'orléans were the famous galeries de bois, the resort of all lovers of careless gaiety during the directory, the consulate, the first empire, and the restoration. in these galleries were nicknamed, owing to the extensive muscovite patronage which they enjoyed, "le camp des tartares." the palais royal in its palmy days was the centre of luxury--an emporium of every alluring delight. while its brilliantly-lit piazzas were viewed with real or pretended horror by the austere, it was a very mecca to the pleasure-seekers of the world. in england the place was often called "the devil's drawing-room," it being said that here a debauchee could run the whole course of his career with the greatest facility and ease. on the first floor were cafés where his spirits could be raised to any requisite pitch; on the second, gaming-rooms where he could lose his money, and salons devoted to facile love--both, not unusually, ante-chambers to the pawnbrokers who resided above; whilst, if at the end of his tether and determined to end his troubles, he could repair to some of the shops on the ground floor, where daggers and pistols were very conveniently sold at reduced prices--every facility being thus provided for enjoying all the pleasures of life under one roof. besides the licensed gaming-tables there were also many forms of unsanctioned dissipation in divers subterranean chambers. a number of billiard-rooms, each containing two or three tables, provided further opportunities for passing the time. women were everywhere, and from about midday till three o'clock in the morning, the galleries of the palais royal were thronged by crowds of gaily-attired nymphs ready to lend their aid in charming the dream of life. in the days of the terror they absolutely dominated the whole place. it was an epoch when many knew that the guillotine was being made ready to receive them, and for this reason were seized with a veritable frenzy to snatch as much enjoyment as possible. the close connection which at that time existed between illicit passion and death was well typified in the personality of one of the most popular sirens. mademoiselle dubois, known as "la fille chevalier," who was a reigning favourite of the gardens. the girl in question possessed no great beauty, her chief attraction being that her father was the executioner at dijon, who had sent numbers of people into the other world. [illustration: the palmy days of the palais royal. from a contemporary print.] the gaming-rooms were on the southern side of the palais royal. to enter them you ascended a staircase and opened the door of an ante-chamber, where several hundred hats, sticks, and great-coats, carefully ticketed, were arranged, under the charge of two or three old men, who received either one or two sous from every owner for the safe delivery of his precious deposit. no dogs were admitted into these sacred apartments, nor anything which was likely to disturb the deep attention and holy quiet which pervaded them! from this ante-chamber opened a folding-door, which led to a large, well-lighted room, in the centre of which was a table surrounded, at a moderate estimate, by two hundred and fifty or three hundred persons anxiously inspecting a game. the salons in the various establishments opened one into another, and in some there were as many as six rooms which contained tables. at one time a curious condition was imposed upon the proprietors of the gaming-tables. they were obliged to furnish every one who entered their rooms with as much table-beer as they chose to call for. waiters were therefore perpetually running backwards and forwards with overflowing tumblers of this refreshing beverage--six or seven crowded on a tray. on the restoration of the bourbons, public play in paris continued to flourish with unabated vigour. there were in : tables of trente-et-un. " roulette. " passe-dix. " craps. " hazard. " biribi. -- these twenty tables were divided into nine houses, four of which were situated in the palais royal. to serve the seven tables of trente-et-un there were: francs. dealers, at francs a month, making , croupiers, at " " , assistants, at " " , for the nine roulette tables and one passe-dix: dealers, at francs a month , assistants, at " " , for the service of the craps, biribi, and hazard: dealers, at francs a month , inspectors, at " " , aids, at " " , chefs de partie at the principal houses, at francs a month , chefs de partie for the roulettes, at francs a month , secret inspectors, at francs a month , inspector-general at , waiters, at francs a month , _cards every month_ cost , beer and refreshments , lights , the refreshments for the grand saloon, including two dinners every week, cost , -------- the total expenses every month thus amounted to , the amount produced by the gaming-houses of paris in was given as follows:-- francs. francs. rough revenue , , expenses: upkeep of gaming-houses, pay of croupiers and the like , , annual tax to government , , fifteen per cent for the poor , --------- , , ----------- total profits of proprietors , , the scale of payment received by the croupiers and employés would seem to have somewhat closely approximated to that in vogue at monte carlo to-day. every establishment employed the services of a functionary called _l'homme de force_, whose duties seem to have exactly corresponded with those of the less picturesquely named "chucker-out" of to-day. the lowest stake permitted at trente-et-quarante was five francs--in certain rooms gold only was allowed--a lower limit of two francs being imposed at roulette. in this respect, matters were much the same as at german gaming-tables, which began to be put an end to after the war of . the regulation now prevailing at monte carlo, which prescribes twenty francs at trente-et-quarante and five francs at roulette, is a very salutary one, preventing as it does a certain class of player from risking small sums which he can ill afford to lose. during the existence of the paris gaming-tables there was at times a good deal of agitation in favour of raising the limit at roulette, the lowness of which was said to be responsible for widespread ruin amongst the working-classes. occasionally, however, fortune was kind towards some of her humble worshippers. a cook employed at a paris restaurant happened one day to stroll into the gaming-rooms established at no. in the palais royal. he had no money, so amused himself looking at the people and eating oranges, a number of which he had brought with him. the rooms were hot, and a thirsty player offered to give the man six sous for one of the oranges, which the cook accepted. he then proceeded to throw the six sous on the biribi table, where he won six francs, which were increased to two hundred at roulette. at trente-et-quarante he was even more lucky, and after playing with the greatest success for some time found himself with a profit of some five hundred thousand francs. his master, the restaurant-keeper, who was a wise man, with some difficulty persuaded him to invest these large winnings in sound securities, whilst pointing out the folly of any further gambling. the cook never played again, and ended his days in affluence. he is said to have been the only man of this class who ever made a fortune at the parisian gambling-tables. numbers of people who frequented the gaming-houses of the palais royal came there when they were already ruined, and, losing the small sums which still remained to them, afterwards created disturbance and scandal. [illustration: a gaming table in the palais royal.] a case of this sort which attracted a good deal of attention was that of an english half-pay colonel, who, having lost all his money at one of the palais royal hells, determined to kill himself and every one in the place besides. with this object in view he smuggled into the place a canister full of explosive powder, which he put under the table and furtively set alight. though players and croupiers were very unpleasantly astonished at the result, no one was hurt except the colonel, who was very roughly handled and was thrown into prison, from which he was after a time sent over to england as a madman. amongst the games played were two which are now quite forgotten; these were passe-dix and craps. passe-dix is said to be the most ancient of all games of chance. according to tradition it was at this game that the soldiers played for the garments of christ after the crucifixion. there is one banker and any amount of players, each one of whom holds the box in turn. when a point under ten is thrown all the players lose their stake. if, however, a point above ten is thrown the banker pays double on all stakes. at private play every player banks in his turn, but in the palais royal the bank was, of course, held for the proprietors of the gaming-rooms. the game of creps or craps mentioned in the list of tolerated games is now obsolete as a medium for any serious gambling in europe. curiously enough, however, it still survives in another continent, being even at the present day a favourite game in mining camps in alaska, where it is well known in the gaming-saloons which are almost inevitable accompaniments of such settlements. the game would appear to consist of a board, something like an enlarged and glorified backgammon board, on which are emblazoned an anchor and five other emblems. the banker, when the money has been staked on these emblems, shakes out six dice, each of which bears on its facets devices corresponding with the designs on the board, the players being paid in proportion to the number of dice showing the figure they have selected. the boards used in alaska are said to have been copied from similar ones brought by french emigrants to california during the famous gold fever in the 'forties. in some cases the identical boards exported from france are said to be still in use. the bankers at craps claim that the odds are perfectly even as between the bank and the players, a statement which, however, would not resist the test of serious mathematical investigation. the farmer-general of all the metropolitan houses of play at this time was monsieur benazet, colonel of the garde nationale of neuilly. m. benazet, after the revolution of , was decorated by louis philippe with the cross of the légion d'honneur, on account of his loyalty. besides the officials who have been enumerated, there was a horde of attached spies, providers, pickers-up, and hangers-on, paid for doing the "dirty work" of the houses, both in and out of doors. the name, rank in life, presumed fortune, habitation, and habits of each gaming-house guest were registered; and, if they became regular customers, a sobriquet, or nickname, was given to each. by this means the constant players were, in a certain degree, known to the police. the salaried satellites of the _maisons de jeu_, when they entered upon their office, were peremptorily told that "it was their duty to regard every man who played at the tables as an enemy." three of the gaming-houses catered almost entirely for players of means, frascati's and the salon des Étrangers being well-known to all the gamblers of europe. no. in the palais royal, it should be mentioned, was also a favourite resort of high gamblers during the occupation of paris by the allies. marshal blücher lost very large sums there. this rough old soldier was a most irascible player, and when he lost (which was more often than not) he would rap out volleys of german oaths whilst glaring at the croupiers. he usually played very high, and would grumble at the limit of , francs imposed as a maximum; so great was the sensation that he created, that any table at which he might be playing was always uncomfortably crowded. in the stakes on the tables of the french gaming-houses consisted of the coins of all nations, it being not uncommon to see french napoléons and louis d'or, english guineas and crowns, dutch ducats, spanish doubloons, russian roubles, as well as the various moneys of prussia, italy, and germany, on the tables at the same moment. notes were somewhat rare, though occasionally some daring gamester would stake a french one for a large amount. the salon and frascati's were situated close together at that extremity of the rue richelieu which opens into the boulevards; they both presented a highly aristocratic exterior, and both professed to be aristocratically exclusive and to admit no person without a suitable and satisfactory introduction. from this rule, however, frascati's in its latter days departed; and the cerberus who guarded the portals of that pandemonium very, very seldom refused admittance to any one whose exterior afforded evidence that he possessed any material wherewithal to feed (it were too much to say, satisfy) the devouring appetites of the bank. frascati's opened rather later than the other gaming-houses, its portals being only thrown open at one in the afternoon. the salon des Étrangers, also a favourite resort of marshal blücher, was frequented chiefly by that class who could afford to frequent gaming-houses, the ambassadors of foreign potentates frequently presiding at its sumptuous and magnificent entertainments. the opening of these houses took place with nearly as great regularity as that of any bureau in paris. a well-known figure at the salon was an old gentleman whose existence was bound up with that of this gaming-house. he had been completely ruined by play, and the proprietors of the salon allowed him a pension to support him in his miserable senility--just sufficient to supply him with a wretched lodging, bread, and a change of raiment once in every three or four years! in addition to this he was allowed a supper (which was his dinner) at the gaming-house. thither, at about eleven o'clock at night, he went. till supper-time (two) he amused himself in watching the games and calculating the various chances, although he was destitute of the means of playing a single coup. at four he returned to his lodging, retired to bed, and lay till between nine and ten on the following night. a cup of coffee was then brought to him; and, having dressed himself, at the usual hour he again proceeded to the salon. this had been his round of life for several years; and during all that time (except on a few mornings about midsummer) he had not beheld the sun! another constant frequenter of the salon des Étrangers during the occupation of paris by the allies in was a mr. fox, a popular secretary of the british embassy, who was notorious for his easy-going disposition. though usually most unfortunate at play, he once had an extraordinary run of luck, when having taken up the dice-box, he threw eleven successful throws, broke the bank, and took home some sixty thousand francs as winnings. all of this he spent in buying presents for ladies, which he declared was the only way to prevent the rascals at the salon from getting back their money. at the same gambling-place lord thanet lost enormous sums, whilst a young irishman, mr. gough by name, was totally ruined there, and in consequence blew out his brains. on the green cloth of the salon des Étrangers also melted away the fortune of sir francis vincent, who, having dissipated the whole of a fine property at play, entirely disappeared from the gay world. frascati's--a more amusing resort--was in its palmy days regularly haunted by an aged gentleman well dowered with means, who was daily carried by his servant to the rouge-et-noir table. there he sat playing from three o'clock until five, at which hour, precisely, the servant returned and carried him (for he had entirely lost the use of his legs) back to his carriage. he was a man of large fortune, and the stakes he played were not considerable; yet he was elated by every lucky coup, and at every reverse he gnashed his teeth and struck the table in rage. no sooner, however, had the moment for his departure arrived, than he regained his equanimity, utterly regardless as to whether he had been a winner, or a loser, by the proceedings. "i have outlived all modes of excitement," said he, "save that of gaming: it is that that takes the fastest hold on the mind and retains it the longest; my blood, but for this occasional agitation, would stagnate in my veins--i should die." ten fêtes were given during the year at frascati's, the sole gaming-place to which, after , women were allowed admittance. the disinclination of the parisian authorities to throw open the public gaming-rooms to women was founded upon very substantial grounds, for at the beginning of the nineteenth century, great scandals had arisen owing to ladies becoming desperate after unsuccessful play. in , for instance, a young and beautiful hanoverian countess, who had lost , livres, planned and executed the robbery of a fine coronet of emeralds, which she contrived to purloin at a ball given by the owner, madame demidoff. the youth, beauty, and high rank of the thief caused a great agitation in favour of her being pardoned, but napoleon, who was never moved by mere sentimental considerations, refused to annul the sentence which had been passed upon her. when they take to gambling, frenchwomen become passionate devotees of play, as may be verified at any casino in france when baccarat and petits chevaux are in full swing. very often they become so fascinated by the spirit of speculation that they can think of nothing else. an instance of this was the lady who, confessing to her priest, owned she was desperately fond of gambling. the confessor, after pointing out the evils of such a passion, advanced several arguments against play, amongst which a principal one was the great loss of time which it must inevitably occasion. "ah," said the lady, "that's just what vexes me--so much time lost in shuffling the cards!" besides the licensed gaming-houses there were at this time a number of "maisons de bouillotte," which, though unlicensed, were more or less under the surveillance of the police. here a good deal of play went on practically unchecked, an added attraction being the female society of no very rigorous morality which frequented such resorts. the favourite game played in these bouillottes was not the "bouillotte" from which they took their name, but écarté, in some ways a modification of the old french game of "la triomphe." Écarté in its present form would seem to have been first played in the early part of the nineteenth century in paris, whence it made its way to england about . whilst such places, together with frascati's and the salon des Étrangers, were the resort of the fashionable world, humbler gamblers betook themselves to half a dozen houses which were frequented by all classes of the population, the most popular being nos. , , and in the palais royal. play began at twelve in the morning, except on sundays and holidays, when one was the hour fixed; on certain saints' days and at christmas all the gambling houses were compelled by law to close at midnight, except the salon des Étrangers and no. in the palais royal, two of those curious exceptions for which the authorities in france have always had (and still have) a liking, being made in their favour. on january , the day on which the unfortunate louis xvi. had been guillotined, a special regulation forbade any play at all. in , however, no notice was taken of this, which led to a great outcry; and the following year the gambling-houses did shut their doors on the day in question, but the keepers demanded a rebate on the sum paid to the government as compensation for their loss of profits. the evil days of the palais royal as a pleasure-resort began about the time of the revolution of , when it became evident that a determined effort was going to be made to alter the character of the place entirely. in , stringent measures were adopted with regard to the class of persons allowed to frequent the galleries, the amusements permitted being exposed to a rigorous censorship, whilst every effort was made to efface the traditions of light-hearted frivolity and licence which had hung about the old place since the days of the revolution. numbers of the tradesmen who owned shops in the palais royal had called for these measures. they were imbued with the somewhat pharisaical respectability which is so often the appanage of their class, and entertained the totally fallacious idea that the purification of the gardens would cause a greater number of visitors from abroad to frequent and make purchases at their shops. it soon became evident that the fate of the gaming-tables was sealed, a great outcry being raised against the toleration of what was characterised as a public scandal, and was denounced as such in the press. english opinion particularly was said to be bitterly hostile to the tables, and the deluded tradesmen of paris entertained an idea that the doubtful pleasures of the palais royal prevented much foreign money from pouring into their pockets. finally in , chiefly owing to the efforts of a mr. delessert, it was decided that the gaming-houses of paris should be closed two years from that date, and on the st of january the palais royal ceased to offer any attractions appealing to the gambler. at the time when the agitation for the suppression of public gaming in paris was going on, a good deal of abuse was heaped upon the proprietors of the tables, who were denounced as vampires sucking the blood of the poor. one of them, m. borsant by name, was exempted from censure, being noted for many favourable traits not often to be met with in those drawing their revenue from gaming. this gentleman once actually restored , francs lost by a young man to his astonished parents. the actual date of the cessation of public play in paris was sunday, december , . so numerous had the visitors been during the last few weeks preceding this date, that an additional police force had been found necessary for the maintenance of order. in consequence of the excitement, the manufacturers and tradesmen of paris had come to a general agreement not to pay their workmen's wages before twelve o'clock on sunday night, lest the money might be carried to swell the last day's receipts of the great joint-stock company to which all the parisian gaming-houses belonged. on the last evening, which was a sunday, the rooms at frascati's were so thronged that there was scarcely a possibility of stirring in them. the tables were overladen with money. at ten o'clock such was the crowd inside that it was found necessary to shut the street doors. placards stuck up in all the rooms warned the gamblers that the play would not be suffered to extend a single minute beyond midnight, which was the hour specified by the law. the salon or cercle des Étrangers, still the most fashionable of the gambling-houses, which usually was opened only at eleven at night and closed at three or four in the morning, opened on sunday evening at nine o'clock, a notification to such effect having been sent round to the habitual frequenters of the place. on saturday and sunday all the gambling-houses of paris, especially no. of the palais royal and frascati's, were immensely crowded. several dramatic incidents occurred. a workman destroyed himself on quitting no. , and two young men who had lost large sums disappeared entirely. in accordance with the edict previously announced, the game ceased exactly at midnight. the gambling during the last days of the tables had been very high, and crowds flocked to witness the end. disturbances were anticipated, and the municipal guards were in consequence posted in considerable force about the various rooms. at frascati's an immense crowd of visitors assembled, but they dispersed peaceably, after encountering the shouts and hisses of the mob that had collected in the rue de richelieu outside to witness their final exit from that historic haunt of pleasure. a dramatic incident occurred, one unhappy wretch shooting himself as the doors closed for ever. he had lost heavily, and was in despair at the prospect of being unable to retrieve his losses. in a case came on for trial before the court of assizes, paris, which excited a good deal of interest. the prisoner, a clerk to a merchant, had gambled on several occasions, and had lost at frascati's and the gaming-houses licensed by government upwards of , francs, the property of his employer. in the course of the trial, benazet, the lessee of these establishments, stated that in the course of a year there was thrown on the tables of the gaming-houses comprised in his licence , , francs (£ , , ): that, independently of the annual sum paid to government for the licence (which was , , francs or £ , ), the clear profit on the tables during the last year of their life, , was no less a sum than , , francs (£ , ), but that three-fourths of this sum was paid over to the city of paris; the other fourth (£ , ) was his proportion of the gain. m. benazet eventually declared that he would refund his part of the sum lost by the prosecutor's clerk if the city of paris would equally pay back the three-fourths of it which had passed to its credit. the average number of gamblers admitted to those houses had been three thousand a day, another thousand having been denied entrance. from the moment that the tables were suppressed, the prosperity of the shops in the former palace of cardinal mazarin began to wane. as the years rolled on, visitors became fewer and fewer, till the place assumed the forlorn aspect which it wears to-day, when even the tourist scarcely deigns to visit its deserted galleries. at the time of the revolution there had been a number of first-class restaurants in the palais royal. the café kept by méot, for instance, enjoyed a great reputation for its cellar. here could be procured twenty-two sorts of red wine, twenty-seven of white, and sixteen different kinds of liqueurs, most of which had come from the cellars of the _noblesse_. méot's was essentially a royalist restaurant, and contained little rooms where aristocratic clients could dine in luxurious privacy. beauvilliers, once cook to the prince de condé, also kept a restaurant much frequented by adherents of the old régime, and here rivarol champcenetz and others used, while dining, to compose articles for the famous royalist sheet--_les actes des apôtres_. a well-situated restaurant was véry's, which paid no less than , livres a year as rent for no. . véry's was founded in : here it was that danton gave dinners to his friends, and pointed out to them "that their turn had come to taste the delights of life; and enjoy the sumptuous mansions, exquisite dishes, rare fabrics, and beautiful women which were the legitimate spoils of the victors." this restaurant was much frequented by foreigners, with whom it had a great reputation; every englishman of means who visited paris made a point of dining there once or twice. at no. was the restaurant venua, where the girondins used to dine at ten francs a head. robespierre also used to frequent its gaily-decorated saloons, and men alive in the middle of the last century well remembered the sinister profile and sky-blue coat of the "sea-green incorruptible" reflected in the mirrors which adorned this café. a badly-lit, ill-appointed restaurant was that kept by fevrier; nevertheless, its democratic lack of luxury attracted austere patriots. lepelletier de st. fargeau, dining here on the th of january , at five o'clock in the afternoon, was accosted by a young man who stabbed him to death as one who had voted for the execution of louis xvi. [illustration: very's in .] as paris gradually recovered from the fever of the revolution, many other first-class restaurants were established in the palais royal, several of which survived up to our own time. all of these have now long disappeared from the spot which was once a shrine for the gastronomers of europe. to-day the very name of véfour is forgotten. les trois frères provençaux, the café corazza, and other resorts, once famous for their cuisine, have long ceased to make any appeal to the modern gourmet, whilst even the less pretentious cafés, which, in the early days of the third republic, offered the passing traveller a sumptuous dinner for two or three francs, have almost, without exception, closed their doors. from time to time schemes have been mooted which were to galvanise the palais royal into some semblance of life; the latest of these is a plan to pierce a street, or rather a drive, right through it, by which means the place would become a thoroughfare and regain its lost vitality. sad and mournful as the old gardens are to-day, it is not altogether without the bounds of possibility that they will in the future once again become the resort of the wealthy pleasure-seekers of the world. the fine shops which formerly abounded beneath the colonnades are memories of the past, all the great shopkeepers having migrated from what has become a little city of the dead. a number of the shopkeepers in the palais royal lived to regret bitterly the rigorous measures for which they had once so vehemently called, and there is no doubt that the unfortunate commercial results which followed, once it had ceased to be a pleasure-resort, made a deep and lasting impression upon the mind of the parisian tradesman, who to-day thoroughly realises that visitors to paris are attracted by some amusement of a speculative kind. the parisian shop-keeper would probably welcome the revival of public gaming-tables for he is a warm supporter of french racing, where the betting is legalised and carried on by the state, well knowing the commercial benefits which indirectly accrue to the city of paris. during the second empire, doctor louis véron, ex-dealer in quack medicines, ex-manager of the grand opéra, and ex-proprietor of the _constitutionnel_ newspaper, offered an enormous royalty to government for the privilege of establishing a gambling-house in paris. the emperor napoleon iii., however, declined to consider the proposal. at the present day, though no public tables exist, there are ample facilities for play in paris, and baccarat flourishes in many a club to which admission is not difficult. the great evil of the gaming-houses of the palais royal was that they especially appealed to a class which could not afford to lose their hard-earned money--the poor being lured to ruin. such a state of affairs is non-existent in modern paris, where gambling, as far as possible, is limited to those able to afford to indulge in it. a frenchman cares little for clubs without play, and many a _cercle_ draws its principal support from the cagnotte at baccarat; this amounts to about ten per cent on the sum put into the bank, which goes to the highest bidder up to five hundred louis, when, if there are two or three competitors, they draw lots for it. the percentage in question, however, varies as the bank increases, and is not levied after a certain amount of renewals. in former years the management of some of these gambling-clubs was somewhat lax, and occasionally undesirable characters entered the rooms and passed themselves off as members. at a certain well-known resort, which formerly flourished not far from the place de l'opéra, high gambling was the order of the day just before dinner. one fine afternoon there was as usual somewhat spirited bidding for the bank, which was eventually secured for some four hundred louis by a very distinguished-looking man whose face was new to the usual frequenters of the place. the individual in question, taking the banker's seat, the cards having been shuffled and cut, produced no money but merely told the croupier opposite, "il y a quatre cents louis en banque," upon which that official, with all the dignity of his race, tapped a piece of red cardboard and repeated, "quatre cents louis à la carte." the stakes were made and the cards dealt--neuf on the right, huit on the left--both sides won. "caissier," cried the banker to the official who exchanged money for counters and vice versa at the desk, "donnez dix mille francs." the result of this was, however, unsatisfactory, for the caissier most politely explained that he had no authority to advance money to members, and certainly not to members whom he did not know. "well," said the banker, "if that is the case i must go and get my pocket-book from my coat; it will be the matter of an instant." this optimistic forecast, however, was hardly justified by subsequent events, for the banker never returned, and eventually the expectant and anxious players became so enraged that the management of the club thought it best to pay them their winnings. the banker, it afterwards transpired, had been a notorious sharper. it was at a club of the same sort, where the membership was rather mixed, that a certain english nobleman, finding that his pocket-book, containing several thousand francs, had been taken out of his coat hanging in the hall, did not hesitate to tell the committee that it must have been purloined either by the waiters or the members, and received the reply, "we can answer for the _waiters_!" not very far from paris, at the casino of enghein, much baccarat is played, which has rendered the resort in question very popular, so much so indeed that the criminals known as "apaches" have begun to haunt the road from paris. not very long ago a band of these pests contrived to stop a motor, one of them lying down in the road in front of it, and the rest attempting to rob the occupants when the car was pulled up. the miscreants were on the point of wrenching a valuable pearl necklace from a lady's neck when another car arrived and put the assailants to flight. about a couple of years ago roulette was played--practically without let or hindrance--at st. germain. no wheel, however, was employed, its place being supplied by a dial on which by an ingenious device the winning number and colour appeared on a croupier firing a sort of rifle. the result was the same as at ordinary roulette, and just as in the old-fashioned form of the game most people lost their money. this resort, it should be added, was eventually closed by the authorities, who were aroused by the great increase of gaming in paris owing to the introduction of baccarat with one tableau. this will be dealt with at the end of the next chapter. ix public gaming in germany--aix-la-chapelle--an italian gambler--the king of prussia's generosity--baden-baden--m. de la charme--a dishonest croupier--wiesbaden--an eccentric countess--closing of the tables in --last scenes--arrival of m. blanc at homburg--his attempt to defeat his own tables--anecdotes of garcia--his miserable end--a spanish gambler at ems--roulette at geneva and in heligoland--gambling at ostend--baccarat at french watering-places--"la faucheuse" forbidden in france. in former times a great deal of public gaming was carried on at aix-la-chapelle, where the alluring rattle of the dice-box was to be heard from morning till night. here there were fixed hours for play, one bank opening as another shut--biribi, hazard, faro, and vingt-et-un being the favourite games. the chief banker paid a thousand louis per annum for his licence during the season; and it was said that his profit in general exceeded four thousand, and sometimes double that sum. there were two gaming-houses a mile or two from the town, and each gambling-house, each room, nay, each part of a room, had its fashionable hours. from the commencement of play to the conclusion (that is, from ten in the morning to two or three the next morning), only two hours were allotted for meals. in a little italian created a considerable sensation at this gaming-resort, to which he had come as an adventurer, with a few louis d'or in his pocket, determined to try the favour of fortune. his first attempt was at hazard, where he played crown stakes, which, as fortune smiled on him, were increased to half a guinea, guinea, and so on to bank-notes. in the space of twenty-four hours he had stripped the bank of upwards of four thousand pounds; and the next morning, resuming his operations, broke the bank entirely, his winnings amounting to more than nine thousand pounds. one would have imagined that a poor needy adventurer, who most probably had never seen a twentieth part of such a sum before, would at once have pocketed his winnings and returned (in his own mind a prince) to his native country. content, however, was a stranger to his mind, and the accession of one sum only brought with it anxiety for a greater. he continued to be successful; and for several days the bankers ceased to play, so completely had he reduced them to their last stake. when a fresh supply of cash did at last arrive the little adventurer recommenced operations--for a few hours with his usual success. the luck, however, at last changed, and from being the possessor of ten thousand pounds he left the bank reduced to his very last louis. he next proceeded to negotiate a loan of about thirty pounds, and returned to the tables, much to the discomfort of the bankers, who, from the success that attended his play, had conceived no small dread of him. his usual run of good luck attended him, and from being master of only thirty pounds, he left the table with more than ten thousand. he remembered a resolution he had formed in his fit of poverty, went to an inn, ordered a carriage, and packed up his baggage. in the interim, however, one of the directors of the bank, learning his intention, set off to interview him, resolved to use all the rhetoric he was master of to persuade him to relinquish his design. his arguments were too specious not to destroy the resolution of the poor italian, whose fortitude vanished in a moment, and instead of making for his native country he returned to the gaming-table, where, in a very few hours, he was stripped of every _soldo_ he had in the world, and left to reflect on the diversity of fortune which he had known in the space of so short a time. the moment he got back to his lodgings he sold the greater part of his clothes, and by this means raised a few louis which he took to his old haunts, where he now cut a sorry figure. [illustration: roulette in the eighteenth century.] a considerable sensation was once caused at the principal faro-table at aix-la-chapelle by the success of a plainly-dressed stranger, who, after playing in modest stakes for some time, suddenly challenged the bank for the whole of its capital, carelessly tossing his pocket-book to the banker, that the latter might not question his ability to pay in case he lost. the banker, surprised at the boldness of the adventurer, and no less so at his ordinary appearance, at first hesitated to accept the challenge; but on opening the book and seeing bills to a prodigious amount, and on the stranger sternly and repeatedly insisting on his complying with the laws of the game, with much reluctance he shuffled the cards in preparation for the great event. excitement ran high, and all eyes were soon attentively riveted upon the trembling hands of the affrighted banker, who, while the gambler sat unruffled and unconcerned, turned up the card which decided his own ruin and the other's success. the bank was broken, and the triumphant stranger, with perfect coolness and serenity of features, turned to a person who stood at his elbow, to whom he gave orders to take charge of the money. "heavens," exclaimed an infirm old officer in the austrian service, who had sat next the winner at the table, "if i had the twentieth part of your success this night i should be the happiest man in the universe." "if thou wouldst be this happy man," replied the stranger briskly, "then thou shalt have it"; and, without waiting for a reply, disappeared from the room. some little time afterwards the entrance of a servant astonished the company with the extraordinary generosity of the stranger as with his peculiar good fortune, by presenting the austrian officer with the twentieth part of the faro bank. "take this, sir," said the servant, "my master requires no answer"; and he suddenly left him without exchanging another word. the next morning all aix-la-chapelle was agog with the news that the lucky and generous stranger was no less a personage than the king of prussia. in more recent times aix-la-chapelle appeared only destined to end its gambling days as a trap for incautious travellers, many of whom, in consequence, never saw the rhine, and returned to england with very misty ideas about germany. about several other german pleasure-resorts began to include gambling amongst the attractions offered to visitors. after the closing of the parisian gaming-houses the proprietors, who found the business much too profitable to be tamely resigned, turned their gaze beyond the rhine, where a fair field for their exertions in the pursuit of a livelihood presented itself. after many weary negotiations with the several governments, a syndicate of bankers, with m. chabert at their head, simultaneously opened their establishments at baden-baden, wiesbaden, and ems. it was a very hard contest between the regents and the frenchmen before the terms were finally settled, and the latter expended much money and many promises in getting a footing. but they eventually succeeded, and a few years saw their efforts richly rewarded. as they had a monopoly, they could do pretty much as they pleased, and made very stringent and profitable regulations relative to the _refait_ and other methods of gaining a pull. on the retirement of m. chabert with an immense fortune, the company was dissolved, and m. benazet became ostensibly sole proprietor of the rooms at baden-baden. the terms to which he had to subscribe were sufficient to frighten any one less enterprising than the general of an army of croupiers; he was compelled to expend , florins in decorating the rooms and embellishing the walks round the town; and an annual sum of , florins was furthermore demanded for permission to keep the establishment open for six months in the year. at baden-baden a well-known figure for many years was the old ex-elector of hesse, who made his money by selling his soldiers to england at so much a head, like cattle, during the american war. the prince in question was easily to be recognised by the gold-headed and coroneted rake he always had in his hand. a constant player, he was a most profitable customer to the bank. eventually, however, the superior attractions of homburg led him away. the revolution of frightened or angered him to death. at baden the bank at roulette had two zeroes, an enormous advantage, which rendered the certainty of success in the long run, which the bank must of course possess, almost ridiculously easy. nauheim, on the other hand, was modestly content to claim only a quarter of the _refait_ at trente-et-quarante, a good deal less than that taken by the present monte carlo tables. the keen competition of its rivals, wiesbaden and homburg, was the cause of this generosity. in the late 'sixties a gaming hero, m. edgar de la charme, created a great sensation at baden, where, for a number of days together, he never left the gaming-room without carrying off a profit which usually did not fall far short of a thousand pounds in english money. at the end of several days of almost unparalleled good fortune, m. de la charme, reflecting that there must be an end even to the greatest run of luck, packed his portmanteau, paid his bill, and strolled down to the railway station, accompanied by some of his friends. there, however, he found the wicket closed, there being still three-quarter's of an hour before the departure of the train. "well," he exclaimed, "i will go and play my parting game," and, taking a carriage, drove back to the kursaal, though his friends made every effort to prevent him. arrived at the casino, he sat down at the trente-et-quarante, where in twenty minutes he broke the bank again. he then left, but, while getting into his cab, caught sight of the inspector of the tables walking to and fro under the arcades, and said to him in a tone of exquisite politeness, "i could not think of going away without leaving you my p.p.c." the society at baden was said to be as mixed as that frequenting the paris boulevards. there was indeed a good deal of parisian bohemianism about this charming spot, which, since the closing of the tables, has been forced to rely upon its proximity to the black forest and other natural attractions--poor substitutes to the gambler for the whirl of the roulette wheel and the chanting of the croupier at trente-et-quarante. the rooms which re-echoed to these exciting, if none too reputable sounds, to-day seem somehow to present a rather sad and almost wistful appearance. surely, "if aught inanimate e'er grieves," the kurhaus must sigh for the vanished days of the second empire, and for the gay, careless folk who thronged its halls, now so decorous and staid. old gamblers used to say that the croupiers at baden were recruited from the same families who had held the rake in the gambling-rooms of the palais royal. certain veterans were even pointed out as being survivors of the great days of frascati's and the salon. baden made no pretence to any particular exclusiveness. here all men and women were equal, people sitting down cheek by jowl with any one at trente-et-quarante or roulette, a practice not much in favour at aristocratic ems, where the fashionable lounger was more given to tossing down his stake carelessly as he or she strolled through the rooms. though the croupiers at baden-baden were generally above suspicion, the bank was swindled by its employés on more than one occasion. a notable instance was that of an official who was discovered to have carried on a system of plunder for a long time with security. he used to slip a louis d'or into his snuff-box whenever it came to his turn to preside over the money department; he was found out by another employé asking him casually for a pinch of snuff, and seeing the money gleam in the gaslight. on the whole the croupiers at baden were admirable, sometimes preserving their self-control under the most trying circumstances. on one occasion when a young englishman, of high repute and bearing an honourable name, vented his rage at losing by breaking a rake over the head of the croupier, the latter merely turned round and beckoned to the attendant gendarme to remove his assailant and the pieces of the rake, and then went on with his parrot-like "_rouge gagne, couleur perd_." the croupiers in general seemed to unite the stoicism of the american indian with the politeness of the frenchman of the _ancien régime_. impassive under all circumstances they seemed to fear neither god nor man; for when a shock of the earthquake of was felt at wiesbaden, though all the company fled in terror, they remained grimly at their posts, preferring to go down to their patron saints with their rouleaux, as an evidence of their fidelity to their employer. it is not unlikely that they regarded the earthquake as a preconcerted scheme to rob the bank! the public buildings of wiesbaden were charming, especially the kursaal, with its open "platz," its colonnades and magnificent ball-room, its "salons de jeu," reading-rooms, restaurant, and charming gardens behind. here were lakes, fountains, running streams, which made it as pretty a place as any of its kind on the banks of the rhine. towards the last days of the gambling at wiesbaden the majority of the players belonged to the middle and lower middle classes, leavened by a very few celebrities and persons of genuine distinction. the general run of visitors, indeed, was by no means remarkable for birth, wealth, or respectability, and it used at that time to be said that all the aged, broken-down courtesans of paris, vienna, and berlin had agreed to make wiesbaden their autumn rendezvous. one of the well-known eccentric notabilities of wiesbaden at that time was a certain countess--an aged patrician of immense fortune, whose very existence seemed bound up with that of the tables. she used daily to be wheeled to her place in the "temple of chance," where she usually played for eight or nine hours with wonderful spirit and perseverance. a suite of eight domestics were in attendance upon her, and when she won, which was not often, she invariably presented each member of her retinue with--twopence! this was done, she would naively declare, "not from a feeling of generosity, but in order to propitiate fortune." on the other hand, when she lost, none of them, save the man who wheeled her home and who received a donation of six kreuzers, got anything at all but hard words. unlike her contemporary, a once lovely russian ambassadress, she did not curse the croupiers loudly for her bad luck, but, being very far advanced in years and of a tender disposition, would shed tears over her misfortunes, resting her chin on the edge of the table. this old lady was very intimate with one or two antediluvian diplomatists and warriors, whom she used to entertain with constant lamentations over her fatal passion for play, interspersed with bits of moss-grown scandal, disinterred from the social ruins of a bygone age. radetzky, paul eszterhazy, wrangel, and blücher had been friends of her youth; and, to judge from her appearance, no one would have been surprised to hear that she had attended the jeu du roi in the galleries of versailles, or played whist with maria theresa. wiesbaden boasted a financier from amsterdam, who usually played on credit--that is to say, he pocketed his winnings, but, if he lost, borrowed money of the banker, squaring his account, which was generally a heavy one, at the end of the week. another well-known character was an english baronet, who always brought a lozenge-box with him. when this was filled with gold he would leave the rooms. he seldom had to remain long, for he possessed his own luck, and that of some one else into the bargain. wiesbaden, like the other german gaming-places, was made virtuous by compulsion rather than choice. when nassau was annexed by the astute bismarck, the law which abolished legal gambling affected this place as it did homburg, ems, and other spas. it should, however, be added that its provisions showed a scrupulous regard for vested interests. as the fateful st of january --the day on which all public gaming throughout the german empire was to cease--approached, there was considerable excitement, not only amongst the usual frequenters of the tables, but also amongst the general population of the place, who fully realised the financial benefits which had accrued to them through roulette and trente-et-quarante, the impending prohibition of which they deplored. at midnight on the st december , after a hundred years of existence, the kursaal clock at wiesbaden sounded the close of play. there was considerable disorder in the rooms on the last night, the place being converted into a bear-garden. during the last week the rooms got so enormously thronged that the administration found it necessary to admit only by tickets. was a splendid financial year, for, after paying all the enormous expenses ( florins a day), including the yearly tax of , florins to the prussian government, the shareholders received interest on their capital at the rate of per cent per annum. a number of the eighty or ninety croupiers were retained by m. blanc for service at monaco, whilst the rest it is believed went into trade. on the last night an immense throng gathered in the rooms, eagerly crowding round the tables. the play, however, was unusually dull, and on the green cloth, which had usually been liberally sprinkled with gold, only a few spare florins were to be seen. the croupiers did their best to dispel the depression which hung over the gamesters; and as the final moment approached, shouted louder and louder, adding to their usual formula, "faites vos jeux, messieurs," the words "le troisième dernier!"--the third last chance; "le deuxième dernier!"--the second last; and finally "le dernier!" which seemed to sound like a death-knell. their appeals had little effect, the moment being of such solemnity as to stifle all emotion and paralyse every movement. here and there some small stake was noiselessly placed on the table by some timid and unfamiliar hand, but the audacious spirit of the real gambler was for the moment lulled to rest, and no one seemed eager to try a last serious struggle with the goddess of chance. the closing of the gaming-tables was a veritable convulsion of nature as regards wiesbaden. on the st of january there was universal confusion in hotel and lodging-house, and the streets were thronged with departing travellers and overladen porters, while the railway stations were blocked with eager applicants for tickets. with a haste bordering on indecency the old gambling-saloons were taken possession of by the municipal authorities, and stripped of their furniture; windows and doors being thrown open to the air, and the halls, formerly devoted to chance, handed over to a host of painters, white-washers, and scrubbers. the green tables, which had caused so many emotions, were thrown out, and cast into heaps, preliminary to being carted away as old furniture. the results to the town were disastrous. many of the hotels fell into bankruptcy and were forced to close their windows--their doors they might have left open, for there were no guests to enter them. the shopkeepers, more especially the jewellers, who generally were pawnbrokers too, and all dealers in articles of luxury, were also great losers by the change. the joint-stock company, which had owned the tables, dissolved, after having divided a large amount of surplus. the shareholders had indeed no cause for complaint, yet one of the two directors took the dissolution so much to heart that he soon after drank himself to death. a few days after the cessation of play hardly a gambler remained in the place. one exception, however, there was, who for some years was pointed out as a rare specimen of an extinct race by the few officials of the rooms who had been retained as door-keepers and the like in the building from which all life had fled. still clad in the torn, somewhat shabby livery of more prosperous days when "trinkgeld" was abundant, these men would describe to visitors how this englishman, a man bearing an historic name, had created a sensation at the tables, where he had been notorious for his ill-luck. to all appearance entirely ruined, he had suddenly been left some twenty thousand pounds, which had soon followed the rest of his fortune into the coffers of the bank. reduced to his last florin, fortune for a moment had seemed to relent, and he had left the rooms with about seven thousand pounds in his pocket. having deposited this at his banker's, he had then declared his intention of never playing again--in less than a week the sum had been withdrawn and lost. his friends, now believing him to be incorrigible, settled upon him a small allowance, which was paid quarterly, and with unfailing regularity found its way to the green cloth. seemingly stunned by the closing of the rooms, this englishman lingered on for some years, mournfully marching about the spot which had engulfed his fortune, the loss of which, however, caused him less concern than being deprived of the means wherewith to gratify the passion that had dominated his life. all the gambling companies had to pay large sums in return for the privileges which they enjoyed, but still they progressed most successfully till they were frightened from their propriety by monsieur blanc. this gentleman, after struggling against immense opposition on the part of the frankfort merchants, who were naturally alarmed at the danger to which their _commis_ and cash-boxes would be exposed by the proximity of a gambling-table, obtained a concession from the elector of hesse to establish a bank at homburg-von-der-höhe. play was soon in full swing, with the additional attractions of being open all the year round, and of having only a _trente-et-un après_ (known as the _refait_) for the players to contend against. some time after, wilhelmsbad was opened as a rival to homburg, with no _après_ at all; and the above mentioned, with the addition of ems, aix-la-chapelle, and cöthen, formed the principal establishments where "strangers were taken in and done for" throughout germany. wilhelmsbad scarcely attracted the outside world at all, being frequented almost exclusively by germans. wildungen might have been called a child left out in the cold; the accommodation was indifferent, and the place itself cheerless and devoid of charm, besides which it was not so easy to get at. modestly conscious of its slender claims to consideration, the authorities presiding over the tables allowed a minimum stake of groschen ( franc cents), and only enforced a tax of a quarter of the _refait_ at trente-et-quarante and a quarter of the zero at roulette, a state of affairs which should have been far from unfavourable to the players. as a matter of fact, public gaming, whatever may be said against it, left those places where it formerly flourished in a high state of prosperity--the kursaals and gardens of german health-resorts, such as homburg and baden-baden, owed their inception entirely to gaming, whilst several other insignificant places were converted into agreeable pleasure-resorts by the influence of trente-et-quarante and roulette. in spite of the doubtful morality of the enterprise carried on by the proprietors of the tables they certainly metamorphosed several miserable german townlets into cities of palaces. they planted the gardens; they imported the orange trees; they laid out the parks; enclosed the hunting-grounds; and, as it were, boarded, lodged, washed, and taxed the inhabitants. homburg, for instance, was entirely the creation of m. blanc. the story of the commencement of the immense fortune accumulated by m. blanc is curious. one fine day in the two brothers blanc, who were temporarily disgusted with france owing to a daring and unsuccessful speculation connected with the old semaphore telegraph (which electricity rendered obsolete), arrived at frankfort. their stock-in-trade consisted of a few thousand francs, a roulette wheel, and an ancient croupier, a veteran of frascati's who knew everything worth knowing about gambling and cards. the purpose of this visit was to convince the authorities of frankfort that their city would derive great benefit from affording facilities for public play, but with this, however, they were not disposed to agree. in consequence of its cool reception, the little party then wended its way to the obscure village of homburg, where the elder of the two brothers, after some negotiations, obtained permission to set the roulette wheel going in one of the rooms of the principal inn. [illustration: guide du spÉculateur au trente-quarante et a la roulette avec la manière de faire en six mois plus de = = capitaux. er capital. , florins. ( , francs.) par un ancien notaire. hombourg-Ès-monts. . louis schick, imprimeur-Éditeur. as at monte carlo to-day, infallible "guides" to success at the tables were to be obtained in the homburg book-shops. the above is a facsimile of the title-page of one of the most curious of these booklets.] the next year an exclusive concession was granted to the blancs to establish games of hazard within the dominions of the landgraf. they agreed to build a kursaal, lay out public gardens, and pay about , florins (something over four thousand a year) to the landgraf. a company was formed, and soon the fashionable world flocked to homburg--ostensibly to drink the waters, but, in reality, to lose their money at trente-et-quarante and roulette. the general policy pursued by m. blanc at homburg was very similar to that afterwards adopted at monte carlo, which is still in its essential features followed by the present administration. the hours allotted to play were from eleven in the morning to eleven at night, which was also the case at monaco up till quite recent years. the proceedings at homburg before play began, that is to say, the counting of money and other preparations for the day's campaign, were also much the same as at monte carlo, though the actual opening of the rooms for play was more dramatic. as the clock struck eleven the strains of martial music were heard and the doors of the "salons" were thrown wide open, admitting a stream of people, amongst whom were many officers, a note of colour being struck by their uniforms, which were principally white or green. in the early days of homburg, owing to an extraordinary rainfall, a flood of water once made its way into the gaming-rooms and caused the players to beat a precipitate retreat. a fat old german princess, however, who was devoted to play, was too heavy to get out in time, and had to be hoisted up on to one of the roulette tables, where she placidly remained till matters were put right and the play had resumed its normal course. in the kursaal were the café olympique, private rooms for parties, and, most important of all, a big saloon and two smaller ones. here from eleven in the forenoon to eleven at night, sundays not excepted, all the year round, people from every part of the world came to throw their gold and silver upon the tables. as a town homburg was practically created by the kursaal. the hotel-keepers and tradesmen lived by it as well as the landgraf, whose main source of revenue was derived from it. this sovereign, of course, was practically sold to the kursaal, the board of directors being the real rulers of hesse-homburg. the prosperity which the advent of m. blanc had brought to his dominions cheered the declining years of this prince, who was the oldest reigning sovereign in europe at the time of his death, which occurred on the th of march . he had attained the great age of eighty-three when he expired in the arms of two weeping widowed women--one his niece, the princess reuss, the other his aged sister, the dowager grand duchess of mecklenburg-schwerin. this event caused a temporary cessation of play, which had been continuous since the th of august . the insidious fascination connected with gambling was once strikingly exemplified at homburg. the story, though a well-known one, will bear repetition. m. blanc had been pondering what to give his wife on her birthday, when a peculiarly attractive parasol caught his eye as he was strolling amongst the shops; so he went in and inquired the price, which was twenty marks. the founder of the great gaming establishment was a careful man, and it seemed to him that to pay so much for a parasol was extravagant. nevertheless, he ordered it to be put aside for him, saying that he would call and pay for it later. on his way to the casino the thought suddenly struck him: "to win twenty marks in the rooms is quite easy--numbers of people do it, but they don't stop; which is the reason i make so much money. why shouldn't i win the price of this parasol--make my twenty marks and walk out?" walking up to a trente-et-quarante table and unobtrusively stationing himself behind a group of players, m. blanc furtively slipped twenty marks on the red--black won. forty marks on the red--black again won. eighty marks on the black--red won. he now became excited and, the money he had in his pocket being exhausted, edged towards an astonished _chef de partie_, to whom he was, of course, well-known, and instructed him to place one hundred and sixty marks on red. the croupier dealt the cards, and announced that red had lost. by this time every one had realised that m. blanc was staking against his own tables, and the whole room flocked to see such an extraordinary sight. the croupiers concluded that their chief had gone mad, for he stood looking fixedly at the cards, entirely absorbed in the effort to recover his losses and win the price of the parasol. to make a long story short, he continued to stake till he had lost about £ , when of a sudden he realised the situation and rushed out of the rooms. he was, of course, considerably chaffed about this exploit, which was said to have been the only occasion on which he had been known to play. for many a long day afterwards, he used regretfully to say: "that was the dearest parasol i ever bought in my life." m. blanc, who was more assailed than any other banker, was once nearly made the victim of a stratagem, which might have entailed serious results. a scoundrel contrived to get into the "konversationhaus" by night, and blocked up all the low numbers in the roulette machine in such a manner that the ball, on falling in, must inevitably leap out again. on the next day he and his accomplices played and netted a large sum by backing the high numbers. they carried on the game for two or three days, but were fortunately overheard by a detective while quarrelling about the division of their plunder in the gardens behind the establishment. they were arrested and the money recovered. a very dangerous design was also formed against m. blanc by one of his croupiers, who, being discontented with his lot, determined to make his fortune at one _coup_. the plan he contrived was this. he procured a pack of prearranged cards, which he concealed in his hat, and when it came to his turn to deal he intended to drop the bank cards into his _chapeau_ and cleverly substitute the others; but this artfully-concocted scheme was upset by one of his confederates who considered that he might make a better and safer thing of it by telling m. blanc beforehand. a great attack was once made by a belgian syndicate upon the tables at homburg, and for a time had some appearance of ultimate success. in the end, however, m. blanc emerged triumphant from the contest, which is mentioned by thackeray in the _kickleburys on the rhine_. it was at homburg that the celebrated garcia once created an enormous sensation by asking the bank to double the limit of , francs. according to one account a meeting of the directors was hastily summoned by m. blanc, who was in favour of letting garcia have his way; but it was finally decided that no alteration should be made. another version is that m. blanc consented to double the limit if garcia would play sitting down and not standing up, the veteran banker's opinion being that any one standing up was much more likely to depart with winnings than a player seated at the table. garcia accordingly sat down, and though at first very unlucky, eventually rose a winner. garcia is said to have come to germany with two thousand francs--his whole fortune--in search of employment. whilst at frankfort he determined to go and try his luck at the homburg tables, and being fortunate enough to get on several runs of his favourite colour--red--he won about £ , in three weeks. an englishman, it is said, was so convinced that the runs on red must end, that he watched for what he deemed a propitious moment and began staking maximums on black against garcia, with the result that in a few days he left homburg without a penny. garcia continued to play on after his rival's defeat, and though at one moment he was reduced to a capital of six thousand francs, he retrieved his fortunes by a run of fourteen reds, and eventually left homburg with some £ , --some say more. he now declared that he was determined never to play again; but this resolution was soon broken, for within a couple of years he was trying to break the bank at baden. black turned up too often for him, however, and he lost heavily. he then thought he would try homburg again, and was there eventually reduced to beggary after a few months' play. this gambler subsequently figured in a most unsavoury card scandal which took place in paris in february at the house of madame julia barucci. this lady, who was young and attractive, was always surrounded by a large circle of admirers, and the party which she gave to celebrate her first evening in a new abode was therefore particularly animated, about thirty guests being present, amongst whom was signor calzado, the well-known manager of a paris theatre. calzado, it should be said, was disliked by the party generally--garcia alone being on terms of intimacy with him--not only because he was a gamester, but probably because he had the reputation of being a card-sharper, which he was, and a very bold and original one too. (calzado once went to havana and bought up every pack of cards in the place, having previously freighted a vessel with marked playing-cards, which arrived just in time to supply the dealers, whose stocks were completely exhausted. with the cards he had prepared and imported, calzado played incessantly, and for high stakes, being, as an inevitable result, a constant and heavy winner.) the most popular guest was signor miranda, gentleman of the queen of spain's household, a constant and honourable gamester, well-known as being capable of losing large sums. he came with about , francs in his pocket. as soon as possible garcia arranged a rouge-et-noir table, at which his countrymen, calzado and miranda, took their places, the latter soon winning , francs. after supper baccarat was proposed; whereupon garcia absented himself from the room for half an hour under the pretext of wishing to smoke a cigar in the air. retiring into a private chamber, he disposed about his person several packs of cards which he had brought with him, and then returning to the gaming-table began to play for high stakes. his success was extraordinary, and in a short time he won , francs, chiefly from signor miranda. calzado, who followed garcia's lead, also won a large sum. the extraordinary good luck of garcia, and the marvellous character of the cards which he held, aroused the astonishment of the players as well as the suspicions of those looking on, and it was at length perceived that some of the cards in garcia's hand were of a different design from that of the packs provided by the hostess. he was charged with foul play; whereupon, somewhat confused, he admitted having introduced cards of his own, though stoutly maintaining that he had played fairly, and had brought certain packs from his club merely because they always proved lucky cards to him, which in this instance was certainly true. he offered as a matter of courtesy and as a favour, being, as he said, desirous of avoiding a scandal, to refund his winnings, if the whole affair were hushed up. at the same time he produced the sum of , francs; but those whom he had cheated were not to be tricked into accepting a third part of their losses in place of the whole, and an extraordinary scene followed. seeing that his position was desperate, and fearful lest he should be forcibly despoiled of his ill-gotten winnings, garcia tried to escape. finding the door bolted, he rushed all over the house, finally hiding himself in a corner of an obscure room, from which he was chased by his amazed pursuers, who seized him and roughly stripped him of all the money in his possession. it was now the turn of calzado, who was then asked to display the contents of his pockets, or suffer himself to be searched. he refused to do either, but stealthily allowed a roll of bank-notes, to the value of , francs, to slip down his trousers and fall on the floor. the roll was picked up and handed to him, but he denied all knowledge of it. eventually the brother cheats were permitted to leave the house, but after their departure it was reckoned that, in spite of everything, they had carried with them at least , francs. garcia and calzado were both tried for swindling. the former appeared in person; calzado, however, had fled. both were convicted of malpractices, garcia being sentenced to five years' and calzado to thirteen months' imprisonment, in addition to fines of francs each. they were also ordered to pay jointly , francs to miranda. the hostess, madame barucci, escaped punishment, but was placed under strict police supervision, lest she should again allow prohibited games to be played in her house. garcia died in great misery about . in the gambling-establishment at homburg became a thing of the past. a great number of the townspeople of that resort were shareholders, and all, more or less, derived some profit direct or indirect from the play. during the war between austria and prussia they began to be somewhat perturbed, and on their annexation to the latter country, they hoped against hope that bismarck, whatever he might do with kings, would leave what to them was far more important than dynasties and kingdoms--the bank--alone. in , however, the blow fell, and the directors of the gambling-rooms, summoned to appear before the governor, were informed that all play was to cease in . it should be added that an arrangement of a not unfair kind protected the interests of the shareholders. [illustration: gambling at homburg. drawn by the late g.a. sala. (_impasse_ should of course be _impair_.)] during these last days of play at homburg a great crowd had been coming in, but still the tables were not inconveniently crowded, and people were able to stake their money with ease though without comfort. there was, however, a good deal of pilfering and snatching of money, which had always been rather a feature at this resort, shrill-tongued harpies being apt to pounce on the couple of five-franc pieces just won by any simple englishman ignorant of the german tongue. as the end approached the usual high play still prevailed, but the administration was a good deal disturbed by the advent of workmen, shopmen, and others, a very different class of people from their aristocratic clients of the summer season. these new visitors were sturdy, brutal customers, who became frenzied if they lost a florin, and seemed not unlikely to revenge themselves by some lawless raid. this very unlucrative crowd continued to increase, and it became known that on the last two days the forces would be recruited by yet larger bands. the administration, wisely reckoning that the result might be a general riot organised for purposes of plunder, took measures to avert such a crowning catastrophe. on the sunday, then, while numbers of speculative individuals at frankfort and other towns were arranging for one grand final expedition, and were looking forward to being in at the death, it was determined to end play for ever suddenly and without notice. before five o'clock this had been done, much to the indignant surprise of the new arrivals, and the rage and fury of the less scrupulous. this, perhaps, was no undignified end; and homburg, from a gambling point of view, may be said to have "died game." the administration maintained its honeyed, courteous phrases to the last, and on the monday stuck little proclamations all over the walls, to the effect that the "administration begged to inform _la société_ that there would be no play on the th and st inst. signed: the kurhaus direction." nevertheless on the back sheet of the belgian papers was a huge advertisement proclaiming to all whom it concerned that there would be play to the last day of the month. such an oversight was scarcely fair to the friends and admirers of the tables, some of whom travelled from a great distance to bid a final adieu to the halls of chance. the appearance of the gambling-house on the day after the cessation of play was indescribable, resembling a badly-set scene by daylight. numbers of charwomen and men-servants hung about in groups; officials, like those of a bankrupt hotel, went about with keys; chairs were piled on the long gaming-tables by irreverent hands; everything looked as though there was going to be a sale by auction. the ball-room, however, still had its chairs all set out in order, as if company were expected, whilst the orchestra played in the gardens, which already presented a neglected air. even the theatre looked shabby, though behind the frame of wire network was to be read the announcement of the last--the very last in all truth--appearance of the "diva patti" in _la sonnambula_. ems was another gambling resort. this was essentially a rendezvous of all the pleasure-loving aristocracy and fashionable financiers of the day--unlike wiesbaden and homburg, which were rather the chosen battle-fields of well-known and seasoned gamblers. a spaniard at ems made a very comfortable living by a method of playing he had invented. he placed three louis d'or on the manque, which contains all the numbers to eighteen, and two louis on the last series of twelve; that is, from twenty-four to thirty-six. thus he had only six numbers and two zeroes against him. if manque gained, he won three louis and lost two; if a number in the last twelve came up, he won four and lost three; but a continuation of zeroes would have ruined his calculation. russians in particular were very fond of ems. many played very high, and a good deal of private gambling was done there on the quiet. at geneva in the 'sixties trente-et-quarante was somewhat furtively played in a _cercle des Étrangers_. roulette, however, was not allowed. the authorities perhaps feared that the noise of the little ball flying round on its course to a numbered compartment might awaken calvin from the quiet of his tomb. there was once what was practically a regular gaming-house on english soil. this was in the 'fifties, when mild roulette was played on the island of heligoland. a miniature roulette-table there was much frequented by joyous israelites and english officers from the mainland. in , however, an outraged english tourist wrote a furious letter to _the times_, complaining of such horrors existing under the british flag. he denounced the scandalous desecration of the english name, and so forth; and in consequence the governor issued an edict against the roulette. play, however, on a diminutive scale continued there some time longer. the closing of the gaming-tables in germany was the cause of many rumours as to the future of gambling enterprise. the valley of andorra in the pyrenees was said to have been selected by some french speculators as the scene of their operations for the ensuing year, a well-known financier being declared to have obtained a monopoly of theatres, hotels, casinos, railways, and almost everything else that this valley lacked and might be supposed to want. there was also a rumour that efforts were being made to start tables at st. moritz, in switzerland, very tempting offers having been made to the authorities. these anticipations were not, however, realised, and monte carlo remains the only regular public gaming-place in europe, though intermittent public gambling has been tolerated at certain belgian pleasure-resorts, notably at ostend. two or three years ago public gaming was altogether prohibited there, but it now appears to flourish much as before. it is almost superfluous to add that when it was announced that the belgian authorities had determined to suppress all public play there was much enthusiastic congratulation from this country. the usual time-worn phrases as to the demoralising effects of gambling were unctuously presented to a public whose conscience, it was declared, had too long been outraged by the proximity of such a dangerous temptation; and the belgians were told that they might anticipate reaping a golden harvest as the result of the high-principled attitude which had been adopted, for the english would now be able to visit their pleasure-resorts without fear of contamination. a large number of the ostend shopkeepers really believed that the suppression of play would bring more foreign money into their pockets; but they soon realised their mistake, for when the visitors from across the channel found that there was no chance of enlivening their stay at ostend (a resort of few natural attractions) with a little flutter, they beat a precipitate retreat, and the prosperity of the town began to suffer severely. eventually, as the result of serious protest from the local shopkeepers and others who saw ruin staring them in the face, a species of compromise has been adopted; and baccarat with one tableau (of which more anon) is now allowed in the _cercle_, election to which is not very difficult. a short time ago roulette without a zero was here held out as a great attraction to visitors. as a matter of fact this game was only played for a limited number of hours every day, and these were precisely those when visitors would in the ordinary course of events be taking their meals. the game was merely kept going as a lure to the more profitable baccarat, the authorities being well aware that roulette without a zero is unlikely to prove a great source of profit to the bank. experience teaches that for some reason not very clearly understood single tableau baccarat would seem to be particularly favourable to the banker. so great, indeed, has been the havoc wrought by this game that the french have given it the name of "la faucheuse,"--"the mowing-machine"! those who cried out so loudly for the suppression of the trente-et-quarante at ostend have, like so many well-meaning people, done little but harm, for the suppressed trente-et-quarante was a far less dangerous game. trente-et-quarante, it should be added, is played at st. sebastian, where up to the present year there was also roulette. at french watering-places gaming flourishes as merrily as ever during the season. at trouville, biarritz, and aix-les-bains the game of baccarat forms one of the chief attractions. there is a good deal of high play at trouville at the time of the races. during the present year one player alone--a very rich gambler fond of high stakes--lost no less than a million francs. no inconsiderable portion of this sum must have gone in the percentage which the french government now levies upon banks at baccarat. during the last year there was also a great deal of play at nice, where the game in question was as popular as the classic roulette and trente-et-quarante of monaco. it is almost impossible to conceive how the vast majority of french summer pleasure-resorts would contrive to exist were baccarat and petits chevaux to be suppressed, for a certain portion of the large profit derived from play is devoted to the upkeep of the casinos, which furnish visitors with excellent entertainment. it is, indeed, owing directly and indirectly to the toleration of play that the french _plages_ are proving such formidable rivals to the miserably dull english seaside resorts, which offer so little to visitors who are fond of a little exciting amusement. in the french government promulgated a new code of regulations to be enforced at casinos, all of which were closed for two or three days throughout france--an operation which, of course, evoked a mass of hypocritical and totally inaccurate comment in england. france was congratulated upon her determination to stop every form of that gambling which had for so many years shocked english visitors, who would, of course, warmly welcome the stern measures about to be enforced, and flock across the channel in largely increased numbers as a result. as a matter of fact, the casinos were closed merely to emphasise the fact that the government intended to see that the new regulations which they imposed, amongst which was one regulating a tax upon baccarat banks, should be respected. the very rumour that it was proposed permanently to prohibit gambling terrified the local authorities, a large number of whom at once went up to paris to ascertain whether there was any foundation of truth in such an idea, which to many a watering-place would mean nothing less than ruin. they were, however, soon reassured, for in the end only one small and insignificant casino was permanently closed. by the decree of june , , certain games of chance are permitted at watering-places and health-resorts which have been officially recognised as such by the minister of the interior, on the representation of the municipal council and the prefect. these are baccarat, écarté, and the game of petits chevaux and its varieties. a tax of fifteen per cent is levied on the sum produced by the cagnotte at écarté and baccarat. counters, which were formerly used at casinos to represent money, were entirely prohibited, a prohibition which, however, does not apply to clubs. the reason for this was that players were apt to obtain considerable advances from the _caisse_ in baccarat-rooms, a state of affairs not so likely to happen when ready money alone may be staked. playing in cash is also generally of a more careful kind than play in counters, which for the time being seem nothing at all. a player, of course, has a far greater chance at baccarat than at petits chevaux, where the percentage is very unfavourable to him, one horse out of the nine being the bank's. according to the new law, fifteen per cent is now levied on the gross winnings of the bank at this game every day; should the bank lose it is allowed to deduct the sum lost from its winnings the next day. the sum produced by this tax of fifteen per cent is to be devoted to charity, and to various other objects of public utility and affecting the public health. when this decree was first issued, chemin-de-fer baccarat was not included amongst the list of tolerated games, the french authorities being still horror-struck with the recollection of the single tableau baccarat, called "la faucheuse" (the game which, thanks to puritan effort, is played at ostend), which had provoked such gross scandals in paris. it was, however, subsequently legalised by a special decree which was promulgated in the _journal officiel_ of the th august , and is taxed at the same rate as other tolerated games. the main cause of the french government moving in the matter of gambling at all had been the large increase of so-called gambling clubs in paris entirely devoted to single tableau baccarat, from which an enormous harvest of gold had been gathered by those holding the banks. it was said that no less than new establishments of this kind had sprung up in paris, a state of affairs calculated to make the dead proprietors of the long-suppressed and very strictly regulated tables in the old palais royal turn in their graves. many of these clubs were frequented by women, and it was rumoured that many of the brightest stars of the french _demi-monde_ had lost almost everything they had. paris began to be seriously alarmed. drastic measures were adopted; the foreign proprietors of the gaming-places expelled from france; "la faucheuse" forbidden throughout the country; and gambling generally placed upon the strictly regulated footing which has been described. the results of the very sensible action of the french government appear to be highly satisfactory, for since the promulgation of the decree regulating play no scandals have occurred, whilst it is anticipated that in the course of time a sum well over two million pounds a year will be available for objects of public utility. surely the wise regulation of what appears to be an irradicable evil is far more salutary, alike from a financial and a moral point of view, than the unthinking policy of drastic suppression, which, as experience teaches, has ever been powerless to extirpate gambling. x the principality of monaco--its vicissitudes--early days of the casino--the old prince and his scruples--monte carlo in and --its development--fashionable in the 'eighties--mr. sam lewis and captain carlton blythe--anecdotes--increase of visitors and present democratic policy of administration--the _cercle privé_ and its short life--the gaming-rooms and ways of their frequenters--anecdotes--trente-et-quarante and roulette--why the cards have plain white backs--jaggers' successful spoliation of the bank--the croupiers and their training--the staff of the casino--the _viatique_--systems--the best of all. many years before the tables at the german resorts were closed by the prussian government, m. blanc was quietly seeking for a suitable spot where his roulette wheels might whirl free from interference and his croupiers deal in unmolested peace. gaming-house proprietors seem in one respect to resemble the monks of old, for almost invariably their establishments have been pitched amidst attractive surroundings commanding lovely views. thoroughly imbued with this tradition, m. blanc eventually selected the little principality of monaco as being a suitable spot to afford his industry a peaceful and alluring haven. after certain negotiations with the reigning prince charles albert, he obtained the required concession, and a casino (in its earliest days called the "elysium alberti") was erected upon the rocky ground known as the plateau des spelugues, which, adversaries of gaming will rejoice to learn, means in monagasque patois "the plain of the robbers." the ruling family of monaco, the grimaldis, had been exposed to many vicissitudes. during the french revolution their people rose in rebellion and plundered the palace, which afterwards served as a military hospital during napoleon's italian campaign, and later on became the dépôt de mendicité for the department of the alpes maritimes. in , however, florestan i., the reigning prince, repaired the home of his ancestors, which was thoroughly restored by charles albert after the advent of m. blanc. in the turbulent past the princes of monaco at times experienced considerable difficulty in holding their own, and often had to defend their rugged old rock against piratical raids, besides occasionally having to cope with internal troubles, the last of which occurred in , when the monagasque bitterly resented taxation. the cannon given by louis xiv. to the grimaldi of his day may still be seen near the palace. these are fine specimens of the founder's craft, and bear the grim motto "ultima ratio regum," amidst much ornate decoration. the armed force which the princes maintained was much improved in uniform and equipment when m. blanc brought prosperity to monaco. even up to quite recent years there existed a smart little army of something under a hundred men, in all probability the best dressed and least offensive troops in all europe. their rifle practice, it was always said, was indifferent, owing to the fact that they could not fire inland, because the boundaries of the principality were so limited; but whatever may have been their efficiency or non-efficiency as a fighting force, their light-blue uniforms--with old-world aiguillette, neat shako, and picturesque cape--were highly ornamental features, which struck a pleasant note of colour in the streets of the condamine or about the grounds and terraces of the casino. this little army is now but a memory, for within the last decade the reigning prince, who is a warm advocate of international arbitration, realising, it is said, that the maintenance of a standing army was inconsistent with his well-known love of peace, abolished the last relic of military strength left to the grimaldis. such sentries as are still required are at present furnished by the gendarmerie, whose dainty cocked hat--most military and attractive of head-dresses--was at the same time superseded by an abominable cloth-covered helmet, which for unalloyed ugliness would easily carry off the prize against all competitors. thus does it constantly happen in the modern world that, whilst there is much prating about art, cultivation, and taste, the very people who should do their best to preserve every distinctive and decorative reminder of a more artistic past are foremost in the work of obliteration. old monaco consisted of a few unattractive streets and a somewhat dilapidated palace, in which lived the blind old prince who granted the concession for the tables to m. blanc, and by so doing converted his poverty-stricken realm into the most prosperous state in the world. at first, the prince was somewhat troubled by conscientious scruples as to tolerating gaming, but these were appeased by the large sums which were rendered available for religious purposes and the building of churches--the church of st. dévote, which stands in the ravine, for instance, is said to have been erected from funds received in exchange for permission to increase the number of roulette tables, whilst the beautiful little cathedral on the palace rock would never have been built had not m. blanc made his descent upon the principality. much abuse has been lavished on the prince for granting the concession, but it seems a doubtful question whether he did not do more good than harm when he signed it. certainly his own people of monaco (who, except on one day in the year--the prince's birthday,--are not allowed to enter the casino) gained very largely thereby. to them the establishment of the casino has brought lasting prosperity, whilst it has indirectly benefited the whole riviera, now so popular as a pleasure-resort. on the other hand, a number of people, no doubt, have been ruined at monte carlo, but such as these--gamblers at heart--would most probably in any case have lost their fortune in other forms of speculation. it should also be realised that the number of those who have actually been ruined by the casino is extremely small--as a rule those who lose their last penny at the tables are individuals who, already at their last gasp owing to a long series of gambling reverses, come to monte carlo with such funds as they can scrape together in order to indulge in one last desperate plunge. the old prince was a kindly man at heart, and did not like to think of visitors losing more money than they had actually brought with them. for this reason he forbade the establishment of any bank in the principality, and as a natural consequence, numbers of waiters, who carried on a brisk business in money-lending, made nice little fortunes. in later years smith's bank was established on french territory; this was afterwards absorbed into the crédit lyonnais, which (the prohibition having been revoked) is now quite a prominent feature of monte carlo. at the time when m. blanc made his peaceful conquest of monaco the place was sparsely populated and miserably poor. the contrast indeed between the monaco of fifty years ago and the monte carlo of to-day is striking in the extreme. the following description of the principality at that time was given to the writer by one who has seen every phase of its development. in this gentleman and his wife, being on their honeymoon in france, drove from marseilles to cannes, then also quite a small place. a report had recently reached the latter place that the celebrated m. blanc had started gaming-tables at monaco, and accordingly the duc de vallombrosa, who owned the finest château at cannes, invited several of the english visitors to go over to the principality on his yacht, and in due course the party climbed up to the rock, on which stands the palace. after making inquiries they found the gaming-tables--two roulette and one trente-et-quarante--which were installed in a very unpretentious barnlike edifice somewhere near the spot where the cathedral is now. the arrival of manifestly well-to-do visitors created quite a sensation amongst a somewhat limited crowd, mostly composed of italian tourists who were indulging in a little mild play. m. blanc, it should be added, had merely started these tables as a preliminary step, being at that time engaged in negotiations with the reigning prince as to the erection of a more serious gambling establishment in the latter's dominions. after playing a stake or two the party made their way down to the little town in the condamine, where, finding that donkeys could be hired, they determined to picnic out of doors. accordingly, taking the requisite materials with them, they made their way by a bridle path (which more or less followed the present road) to the plateau, on which the present palatial casino stands to-day. monte carlo (the place was then unnamed) was almost a bare rock covered with rough grass, and here and there a few stunted pine and olive trees, most of the latter of immense age. a few tumble-down hovels were sparsely scattered here and there on the mountain side, in which lived a miserably poor peasantry; the whole spot was as different from the monte carlo of to-day as it is possible to conceive. just about where is now the ornamental plot in front of the doors of the casino, the party collected some dry bits of sticks, boiled their kettle, cooked an omelette and drank their tea, whilst they revelled in the lovely view, which remains to-day almost the sole feature which the hand of man has been powerless to change. almost the last of the few survivors of this expedition also described to the present writer the marvellous alteration which he found on his next visit to the principality some six years later. the first casino had then been built by m. blanc, and a small hôtel de paris stood where the gigantic modern one stands to-day. m. blanc, in addition to presiding over the rooms, was in supreme command of the hotel, which was managed on the most liberal principles, bills being never sent in unless they were asked for. since those days the hotel has been much enlarged and altered. it is now being entirely rebuilt on a palatial scale. when visitors of any standing whatever were about to depart, m. blanc himself would be present to wish them good-bye, and also to inquire whether they might not like a thousand francs for the expenses of their journey, adding that this could be refunded on their next visit, or sent him at their convenience. in , except the hotel, there were scarcely any houses in monte carlo itself, and most of the visitors had to live on the other side of the bay in the old town. as the journey from nice by road took four hours, an abominable and, it was said, unseaworthy, small white steamer, the _palmaria_ (probably the best that could be got), had been chartered by m. blanc to convey visitors from nice. this vessel anchored beneath the castle rock, where its passengers were landed in boats, being met by four-horse omnibuses which plied gratis between the rock and the casino. the _palmaria_ made two journeys from nice a day. if the weather was calm and nothing went wrong, the passage took something like an hour and a quarter. it was a curious sight to see visitors landing in the highest spirits for a flutter, most of them to return in the evening to nice, weary and sea-sick, without a penny to take a cab to their hotel. in the early days of monte carlo there were two zeroes, and the inevitable result was that the _palmaria's_ evening cargo was usually largely composed of what were facetiously called "empty bottles." the crowd which thronged to the tables was of a heterogeneous description and not at all smart. there were a number of enterprising damsels in pork-pie hats and a considerable sprinkling of raffish englishmen, looking as if they had seen better days and were likely to see worse. monte carlo, though a tiny place, already bore evidences of its future expansion. an air of prosperity pervaded it, and the inhabitants had lost the air of hopeless poverty which was formerly such a characteristic of the principality of monaco. in the early days of the casino not much was heard of its existence, the truth being that m. blanc, after his experiences at homburg, feared lest european public opinion might demand the abolition of the tables were their existence to be too prominently thrust before it. in consequence of this as little attention as possible was drawn to the gambling which, if alluded to in the press at all, was merely mentioned as one of the minor attractions. knowing the sensitiveness of m. blanc with regard to publicity, unscrupulous journalists traded upon it, demanding bribes to keep silence, whilst ephemeral newspapers, containing sensational accounts of suicides of ruined gamblers, were published solely in order to extort blackmail. as time went on, however, monte carlo began to be regarded as an established institution, and many visitors took to coming there year after year. the development of the riviera as a pleasure-resort steadily proceeded, and at the present time the coast from genoa to marseilles is an almost unbroken line of pleasure-resorts filled with villas, not a few veritable palaces, all of which owe their existence to the advent of m. blanc with his roulette and trente-et-quarante. abuse gambling as you may, it has in this instance beyond all question brought wealth and prosperity to the inhabitants--not to the rich, for there were no rich--but to the people of the soil, born and bred along this beautiful coast-line lapped by the azure waters of the mediterranean. it was after m. blanc's death in the early 'seventies that the casino was first enlarged, and the theatre built by m. garnier. from time to time further additions have been made--an entirely new gambling-room was added only a few years ago, and at the present moment another is being built. monte carlo itself, which even in the 'eighties was quite a little place, has now become a regular town with streets stretching up along the mountain side almost up to the gigantic hotel, which is now such a conspicuous feature of the principality. the earthquake of , though it ruined the season of that year, was probably beneficial to the prosperity of monte carlo, for it brought the name of the place prominently before the public eye. shortly after that date the vast crowds which now throng to the place began to make their appearance, and monaco quite changed its character. new hotels were opened and numbers of houses built, whilst monte carlo quite lost its air of reposeful peace and became a sort of cosmopolitan pleasure-town swarming with excursionists. before this the casino used to shut at eleven, after which hour every one went to bed, there being no night cafés to go to such as exist to-day. from about to was perhaps the best day of the principality from a social point of view, for at that time it was the resort of a number of the most distinguished and fashionable people in europe. all the sporting characters of the day made a point of paying a yearly visit to monte carlo--most of them are gone now, including mr sam lewis, who always played in maximums with varying success. another well-known figure was captain carlton blythe, who is still alive. he was very successful at trente-et-quarante, where his operations were conducted in a most methodical manner. it was his practice to stake only when sequences were the order of the day. by means of men told off to watch the tables, he was kept informed of this, being sometimes sent for even when not in the casino. his stakes were high, generally about two thousand francs, which, if won, were increased to six thousand, the next being a maximum ( , francs), which was left on till the termination of the run. at times this cheery devotee of coaching was extraordinarily lucky; it is said that he once won as much as £ , during a deal. i believe, however, that in the end this system, like so many others, broke down. the authorities of the casino were then rather more particular than at present as to the costume of visitors, and in many cases refused to grant cards of admission to people of the most indisputable respectability on account of their dress not being in conformity with the regulations which they laid down. on one occasion, indeed, the late lord and lady salisbury, who lived close by at beaulieu, having been seized with a fancy to look into the rooms, presented themselves at the entrance, where cards of entrée are issued either for the day or longer periods. they were both dressed in thoroughly country clothes which the official in command viewed with no kindly eye, as his offhand manner showed. when, however, the visitors, in accordance with the regulations, gave their names, he was convulsed with laughter, and at once told the distinguished couple to go about their business and not try their jokes upon him. the prime minister and his wife, who were rather amused at the incident, accordingly retired. some time afterwards the matter reached the ears of the administration, who, as a sort of compensation, sent a box at the theatre, but no very profound apology was made. the great gambling monopoly is no respecter of persons, and in the casino, as on the turf, complete equality prevails. in the same year, , a curious incident occurred at a trente-et-quarante table. an individual having staked a maximum on the black, red won. he immediately snatched up his (or rather the bank's) notes from the table and ejaculating, "_c'est la dot de ma fille_," strode out of the rooms before any one quite realised what had happened. for some reason or other he was not followed and got clear away. many rich englishmen annually found at monte carlo relaxation and rest from lives of arduous work in the city; some of these regarded play much as sportsmen do shooting, hunting, or yachting. one of these, now dead, said to the writer: "i have regularly taken a villa here for years, and with hardly an exception have lost the sum which i set apart for gaming every year; but i do not regret it. the amount of amusement which i have obtained has been well worth the money. i might, it is true, have kept a yacht which i should have hated, or taken a shooting which would have been little to my taste. i might, in fact, have spent the money in various ways which would have thoroughly bored me--on the whole i am well content." another well-known high player, who from time to time has lost large sums at monte carlo, once declared that he considered the money well invested. "many a large landowner," said he, "is not as lucky as i have been, for he is obliged to spend a large sum every year on the upkeep of his estate for which he obtains nothing in return. i, at least, have had a great deal of amusement." to this it may be objected that the money which goes into the coffers of the casino benefits no one--but this is not strictly true, for the shares are held by all sorts of people, who draw their profits in the same way as from any industrial enterprise. in the 'eighties there were many less hotels than at present and not a great number of villas, whilst the café de paris, which has since been rebuilt in an enlarged form, was about the only restaurant apart from the dining-rooms in the hotels. the gallery, now filled with shops, which is such a favourite morning resort, had not yet come into existence, and except the admirable band in the casino (which gave two performances a day, free) there was little music in monte carlo--a spot which now rings from morning till late at night with the strains of tzigane bands. after the tables were closed--at eleven--there were no amusements at all, and, instead of sitting up half the night, every one went to bed--contentedly or discontentedly, as they had won or lost. the gambling-rooms were much quieter in those days, the flocks of german excursionists having not yet arrived. many of these visitors, as a rule somewhat undesirable from a decorative point of view, are divided up into little coteries or bands, each of which elects a leader who is entrusted with such funds as the party is desirous of risking at the tables, where the leader alone stakes for all, winnings or losings being divided in proportionate shares. of late years the crowds round the gambling-tables have increased to such an extent that except in the early morning or during dinner-time it is impossible to make certain of obtaining a seat. formerly two or three old men of solemn aspect were always to be found sitting at the trente-et-quarante marking down the run of the game, and on a louis being unostentatiously slipped into their hand they would at once yield up their seat. of late years, however, they are no longer to be seen, the administration having banished them from the casino, much to the discomfort of habitual players desirous of risking substantial sums under comfortable conditions. in old days far more attention was paid in a great many other small ways to visitors who had the appearance of belonging to the upper strata of society. to these the croupiers and other officials made a point of being especially obliging and polite. the authorities of the casino, however, seem now to have decided on a more democratic policy, no favour being shown to any one. from a financial point of view this is probably not unsound, a vast number of small players, who drop a certain amount of five-franc pieces and then depart to make way for others, being probably more profitable to the bank than a few heavy gamblers, some of whom may hit it very severely. it is more than likely that scarcely one in fifty of the individuals who sit with a pile of silver beside the roulette wheel goes away a winner, whereas amongst the high gamblers at trente-et-quarante success is not so rare as is usually supposed. the proof of what has been stated was furnished by the brief existence of the "cercle privé"--a new gaming-room which for a short time was highly appreciated by frequenters of monte carlo some seven or eight years ago. the "cercle privé" was open only at night in a room upstairs, and men alone enjoyed the privilege of being allowed to play there. there were four tables, three trente-et-quarante and one roulette, a small bar where refreshments could be obtained, smoking was permitted, and the tables, which did not commence operations till the ones downstairs had closed, were kept going very late. from the point of view of players this innovation was highly successful; for, owing to the comparatively small number of persons who frequented the "cercle privé," greater comfort prevailed than downstairs, whilst the conditions in general were far more conducive to calculated and calm speculation. a large proportion of the frequenters were well known to one another, and the whole thing somewhat resembled a club, the members of which were leagued together against the bank. runs, intermittencies, and other tendencies of chance at certain tables could be carefully noted; occasionally there would be no play at all at one table, the whole crowd staking on a run at another; as the room was small, anything of the sort soon reached the ears of every one. play as a rule was high, and the players, for the most part, were well used to gambling. the results to the bank were most disastrous. on a certain evening it lost more than had ever before been lost in one day by the casino, and at the end of the year the accounts of the "cercle privé" proved anything but an agreeable study for the officials supervising the finances of the great gambling monopoly. the next year it was closed, and there has since been no inclination on the part of the authorities to repeat what was to them a very unprofitable speculation. amongst various causes which in this instance operated to the detriment of the bank was the difficulty, generally amounting to impossibility, of players obtaining a further supply of money when what they had in their pockets had run out. at such a late hour, when the bank was closed and the _caisse_ of most hotels shut up, no matter how rich a man might be, he could not obtain any considerable amount of cash. consequently, should he lose what he had brought with him, he was reduced to playing with such modest sums as could be borrowed from friends, who naturally could not be expected to make any substantial advance, as any moment they themselves might be in a similar predicament. the bank, on the other hand, was equipped with ample funds, and its loss--unlike those of the players, which, after a certain point, were limited by necessity--often extended into a very large figure; consequently, when it was in good luck, it only won a comparatively moderate amount, and when in bad lost very heavily. another reason for the ill-success of the bank was that the policy pursued in the large rooms downstairs had in the case of the "cercle privé" been exactly reversed. in the former there have always been many more roulette tables than tables devoted to trente-et-quarante--upstairs there was only one roulette table as a counter-attraction to the three devoted to the rival game. trente-et-quarante is mathematically one of the most favourable of games at which a gambler can play, the percentage against him produced by the _refait_ being only · per cent. roulette, on the other hand, is, owing to the zero, highly advantageous to the banker. the bank's percentage on all-round play at the tables is more than one-seventy-fourth of all the figures staked; the actual winnings of the bank being about one-sixtieth part of all the money actually placed on the board. at the present time the bank's winnings (gross) are, roughly, £ , , per annum. a large proportion of the gains of the monte carlo bank is derived from small players who enter the rooms with the deliberate intention of either making a certain sum or losing what they have in their pockets; these form, as it were, the rank and file of the gambling army which is constantly being decimated by the casino, and the almost total absence of such an element in the room upstairs reduced the play to a duel between the bank and a number of persons, the majority of whom were, more or less, capitalists and who, as often as not, went home immediately after bringing off one big and successful coup. the gaming-rooms in the casino at monte carlo have often been described as a hot-bed of vice and debauchery, the tables surrounded by a seething crowd of excited figures whose countenances betray the intense emotions which the vitiating effects of play arouse. "cries of triumph, imprecations, moans and sobs are heard on every side." in certain highly coloured accounts, suicide is spoken of as being an ordinary occurrence, the crowd making way without comment for the passage of the corpse of some unfortunate gambler who, at the end of his tether, has blown out his brains. all this is purely fanciful, and conveys no idea whatever of the real state of affairs prevailing in the rooms, where calm and good order invariably reign. there exists, indeed, an almost religious hush in the halls of this great temple of chance. after dinner, and towards the time of close of play, the scene, it is true, becomes more animated, but, as a rule, the only sounds heard are those connected with the games played. what conversation there is is almost exclusively devoted to short comments on such matters as the lack or abundance of runs on one particular colour, the persistent recurrence of certain numbers, the amount of winnings or losings of some well-known player, or the like; people rarely speak, when at the table, of their own vicissitudes in the battle with chance. the real gamblers, that is to say, those to whom speculation is the very breath of life, speak least of all, their whole mind being concentrated upon the system or method of staking which it is generally their practice to adopt. they sit with unmoved faces, which appear neither elated by victory nor depressed by defeat. a well-known monte carlo type--more abundant perhaps in the past than to-day--is the _beau joueur_, the man who plays to the gallery and, let it be added, pays handsomely for his performance. certain and inevitable ruin is the fate of these individuals, who sacrifice themselves to the spirit of vanity. as a rule, the winnings or losings of such people are a great subject of conversation and discussion amongst the frequenters of the tables--they are said to have either won or lost enormous sums--to be at the end of their tether, or to have an enormous fortune behind them. their fame, however, is of no enduring kind, being at best a nine days' wonder. they are soon forgotten, and their departure, leaving only too often their money in the vaults of the casino, and an unpaid bill at their hotel, excites not even passing comment from the crowd of spectators whose approving gaze and fleeting admiration has been so dearly bought. some old players remain watching the game for a considerable space of time without risking a stake at all, till the moment arrives when either superstition or calculation prompts them to take the first steps in the campaign. many of these come provided with memorandum books filled with column after column of figures, records of past runs on colours, and recurring sequences of numbers carefully inscribed as a guide to fathoming the capricious movements of fortune. others bring queer little mechanical contrivances, which are manipulated in a manner to show the correspondence between certain chances; whilst yet another section quite frankly display all sorts of fetishes, to some of which they attach a quite serious importance. a piece of the rope which has been used by a hangman is a fetish reputed to be an almost certain passport to good luck. the experience of the present writer with a grim relic of this kind did not, however, give any support to such a belief. as a great favour he was once given a small hempen souvenir by a friend, and armed with the precious talisman he betook himself to a trente-et-quarante table, where a good seat was secured. from the very first, however, it was evident that the gruesome charm was not exercising its occult influence in a direction favourable to its new, and perhaps somewhat sceptical, possessor. when runs were sought for, alternates appeared, and vice versa. _refaits_ were dealt with unnatural frequency; in fact, disaster followed disaster in an unbroken sequence, with the result that the little bit of rope was all that the player had in his pocket as he somewhat disconsolately strode out of the rooms, rather inclined to wish that the hempen relic had been utilised for its original purpose around the neck of its donor. gamblers are generally most superstitious folk and swayed by all sorts of whimsical ideas. years ago an old lady used to give the authorities a good deal of trouble by repeatedly bringing a small portion of ham into the rooms, and, whilst at play, cutting off slices and eating them. for some reason or other she had the fixed idea that, in her case, ham-eating propitiated fortune. the rules of the casino naturally forbid any proceeding of such a kind in the rooms, and whenever the ham was produced the _chef de partie_ was obliged to point this out. the old lady in question, who was a well-known character, was, however, very rich, and, being a constant and high player, any drastic action would naturally have been disadvantageous to the best interests of the bank. some compromise was, therefore, eventually arranged, by which the amount of ham consumed was so infinitesimal as to pass almost unnoticed by the general public. certain players attach considerable importance to the numbers inscribed upon the check handed to them by the attendants who look after cloaks and sticks. now and then, as must of necessity happen in the ordinary course of events, an individual succeeds in winning a good stake by backing a number at roulette corresponding with that on his wooden ticket; more often, however, he fails, and then proceeds to work out all sorts of combinations of numbers, adding, subtracting and dividing, as the fancy seizes him. the number of the sleeping-berth which has carried the visitor from paris is also often chosen, as is that of his bedroom in the hotel. the date of a birthday, the sum total of the numbers on a watch, or of the figures on a coin, the number of cigarettes left in a case, or of coins in the pocket, and other similar trifles are all noted with intense interest by a certain class of player, eager for any clue which they believe may assist them in their struggle to achieve success. it used, at one time, to be said at monte carlo that the clergyman of the english church there never gave out any hymns under number thirty-six, as he had discovered that some of his congregation had made a practice of carefully noting down the numbers with a view to backing them at roulette. most players, even the least superstitious, have some special lucky number of their own, which they make a point of following. occasionally it turns up two or three times in succession, which, of course, further confirms them in constantly backing it, and, more often than not, losing far more than they have won. the present writer's experiences in this direction have not been of an encouraging nature. some years ago, being on his way to the principality, he was much struck by the curiously persistent way in which the number confronted him throughout the journey. his room at paris was ; the number of his sleeping-berth in the train to monaco was ; and finally he was put into room no. at the hôtel de paris on the day of his arrival, the th day of the month. all this, to any one with a vestige of superstition, looked as if was a number well worth backing, and accordingly the writer hastened to the rooms, eager to see whether the tip would come off. as a matter of fact the only thing which did come off was the end of his finger, which in his haste to get to the casino he slammed in his bedroom door. after having been attended to by a surgeon he finally obtained a place at roulette and steadily backed number , which, to his intense disgust, appeared rather less frequently than the other numbers. the same unsatisfactory state of affairs prevailed throughout his stay, which on that occasion was a prolonged and unpleasant one. the curious influence which the advent of certain persons, or the occurrence of trivial incidents, appears to exert in matters of luck is well known to all gamblers. many of them generally regard a number of trifles with feelings of considerable apprehension at the gaming-table, entertaining the most extraordinary likes and dislikes for various people and things, and cherishing queer fancies at which, in ordinary life, they would be the first to scoff. all this, of course, is akin to the superstition of the savage, a queer atavistic reminder of civilised man's humble descent. though the principles of roulette and trente-et-quarante are known to many, it may not be out of place to give brief descriptions of these games as played at monte carlo. before play begins the money is set out at one end of the table. the gold, after being weighed in scales, is placed in rouleaux, and the bank notes ranged according to their value. everything is verified by an inspector, who taps each row with a rake and signs his name to a statement on paper. at trente-et-quarante the minimum stake is a louis, the maximum , francs (£ ), and the capital with which each table begins play £ . "breaking the bank" merely means that the money at a particular table is exhausted, and that play has to be suspended while more money is being procured. trente-et-quarante is a game of four even chances--_rouge_ and _noir_, _couleur gagne_ and _couleur perd_. it is played with six packs of cards, which, having been shuffled, are cut by one of the players. there is often a good deal of competition for this ceremony, the cut being by request reserved for some keen player. as a rule, however, others give way when any one who seems in luck--especially a lady of attractive appearance--steps forward to cut the cards. after every one has staked and "_rien ne va plus_" has been called, the croupier deals the first card face upwards, and continues dealing until the cards turned up exceed thirty pips in number, when he must announce the numbers from "trente-et-un" to "quarante." this top line of cards is black, and when it is less in number than the one which is dealt beneath black wins. another line underneath is then dealt for _rouge_. when the two lines are equal in the number of pips--say thirty-six each--the dealer announces an _après_; thirty-one is the _refait_ when all stakes are _en prison_. when, however, a _refait_ has been dealt, a player may withdraw half his stake if he chooses, or move his money over from the red "prison" to the black "prison." in the case of another _refait_, the money is removed into another space, which is called the second prison. the odds against a _refait_ turning up are usually reckoned as to . the bank is said, however, to expect it twice in three deals, and there are generally from twenty-nine to thirty-two coups in each deal. by paying one per cent players may insure their stake. a large white counter is placed by the croupier on or near the money insured, which is unaffected by the _refait_. there are high players, however, who consider it bad policy to insure, and prefer to run the risk of being dealt in both lines. as a matter of fact, from a mathematical point of view, thirty-one is the number which the cards are most likely to make, as any one can easily prove for himself; the combinations formed by the numbers of the pips on the cards being more adapted to produce thirty-one than anything else. it is for this reason, no doubt, that the number in question was chosen for the _refait_, when the game first came into vogue. at trente-et-quarante, besides the even chances of _rouge_ and _noir_, there are also the even chances of _couleur gagne_ and _couleur perd_. the first card dealt determines _couleur_. if, for instance, it is red and _rouge_ (the bottom line) wins--_couleur gagne_--the croupier says, "_rouge gagne et la couleur_"; if it is black and _rouge_ wins--_couleur perd_--the croupier says, "_rouge gagne, couleur perd_." the prison, of course, applies to _couleur_ just as it does to _rouge_ and _noir_. at certain stated intervals, in the presence of a _sous-directeur_ or _chef de partie_, the used packs of cards from trente-et-quarante are carried to a furnace in sealed sacks and scrupulously burnt. a good many years ago the backs of the cards used at trente-et-quarante were plain white; at the present time, however, a slight design, the pattern of which varies daily, is upon them. the reason for the change was said to be that the plain backs once facilitated a fraud, which cost the authorities of the casino many thousands of francs. the story is a curious one. one morning, as trente-et-quarante was pursuing its usual somewhat monotonous progress, a player with a large pile of money before him, seated next the croupier dealing, entered into an altercation with a neighbour about some stake, in the course of which, owing to violent gesticulations, a whole heap of coins was swept to the ground. considerable confusion arose, which naturally necessitated the interference of the _chef de partie_ (who supervises the game). the attention of everybody, both officials and players, was drawn to the spot where the dispute was taking place; the owner of the fallen treasure loudly declaiming against rough, bullying swindlers being allowed to enter the rooms at all. however, after much chatter, the money having been all found, peace was restored and the game proceeded on its ordinary course. it was very soon evident that a number of very high players were that morning seated round the table, for quantities of notes and gold began to make their appearance. what was more remarkable was that all the high players seemed to be inspired with the same excellent idea, for every one of them invariably backed the winning chances. so extraordinary was their luck that, after the bank had lost a good deal of money, one of the high officials, who had been watching the game, announced that for the time being further play would be suspended at that particular table, as there was reason to believe that the cards had been tampered with. this naturally provoked a storm of protest, and in the confusion which ensued, the high players slipped unobtrusively away, their pockets well stuffed with the money they had extracted from the bank. an hour or two later an attempt was made by the authorities to trace them, but, curiously enough, not one was to be found in the principality. they had all crossed the french frontier and had dispersed in various directions. the cards were afterwards carefully counted and examined, and a thorough investigation of that morning's play is said to have proved beyond all doubt that the whole affair had been a cleverly hatched plot against the bank. the two men who had quarrelled at the table were professional swindlers, and had carefully rehearsed the disturbance, in order to divert attention from the dealer, who remained apparently quite unmoved whilst the _chef de partie_ and other officials were inquiring into the dispute. during this time an accomplice on the other side of this croupier had taken advantage of the general turmoil to slip a portion of a prepared pack into the man's hand. this was furtively exchanged by him for a certain number which he was holding ready to deal. of these the accomplice relieved him. the high players were all swindlers, well aware how the cards had been arranged. the croupier, heavily bribed, was a rare exception, for, as a rule, monte carlo croupiers are above all suspicion. his share in the swindle was detected and he appeared in the halls of chance no more. as was perfectly obvious, a robbery of this kind was greatly facilitated by the plain white backs of the cards in daily use. it was therefore decided that in future every morning a new design should be produced for the backs of these cards, which, known only to a special department, would effectually prevent any chance of prepared packets being interpolated with the packs issued by the authorities. at roulette as at trente-et-quarante the money is publicly counted out and verified by an inspector before play begins. the roulette wheels are balanced in the presence of the public, and one of the blue-coated _garçons de salle_ goes from table to table with a spirit-level, which is placed upon the rosewood rim of the cylinder, a _chef de table_ verifying the accurate adjustment of the wheel by seeing that the air bubble is exactly in the centre. the maximum stakes allowed on the different chances at roulette are:-- francs. on one number on two numbers (_à cheval_) on three numbers transversal four numbers (_en carré_) on , , , on six numbers transversal on one dozen on one column on all the even chances [illustration: plan of roulette table as used at monte carlo methods of staking . on one number ( ). . on two numbers ( and ); this is called "à cheval." . on three numbers ( , , ); this is called "transversale." . on a "carré," or square, of numbers ( , , , ). . on a transversale of numbers ( , , , , , ). . on an even chance (black). . on two even chances (black and pair). . on a dozen ( st dozen). . on a column (last column). maximum stake, , francs; minimum, francs. zero sweeps all stakes except even chances, which go into "prison" till next coup, when they are either released or taken.] the amount with which play is begun each day is , francs, or £ . each roulette table has two boards, on which players may stake, the roulette wheel (a cylinder let into the table) lying between the two. the numbers of the roulette are arranged irregularly, though reds and blacks alternate. zero, which is not counted as a colour, lies between red and black. there are in all thirty-seven little compartments which receive the ball--eighteen red, eighteen black, and zero. the accurate odds, therefore, are to against any particular division; nevertheless the bank only pays to , which causes its profit to amount to in , nearly · per cent. the lowest stake allowed at roulette is five francs, the highest , francs, known as a maximum. the two sides of the roulette table are duplicates of one another, each of them being divided something like a chess-board into three columns of squares, which amount to thirty-six; the numbers advance arithmetically from right to left, and consequently there are twelve lines down, so as to complete a rectangle; as , therefore, stands at the head, stands immediately under it, and so on. at the bottom lie three squares marked p, m, d, that is, first, middle, and last dozen. three large spaces on each side of the numbers are for red and black; even and odd; _manque_ and _passe_, that is, the numbers in the first and second half respectively from to , and from to inclusive. at the top of each board is zero, which sweeps all stakes, except those on the even chances, into the coffers of the bank. the stakes having been made a croupier says: "_le jeu est fait, rien ne va plus_." the wheel is set in motion. at the same time a croupier sends the ball flying round the cylinder, the roulette wheel bearing the numbers being made to revolve in an opposite direction. the ball eventually falls on to the wheel, and as the latter slackens its speed, enters a compartment, the number of which is announced thus: "_dix-sept, rouge, impair et manque_." when zero is announced all the money on the table is annexed by the bank with the exception of that staked upon the even chances red or black, odd or even, _passe_ or _manque_--the sums on these are moved to the edge of the board, being _en prison_ till the next coup, when they are taken or released according to the colour and chance which wins. the odds laid by the bank work out as follows:-- stakes placed on any number or on zero are paid at the rate of to --a player on the numbers is therefore taking to about a to chance, which must be to his prejudice in the long-run--on any four numbers to , on any six numbers to . red or black, odd or even, _passe_ (the numbers after ) or _manque_ (the numbers before ) are even-money chances. the dozens and columns are to chances. stakes are often placed _à cheval_, that is to say, on two adjoining numbers, which together are paid at the rate of to . the red numbers and the blacks are unequally divided in the columns. the centre column contains eight black and only four reds; the first column has six reds and six blacks; while in the last column there are eight reds and four blacks. professor karl pearson, when making an exhaustive study of the laws of chance, drew up a series of elaborate tables, with the intention of comparing the results of a number of spins of the roulette wheel with those produced by drawing numbers from a hat and tossing with coins. the conclusion at which he arrived was that, whilst the colours followed the laws of chance as they are generally understood, the other even chances, _passe_ and _manque_, _pair_ and _impair_, exhibited such capriciousness in their recurrence as could not have been expected had roulette been played continuously through the whole period of geological time. the roulette wheels of monte carlo are perfectly honest machines. the cylinder of each is sheet copper, carefully balanced and strengthened by bands of metal. it revolves in its bed on a vertical pivot of steel, the top of which has a cup-like hollow, into which oil is poured. a mechanic, whose business it is to clean and prepare the wheels every morning, pours oil also into the gun-metal socket which forms the centre of the wheel, and it is then dropped into its place upon the pivot. the great care which is taken by the authorities to ensure the absolute accuracy of their roulette wheels is based upon very sufficient grounds, for a slight defect in one of those machines once cost them a large sum. amongst the frequenters of the rooms at monte carlo there is always a large number of astute and none too scrupulous individuals quick to note any little circumstance likely to be of advantage to themselves. for this reason some slight tendency of the roulette wheel to stop in such a way as to cause a certain group of numbers to have an advantage over the rest is very quickly noticed and advantage taken of it. a mechanic from yorkshire, jaggers by name, once cost the casino some two million francs. well aware of the difficulty of maintaining a nicely adjusted machine in a perfectly stable condition, jaggers engaged six assistants, whom he posted at different tables to note the numbers at roulette all day long, whilst he himself undertook to make an elaborate analysis of the results. after a month's play peculiarities were clearly to be discovered in the appearance of the numbers at each of the tables quite out of consonance with the law of average, some numbers turning up more, some less. having ascertained this fact jaggers and his men began to play on the numbers which kept ahead of the rest, and won some hundred and forty thousand pounds. the authorities then realised that all was not right, and changed the roulette wheels from one table to another for every day's play, with the result that the bank recovered £ , . jaggers, however, was not yet defeated, for by searching observations he discovered minute marks on most of the six wheels, which enabled him to follow them from table to table--a mere scratch was enough. in a short time he and his assistants knew what numbers would be most likely to recur at certain tables, and the £ , which the bank had regained was soon won back. the authorities controlling the play now began to take a serious view of the situation, and in consequence consulted the manufacturer of the roulette wheels in paris with a view to constructing cylinders capable of baffling jaggers and his gang. a new set of wheels were constructed with interchangeable partitions, so that the position of the various receptacles to receive the ball might be changed every evening, when practically a new wheel would be produced, the receptacle which had served for one number on any certain day being utilised for another on the other side the next. by these means jaggers was eventually defeated. he was astute enough to perceive that the advantages which he had so cleverly utilised for his own profit no longer existed and, after having lost back some portion of his gains, retired from monte carlo some £ , to the good. in order to obviate all chance of anything of this kind happening again, the roulette wheels are carefully examined and tested every day, the most thorough precautions being taken to ensure conditions of the fairest kind. whatever objections may be urged against the gambling-rooms as an institution, no accusation of unfairness can be raised against the way in which play is conducted at monte carlo. in this respect scrupulous and undeviating honesty is the absolute rule. a croupier, like a poet, is said to be born, not made. many of those employed at monte carlo, according to current report, are descendants of those who raked in the money of the allies (and especially of the english officers) in the old gambling-rooms of the palais royal in . a large section belong to great croupier families, members of which dealt the cards and plied the rake in the "conversation houses" and kursaals of baden, homburg, ems, and other german spas which have been described. there is something rather stately about these men, most of whom have a peculiar look of detachment not lacking in dignity. solemn, courteous, suave, and unmoved, they appear little affected by the monotony which must of necessity attach to their calling. they are, it is said, excellent husbands and fathers, of simple tastes, their chief amusement being playing cards for very modest stakes amongst themselves--for they are a class apart. a school of croupiers exists, at which applicants are trained. the course of instruction in question is located in the club-room of the tir aux pigeons and the salle d'escrime. here during the six summer months are tables exactly like those in the public rooms above, each pupil in turn taking the _rôle_ of croupier, whilst others, personating players, stake money all over the table. the novice croupier learns to calculate and pay out winning stakes with sham money, consisting of metal discs and dummy bank-notes. it takes at least six months to produce a finished croupier. a roulette croupier receives two hundred and fifty francs a month; whilst dealers at trente-et-quarante are paid three hundred francs. the working-day is six hours, in two spells of three hours each; each man being for three days in succession at one table. every table is controlled by six croupiers, a seventh being held in reserve as a relief. at the tables the suavity of manner and impartiality of croupiers in settling disputes is generally above all praise. the difficulties with which a croupier has to contend are sometimes disturbing in the extreme, but his decision is final and, as the players know, admits of no appeal. though the tables are surrounded by a mob of persons avid of gain, yet there are times when winning stakes remain unclaimed for several _coups_. when this is observed by the croupiers, the money is set aside for a certain time, after which it goes to swell the funds of the bank. odd though it may appear, people very often depart leaving winnings behind them on the table--a curious case of this once came under the writer's observation. a lady, who was leaving monte carlo, had been sitting all the morning at the roulette, trying with little success to get on a run, and at last left the rooms to go to lunch with the writer, who afterwards, having escorted her to the hotel to prepare for her journey, strolled again into the casino. just within the door he was accosted by an excited and voluble englishwoman, who explained that the lady (whom she had observed with the writer) had left two louis on the red when she rose from her chair. red had won twice, and the attention of the croupiers had been drawn to the unclaimed eight louis, for which the speaker had then assumed the responsibility, saying she was to play them for a lady who had gone out of the rooms. she had then proceeded to play up the eight louis till they had become sixty-four, when, at her request, the whole sum was taken off the table. the _chef de partie_ meanwhile declared that the bank would not part with the money till the owner of the original two louis returned. after waiting for some time, the woman (who frankly said that she hoped to receive a share of the money for having played it up) became much perturbed at not knowing where to find the only owner whom the bank would recognise, and the advent of the writer, to whom she explained the whole thing, was therefore most opportune. the lady when told that sixty-four louis was waiting for her was naturally much pleased, and on drawing the sum on her way to the station, very cheerfully gave the woman a third of what had been won. of late years the annual profits of the casino at monte carlo have worked out at about a million, £ a day, it is said, flowing into the coffers of the bank during the season. the disbursements, however, are very heavy, amounting literally to hundreds of thousands of pounds. amongst these must be reckoned £ for clergy and schools, £ for charity, and £ , for police. the arrangement, which was some years ago renewed with the reigning prince, naturally absorbs a very large sum of money; but, when everything has been paid out, the annual profits do not fall far short of £ , , the shareholders, even in bad years, receiving something like thirty per cent. the casino employs about two thousand officials and _employés_; the general management being carried on by a _directeur-général_, who receives , francs a year, and three _directeurs_. three _sous-directeurs_, under whom are the _chefs de table_ and the croupiers, have to superintend the gaming-rooms, in which eighteen inspectors walk about the rooms quietly and continually, keeping watchful eyes on _employés_ and players. these inspectors are known only to the initiated, and have the appearance of being ordinary onlookers, fond of watching the play. amongst other duties these men keep an eye upon the people staking, in order to detect any habitual snatchers of other people's money, and also to report on any one who may apply for the _viatique_. the _viatique_, or sum of money doled out to unsuccessful gamblers by the casino, consists of the price of a second-class ticket to the applicant's home, together with some small additional funds to enable him to proceed on his journey. the dole in question was in the earlier days of monte carlo generally granted without much demur, but at the present time a successful applicant has to comply with some very unpleasant formalities. to obtain the _viatique_, the presumably penniless gamester must present himself at a special office, just off a corner of the central gaming-room, and there he must take an oath that he has lost over £ . inquiries are then made as to whether the applicant has really lost a large sum at play, which is easily discovered by the evidence of the inspectors and officials presiding at the tables. if these inquiries corroborate the story told, he is handed the money, for which he signs a receipt; and until the advance is repaid, the recipient is not allowed to pass the doors which separate the atrium from the gaming-rooms. as a matter of fact, i believe those who have received the _viatique_ are now photographed so as to be identified by the door-keepers. there have been instances of unsuccessful system players, who, after obtaining the _viatique_, have remained at monte carlo, constantly vaunting the virtues of their peculiar method of play, indulgence in which has shut them off from the tables. whilst the enormous majority of those who frequent monte carlo lose, as the princely dividends of the casino show, certain is it that a number of persons continue to eke out a living by very moderate and careful play. living in humble lodgings or cheap hotels in the condamine are many who make it the business of their lives to win one louis, or even ten francs, every day, sitting for hours perhaps in the accomplishment of the task. some of these are ruined gamblers, who, being reduced to a modest competency owing to their ruling passion, have more or less learnt wisdom and are content to wait for long periods of time without staking at all, whilst quick to grasp the advantage which can be taken from a well-marked run. old women, with queer handbags and bundles of what resemble washing-books, abound at the roulette tables, some of them being exceedingly shrewd and in a small way not unsuccessful players. when a woman really grasps the spirit of play she is undoubtedly far cleverer than a man, who more often than not regards the gambling as a personal combat between himself and the bank, which he thinks of rather as a living thing than the ruthless inanimate machine which, in sober fact, it is. the majority of women, however, are quite hopeless as gamblers, merely frittering their money away, often quite ignorant of the odds, chances, and general procedure of either trente-et-quarante or roulette, at which their favourite method of staking is to try and back winning numbers. the methods and systems employed by habitual frequenters of the rooms are of every possible description, some being devised to win but a louis, and others to secure a princely fortune. the numbers at roulette are very profitable to the bank, for no system or method, no matter how carefully devised (except the one employed by jaggers), has ever assisted any one to back a winning number or set of numbers. all this is mere chance, and no calculations as to previous numbers and the like are of the least assistance. every _coup_ that is played is an absolutely new _coup_, and quite unaffected by anything that has gone before. there is really no reason why one number should not keep turning up during the whole of one day's play except the fact that such a thing has never been known to happen. it appears certain that the general tendency of chances is to equalise themselves at the end of a certain period, but as the player of necessity cannot possibly tell whether any given chance is on the up or down grade, such knowledge is of no assistance whatever to him. a certain number is observed not to have turned up for a considerable length of time, and the conclusion is formed that an increasing stake upon it must in the end prove a good investment. more often than not the very contrary is the case, for there have been whole days at monte carlo during which a number at one table has scarcely appeared at all. on the other hand, if a record of every _coup_ at this table had been kept, the recurrence of every number would, in the course of time, be found to be practically the same. complicated systems have often been devised, the main principle of which was covering a large proportion of the numbers, only a few, supposed by deduction to be unlikely to turn up, being left untouched. disaster has invariably followed even a moderate run on such numbers, which, of course, occurs in the end, completely draining the players' pockets. the even chances, without doubt, afford a player the greatest likelihood of success. staking a louis every time on both black and red, or any other even chance, leaving on any winnings in the hope of catching a run, is occasionally not a bad plan. the trouble of staking on both chances can be modified by calculation, though it is somewhat apt to lead to confusion. a great number of players spend their whole time trying to strike a run at trente-et-quarante--this generally occurs when they are absent from their favourite table. the third _coup_ would seem to be the most dangerous: for this reason, when a colour has run twice it is better to withdraw some portion of the sum staked, and then the remainder may be left to double up. the practice of staking on the dozens at roulette is generally very attractive to those fresh to the tables, who like the idea of landing a two to one chance. the same type of player is, as a rule, at one time or another, fascinated by that system (or rather method of staking) which consists in backing two dozens, that is, laying two to one against the bank. most of such players, however, soon discover how disastrous this may prove, and it should be realised that it is by no means an unusual occurrence for a dozen not to appear for ten or twelve _coups_--seventeen, i believe, is the record number of non-appearances. the great objection, however, to backing two dozens is zero, which sweeps everything but the even chances. another method of play is to stake against the recurrence of any number of even chances in an identical order. ten _coups_ at trente-et-quarante, for instance, having resulted thus: red red red black red black black red red black, the player plays black, black, black, red, and so on in an exactly opposite sense, increasing his stake till successful. as a matter of fact it is not very usual for any given number of _coups_ to recur in exactly the same succession, and played with discretion this system occasionally yields fair results. another simple method is to stake red, black, alternately, doubling up till the winning colour is caught. this has the advantage of ensuring profit from a run, but a directly opposite series of alternate reds and blacks must, of course, prove ruinous in the extreme. the martingale, which is merely going "double or quits," is the simplest of all systems. there are two martingales, the small and the great. in the small martingale the aim is to get back all previous losses in one _coup_, and to leave you a winner of one unit at the finish. the progression is as follows: , , , , , , , , , , . if you played this system at a roulette table with a unit of five francs, it takes eleven consecutive losses to defeat you, and one loss less at the trente-et-quarante table, where the minimum stake is francs. you may go on playing this martingale for weeks at a time without encountering an adverse run of sufficient magnitude to enable the bank to capture your stake. the only thing you have to fear is a run of against you; you can only double up eleven times, and your last stake will be francs. runs of , however, are rare. the great martingale aims at getting back all the previous losses and winning one unit for every _coup_ played. the progression is , , , , , , , , , , and the player is defeated by ten consecutive losses at roulette, and nine at trente-et-quarante. when playing the little martingale the player has to double his stake every time he loses, in order to recover his losses and be one unit to the good. whereas, in the great martingale he not only doubles his stake but adds one unit to each _coup_, and only stands one chance in of losing at each _coup_, that is, of encountering an adverse run of ten. a popular system is that known as the labouchere system. its main principle is to keep scratching out the top and bottom figures whenever you win, till no figures are left, and always to put down your loss when you lose, which, added to the topmost number, forms the next stake. before beginning to play write down on a card , , , in this order:-- your object is to win six units, and you always stake the sum total of the top and bottom figures-- + = . if you win, you strike out the and the :-- = = = = your next stake will now be . if you win again, your task is over, for you have won your six units. suppose, however, as alas! most frequently happens, that you lose your first stake + , you must add the figure at the bottom of your score thus:-- your next stake will now be + = . we will then say that you win, in which case cross out the and the , making your score:-- = = = = the next stake would be + . you lose, and your score stands:-- = = = = the next stake would be + . you win, and you cross out and :-- = = = = = = = = the next stake would be , and if you win you cross out , and have won the six units that you started out to win. not infrequently this system, after very nearly proving successful (one number only being left), goes entirely wrong and runs into very big figures, and in such a case the player is very lucky if he succeeds in regaining his losses and winning the six units originally sought for. more often than not he finds himself obliged to desist through lack of capital. the writer's own experience of this system, which he has thoroughly tested on several occasions at monte carlo, was that very frequently the six units would be won several times in succession with comparatively slight difficulty--at times, indeed, it appeared almost ridiculously easy to win. in the end, however, there invariably came a day when a very contrary state of affairs prevailed, and the money won returned, with interest, to the bank. it should be added that before the writer embarked upon his efforts to defeat the bank at monte carlo by means of this system, he gave it a thorough trial by dealing out the required number of packs of cards at trente-et-quarante, and noting the results of the various _coups_. in almost every case the system proved completely successful, as systems generally do when they are not being played for money. an exception to this was lord rosslyn's defeat by sir hiram maxim, when the former's system, played for sham money, was beaten at the th _coup_. nevertheless the system in question is not a particularly bad one, were it not that it requires a considerable capital. ten thousand units or more are essential, with £ , on the basis of a one-louis unit. if fortune should favour the player, the profit would be from five to six hundred louis a day. the principle of this system is to increase the stakes by one unit every time, without ever decreasing, until all previous losses are wiped out and one louis as well is gained for every _coup_ played. two exceptions to this rule, however, exist. the first stake is always "one," but if you lose this, instead of your next stake being two, it is three; after that it should be four, five, six, seven, eight, etc., until your task is accomplished. the game is finished when you can wipe out all minus quantities from your score sheet and bring the result to + . suppose, therefore, your score sheet shows you to be - , and your stake in the ordinary way ought to be ; instead of staking you would only stake , in order to arrive at the result of + if you win. in the event of your losing the stake of , your next stake will be , just as if you had staked in the ordinary course of the game the previous _coup_. if you lose the , you would continue with , , , and so on. if you win two or three stakes of at the commencement, they are considered as definite gains, and put away quite apart from your capital. in the event of your losing the first two stakes of and , your position is:-- first loss - second loss - -- total loss - the object of the system being to win a unit per _coup_ as well as to recover any loss, in order to keep a clear record of the amount you require to win, it is best to add one unit to your losses after every _coup_. supposing that the game is begun with four losing and three winning _coups_, it will be scored as follows:-- first loss to which add more. -- total - second stake - and lose. -- lost - to which add more. -- total - third stake - and lose. -- lost - to which add more. -- total - fourth stake - and lose. -- lost - to which add more. -- total - fifth stake + and win. lost - to which add more. -- total - sixth stake + and win. -- lost - to which add more. -- total - seventh stake and win. -- result + result.--_coups_ played, ; _coups_ lost, ; units won, . _coups_ won, ; units lost, . total won, . the last stake, it will be observed, is only instead of . this is because you only require to arrive at a result of + . had been staked in the ordinary course and won, you would have won a unit more than you needed, but would have taken some unnecessary risk. those desirous of giving various systems a trial should not omit to study the method of staking set forth in mr. victor bethell's lively little book, _ten days at monte carlo_. a merit of this system is that it only seeks to win a certain moderate amount every day, and does not allure the player with hopes of immense and impossible gain. most systems as a rule prove successful for a short time, and while this happy state of affairs prevails, the player, not unnaturally, congratulates himself upon having discovered an infallible method of overcoming the wiles of chance. sooner or later, alas, comes the day when his laborious calculations prove quite powerless to defeat the bank, and clearly demonstrate that the success, which at one time seemed so certain and easy, was merely the result of having hit upon a vein of good luck. in all probability the best method of staking is the following, which was once carried out for some two months with complete success. the method in question was successfully worked by a gentleman (known to the present writer), who owing to the illness of a relative, was obliged to remain at monte carlo for a rather lengthy period of time. he was, it must be understood, very well off, and by no means a gambler. his plan was this: every day he put a hundred-franc note in his pocket, which he changed into five-franc bits in the casino. with these twenty coins he commenced to play. his stake was usually but one or two of these coins at first, though sometimes he would lose his whole capital in a few moments trying to back winning numbers. if successful, any notes he might receive were put in his pocket-book not to be used for play. it was no uncommon thing for him to leave the casino with a profit of a thousand francs. on the other hand, it would often occur that for a number of days in succession he would lose his hundred francs without hardly having won a stake at all. in the long run, however, he was a very considerable sum to the good, a comparatively small number of winning days having far more than compensated him for the large number of those on which the hundred francs had been speedily lost. under no circumstances did he ever risk more than a hundred francs in one day. it was, of course, the system of putting all paper money in the pocket which caused this method to succeed. it should be added that when the hundred francs had rolled up into twenty or thirty louis at roulette the player often tried his luck with them at trente-et-quarante. the essential advantage of this method of staking is the limit imposed upon loss; under no circumstances can more than one hundred francs a day be lost, whilst when in luck a very large sum may be won. the method described above is not a bad one for any one who is making a prolonged stay at monte carlo, and is not desperately anxious to indulge in serious gambling; a better course to be adopted by those who are, is to decide exactly how much they are prepared to lose, take the whole of sum in question into the rooms one morning, divide it into a certain number of stakes, and with these play a limited number of _coups_ on the even chances. if successful, repeat this operation the next day with the winnings alone, and so on until a fairly substantial sum has been amassed, when the wisest course is to cease all further gambling for that visit. it must never be forgotten that the fewer _coups_ which are played the more chance there is of winning. long sittings at the trente-et-quarante or roulette table are absolutely certain to end in loss, besides being inexpressibly tedious, trying to the eyes, and destructive to health. a man who plays a great part of the day and all the evening after dinner must certainly end by being a loser; whereas he who merely plays for a few minutes at a time has a very fair chance of ending up a winner, always provided, of course, that the fates are propitious. in the long run nothing is to be gained by making a toil of gaming, the only justifiable defence of which is that in moderation it affords a good deal of pleasurable though generally costly excitement. there are good methods of staking and bad methods; but there is not, and, so far as can be foreseen, never will be, a thoroughly reliable system. the best is that which minimises loss, acting as a check in the case of an unfavourable run. all complicated mathematical calculations undertaken with a view to defeating the bank are vain, for none of them take into consideration that most important and mysterious factor--_luck_--which so often seems to shun serious gamblers. "if i were resolved to win," said a lover of systems, "i should go very soberly with a hundred napoleons, and be content with winning one." "that would never do," was the reply of a player well versed in the fallacies of gamesters' calculations. "better go, after a good dinner, with one napoleon, resolved to win a hundred." xi difficulty of making money on the turf--big wins--sporting tipsters and their methods--jack dickinson--"black ascots"--billy pierse--anecdotes--lord glasgow--lord george bentinck--lord hastings--heavy betting of the past--charles ii. founder of the english turf--history of the latter--anecdotes--eclipse--highflyer--the founder of tattersall's--old time racing--fox--lord foley--major leeson--councillor lade--"louse pigott"--hambletonian and diamond--mrs. thornton match--beginnings of the french turf--lord henry seymour--longchamps--mr. mackenzie grieves--plaisanterie--establishment of the pari mutuel in --how the large profits are allocated--conclusion. in the course of some remarks on racing made by lord rosebery at the st dinner of the gimcrack club he said:-- "i don't think any one need pursue the turf with the idea of gain." this statement, though a discouraging one for sportsmen, is nothing more than the plain, unvarnished truth, as any one who cares to look into the matter can find out for himself. a quicker and more convincing method, open to those with plenty of funds, is to own race-horses. the turf, as a means of making money, is indeed not to be considered seriously. certain bookmakers, of course, have made, and do still make fortunes, but bookmaking cannot properly be called going on the turf. owners have also existed who, for a time, have reaped a rich harvest by the success of their horses. over hermit's derby mr. chaplin is said to have landed an enormous stake, something between a hundred and a hundred and twenty thousand--he never received the whole of the amount which he won. mr. john hammond was also at times very successful in winning large sums. he is said to have cleared over £ , by the victory of herminius in the ascot stakes of . this horse he had bought for two hundred and forty guineas! a singularly lucky owner was mr. james merry, who is supposed to have cleared over £ , when thormanby won the derby. another big win was that of mr. naylor, who is supposed to have won £ , over macaroni for the derby of . nevertheless, from a financial point of view betting on horse-races is almost without exception disastrous, and, whether they know too much or know too little, men who systematically indulge in it to any great extent stand an excellent chance of being left with empty pockets. as for the general public, a number of whom are more or less given to risking an occasional bet, their chance of winning is absolutely infinitesimal. an individual who bets throughout the year is indeed very lucky if he loses only two-thirds of the money he has risked--as a rule he does far worse than this. the sporting papers, on which many rely, are of course genuinely anxious to assist their readers to find winners, but do not pretend to be infallible guides. sporting journalists themselves, who should be in an excellent position to obtain reliable information, are not infrequently peculiarly unsuccessful in their own bets; probably few end the year on the winning side. the most expensive guides of all are, of course, the advertising tipsters, some of whom make quite large sums by issuing thoroughly unreliable vaticinations to a touchingly confiding clientele. some time ago one of these men very cleverly took advantage of a newspaper competition, when a prize had been offered by a sporting paper for naming the most popular tipster of the day. purchasing some thousands of coupons he put his own name on them, of course varying the writing to prevent suspicion. as a result of these tactics he was eventually adjudged to be the prize tipster, and, though the scheme cost him a good deal of money, it eventually brought considerable grist to his mill. the circulars and letters issued by these prophets are generally admirably calculated to increase the number of their followers. not infrequently they adopt a high-flown style. one for instance, moved by purely philanthropic motives, declares that "when he casts his practised eye on the broad surface of struggling humanity and witnesses the slow and enduring perseverance or impetuous rush of the many to grapple with a cloud, he is seized with an intense desire to hold up the lamp of light to all." another adopts a bluffer style and writes:-- dear sir--don't waste your money. let me entreat you not to miss to-morrow's golden paddock wire; it will be honestly worth a £ note. my relation connected with a certain well-known stable says, "frank, my boy, get your money on at once; this is another to chance." a gold mine is before us--miss this and you will miss a pile of gold and silver. owner and trainer have planked their money down; both will travel with the grand animal (the name of which i will forward for s.) to-morrow by special train. send a postal order and secure the name of the smartest three-year-old that ever came under the starters' orders or romped past the judge's box lengths ahead of all the favourites, winning clients and myself many hundreds of pounds. yet another offers infallible information if clients will merely put a small portion of their stake on for him. as some of the horses he gives must win he probably does fairly well. whilst most of such tipsters are but sorry guides, some are undoubtedly honest men and try to do their best for their clients. such a one was old jack dickinson, a thoroughly honest sporting tipster, who will be remembered by all race-goers of some years ago. this well-known character, who was a fine sprint runner in his day, bore a quite unblemished reputation, though a backer of horses and a professional vendor of tips. old jack was a regular church-goer in his own parish, where his death caused genuine sorrow. though in his capacity as a turf tipster he was at times compelled to issue his circulars on sunday, this he did not like, and by way of salving his conscience in the matter he is said to have made a practice of devoting all the money he received from the sunday information to church purposes, it being put into the collection box. on the turf, exclusive of betting men, jockeys, and trainers, there are three classes--men of large fortune, with well and old-established studs, fixtures as it were; sporting men of moderate fortune, who confine themselves to four or five horses at a time, and run merely in their own part of the world; and lastly, men of small or no fortune, who run for profit more than amusement. it is the conduct of many of this last class which has at times been injurious to the turf. the sporting owner, who has to pay large trainers' bills and meet the other inevitable charges incident to the sport of which he aspires to be a pillar, cannot reasonably hope to make a profit on his racing; even the sharp betting man is in many cases out of pocket at the end of a year. expenses, such as travelling, hotel bills, and the like, amount to a considerable sum, and for this reason every supporter of the turf is greatly handicapped before he even makes a bet. layers as well as backers have large disbursements which they cannot avoid--as a matter of fact the vast majority of bookmakers who have died rich men have made their fortunes through commercial enterprises, though, of course, the moderate capital originally invested was made in the ring. to acquire any considerable sum in this manner is by no means an easy thing. much is heard about successful bookmakers; little of those who fail and disappear. if betting can ever be made profitable, it must be carried on in a most systematic and restrained manner. a few points in the odds make the difference often of some thousands; and it will require a man's whole time and attention to take advantage of any turn in the market. a young man who goes racing with the idea of making money is of necessity quickly disillusioned in the most unpleasant of ways. if he knows no racing men he is, of course, hopelessly at sea; but should he have means of obtaining really good information, his fate is generally even more deplorable, for some untoward incident almost invariably happens when a big _coup_ is on and the good thing goes down. not a few, in despair at continual losses, make up their minds to wait for "absolute certainties," and lay heavy odds on some horse which it would seem cannot possibly be beaten, a method which usually proves very expensive in the end. of all meetings ascot seems most fatal to gamblers of this description. a particularly disastrous meeting was that of . in the vase, silvio, to on, fell before isonomy; peter, to on for the fern hill stakes, was beaten by douranee; victor chief, to on, was fourth to philippine for the seventeenth new biennial; valentino second for the maiden plate at to on; silvio, to on, was beaten in the hardwicke; and aventurier, to , was defeated by royal for the plate of one hundred sovereigns, which concluded this woeful meeting. another "black ascot" was that of . to was laid on geheimniss, which could only obtain second place in the fernhill stakes; to on st. marguerite, third in the coronation stakes; to on rookery, second in the new stakes; and to on foxhall, second in the alexandra plate. an appalling series of disasters for the unfortunate backer! layers of odds on again suffered at ascot in , when to was laid on delphos for the all aged stakes, and to on la flèche for the hardwicke on the friday. the odds in each case were upset, both being second. at ascot this year backers as usual did not fare particularly well, for notable upsets occurred in the coventry stakes, won by the admiration colt at to , and in the all aged stakes, in which to was laid on hallaton which succumbed to his only rival hillside. when everything is said and done, there can be no doubt that the individual who starts out, either as bookmaker or backer, with the idea that he is going to make a fortune must, as an old racing character (billy pierse, whose father fought at culloden) used to say, "want it here." this expression was very popular with "t' au'd un" or the "governor," as billy was commonly designated on the yorkshire courses. once at doncaster, when sir john byng had to decide a dispute as to jostling to the prejudice of a horse trained by "t' au'd un," the latter insisted that sir john could not distinguish between a race and a charge of cavalry, and that he could by no earthly explanation be made to comprehend in what a "jostle" in racing consisted. so cantankerous was billy on the subject that he accosted an old gentleman, whose erudition he held in high esteem, in the following manner: "tell me, sir, wasn't this sir j. byng's father or grandfather hanged?" "no, mr. pierse," was the reply, "not hanged; probably you allude to the admiral, who was shot." "i thowt," rejoined billy, "it was sommat o' t' sowort, an' it's much of a muchness between hanging and shooting; but i'll uphoud ye that this sir john byng will never do for the turf--he may be well enough for a general, but he'll never do for the turf! he wants it here, sir," added billy, putting his finger in a most expressive manner on his forehead, "he wants it here!" the maxims of "t' au'd un" were held in great respect, and the duke of cleveland, for whom he won several races on haphazard, used frequently to ask the old man (who had had his last mount in the st. leger of ) to raby. concerning these visits billy used to say, "i never forgot that i was billy pierse--i was useful or i wouldn't have been theer." this was to some extent true, for the duke had a high opinion of his judgment in turf matters. a favourite saying of old billy, and one which afforded him much comfort, was, "i've done as many as have done me." nevertheless he was straight enough, according to the turf ethics of his day. within the last twenty-five years there have been many changes in connection with turf speculation. ante-post betting, for instance, is now practically obsolete, whilst starting price betting, unknown in old days, has come into vogue; and, finally, the huge wagers formerly quite common have become things of the past, a state of affairs which would be little to the taste of men of the type of the fifth lord glasgow did they still exist. this nobleman's love of wagering enormous sums excited attention even in an age when high gambling was not generally viewed with anything like the severity which prevails to-day, when stock exchange speculation is the favourite mode of attaining complete and speedy impecuniosity. the evening before the derby of lord glasgow, then lord kelburne, was at crockford's, when lord george bentinck inquired if any one would lay him three to one against his horse, gaper. lord kelburne said he should be delighted. [illustration: (the prince regent.) (colonel o'kelly.) betting. by rowlandson.] "remember," said lord george, "i'm not after a small bet." "well," rejoined lord kelburne, "i suppose £ , to £ , will suit you." this staggered the owner of gaper, who was obliged to admit that he had never dreamt of taking such a large bet. lord kelburne was rather annoyed. "i thought you wanted to do it 'to money,'" said he sharply; "however, i see i was wrong." as early as this sporting peer had created a sensation at the star inn at doncaster, by offering to lay to in hundreds against brutandorf for the st. leger, afterwards repeating the offer in thousands. on the st. leger of jerry won him some £ , , but three years later he lost £ , , mr. gully's much-fancied derby winner, mameluke, being beaten by matilda. the victory of this filly, which was very popular with the yorkshire crowd, is commemorated at stapleton park, near pontefract--where her owner, the hon. e. petre, lived--by a chiming clock placed over the stables, known as the "matilda clock," which is appropriately surmounted by a "race-horse weathercock." lord george bentinck is said to have won no less than £ , by betting in one year ( ), but his racing expenses amounted to an enormous sum. he won £ , by the victory of cotherstone in the derby, and it is said would have profited to the extent of some £ , had gaper proved the winner of that classic race. his successes as an owner, though considerable, hardly compensated him for the immense amount of time, thought, and money which he expended upon racing matters. crucifix, it is true, won the two thousand, the one thousand, and the oaks in , but lord george never won the derby, though if he had not parted with his stud in he would in all probability have done so, for mr. mostyn in his purchase acquired surplice, who became the winner in . the victory much agitated his former owner when he heard of it. sir joseph hawley was a very heavy better in his time, though at the end of his turf career he began a crusade against the evils of plunging--nevertheless, not very long before, he had taken £ , to £ about each of the fillies he had entered for the derby. the enormous bets made by the ill-timed marquis of hastings are notorious. now and then he hit the ring very hard--when lecturer won the cesarewitch, for instance, he was a gainer of no less than £ , --and his turf winnings in stakes were also considerable for two or three years. in they amounted to £ , , in to £ , , and in to over £ , . hermit's derby, however, in the same year is said to have cost him £ , ; and even had marksman, who was second, won, he would have lost £ , . this spendthrift nobleman was anything but shrewd as a plunger. he had made his book so badly that, though he stood to lose heavily, he would only have profited to the extent of a few thousands had vauban, which was his best horse, been first past the post. in the marquis, a broken-down, ruined man, passed to his grave at the early age of twenty-six. there was very heavy betting in the old days. davies, the celebrated bookmaker, for instance, more than once made a derby book amounting to £ , . as a matter of fact he is said to have generally lost money over the derby and oaks, and won it over the st. leger. when daniel o'rourke won the derby he lost about £ , (some say almost double this sum), having laid a great deal of money at to . catherine hayes also hit him hard, and over west australian he lost £ , , of which £ , went to the owner, mr. bowes. in his latter years davies rather avoided ante-post betting, especially on the derby. the victory of teddington in took something not far short of £ , out of his pockets, one cheque alone sent out by him to mr. greville being for £ , . the derby in question was very costly to the ring in general, which lost something like £ , . the most considerable sum, however, ever won by the great racing public of small means was when voltigeur won the st. leger in . the excitement during the deciding heat with russborough was probably the greatest ever seen on any race-course; and on the evening of the following day, when he won the doncaster cup, beating the flying dutchman, many of the yorkshiremen caroused all night. as one of them said, "who'd go to bed when voltigeur's won the st. leger and the cup?" whilst racing possesses some claim to be considered a serious sport owing to the undoubted improvement which it has effected in the breed of horses, its most ardent supporters have been men of pleasure. the founder of the english turf, indeed, was the "merry monarch," though there had been horse-racing for bells long before his time. charles the second did everything he could to improve horsemanship in england. he it was who induced a celebrated french riding master, foubert by name, to come over and settle in england. this frenchman set up a riding academy near what is now regent street. his name is still perpetuated by "foubert's passage." charles, who knew a good deal about most things, possessed, it is said, much knowledge of horses, and was himself an experienced and able rider. he became a great supporter of the turf, gave many prizes to be run for, and delighted in witnessing races. when he resided at windsor the horses ran on datchet-mead; but the most distinguished spot for these spectacles was newmarket, a place which was first chosen on account of the firmness of the ground. remains of the house in which charles lived at what became the head-quarters of the turf still exist. it was originally purchased by the "merry monarch" from an irish peer, lord thomond. here it was that nell gwynne is supposed to have held her infant out of the window as charles passed down the palace gardens to his stables, and apostrophised him to the effect that if the child was not made a duke upon the spot she would drop it. when the king went to see this palace, as it was called, which he had caused to be built at newmarket, he thought the rooms too low; but the architect, sir christopher wren, who was of small stature, did not agree. walking through the rooms he looked up at the king and said, "please your majesty, i think they are high enough." the king squatted down to sir christopher's height, and creeping about in that posture, cried, "aye, sir christopher, i think they are high enough." during his visits to the little town charles usually spent the morning in coursing or playing tennis, repairing to the heath about three to witness racing, it being the custom for the king and his retinue of courtiers and ladies to ride alongside or after the contending steeds, which on their arrival at the winning post were saluted with the blare of trumpets and the beating of drums. most of the races in charles' day would appear to have consisted of matches to decide wagers previously laid. the whip which is annually run for at newmarket has sometimes been said to be the identical one which charles ii. (not george ii.) was in the habit of riding with, and which he presented to some nobleman, whose arms it bears, as being the owner of the best horse in england. the whip itself is of very antique appearance, and by no means "a splendid trophy." the handle, which is very heavy, is of silver, with a ring at the end of it for a wristband, which is made of the mane of eclipse. during this reign the turf became a popular and aristocratic institution. the merry monarch even condescended to ride himself, and rode a match at newmarket in , on which occasion his horse woodcock was beaten. charles kept and entered horses in his own name, and by his attention and generosity added importance and lustre to the institution over which he presided. bells, the ancient reward of swiftness, were now no longer given; a silver bowl or cup of the value of one hundred guineas succeeded the tinkling prize. on this royal gift the exploits of the successful horse, together with his pedigree, were usually engraven to publish and perpetuate his fame. james the second is reputed to have been a good horseman, but his reign was too short and troublesome to permit him to indulge his inclinations as regards horses. he was a lover of hunting, and ever preferred english mounts, several of which he had always in his stables after he became an exile in france. when william the third ascended the throne, he not only added to the plates given at different places in the kingdom, but made every attempt at improving horsemanship. though he was a monarch of considerable austerity, this king once matched a horse of his own for a stake of two thousand guineas. queen anne continued the bounty of her predecessors, with the addition of several plates. her consort, george, prince of denmark, is said to have taken infinite delight in horse-racing, and to have obtained from the queen the grant of several plates allotted to different places. towards the beginning of the eighteenth century a statute of queen anne was enacted with a view to the restriction of betting. very great sums of money changed hands owing to a match run at newmarket between the gentlemen of the south and those of the north. it is almost superfluous to add that the proverbial shrewdness of the northerner was fully demonstrated on this occasion. queen anne herself was, however, a supporter of the turf, running horses in her own name in matches at newmarket and york. towards the close of the reign of george the first he discontinued the plates, and in lieu of each gave the sum of one hundred guineas. in the middle of the eighteenth century the turf had fallen into some disrepute, but the duke of cumberland did much to revive the glories which had somewhat languished since the days of charles ii. he it was who first instituted the race meeting at ascot. the duke was a born gambler, and used when out hunting to play at hazard with lord sandwich, throwing a main on every green hill and under every green tree whenever the hounds checked. though cheery enough in the hunting field, he was anything but tender-hearted when pursuing his avocation as a soldier; indeed his severity at times became cruelty, which gained for him the nickname of "the butcher." the day after the decisive battle of culloden, in the year , the general, or as he was popularly styled, duke william, was riding over the scene of battle in company with his officers, among whom was colonel wolfe, afterwards the hero of quebec, then a young man. among the dead and dying stretched on the stricken field, one was so far recovered as to be able to sit upright. looking at the poor wretch, the duke said to the young colonel by his side; "wolfe, shoot me that rebel." wolfe glared back at his prince and commander, and, with a flushed countenance which showed his indignation, replied: "your royal highness, i am a soldier, not an executioner." the duke turned his back upon wolfe and did not utter another word. if, however, the duke, as the saying went, was a "very devil in his boots," he was all right out of them and good-natured enough when racing. being at a newmarket meeting just before the horses started, he missed his pocket-book, containing some bank-notes. when the knowing ones came about him and offered several bets, he said he had lost his money already and could not afford to venture any more that day. the horse which the duke had intended to back was beaten, so he consoled himself, as he said, with the thought that the loss of his pocket-book only anticipated the evil, as if he had betted, he would have paid away as much to the worthies of the turf. the race, however, was no sooner finished than a veteran half-pay officer presented his royal highness with his pocket-book, saying he had found it near the stand, but had not an opportunity of approaching him before. to this the duke most generously replied; "i am glad it has fallen into such good hands--keep it. had it not been for this accident, it would have been by this time among the blacklegs and thieves of newmarket." in the duke of cumberland matched his famous horse, king herod, against the duke of grafton's antinous for £ over the beacon course at newmarket. this contest excited intense interest, and more than £ , is said to have changed hands over the victory of herod, who won by what was then called half a neck. in the annals of the turf, however, duke william is best remembered on account of the fact that he bred the greatest horse of all time, "eclipse." this animal, whose wonderful powers as a racer have won him unparalleled fame, was got by marske (a son of squirt) out of spiletta, a bay mare foaled in by regulus, a son of the godolphin arabian. eclipse was foaled in , during the great eclipse of that year. when, at the death of the duke, his royal highness's stud was brought to the hammer, eclipse was purchased as a colt by mr. wildman (who appears to have had some insight into his value), under very curious circumstances. mr. wildman, who had, it was reported, been put into possession of the extraordinary promise evinced by a particular chestnut colt when a yearling, adopted the following questionable measures in order to make sure of him. when he arrived at the place of sale, he produced his watch and insisted that the auction had commenced before the hour which had been announced in the advertisements, and that the lots should be put up again. in order, however, to prevent a dispute, it was agreed by the auctioneer and company that mr. wildman should have his choice of any particular lot. by these means, it is generally believed, he became possessed of eclipse at the moderate price of seventy or seventy-five guineas. eclipse did not appear upon the turf till he was five years old, and so invincibly bad was his temper that it was for some time uncertain whether he would not be raced as a gelding. it is by mere accident, indeed, that the most celebrated of english stallions was preserved to adorn the calendar with the glories of his descendants. in the neighbourhood of epsom downs there lived a man of the name of ellerton, who, however, was better known by the sobriquet of hilton, and who united the occupations of poacher and rough-rider. to him, after all else had signally failed, eclipse was handed over as an incorrigible, and he had recourse to the kill-or-cure system. he was at him day and night, frequently bringing him home at daybreak, after a poaching excursion, with a load of hares strung across his back. twelve months of this regimen brought him sufficiently to his senses to fit him to be brought to the post, and once there, he ran because it was his pleasure to do so. still he never could be raced like any other horse. fitzpatrick, who rode him in almost all his races, never dared to hold him, or do more than sit quiet in his saddle. all through his turf career his temper was wretched, and very seriously interfered with his value as a racer. his extraordinary superiority was also so palpable that latterly no odds could be got about him save by stratagems. one of these was very clever. for a race in which there were several horses engaged, when o'kelly failed in getting any money on no-matter-what odds, he took them to a large amount that he placed every horse in it! this he did by naming eclipse first and all the others nowhere, winning by his horse distancing the field. in , wildman and o'kelly were joint-owners of eclipse, the latter, however, soon after becoming the sole owner at the price of guineas. at a late period of his life, when an offer to purchase him was made to o'kelly, these were the terms demanded--£ , down, an annuity of £ for his (o'kelly's) life, and the right of having three mares every year stinted to him as long as he lived. this "horse of horses" was short in the forehand, and high in the hips, which gave elasticity to his speed. upon dissection the muscles were found to be of unparalleled size--a proof of the intimate relation between muscular power and extraordinary swiftness. no horse of his day would appear to have had the shadow of a chance against him. eclipse died february th, , aged twenty-five, at cannons, in middlesex, to which place he had been removed from epsom about six months previously, in a machine, constructed for the purpose, drawn by two horses, and attended by a confidential groom. when his owner, old o'kelly, died at his house in piccadilly on december th, , he bequeathed eclipse and dungannon to his brother philip. another famous horse was highflyer, which received his name from having been foaled in a paddock, in which were a number of highflyer walnut trees. he was named by lord bolingbroke at a large dinner-party at sir charles bunbury's. the horse in question was the cause of considerable jealousy between colonel o'kelly, the owner of eclipse, and mr. tattersall, the founder of the celebrated institution at hyde park corner, whose prosperity was greatly increased by the purchase of highflyer. "the hammer and highflyer" indeed became a favourite toast of the day. both owners felt the necessity of crossing by the blood of their respective stallions, but each was afraid of increasing the celebrity of the other's horse thereby. the two men were widely different in character. colonel o'kelly (of whom an account has already been given) piqued himself upon being descended from the first race of milesian kings, although he had served for the greatest part of his life some of the humblest offices. it was his boast that he bred and ran his horses for fame. he certainly sacrificed many thousands of pounds in aspiring to the glory of being the jehu of the day. mr. tattersall bred for profit. the former never sold anything before he had trained and ran it at newmarket; the latter never trained anything, with the exception of one mare early in life, which was of no note. the irishman matched everything--the lancashire man sold everything. the one was hasty and impetuous in betting upon the descendants of eclipse. the other was cautious, and left it to those who had bought them to risk their money upon the progeny of highflyer. in a word, they resembled each other in nothing, except, it was wickedly said, their total ignorance of horses and extreme good fortune. mr. tattersall in the decline of life was more than usually anxious that his son should persevere in keeping stallions and breeding race-horses. o'kelly directed by his will that all his stud should be sold as soon as possible after his death. mr. tattersall's son and heir sold the whole stud after his death. o'kelly's nephew and executor was obliged to sell under the direction of the will, but he bought most of the horses for his own use. he was a cultivated man, and had been well brought up by his uncle. mr. tattersall used to say that there was no part of colonel o'kelly's conduct which he wished he had imitated except that in giving an excellent education to his heir. mr. tattersall was a very economical man. when highflyer died, many suggestions were made that the horse should be skinned and stuffed, as had been done by colonel o'kelly in the case of eclipse. mr. tattersall, however, replied that he did not see the use of stuffing him with hay after he was dead, as he could no longer cover; he had stuffed him full enough with hay and corn when he was alive and producing money. mr. tattersall had very practical ideas about such things, and when inspecting his cattle whilst they were fattening, was often overheard to say, "eat away, my good creature! eat away, and get fat soon. the butcher is waiting for you, and i want money." mr. tattersall's prosperous career arose in a great measure from a successful speculation in scotland. having heard that a scotch nobleman's stud was to be sold there, he applied to a friend to go his halves in the purchase. "if you will find money, for i have none," said he, "i will find skill, and you shall have a good thing." the sum was deposited, and he went to the sale, partly by coach and partly on foot, buying nearly all the horses for a trifle. upon his return, he sold a few at york for more money than the whole of them had cost, making several hundred pounds out of the rest from purchasers at newmarket and in london. mr. tattersall used often to say this was the first money he ever possessed above a few pounds. having thus acquired a little capital, he soon increased it by similar means, and also, of course, by his business at hyde park corner. at that time, though sales of horses by auction were occasionally held, there was no regular repository or fixed sales at stated periods, the lack of which was much felt in the sporting world. perceiving that a golden opportunity lay ready to hand, mr. tattersall, who was well-known to the gentlemen of the turf and to the horse-dealers, offered his services as an auctioneer, and solicited their patronage. lord grosvenor warmly espoused his cause, and built for him the extensive premises at hyde park corner, where mr. tattersall died. his success was astonishingly rapid. he soon enlarged the premises and built stands for carriages, which were sold by private contract; as well as kennels for hounds and other dogs, which were sold by auction. he converted a part of his house into a tavern and coffee-house, and fitted up two of the most elegant rooms in london for the use of the jockey club, who held their meetings there for some years. he allotted another apartment to the use of betting men. this was supported by an annual subscription of a guinea from each member, and was called the betting-room. here prominent turfites assembled every sale-day to lay wagers on the events of future races, and here they met to pay and receive the money won and lost at what were called country races, in contradistinction to the races at newmarket. his sales were not confined to hyde park corner; he constantly attended the newmarket meetings and the races at york, where he had considerable employment, and thereby kept up his connection with the jockeys in different parts of the kingdom, who sent their horses to him from all the various districts. racing as carried on in the eighteenth century was on a very different scale from that of the present day. our ancestors were contented with very small stakes and but few races in a day. in there were but three meetings at newmarket, which gave fifteen racing days. thirteen stakes were run for, the gross amount of which was £ . there were twenty heats. besides the stakes there were twenty-nine matches, which made the daily average of races something over three. [illustration: e.o. on a country race-course. by rowlandson.] in those days noblemen and gentlemen met to enjoy each other's society and test the merits of their horses rather than for purposes of gain, the stakes being, from a pecuniary view, a matter of comparative indifference. at the small country meetings the racing was spread over a greater space of time than at present; all of them lasted three days and many a week. dinners and balls were the order of the day, the race meeting being an event which was looked forward to throughout the year. a number of the more aristocratic spectators were mounted, and followed the horses as they ran. so great, indeed, became the disorder caused at race meetings by this riding with and after the horses during racing, that the chief magistrate of one provincial town (who, it should be added, had irish blood in his veins) caused a placard to be posted up just before the races, intimating "that no _gentleman_ would be allowed to ride on the course, _except the horses_ that were to run." racing was formerly a very rough-and-ready affair, and much was tolerated on a race-course which would be sternly dealt with to-day. gambling-booths and e.o. tables were easily to be found, whilst little order was maintained on the course. at tavistock races in , a sailor with one arm, who had just been paid off, exhibited his skill in horsemanship, to the no small annoyance of everybody, till at length, checking his bucephalus at full gallop, he was thrown with great violence, by which his right leg was dreadfully fractured. cocked-hat races and other eccentric contests were not infrequent features at race meetings. at hereford races in a race between three velocipedes, commonly called hobby-horses, created much mirth. they were ridden by three men, dressed in scarlet, yellow, and white jackets. much skill was displayed, and every exertion used, with the result that white won, scarlet and yellow being both upset, and the riders each receiving a hearty bump, to the great diversion of all the spectators. the turf of former days eased the aristocracy of a good deal of money, and many a fine estate changed hands owing to the vicissitudes of racing. fox of course lost very large sums. he used to declare after the defeat of his horses that they had as much bottom as other people's, but that they were such slow, good animals that they never went fast enough to tire themselves! occasionally, however, he was lucky. in april he won nearly £ , --the greater part of which was the result of bets against the celebrated pincher, who lost the match by only half-a-neck, two to one having been laid on him. at the spring meeting in fox is also said to have won about £ , ; and at the october meeting next year he realised £ by the sale of two of his horses--seagull and chanticleer. in fox and the duke of bedford won eight thousand guineas between them at the newmarket spring meeting. fox and lord barrymore had a match for a large sum; this was given as a dead heat, and the bets were off. on taking office in , fox sold his horses, and erased his name from several of the clubs of which he was a member. in a short time, however, he again purchased a stud, and in october attended the newmarket meeting, when a king's messenger appeared amongst the sportsmen on the heath in quest of the minister, for whom he bore despatches. the messenger, as was usual on these occasions, wore his badge of office, the greyhound, and his arrival created quite a stir on the course. in , fox's horse, seagull, won the oatlands stakes at ascot of one hundred guineas (nineteen subscribers), beating the prince of wales's escape, serpent, and several of the very best horses of that year. the prince was much mortified at this, and immediately matched magpie against the winner, two miles, for five hundred guineas. this match, on which immense sums were depending, was, four days later, won with ease by seagull. at this time lord foley and mr. fox raced together. lord foley died in ; he entered upon the turf with a clear £ , a year, and some £ , in ready money--he left it without ready money, with an encumbered estate, and with a constitution injured by cares and anxieties which embittered the end of his life. many other patricians were practically ruined on the turf at about the same time, some by continuous ill-luck, but more owing to the machinations of the many doubtful characters who were experts at what was then known as "throwing the bull over the bridge"--a cant phrase formerly used by frequenters of the race-course to indicate a sporting swindle. the phrase in question, it may be added, had its origin in the cruel pastime of bull-baiting. when such an orgy of cruelty was over, and the militia of hell which had witnessed it surfeited with blood, the carcass of the bull was dragged to a bridge, over which his quivering remains were thrown into the water beneath! many were the queer freaks and fancies of the great pillars of the turf of the past. sir charles bunbury, for instance, who trained his horses privately under his own eye, made the lads who groomed them wear his colours whilst at their task, in order to accustom the animals to the racing jackets and prevent all chance of nervousness in public. his horses were never allowed to be sweated or tried on a good friday, on account of an accident which had on one of these anniversaries happened to a couple of his racers, who had both fallen and broken their backs, each jockey having got a fractured thigh. all this, however, has been written of time after time; indeed, the fascinating story of the turf has found many admirable chroniclers. nevertheless, these have hardly touched upon some of the more obscure figures, who seem to have escaped notice. such a one was major leeson, a well-known sporting character at the close of the eighteenth century, who may be taken as typical of the sharp racing man of humble origin, and who, having by astuteness attained a certain prosperity, was eventually reduced to beggary by the allurements of gambling. an irishman of obscure birth, mr. leeson originally obtained his commission through the patronage of a scottish nobleman, by whose munificence he was sent to school at hampstead, and afterwards to the french military academy of angers. whilst at this seminary he fought a duel with a well-known baronet, and both combatants displayed great courage. leeson was soon after appointed a lieutenant in a regiment of foot, in which he conducted himself as a soldier and a gentleman. during his military career, leeson was especially popular with his men, whose liking for their young officer almost amounted to adoration, owing to his ardent championship of their interests. while they were quartered in a country town, one of the sergeants, a sober, steady man, was wantonly attacked by a blacksmith, who was the terror of the place. the sergeant defended himself with great spirit as long as he was able, but was obliged, after a hard contest, to yield to his athletic antagonist. this intelligence reached mr. leeson's ears the next morning, and without delay he set out in pursuit of the victor, whom he found boasting of the triumph he had gained over the "lobster," as he called the sergeant. the very expression kindled leeson's indignation into such a flame, that he aimed a blow at the fellow's temple, which was warded off and returned with such force that leeson lay for some minutes extended on the ground. leeson, however, renewed the attack; and his onslaughts were made with such rapidity and success, that the son of vulcan was eventually stretched senseless on the ground. in order to complete the triumph, leeson placed him in a wheel-barrow; and in this situation he was wheeled through all the town amidst the acclamations of the populace. soon after this, mr. leeson exchanged his lieutenancy for a cornetcy of dragoons. he now began to be attracted by the seductions of gaming and the turf, both of which exercised a fascination over his mind which he was unable to resist. fortune was kind, and an almost uninterrupted series of success led him to newmarket, where his evil genius, in the name of good luck, converted him in a short time into a professional gambler. at one time he had a complete stud at newmarket; and his famous horse buffer carried off all the capital plates for three years and upwards, though once beaten at egham, when to was laid on it. major leeson's discernment in racing matters soon became generally remarked, and he was consulted by all the sharpest frequenters of the turf on critical occasions. in later years, however, major leeson experienced the ill-fortune which is too often the lot of gamblers. a long run of ill-luck preyed upon his spirits, soured his temper, and drove him to that last resource of an enfeebled mind--the brandy bottle. as he could not shine in his wonted splendour, he sought the most obscure public-houses in the purlieus of st. giles, where he used to pass whole nights in the company of his countrymen of the lowest class. overwhelmed by debt and worn-out body and soul, he was constantly pursued by the terrors of the law, and alternately imprisoned by his own fears or confined in the king's bench, till, a broken and miserable man, he welcomed death as a friend come to relieve him of an almost insupportable load. an eccentric supporter of the turf, who died in , was councillor lade. it was his highest ambition to be thought a distinguished member of the sporting world; but in this, as in the more contracted circle of private life, he was not destined to cut a conspicuous figure, being by nature much better calculated for an obscure place in the background. during the last twenty years of his life he kept a miserable lot of spindle-shanked brood mares, colts, and fillies at cannon park, between kingsclere and overton in hampshire--a place which, owing to its barrenness, was quite unsuited for breeding horses. his successes on the turf were insignificant. during the last twelve years of his life he hardly ever brought less than six, seven, or eight horses annually to the post for country plates (never till the last two or three years presuming to sport his name at newmarket); nevertheless, few of them, if any, ever realised his expectations, or paid one-third of the expenses in the way of breeding, breaking, training, running, or sale. councillor lade's almost constant sequence of disappointments originated in one single cause strikingly palpable to every eye but his own, which was their breeder's parsimony. his mares were in a wretched and deplorable state of emaciation during the whole time of bearing their foals, whilst a systematic starvation of both dams and offspring when foals, and a miserable sustenance barely enough to support life when weaned, totally nullified his chances of success upon the turf. it was no uncommon thing to see the councillor's favourite brood mare, laetitia, and many others with their foals, in the fertile months of may and june, upon the side of a barren, burnt-up hill, with barely pasture sufficient to keep even the dam in existence, without even a possibility of affording half the nutriment necessary for the unfortunate foal. owing to these highly injudicious and cruel methods, his stud, even when of superior blood, was always inferior in bone and strength to its rivals, there being in it never more than one horse in every eight or ten with constitutional stamina sufficient to bear the training necessary before going to the post. when after his death the councillor's wretched stud were on their way to be sold by auction they excited universal pity from the humane in the towns and villages through which they passed. many of the horses sold for the trifling sum of two or three guineas each, owing to the wretched condition of the poor animals. councillor lade, in his turf transactions as elsewhere, was so consistently parsimonious even to those whom it would have been good policy to conciliate that every man's hand was against him, even that of his own servants. one of his manias was to run his horses as much as possible at race meetings near his home, in order to avoid the expenses of travelling. the years and were the most prosperous of his turf career. seven of his horses went to the post for twenty-four plates and purses, of which truss, will, and grey pilot won seven fifties--two at ascot, two at abingdon, and one each at reading, winchester, and stockbridge. councillor lade was in himself a singular and unsociable man, seldom seen in company, upon the race-course or elsewhere. cynically cold and innately parsimonious, few cared to sojourn beneath what might be justly termed, in more senses than one, a habitation without a roof. hospitality was alien to the spirit of cannon park, and the building itself was one entire mass of chilling frigidity which betokened a total lack of good cheer. the owner was constantly involved in pecuniary disputes and lawsuits with his dependents, in which he was usually worsted. it was not infrequently his practice to drive his curricle and greys without a servant the fifty-seven miles to cannon park, not even taking them once out of the harness; a handful of hay, and two or three quarts of water at salt hill, and spratley's, the bear, at reading, in addition to the turnpikes, constituted the entire expense of the journey, it being an irrevocable opinion of his that servants on the road were more troublesome and expensive than their masters. the councillor was married to a lady of excellent family, who, owing to mental trouble, lived in seclusion. this, however, did not trouble him much, for he took care to make up for the lack of a wife's society by a profusion of female friends, who enlivened his elegant house in pall mall, his rural cottage near turnham green, and even his unadorned inhospitable mansion at cannon park. another unpleasant turf character about this date was "louse pigott," a man of good shropshire family. the slovenly manner of dressing and general unkempt appearance of this gentleman had obtained for him his unsavoury nickname. he had originally been possessed of some wealth, but going racing soon lost practically his whole fortune. devoid of means, and prompted apparently by the same spirit which induces unsuccessful modern gamblers at monte carlo to apply to the authorities for a sum sufficient to enable them to leave the principality of monaco, mr. pigott conceived the original idea of making representations to the jockey club, with a view to receiving pecuniary aid. needless to say his petition was treated with a complete lack of consideration which, it was said, so enraged him that in revenge he wrote the libellous work called _the jockey club_, a volume of short but scandalous biographies of persons well known in the sporting world. though pigott appears to have escaped punishment for this, the publishers, messrs. ridgway & symonds, were incarcerated in newgate. "louse pigott" appears to have been an eccentric character in many ways, for one september evening in he got into great trouble at the london coffee-house, ludgate hill, where, sitting with a friend, dr. william hodgson, he became very vociferous in giving toasts of a disloyal kind, finally loudly proposing success to the "french republic." this was immediately resented by a gentleman present, who, rising to his feet, proposed "the king," a toast which was drunk with cheers by all present except pigott and his companion, who made use of such improper expressions that peace officers were sent for, who removed the apostles of revolution to the lock-up. the next morning they were charged with drinking "the french republic and the overthrow of the present system of government and all governments of europe except the french; likewise of speaking disrespectfully of the king, the duke of york, lord mayor, and other persons in high authority. they had," it was deposed, "called the prince of hesse a swine-dealer, and ministers in general robbers and highwaymen." finally, when being conveyed to the cells, they had shouted from the coach windows, "the french republic, and liberty while you live." being unable to find bail, the two prisoners were sent back to prison, to remain there till tried at the ensuing old bailey sessions. the bill preferred against pigott, however, was eventually thrown out and he was discharged. the general comment upon his release was that "he who is born to be hanged will never be drowned," and vice versa. his companion, dr. hodgson, was less fortunate, and received some punishment for the advanced sentiments which he had uttered. probably the shrewdest nobleman who ever went racing was the eccentric but highly astute "old q." at the time when he owned race-horses he was generally hand-in-hand with his jockey, dick goodison, with whom he had a perfect understanding. during a lengthy connection with the turf, "old q." never displayed the least want of philosophy upon the unexpected result of a race. as a matter of fact he never entered into an engagement but where there was a great probability of his becoming the winner. in all emergencies his grace preserved an invariable equanimity, and his cool serenity never forsook him, even in moments of the greatest surprise or disappointment. a singular proof of this occurred at newmarket just as the horses were about to start for a sweepstakes. his grace was engaged in a betting conversation with various members of the jockey club, when one of his lads, who was going to ride (in consequence of his light weight), tactlessly called him aside, asked him, too soon and too loud, how he was to ride that day? perfectly convinced this had been overheard, his grace, with well-affected surprise, exclaimed, "why, take the lead and keep it to be sure! how the devil would you ride?" matches were a great feature of the period, and very large sums were staked. an historic match was that between sir harry vane's hambletonian and mr. cookson's diamond for three thousand guineas, run over the beacon course during the newmarket craven meeting of . hambletonian, who was ridden by buckle, carried eight stone three pounds, and diamond, ridden by dennis fitzpatrick (deny), eight stone; the betting was five to four on hambletonian. though both gallant steeds have now long since mouldered into dust, together with the gay company of sportsmen who assembled to see them run, the memory of their desperate neck-and-neck struggle over that terrible last half-mile is not forgotten, and will ever shine amongst the chronicles of equine fame as the most sporting and gamely contested match of all time. hambletonian, a bright bay and a grandson of eclipse, was a wonderful horse. he was only once beaten, at the york august meeting , when he ran against deserter and spread eagle, and took it into his head to bolt out of the course and leap a ditch. diamond, a beautiful brown bay, smaller than hambletonian, was got by highflyer. he was the more compact horse of the two. hambletonian being a yorkshire bred horse, the yorkshiremen backed him for prodigious sums, whilst diamond was strongly supported by the newmarket people, the horse being well-known in the neighbourhood. every bed in newmarket (which could not hold a tenth of the visitors) was occupied, whilst cambridge and all the towns and villages within twelve or fifteen miles were also thronged with people. stabling was not to be had, and no chaise or horse could be procured on any of the roads, all having been engaged three weeks before. the weather was most auspicious, and the general scene on the heath highly interesting and attractive. all the gentlemen of the turf, as the phrase ran, from the neighbouring counties were collected on the course, and many of the nobility of england, which was then a real and powerful nobility, including the duchess of gordon, were assembled to see the race. at the start the horses kept tolerably close, hambletonian retaining the lead till the last half-mile, when diamond got abreast of him. the two horses then raced home in a most desperate manner, the nose of one or the other being alternately in front till hambletonian won in the last stride. both horses were terribly whipped and spurred, particularly hambletonian. the four miles one furlong and one hundred and thirty-eight yards were covered in about eight minutes and a half. every one declared that this match was the most exciting ever known, and it was acknowledged even by the losers (who were described as being as much pleased as losers could be) to have been thoroughly fairly contested, each jockey having made the best of his horse. as soon as the race was over, sir harry vane tempest, who, besides the stakes, had won about three thousand guineas, declared on the course that hambletonian should be taken out of training the next morning, and in future he would ride him only as a hack. sir harry afterwards travelled to town in a post-chaise and four, and arrived at the cocoa tree at half-past eleven at night. the news of his victory, however, was already known, mr. hall, of moorfields, who had three horses on the road, having got to town between nine and ten. a bronze penny token of fine medallic design--now very scarce--commemorates this famous match. an inscription is on one side and a picture of the race on the other. mr. cookson, the owner of diamond, did not lose any enormous sum over the race. he was well-known for his shrewdness, and in one year, , is said to have realised nearly £ , by the victories of ambrosia and diamond. hambletonian became the sire of over a hundred and forty winners. another match between diamond and mr. r. heathcote's warter strongly excited the sporting world, which was much puzzled how to bet. warter having beat diamond in the oatland stakes of , the latter was to receive seven pounds in the projected race. this, according to the knowing ones, was an advantage of the utmost importance, and diamond became a strong favourite, his backers flattering themselves with the opinion that one of warter's legs would fail him in running, and that consequently they were on the right side. till about a fortnight before the meeting betting was equal; six to four was then betted in favour of diamond, and was at first very cautiously accepted. so highly was the gambling mania roused that, till a late hour on the saturday night previous to the meeting, all the sporting houses near st. james's, and even more to the eastward, were crowded with betting-men of every description. the bolder sort dashed at the odds, whilst others more cautiously hedged, and all waited the event with the most anxious expectation. the whole of sunday the newmarket road was crowded with carriages and cattle of every description, from the dashing curricle to the humble buggy, and from the pampered hunter to the spavined hack. when every mouth was opening to bet, and expectation was on tiptoe, it was declared in the coffee-room, that warter, by reason of a kick, had declared forfeit, and the famous match was off. another match, which excited enormous interest at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was that between mrs. thornton, wife of the celebrated colonel thornton of thornville royal (now studley royal, the seat of lord ripon), and a gentleman well known in sporting circles, mr. flint by name. this was run at york in , and is memorable as being the only race chronicled in the _racing calendar_ in which a woman's name is mentioned. the entry, dated august , , runs thus:-- mr. flint's brown thornville by volunteer out of abigail, aged, rode by the owner, beat colonel thornton's ch. h. vinagrillio, aged, rode by mrs. thornton, four miles, five hundred guineas. the weights were catch weights, and before the race five and six to four were laid upon the lady, which increased during the early portion of the race to seven to four and two to one, it seeming likely during the first three miles that mrs. thornton would secure an easy triumph. during the final mile, however, things entirely changed, and the victory of mr. flint appearing certain, odds were laid upon him. over two hundred thousand pounds, it is said, were lost and won over this race, which excited a vast amount of interest. the lady's horse, it may be added, was a very old one. mrs. thornton's dress was a leopard-coloured body with blue sleeves, the rest buff, and blue cap. mr. flint rode in white. the race was run in nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds. in the published account of the race it is stated that "no words can express the disappointment felt at the defeat of mrs. thornton, the spirit she displayed and the good humour with which she has borne her loss having greatly diminished the joy of many of the winners." the fortunate individuals in question seem, however, to have been under some misapprehension as to the lady's equanimity under defeat, as she subsequently sent an angry letter to the _york herald_ complaining that she had been treated with scant courtesy. though the lady signed herself alicia thornton she seems to have had no legitimate claim to the name--she was a miss meynell, and her sister was by way of being the wife of mr. flint. the race engendered much ill-feeling between the two couples. the year after the race on the knavesmire a fracas occurred between colonel thornton and mr. flint, the latter being very indignant at not having received £ of the £ wagered by the gallant colonel on his wife's success. mr. flint vigorously applied a new horsewhip to the soldier's shoulders. the aggressor was taken into custody, colonel thornton afterwards making an application in the court of king's bench for leave to file a criminal information against flint, who (he deposed) had challenged him to fight a duel, and horse-whipped him on the race-ground at york. the colonel maintained that the bet of £ was a mere nominal thing, intended to attract people to the race-course, and that it was understood that only £ of the £ should be paid. the case was eventually dismissed, the colonel apparently sticking to his £ . [illustration: _mrs thornton._ _pub. feb , , by j. wheble, warwicksquare._] in after-life flint became miserably poor, and eked out a living as a manager of a horse bazaar at york. he eventually committed suicide by taking a dose of prussic acid. at the york august meeting in the following year mrs. thornton rode another match against buckle, the celebrated jockey. mrs. thornton, in the highest spirits, appeared dressed for the contest in a purple cap and waistcoat, long nankeen-coloured skirts, purple shoes, and embroidered stockings. buckle was dressed in a blue cap, with blue bodied jacket, and white sleeves. mrs. thornton carried st. lb., mr buckle st. lb. at half-past three they started. mrs. thornton took the lead, which she kept for some time; buckle then exercised his jockeyship, and took the lead, which he retained for only a few lengths, when mrs. thornton won her race by half a neck. on this occasion mrs. thornton rode louisa, by pegasus, out of nelly; and buckle rode allegro, by pegasus, out of allegranti's dam. as the english turf began to rise in importance some attempt was made to introduce racing into france. as early as the reign of louis xv. a number of the french nobility had frequented newmarket. the well-known sportsman, hugo meynell, much resented this, and grimly declared that he wished the peace was all over and england comfortably at war again. a particularly unpopular visitor was the comte de lauraguais, who purchased the celebrated race-horse, gimcrack, took him over to france, and for a big bet ran him twenty-two and a half miles, it is said, within an hour. at the end of the eighteenth century philippe Égalité raced at newmarket, where he seems to have created an unfavourable impression. though he entered a good many horses, he was not particularly successful as an owner. in france the sporting exploits of this prince and of the comte d'artois excited a good deal of indignation. they were declared to be the associates of grooms, and to enter into scandalous combinations in the races which they organised, whilst treating the onlookers with the most ineffable contempt and savage ferocity. it would certainly appear that at times they used their whips on the spectators as well as on their horses; and not only encouraged the officers to maltreat the crowd, but employed such grossness of speech, and offensive oaths, as showed that these princes were not unskilled in the language of the vilest part of the nation. high betting was general, and noblemen turned jockeys and rode their own racers. when the comte de lauraguais appeared at court, after a long absence, the king coldly inquired where he had been for so long. "in england," the count replied. "what did you do there?" "i learnt there, please your majesty, to think." "of horses," retorted the king. the early days of the french turf were unedifying. in a match between the duc de lauzun and m. de fénelon the latter fell from his horse, broke his arm, and lost his wager. the same gentleman betted with another nobleman as to which of them could reach versailles and return to paris the quicker in a single-horse chaise. the horse of the first died at sèvres, and the other expired in the stable at paris, a few hours after his return. frivolous courtiers, not satisfied with exercising their inhumanity on their horses, exposed themselves to the derision of paris by other kinds of races. the duc de chartres, the duc de lauzun, and the marquis fitzjames once betted five hundred louis who could first reach versailles on foot. lauzun gave up the foot-race about half way; chartres about two-thirds; fitzjames arrived in an exhausted state, and was saluted as conqueror by the comte d'artois. the hero in question was near expiring in the arms of victory and had to be put to bed. blood-letting was resorted to, and though he won his wager he contracted asthma. marie antoinette, not satisfied with foot and horse racing, instituted contests of speed in which donkeys were bestridden, the successful jockey being rewarded with three hundred livres and a golden thistle. during the first empire, napoleon, probably with an eye to the horsing of his cavalry, decreed that there should be races, and races of a sort there were, chiefly in the department of the orne and at a hippodrome at le pin, the seat of a government stud established by colbert in the days of the roi soleil. after the restoration of the bourbons, racing was intermittently carried on at vincennes, at fontainebleau, in the champs de mars, and at satory-versailles, which were the chief places of racing near paris. the ground at both was detestable. at satory-versailles, in wet weather, the course was so deep in mud that the horses could hardly move. at the champs de mars the ground was often "so hard as to endanger the strongest legs," and "when the horses galloped the jockeys were liable to be blinded by a cloud of dust and small pebbles." as a matter of fact the races were more often than not won by the mounted gendarmes, who rode with the horses from start to finish. in the early days of the french turf the fields were, of course, small, and so was the value of the prizes. for this reason, in order to eke out a fair number of races with very few horses, the practice of running races in "heats" was grossly abused. in , madame de giraudin wrote: "the races on sunday were favoured with superb weather, and the extraordinary sight was seen of nine horses running together--nine live horses, nine rivals--a rare spectacle in the champs de mars. generally one horse runs all alone, contending against no opponent, and always coming in first. but this does not signify; it excites the admiration of those who love sport, and especially of the philosophers among them; it is so noble to strive against and overcome oneself!" the foundation of the french turf as we see it to-day dates back to , when the french jockey club was founded. before this there had existed in the rue blanche an english jockey and pigeon shooting club founded by a mr. thomas bryon, who acted as secretary. in , of the eighteen members, four were english, including that very original character. lord henry seymour, and in course of time he took a leading part in originating a members' club, which should resemble the english jockey club, and should be lodged in a luxurious club-house. the twelve founders of the french jockey club were soon joined by a large number of sportsmen, among whom were the novelist, eugène sue, lord yarmouth, and mr. john bowes, who passed most of his life in paris. the latter gentleman won the derby four times. on the first occasion, in , when mundig beat ascot (which belonged to the writer's grandfather, lord orford) by a head, mr. bowes was still an undergraduate at cambridge--in subsequent years he won it again with cotherstone, daniell o'rourke, and west australian. the french jockey club, at its institution, consisted of royal princes, noblemen, ordinary men of property, all persons of considerable influence interested in horse-breeding and in the improvement of the breed of horses by means of horse-racing and the "selection of the fittest." most of them were good horsemen, who rode their own horses on occasion. m. de normandie, for instance, was the winner of an improvised race which took place at chantilly in between himself, prince lobanoff, viscount de hédouville, and others. this is said to have suggested the idea of forming the present beautiful race-course there. this gentleman, who must be ranked as one of the fathers of the french turf, frequently acted in the earliest days of the french jockey club as steward, judge, and starter; and though he does not appear to have introduced any famous strain of blood into the studs of his country, greatly contributed to establish french racing on its present prosperous footing. m. de normandie is said to have won the first regular steeplechase ever run in france on english principles. this took place in , near st. germain, and in december a gentleman was still living who was supposed to have taken part in it. this was mr. albert ricardo, j.p., who spent his early days in paris. a great supporter of sport, mr. ricardo, who died on the last day but one of the year, had won the cambridgeshire with the widow as far back as . he had also been a keen cricketer in his youth, and was one of the two first members of the i zingari. there was steeplechasing at the croix de bernay as early as , and at la marche some little time later. the auteuil steeplechase course, which is now the head-quarters of the sport in france, was not inaugurated till after the war of . through the influence of the duc d'orléans, the son of louis philippe, who was killed in a carriage accident in , the french jockey club obtained leave to hold regular meetings in the champs de mars; and he it also was who, in , arranged the creation of the race-course at chantilly, which, till longchamps was started in - , was without doubt the best course in france. at chantilly was run the first french derby (prix du jockey club) in , and the first french oaks (prix de diane) in . the stables of the duc at chantilly were presided over by an english trainer, george edwards, and his principal jockey was edgar pavis. in his english-bred horse, beggarman, won the goodwood cup. besides this the duc d'orléans won a number of french races. as a matter of fact, racing in france, from to , was more or less of a duel between the prince in question and lord henry seymour. the latter extraordinary personage was born in paris in , and is believed never to have set foot in england. lord henry seymour was said to be related on his mother's side to "old q." or george selwyn, or both, and from either or both of them he probably inherited some of his numberless eccentricities as well as his taste for the turf. he was a well-known figure in paris and its neighbourhood, for it was his constant practice to drive about in a carriage with four horses, postilions, and out-riders. after _mardi gras_, he would sit with other congenial spirits at the window of the noted "vendanges de bourgogne," watching the _descente de la courtille_ (the return from the ball) in the early morning, when he would scatter heated pieces of gold among the crowd of returning "maskers." lord henry is said to have been the original of the eccentric character described by balzac, who delighted in furtively administering drastic medicines to his dearest friends, the very unpleasant effects of which afforded him intense amusement. he delighted also in giving away cigars with something explosive inserted at the end, afterwards watching the effect of a light applied by the unsuspecting smoker. he died in paris in . in the french turf entered upon a new and important era, a promise being obtained from the government and the municipality of paris that a race-course should be included in the projected plan for the transformation of the bois de boulogne. in the longchamps meadows, on the borders of the seine, an expanse of level and unencumbered ground was allotted to the société d'encouragement, and by an arrangement with the municipality of paris, the société became lessees of the race-course for fifty years, undertaking to pay an annual rent, as well as to build stands, which, at the expiration of the lease in , should become the property of the city. the old stands, which during the last three years have been replaced by magnificent new ones, were erected by the architects of the city of paris, at an expense of , francs (£ , ), and subsequent expenses brought the amount up to , , francs (about £ , ). the race-course was opened on the last sunday in april , and the first grand prix was run in , when the ranger won. the moving spirit in the institution of this race, now the richest in the world, is said to have been the emperor napoleon the third, represented by the duc de morny, the creator of deauville. the first grand prix was worth £ and an _objet d'art_; the amount of the stakes for the same race in was some £ , . when the grand prix was first inaugurated, many vigorous protests were made in england against the race being run on a sunday, but by these the french declined to be swayed. as a matter of fact, notwithstanding anglo-saxon plaints at the iniquity of sunday racing, the beautiful courses at longchamps and auteuil are very popular with visitors from across the channel on many a fine sabbath day, when englishmen, known for their stern and unflinching moral rectitude, are not infrequent spectators on such occasions. one of these, a public man, notorious for his advocacy of every form of puritanical restriction, whilst exhibiting some confusion at being recognised by a friend, could only make the defence: "well, after all, it doesn't matter, as i am not betting." in all probability, however, he, like other visitors, had backed his fancy! an important share in the laying-out of longchamps race-course was taken by the late mr. mackenzie grieves, who, originally an officer in the blues, took up his residence in paris, became a member of the french jockey club and played a prominent part in the organisation of french racing. mr. mackenzie grieves, whose memory is preserved by an important race to which his name has been given, was personally known to the writer, who retains pleasant recollections of his great charm and dignified appearance, both of which were highly characteristic of one of the last of the fine old school. he was a most graceful rider and a master of the _haute école_. though racing in france was naturally suspended during the war, it was once more in full swing in , when the grand prix was won by cremorne. in consequence of the downfall of the second empire a number of the important races were renamed. the prix de l'impératrice, for instance, became the prix rainbow; the prix du prince impérial the prix royal oak. the prix gladiateur, one of the oldest french prizes, has under its various names strikingly reflected the vicissitudes of french politics. originally it was the prix royal, then prix national, then grand prix de l'empereur, till, with the rise of the third republic, it was called after the famous race-horse. in there was great jubilation amongst french sportsmen at the victories of plaisanterie, which won both the cesarewitch and cambridgeshire, as well as twelve out of thirteen events in france. the appearance of the daughter of wellingtonia and poetess in the cesarewitch was said at the time to be owing to two bookmakers, t. wilde and jack moore, who made it worth the while of the filly's owners (m.h. bony and mr. t. carter) to start her, guaranteeing them to , though they themselves had only got to in england. wilde, it was declared, brought back to france after the race nearly five million francs (£ , ), won by backing plaisanterie, of which jack moore paid out some , (£ , ) in five-franc, ten-franc, and twenty-franc pieces to french backers who had been on the good thing. in common with the rest of the fraternity, these two very sporting layers have now long disappeared from the french race-course. bookmaking in france practically ceased to exist with the introduction of the pari mutuel in . previous to that time bookmakers had pitches provided for them some way behind the stands, where they were allowed to exhibit lists of the horses running in the various races, against which were chalked the odds, the variations in which were thus easily shown. the whole thing was most decorously conducted, and the system worked fairly well. nevertheless, from time to time, rumours were rife as to an intended suppression of the bookmakers by the french authorities, and at last in they were definitely bidden to cease plying their business. the new decree was rigorously enforced, crowds of police in uniform and plain clothes being present on the parisian race-courses, and any one found openly making a bet was ruthlessly arrested--a perfect reign of terror, indeed, prevailed amongst betting-men, and very great dissatisfaction ensued amongst habitual frequenters of the french turf. on several occasions, notably one sunday at auteuil (when the writer was present), a large force of military were on the ground, regiments of cavalry being in reserve outside the race-course. feeling ran very high, and the races were run amidst hoots, yells, and other demonstrations of indignation, some of which most unjustly took the form of missiles hurled at the jockeys. the cabmen and proprietors of the char-à-bancs who drive the public to the various race-courses around paris, the keepers of the small restaurants along the various lines of route, loudly complained that the new era of restriction which had dawned would completely ruin them. the saddest people of all, however, were very naturally the bookmakers, most of them english, who for many years had made a living on the french race-courses, for, whilst the public generally were more or less certain that some new method of betting would be devised, they fully realised that the suppression of their business was no mere outburst of outraged morality on the part of the government, but a well thought-out scheme for appropriating their spoils and diverting them to public purposes. the golden days were gone, and ruin stared them in the face. in a very short time public indignation was allayed by the announcement that french racing was not, as it had been averred, about to be stamped out by the high-handed brutality of those at the head of the state. betting would be allowed, but only through the medium of the pari mutuel or totalisator, which would be established on a legal basis on every race-course in france; and after the passing of the law, which definitely laid down the manner in which speculation on the french turf was in future to be conducted, the beautiful courses round paris were once more thronged by crowds of relieved race-goers. the law in question, passed on nd june , expressly prohibited any form of betting on race-courses except through the medium of the pari mutuel, and strictly defined the conditions on which the latter was to be worked. for a few years after this law came into operation a certain toleration was extended to a few of the principal bookmakers, who still continued to make bets in an unobtrusive way, but of late years the authorities, considering that such a state of affairs tends to decrease the receipts drawn from the totalisator, have become exceedingly stern in repressing any attempts at such a form of speculation. the percentage levied on the sums staked at the pari mutuel is now eight per cent for the race-courses round paris and that at deauville, and ten per cent for race-courses in the provinces. of this sum the five great parisian racing associations and that of deauville are allotted four per cent, the rest being applied to charitable and other public purposes. a different scale applies to the provincial race-courses, where the receipts are naturally not so remunerative. the official figures issued on th june , show that £ , , has been staked by the public by means of the pari mutuel since its institution in . during the last eighteen years no less than £ , , , produced by the percentage levied on this sum, has been applied to public purposes; besides this, various charities and the racing societies have profited to an enormous extent. to-day, owing to the large sums which are available from this source, there is to all intents and purposes no poor-rate in france--the pari mutuel takes its place. as regards the racing itself, it is shown by the official statistics to be in a more flourishing condition than ever before. in there existed in france racing societies, which held meetings; on the st of december an official statement showed that societies held meetings. during this period more than twenty-nine millions of francs, considerably more than a million pounds sterling, produced by the percentage levied on the pari mutuel, had been devoted to racing prizes and the general encouragement of horse-breeding in france. since the institution of the totalisator the race-courses and stands have been much improved, funds being abundant. as a means of speculation for the casual visitor to a race-course the pari mutuel is a most convenient form of betting. an excellent organisation exists on every french race-course for enabling those desirous of backing any horse to do so by taking their ticket at one of the many bureaux, above which are inscribed the amount which any ticket represents. separate betting bureaux exist for ladies in the special stands which are on some courses set aside for them, and everything is done to render the public thoroughly comfortable. a list of the horses running is clearly displayed, and there is when possible place betting. on some race-courses the field can be backed, which, in the event of an outsider winning, is not unprofitable. the lowest sum for which a ticket is issued is five francs, the highest five hundred francs. there is, of course, no limit to the number of tickets which any one who wishes to do so may take. should a backer not be desirous of changing a winning ticket into cash upon the race-course he can keep it till his return to paris, where, on presenting it at a central office at certain fixed hours (defined on the ticket), he receives his money without any inconvenience. in justice, however, to the french race-course authorities it should be added that, considering the huge amount of money carried by those going racing in france, robberies are extremely rare. admission to the "pesage," the best and most expensive enclosure, is only francs for a man, francs for a woman. there is also a cheaper stand, and admission to the course costs a franc. though a certain number of heavy betters complain of the lack of bookmakers, the general public appears satisfied. on the grand prix day of the present year, when the race was for the first time won by a french jockey, £ , passed through the pari mutuel at longchamps, out of the percentage levied on which the poor received no less than £ . whatever may be urged against the totalisator in france, it is bound to benefit a certain number of people, which is a good deal more than can be said for any other form of betting, gambling, or speculation. * * * * * those who in the pages of this book have wandered through the gaming-houses of europe, and have briefly surveyed the careers of most of the chief gamblers of the past, will, it is hoped, do the writer the justice to admit that he has in no wise sought to minimise the grave evils which are the almost inevitable result of worshipping the goddess of chance. nothing, indeed, is more striking than the almost universal ruin which has ever overtaken the vast majority of gamblers, except the complete failure which has invariably attended all attempts to stamp out this vice by means of coercive measures. the futile and ineffectual results which, during the last two hundred years, have invariably followed all drastic repression, are clearly demonstrated by hard facts; at the present time speculation, gambling, and betting all flourish as they never flourished before. in open combat, the strong arm of the law is resistless; but there is no possibility of its ultimate triumph or power of eradicating the desire of gaming from the human mind; and more especially in a country where speculation on the stock exchange is regarded with the greatest tolerance by those who denounce the race-course and the card-table. the anathemas of well-meaning and unworldly ecclesiastics, the plaints of zealous philanthropists, the strident declamations of social reformers, who call for legislative measures of drastic restriction, can only cause the philosophic student of human nature to deplore that so much well-meaning effort should be devoted to such a futile end. in sober fact the gambling mania is one for which no specific remedy exists--it is possessed by those who are well aware of its dangers, and realise that in the ordinary course of events it must prove ultimately destructive. repress it in one direction and it reappears--more often than not worse than ever--in another. it is impossible to dragoon human nature into virtue. the leopard cannot change its spots, or the ethiopian his skin. man with his craving for strong emotions will assuredly find means of gratifying them, and it is mere hypocritical rubbish to assume that in the future milk and water is to be the elixir of life. the well-meaning altruist, who looks with contempt on the frivolous occupations which appear to amuse a great part of mankind, should remember that they, on the other hand, are equally at a loss to account for the pleasure which he derives from the more elevated pursuits in which their lower mental capacities forbid them to indulge. as a matter of fact the strongest motive with all mankind, after the more sordid necessities are provided for, is excitement. for this reason gambling will continue--even should all card-playing be declared illegal and all race-courses ploughed up. repugnant as the idea may be to the anglo-saxon mind, regulation, not repression, is without doubt the best possible method of mitigating the evils of speculation; and, moreover, such a system possesses the undeniable advantage of diverting no inconsiderable portion of the money so often recklessly risked into channels of undoubted public benefit. the time is not yet when english public opinion is prepared to face facts as they are; but though it may be at some far distant day, that time must come, when a wiser and more enlightened legislature, profiting by the experience of the past, will at last realise that the vice of gambling cannot be extirpated by violent means. reluctantly, but certainly, it will endeavour to palliate the worst features of gambling by taking care that those who indulge in it shall do so under the fairest conditions, whilst at the same time paying a toll to be applied for the good of the community at large. such is the inevitable and only solution of a social problem which from any other direction it is absolutely hopeless to approach. index abingdon, lord, befriended by mr. elwes, ; and o'kelly, adolphus, mr., and duke of wellington, aix-la-chapelle, gaming at, ; an italian's adventures at, - ; a royal gambler at, - alvanley, lord, ambassadors use their mansions as gaming-houses, - ancre, maréchal d', the wife of, anne, queen, supporter of the turf, annuities, paid by brooks's, ; paid by gamblers as compromise, antoinette, marie, , archer, lady, ardesoif, mr., roasts a game-cock to death, ; his just reward, arlington, earl of, arnold, mr., his cruel wager, arthur's, mr. elwes a member of, artois, comte d', his bet with marie antoinette, , ; his conduct on the turf, ashburnham, lord, ass and chimney-sweep race, "athenæum," a notorious gaming-house, ; confused with real athenæum club, atkins, a bookmaker, last authority on hazard, atkinson, bartle, a famous trainer, atkinson, joseph, aubrey, lieut.-col., his maxim, ; his distinguished antagonists and associates, australian story, an, - author, a lucky, and his method of speculation, - avarice combined with passion for play, baccarat, decision _re_, , ; single tableau, , , "bad houses, beware of," baden, ex-elector of hesse gambles at, ; m. de la charme at, , ; society at, , ; croupiers at, , bagatelle, the building of, , baggs, major, his luck at hazard, ; his adventures abroad, ; and lord onslow, ; a skilful swordsman, and man of culture, ; his generosity, ; wins from the king, ; falls a victim to gaming, baily, mr., of rambridge, barber, the canterbury, - ; an indian, as balloonist, barclay, captain, pedestrian, barucci, madame julia, a card scandal at the house of, - basketing, basset, bassette, bathing adventure, a, beauclerk, topham, bedford, duke of, and nash, , ; horsewhipped, bellasis, theophilus, benazet, m., farmer-general of gaming-houses, ; proprietor of rooms at baden-baden, , bennet, captain, trundles a hoop, , bentinck, lord frederick, beat by col. mellish in a foot-race, bentinck, lord george, and lord kelburne, , ; his large winnings, , bentinck, rev. mr., and the duc de nivernois, , berkeley, captain, and his game-cock, , bertie, lord robert, betting-houses started, , ; fraudulent proceedings illustrated, ; suppressed, billiards, a one-eyed player, bingham, mr., his horse leaps hyde park wall, biribi, method of play, blackmail, keepers of gaming-houses subject to, ; at the palais royal, , blanc, m., starts gambling-tables at homburg, ; plays for a parasol, , ; victim of a stratagem, ; a croupier's scheme, ; and garcia, , ; opens a casino at monaco, bland, sir john, ; squanders his fortune and shoots himself, blind cock-fight enthusiast (lord bertie), , blind horse wins a leaping contest, blo' norton hall, blücher, marshal, fond of gambling, ; passion inherited by his son, ; wins his son's money, ; at the palais royal, blythe, captain carlton, a frequenter of monte carlo, ; his method of play, boarding-schools, gaming taught at, bond, ephraim, ; takes over "athenæum," , boothby, mr., his opinion of fox, borsant, m., a generous gaming-house proprietor, ; revelations, bouillotte, bow street troops, bowes, mr. john, four times derby winner, brampton, gawdy, brelans, bridge, , bristol, lord, turns the tables on lord cobham and mr. nugent, brooks, mr., ready to make advances, ; dies poor, brooks's, unlimited gambling at, ; fox's large losses at, ; annuities granted to ruined members, ; the betting-book at, ; favourite games at, ; relics preserved at, brummell, beau, plays heavily, ; his promise to the brewer, ; his superstition, buckeburg, count de, rides his horse backwards from london to edinburgh, buckingham, duke of, ; quin's story of the, buckingham palace, buckinghamshire, earl and countess of, , bullock, mr., bulpett, mr. charles, his remarkable feats, , bunbury, sir charles, burge, known as "the subject," ; his passion for the gaming-table, , byng, hon. frederick, on gambling, , byng, sir john, his dispute with "t' au'd un," byron, lord, a frequenter of wattier's, calzado, signor, cheats at cards, - ; sentenced to imprisonment, canterbury barber, the, - card-money, carlisle, lord, ; a high gambler, but warns selwyn, carriage race, a, casanova, his card duel with d'entragues, - ; his meeting with fox, cavillac, marquis de, accuses law of plagiarism, chabert, m., opens houses at baden-baden, wiesbaden, and ems, champeiron, la comtesse, chance, the laws of, ; in roulette, ; public tables offer best, ; tradesmen devotees of, chaplin, mr., his fortunate derby, charles ii., founder of the english turf, ; an experienced rider, ; his house at newmarket, ; nell gwynne's threat, ; his witty answer to sir christopher wren, ; his amusements at newmarket, , ; his generosity, charme, m. de la, at baden, chartres, duc de, , cheating, methods of, chesterfield, lord, chesterfield row, chetwynd, sir george, his _recollections_, cibber, colley, clarke, vauxhall, his cock-fighting match with col. lowther, clavering, sir john, appoints mordaunt his aide-de-camp, clergyman, a betting, cleveland, duke of, and billy pierse, , cobham, lord, makes a vulgar bet, ; forced to make public apology, cock-fighting in england, ; some great patrons, ; a famous battle at the cock pit royal, ; a cruel monster, ; betting, ; unexpected winners, ; celebrated london cockpits, ; royal cockpit taken down, ; punishment for foul play, ; a specimen challenge, ; present-day fights, ; famous trainers, ; the last of the cock-fighters, ; courageous birds, - cocoa tree, big stakes at the, codrington, mr., colonel, the english, and his wife's ear-rings, colton, rev. caleb, a successful gambler, ; his publications, ; his affairs become involved and he decamps, ; settles down at palais royal, ; studies gambling, ; commits suicide, combe, alderman, combe, hervey, , concannon, mrs., , ; mr., , conolly, rt. hon. thomas, cook, a fortunate, cookson, mr., owner of diamond, copley, sir joseph, cornwallis, lord, and mordaunt, "corpse" card-player and the parisian banker, , countess, an eccentric, , court, gambling at, craps or creps, an old french game, ; survives in america, cribb, tom, pugilist, his fight with nicholl, cribbage, a fashionable game, cricket ball, a letter sent by, crockford, william, ; wins large sum, ; founds his famous club, ; profits made by, ; his views on gaming, crockford's, duke of wellington becomes member of, ; large tips to waiters, ; blamed for increase of gambling-houses, ; magnificence of, ; expense of running, ; heavy losses at, crofton, sir edward, high leap at phoenix park, croupiers, stoicism of, ; at monte carlo, , ; a school of, , cumberland, duke of, , ; institutes ascot meeting, ; a born gambler, ; his cruelty, ; good-natured when racing, ; a fortunate loss, ; match with duke of grafton, ; his horse eclipse, "curse of scotland," origin of the name, , dale, thomas, rides a donkey-race, damer, mr., makes the acquaintance of dick england, ; ruined at tennis, ; his tragic end, darlington, lord, , ; a match with col. mellish, , dartmoor, gambling at, davies, a bookmaker, his betting, davis, scrope, , dayrolle, mr., death, as a subject for wagers, , ; a duel with, decency, sense of, lost by gamblers, deer, used in place of carriage-horses, delessert, m., the means of closing parisian gaming-houses, demidoff, madame, robbed by a countess, dennisthorpe, mr., derby, lord, a patron of cock-fighting, , desmarest, french minister, desmoulins, camille, "devil's drawing-room," the, devonshire, duchess of, ; and "old nick," ; scandal about, - devonshire, duke of, and fox, devonshire club, formerly crockford's, dickinson, old jack, an honest tipster, , "dispatches," dorchester, lord, doulah, asoph ud, nawab of oude, his sword practice, ; his barber's aerial punishment, ; his love of cock-fighting, drummond and greville, messrs., open a betting-house, dwyer, cigar-shop and betting-house keeper, ; bolts with large sum, earl, william, ; his "athenæum" swindle, ; transported, eclipse, the greatest horse of all time, - edgecumbe, dick, Égalité, philippe, a royal shop-man, ; a follower of the turf, elwes, mr., ; succeeds to a fortune, ; a gambler at heart, ; quixotic, ; a member of arthur's, ; plays for two days and nights, ; his avarice, , ; and lord abingdon, ; and the clergyman, , ; elected to parliament, ; his admiration for pitt, ; his last bout, elwes, sir harvey, a miser, _Émigrés_, ; passion for gaming among, _et seq._; a cause of irritation, ems, a gambling resort, ; a spaniard's method at, ; russians at, england, dick, and the young tradesman, , ; and mr. damer, - ; shoots rolles, a young brewer, ; flies to the continent, ; ends his days in london, english, buck, tried for murder, ; member of parliament, ; his death, english view of gambling, ; and sunday racing, , entragues, d', and casanova, - e.o., fraudulent, ; method of play, estates lost at play, este, cardinal d', and the cardinal de medici, "excessive" gambling, definition of, execution, betting at an, exeter mail beaten by a pony, existence, a strange, faro, invented by a venetian, ; introduced into france, ; prohibited in france, ; finds its way to england, ; fox's favourite game, ; method of play, ; crusade against, fawkener, sir everard, female assistants to sharpers, fénelon, m. de, his match with duc de lauzun, fenwick, mr., ferguson, sir rowland, his opinion of col. mellish, field club, the, fishmonger's hall, fitzjames, marquis de, , fitzpatrick, general, flint, mr., his race with mr. thornton, , ; assaults col. thornton, , ; commits suicide, foley, lord, fonteneille, madame de, foote, sam, fortune, image of, kept by roman emperors, ; aid of, invoked by fetishes, ; sometimes favours non-gamblers, foubert, a celebrated french riding-master, fouché, gaming-houses licensed by, ; punishes interference, fox, charles james, and casanova, ; a member of brooks's, ; white's, ; unsuccessful gambler, ; and duke of devonshire, ; and sir john lade, , ; borrows from waiters at brooks's, ; fond of horse-racing, , , ; ruined at twenty-five, frascati's, a noted gaming-house, ; an inveterate player at, ; fêtes at, ; dramatic incident at closing of, french jockey club, _et seq._ galeries de bois, game-cock, gentleman attacked by, ; fox killed by, ; in a naval action, , ; awarded a medal, games, unlawful, , gaming-houses, suppressed, ; officials, , gaming-tables kept by ladies, , , gancière, la baronne de, garcia, his winnings at homburg, ; a card scandal, - ; sentenced to imprisonment, ; his death, geese and turkey race, geneva, gambling at, genlis, comte de, george i. and the turf, ; george ii. gambles, ; george iv. rides to brighton and back, , george, prince of denmark, and horse-racing, germany, gaming in, _et seq._ gevres, duc de, gilliver, joe, fights cocks for georges iii. and iv., ; his great-nephew's success, gillray, his caricatures of female gamblers, giraudin, madame de, glasgow, lord, his love of enormous wagers, , grafton, duke of, grafton mews, no. , graham's club, gramont, count de, his shrewd decision, granville, lord, greville, mr., , grieves, mr. mackenzie, groom-porter, the, , grosvenor, lord, and tattersall, gully and the game chicken, match between, gwynne, nell, halton, mr., hambletonian v. diamond, a great race, - hamilton, captain, hamilton, duke of, hammond, mr. john, his successes on the turf, harvey, mr., a midshipman gambler, hastings, marquis of, his large bets, ; ruined, and early death, hawke, hon. martin, fights col. mellish, ; a marvellous pistol shot, ; duel with baron smieten, ; patron of pugilists, hawkins, sir henry, his decision in park club appeal, _et seq._ hawley, sir joseph, a heavy better, hazard, a popular game, ; made illegal, ; method of play, - ; privilege of players, , ; a lucky throw, ; drunk men best players, ; rules now forgotten, ; french hazard, ; runs of luck, heligoland, gaming-house on island of, hells, , _et seq._; defenders of, ; west-end, ; principal proprietors of, ; source of profits, , ; a prospectus, ; precautions with visitors, henri ix. addicted to gaming, hertford, lord, hesse, ex-elector of, highflyer, a famous horse, - hoca, brought to france by italians, ; play punishable by death, hodgson, dr. william, - hodsock priory, holdernesse, lord, holford, mr., homburg, gaming at, started by brothers blanc, ; hours of play, etc., ; a flood at, ; the kursaal, ; the landgraf, ; garcia at, _et seq._; scenes at close of kursaal, - hook, theodore, his epitaph on lord de ros, hughes, mr. ball, humbug, method of play, , humphries, mr., horsewhips duke of bedford, hunter, henry, huntingdon, lord, ingham, sir j., his decision _re_ baccarat, , insurance, fraudulent, ; speculative, made illegal, invalids, gambling, "ivories," james ii., a lover of field sports, jeffries, mr. john, jehu, sir john, justiniani introduces faro into france, kelly, j.d., kenyon, lord, scathing remarks by, kerridge, thomas, kildare, lady, king's place, a raid in, la belle, a popular french game, lade, councillor, an eccentric supporter of the turf, ; his meanness, - lade, sir john, taught a lesson by fox, , ; bets with "old q.," ladies of fashion, keep faro-banks, ; gaming-tables, ; on trial, _et seq._; extravagances of, "la faucheuse," ; played at ostend, ; forbidden in france, , la fille chevalier, lansdowne, marchioness of, lauzun, duc de, , law, john, kills a peer in a duel and escapes to holland, ; outlawed, ; studies finance, ; interview with louis xiv., ; threatened by desmarest, ; trusted by duke of orleans, ; puts schemes in operation, ; created comte de tankerville, ; presented with freedom of edinburgh, ; anecdotes, , ; his downfall, leaping wagers, , , , leeson, major, ; vanquishes the blacksmith, ; his turf career, , lennox, lieut.-general, "le wellington des joueurs," lewis, mr. george, lewis, mr. sam, a frequenter of monte carlo, liddell, sir h.g., lloyd, pedestrian, runs a race backwards, loftus, mr., cockpit owner, long sittings, , , - , , lonsdale, lord, lookup, mr., ; and lord chesterfield, ; becomes saltpetre manufacturer, ; privateering ventures, ; dies at his favourite game, losers ready to fight, "lottery," a game favoured by ladies, louis xiv., ; issues edict against play, "louse pigott," an unpleasant turf character, ; charged with disloyalty, , lowther, colonel, ; at cock pit royal, luttrell, lady elizabeth, , luynes, duchesse de, and talleyrand, macao, introduced by french _émigrés_, macgregor and his militia regiment, maisons de bouillotte, ; de jeu, malcolm, sir john, , manning, mr., his novel leap, march, lord, martindale, henry, - martine, colonel, engineer to asoph ud doulah, massena entertains col. mellish, mazarin, cardinal, introduces games of chance, ; always ready to bet, medici, cardinal de, medley, sporting, meggot, mr., , mellish, mr. charles, mellish, colonel henry, his boyhood, ; enters army, ; his accomplishments, - ; appearance and mode of dress, ; his horses, , ; his big stakes, ; and the turf, - ; sells his estate, ; duke of wellington's compliment, ; befriended by prince regent, ; settles at hodsock priory and marries, ; his early death, methodists, methods, merry, mr. james, mexborough, lord, mills, pemberton, ties up brummell, milton, lord, miranda, signor, cheated by garcia and calzado, , monaco, ; gambling at, _et seq._; the grimaldis, ; the army, ; improvements due to m. blanc, ; casino brings prosperity, ; old prince's consideration, ; a visit to, fifty years ago, , monte carlo, in , ; early frequenters, ; development of, , ; patrons, _et seq._; regulations as to dress, ; hotels, restaurants, etc. in the 'eighties, ; the "cercle privé," , ; the bank, its gains and losses, - ; mistaken ideas about the gaming-rooms, , ; systems of old players, ; superstitions, - ; trente-et-quarante, - ; a successful swindle at, - ; roulette, - ; the croupiers, , ; annual profits, ; the casino employés, , ; the _viatique_, , ; playing for a living, ; systems of play, - montfort, lord, , monville, m. de, moral betting club, circulars issued by a, mordaunt, colonel john, devoted to cards from youth, , ; leaves for india, ; ignorance of writing, , ; hindoo and persian scholar, ; his method of calculation, ; meets with asoph ud doulah, ; aide-de-camp to the nawab, ; saves zoffany's head, ; his hospitality, ; excellent pistol shot, ; wounded in a duel, ; his love of cock-fighting, ; his early death, morny, duc de, morocco-men, mount coffee-house, mr. elwes a member of, "multipliers," , ; statute against, mundy's coffee-house, mytton, jack, played best when drunk, ; punishes foul play, ; presence of mind, ; often plucked when young, napoleon, a poor card-player, ; encourages horse-racing, napoleon iii. and the institution of the grand prix, nash, beau, does penance, , ; rides upon a cow, ; his advice to a giddy youth, ; and duke of bedford, , ; and the young peer, ; a bet on the life of, naylor, mr., his big win at the derby, "neptune," newcastle, duke of, nivernois, duc de, ; and the rev. mr. bentinck, , normandie, m. de, north-country gambler, a, , northumberland, duke of, ; patron of cock-fighting, nugent, mr., , o'birne, mr., his generous offer, o'burne, mr., , ogden, mr., o'kelly, colonel andrew, and his uncle's parrot, , o'kelly, colonel dennis, ; his military rank, ; sometimes known as count, ; and catherine hayes, ; his racing successes, ; hospitable, yet mean, ; a true-bred milesian, ; not a fighting-man, ; and the jockey club, ; the black-legged fraternity, ; and the sporting aristocracy, ; his attachment for ascot, ; his small note, ; and the pickpocket, , ; the map of his estates, ; his wonderful parrot, ; becomes owner of eclipse, "old nick," ; and the duchess of devonshire, ; vouches for a friend's respectability, one leg, twelve hours' stand on, onslow, lord, and major baggs, onslow, mr. george (cocking george), out-ranger of windsor forest, orford, lord, his geese and turkey race, ; drives deer in place of horses in his phaeton, ; chased by hounds, orléans, duc d', anecdote of, orleans, duke of, regent, ; duped by law, osbaldiston, squire, ostend, gambling at, ; single tableau baccarat at, oyster-houses, gambling in, packer, colonel, palais royal, tripots in, , ; venternière and his black-mailers, , ; its history, - ; queer characters, ; "the devil's drawing-room," ; facilities for dissipation, ; the gaming-rooms, _et seq._; the stakes, ; a fortunate cook, ; the mad colonel, ; passe-dix and craps, ; famous gaming-houses, ; marshal blücher games at, ; falls on evil days, ; the end of gaming at, - ; present condition of, ; schemes to revivify, panton, colonel, panton, mr., paper, a lucky bit of, - parasol, an expensive, , pari mutuel, the, - paris, gambling in, _et seq._; present-day, - ; anecdotes, - park club, high play at baccarat at, ; proceedings against, _et seq._; rules of, , ; proprietor and committee fined, parrot, a wonderful, - passe-dix, method of play, pearson, prof. karl, his roulette experiments, peterborough, earl of, petersham, lady catherine, pharo, or pharaoh, _pharaon, le_, philosopher's stone, piazza, covent garden, pierse, billy ("t' au'd un"), his idea of making a fortune on the turf, ; his opinion of sir john byng, ; on friendly terms with duke of cleveland, , pigot, mr. william, and "old q.," poland, mr., polhill, captain, pond, miss, rides a thousand miles, pond, mr., publisher of _racing calendar_, "posting," potter, paul, game-cock feeder to lord derby, _pour et contre_, pratt, mr. edward, ; his wonderful memory, ; silence a hobby, ; whist his sole earthly aim, prisoners of war, gambling among, ; strange sleeping conditions, ; an amusing rebuke, private gambling, evils of, prussia, king of, gambles at aix-la-chapelle, ; his generosity, public tables offer best chance, pur plomb club, queensberry, duke of ("old q."), rides a mule race, ; sends letter by cricket ball, ; an eating contest, bet with mr. william pigot, ; and count o'taafe, ; his shrewdness, ; his presence of mind, racing games, racing plomb club, radcliffe, mr. j.b., raggett, raids, , raindrop race, the, rebuke, an amusing, regent, prince, wins large sum from mellish, ; befriends him, restaurants in palais royal: méot's, ; beauvilliers', rivarol champcenetz at, ; véry's, danton at, ; venua, frequented by girondins and robespierre, ; fevrier's, a tragedy at, ; véfour's, ; "les trois frères provençaux," ; café corazza, revolution, gambling during the, _et seq._ revolutionary playing-cards, , ricardo, mr. albert, , richmond, duke of, rigby, mr. richard, squanders his fortune, ; rescues duke of bedford, ; appointed paymaster-general, ; loses his post, and in difficulties, ; assisted by thomas rumbold, ; his kindness to a stranger, rivers, lord, a dashing player, "rivett, general," riviera, prosperity of, due to m. blanc, robespierre, roche, captain, rolles, a brewer, shot by england, ros, lord de, and the _satirist_ newspaper, ; amusing evidence at trial, ; dies in disgrace, rosebery, lord, on chances of the turf, rosslyn, lord, his system, - roulette, chances of, ; method of play, - ; prof. karl pearson's experiments, ; a new form of, rowlandson, roxburgh club, royal edict against play, rumbold, thomas, waiter at white's and governor of madras, runs, extraordinary, , russell, mr. charles, sack race, a, st. amaranthe, madame de, keeps a luxurious tripot, st. ann's parish officers' warning, st. fargeau, lepelletier de, murder of, st. germain, a new form of roulette at, st. james's palace, st. louis, chevaliers of, as croupiers, sainte doubeuville, la marquise de, salisbury, lord and lady, their amusing experience at monte carlo, , salon des Étrangers, a favourite resort of marshal blücher, ; a pensioner, ; a run of luck, ; heavy losers, sandwich, lord, plays hazard with duke of cumberland, sartines, lieutenant of police, authorises gaming in paris, ; his narrow escape of assassination, saxe, madame, - scott, general, a famous whist player, ; his cute bet, ; his generosity, ; a careful liver, seaside resorts, french, gambling at, _et seq._; casino regulations, - sefton, lord, a heavy loser, selby, jim, a coaching feat, , selle, madame de, selwyn, george, , , sermons against gambling, serre, madame de la, servants demoralised by gambling-houses, seymour, lord henry, - shafto, captain, shelley hall, shepherd, john, shooting wagers, slaughter-houses, , smith, mr. justice, smith, tippoo, , speculation, passion for, , ; in france, _et seq._ spencer, lord robert, , spirit of play in eighteenth century, sporting medley, stair, lord, offends the french, stavordale, lord, stilts, a journey on, stock exchange, gambling on, - stroud, sturt, mrs. mary, , subscription-houses, sue, eugène, sully, rebukes henri iv., , sulzbach, sussex, duke of, a heavy loser to col. mellish, systems at monte carlo, - ; the martingale, , ; the labouchere, ; lord rosslyn's, - ; a sensible method of play, , ; none thoroughly reliable, , talbot, mr., talleyrand announces the death of the duc d'enghien, tattersall, mr., purchases highflyer, ; compared with o'kelly, , ; his shrewdness, , ; befriended by lord grosvenor, ; his business, , tempest, sir harry vane, tetherington, thacker, mr., wins penmaking contest, thanet, lord, ; at the salon, thatched house club, "there he goes," thornhill, mr. cooper, thornton, colonel, , , ; a shooting wager, ; a bitter-sweet compliment, ; unpopular, ; known as lying thornton, ; his conceit, ; his will disputed in england and france, thornton, mrs., her race with mr. flint, ; contest with buckle, the jockey, thouvenère, madame de, throw, a marvellous, thynne, mr., a disgusted gambler, tips, townshend, , tradesmen, devotees of chance, "travelling piquet," trente-et-quarante, ; method of play, - tripots, , , ; ladies preside at, ; clandestine keepers of, ; temporarily prohibited, ; edict against unlicensed, ; a luxurious tripot, turf, the, difficulty of making money on, _et seq._; some great wins, ; sporting journalists and tipsters, ; philanthropic tipsters' circulars, , ; an honest tipster, , ; three classes of racing-men, ; bookmakers and their chances of profit, , ; betting must be systematic, ; ascot unfortunate for backers, , ; recent changes in method of speculation, ; charles ii. founder of the english turf, ; the whip run for at newmarket, ; royal supporters of, - ; duke of cumberland patron of, ; early race meetings, _et seq._; eccentric races, ; matches, - turf, the french, _et seq._; hugh meynell, ; comte de lauraguais, , ; philippe Égalité, ; comte d'artois, ; unedifying races, ; jockey club founded, ; steeplechasing, ; the duc d'orléans, ; enters on a new era, ; the grand prix, ; plaisanterie, ; t. wilde and jack moore, ; pari mutuel, - tying-up, , ude, m. eustache, cook at crockford's, uxbridge, lord, "valois collier," vandéreux, m. fernand, venternière, blackmailer, , véron, doctor louis, vincent, sir francis, voltaire and john law, wade, general, and the poor officer, , wager, a vague, ; a curious, wagers, eccentric, _et seq._, , , , - , , - , walpole, horace, on mr. damer's death, ; and white's coat of arms, ; on parisian gaming-houses, warburton, sir p., ward, mr., warthall hall, waterloo, revival of gaming after, , wattier's club, a gambling resort, ; its proprietor, ; frequented by byron and beau brummell, waugh, captain, and the goose, weare, wellington, not a player, ; a member of crockford's, ; and mr. adolphus, whalley, thomas (jerusalem whalley), jumps a carrier's cart, ; his extravagance, ; jerusalem and back, ; publishes _memoirs_, wharton, mr., whist, a serious affair, , , white's club, becomes a gambling centre, ; main supporters of, ; coat of arms, , ; old betting-book, _et seq._; hazard allowed, but faro barred, ; gambling given up, ; fossilised members, ; present condition, wiesbaden, croupiers at, ; the kursaal, ; players at, ; an eccentric countess at, , ; two strange players, ; close of tables at, ; effects of the closing on the town, ; the last of the gamblers, , wilberforce, caught playing faro, wilde, mr., his remarkable ride, , will, a gamester's, william iii., a patron of racing, williams, george, williamson, major, wind, a bet about the, windsor, mother, windsor forest, outrangership of, _n._ wine _v._ water, , wolfe, colonel, his answer to duke of cumberland, women and freak races, ; as gamesters, , , wontner, mr. st. john, and park club, wortley, lady mary, wren, sir christopher, and charles ii., wright of long acre, yarmouth, lord, zeno, m. le chevalier, venetian ambassador, zoffany, court painter to nawab of oude, ; paints caricature of the nawab, ; his narrow escape, , ; a favourite of royalty, ; his pictures, the end _printed by_ r. & r. clark, limited, _edinburgh_. 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