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SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY. 
 
 1889. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Crapteb 
 
 I. North Leach . . , ^ 
 
 II. Major Braddock’s Dinner • 
 
 III. Thrown out , . . 
 
 IV. “ Lincoln Spring ” . . , 
 
 V. The Hunt Steeplechase , 
 
 VI. Sir Ronald Radcliffe 
 
 VII. Furzedon Starts on His War-Path 
 
 VIII. Lady Ramsbury’s Garden-Party 
 
 IX. A Little Game at Billiards 
 
 X. In Onslow Gardens . • 
 
 XI. A Waif on Life’s Stream 
 
 XII. Bob Braddock’s Conditions • 
 
 XIII. Seeking a Commission . 
 
 XIV. Charlie on Probation , , 
 
 XV. Entered for the Army 
 
 XVI. Dearest Friends “May*’ Differ 
 
 XVII. Bellaton Wold 
 XVIII. Trial of Belisarius , • 
 
 XIX. In the Gazette 
 XX. The Two Thousand 
 XXL “ You Shall Never Marry Him I ** 
 XXII, Mr. Black’s Tip 
 XXIII. Charlie’s Summoned to Town 
 
 XXIV. Sam Prance at Home 
 
 XXV. Kate Kynaston Reconnoitres 
 
 XXVI. Furzedon Proposes . . 
 
 XXVII. News from Bellaton Wold , 
 XXVIII. Dire Misgivings . • . 
 
 XXIX. The Great Epsom Race 
 
 XXX. Raising the Wind . 
 
 XXXI. Furzedon Returns to the Charge 
 XXXII. In the Usurer’s Fangs 
 XXXIII. Shere Ali the Dacoit 
 XXXIV. Doings on the Knavesmirb • 
 XXXV. The St. Leger . 
 
 XXXVI. Sinister Rumours . . . 
 
 XXXVII. Major Kynaston’s Visitor 
 XXXVIII. Shere Ali Vanishes 
 XXXIX. An Enemy Hath Done This Thing 
 XL. A Mutual Understanding 
 ' XLI. Charlie’s Baptism of Fire 
 
 XLII. Mrs. Kynaston’s Disappointment 
 XLIII. “ Good-Bye, Sweetheart, Good-Bye 
 XLIV. Hobson Recovers the Trail 
 XLV. Furzedon Leaves England . 
 
 XLVI. “ Let Him Be Given to the Flies 
 XLVII. The Rocks of Ruggerbund . , 
 
 XLVIII. Prance’s Vengeance . • 
 
 Conclusion < 
 
 Pagw 
 . 3 
 
 lO 
 . i8 
 
 26 
 . 34 
 
 41 
 
 . 49 
 
 57 
 . 65 
 
 72 
 
 • 79 
 
 85 
 
 . 93 
 
 100 
 . 107 
 
 115 
 
 , 121 
 
 129 
 . 136 
 
 141 
 
 . 150 
 
 158 
 . 166 
 
 173 
 
 , 180 
 
 187 
 . 195 
 
 201 
 , 208 
 215 
 
 , 222 
 229 
 . 226 
 244 
 . 252 
 
 259 
 
 . 266 
 
 273 
 
 . 280 
 
 287 
 . 295 
 
 304 
 
 • 309 
 317 
 
 . 324 
 
 • 337 
 344 
 
 • 35* 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 I. — North Leach. 
 
 N estling at the foot of one of the long undulations 
 of the Lincolnshire Wolds stood a large, many- 
 gabled, irregular house, a house wont to puzzle the traveller 
 as to what manner of man might be its owner. It was too 
 big for a farmhouse, nor did it look in the least like a 
 rectory ; moreover, nothing stood near it but some three or 
 four labourers’ cottages. As you looked closer you became 
 conscious that the central portion was most substantially 
 built, and evidently of older date than the wings, which 
 had apparently been added to it later. One peculiarity 
 about it, rather striking in a house of this size, was that it 
 was thatched, neatly and very trimly thatched, no doubt, 
 but still that was a roof you would have hardly expected 
 to find on a house of this class. North Leach, as the place 
 was called, had been the home of the Devereux for cer- 
 tainly something like four centuries. There they had farmed 
 some four hundred acres of their own so successfully that 
 they had now for many years rented an adjoining farm of 
 some seven or eight hundred acres, a property of the great 
 territorial magnate of that part of Lincolnshire. Tliis was 
 farming on a large scale ; but, although the times were not 
 so prosperous for agriculturists as during the days of the 
 tremendous struggle with Napoleon, still things were very 
 flourishing. The farmers, albeit the Corn Laws had been 
 repealed, made money hand over hand, and lived royally. 
 Old Tom Devereux kept so many horses of one kind and 
 another at North Leach, that gossip had it that Mrs. Dev- 
 ereux was always asked whether she would have four grays, 
 browns, chestnuts, or what not for Doncaster races, a 
 festival which the Devereux had attended with the utmost 
 regularity for many years. 
 
 8cic>8k!3 
 
4 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Tlic present generation of the family had been brought 
 up in very different fashion from their predecessors. Both 
 sons had been to Cambridge, while Lettice Devereux had 
 had everything that masters and a fashionable school could 
 do for her. As for riding, there never was a Devereux that 
 could not ride. Both the men and women of the family 
 were thoroughly at home in the saddle, and well-known as 
 amongst the best and boldest riders with the Brocklesby. 
 In front of the house, indeed, running round three sides of 
 it, and just beyond the gardens and shrubberies which 
 immediately surrounded it, was what was called ‘‘ the 
 paddock,’' a large grass field of about fifty acres, virgin 
 turf which had never known the ploughshare. Along one 
 side of it were various artificial fences, such as are used 
 for schooling purposes ; for the making of hunters was 
 always being pursued at North Leach with great assiduity. 
 Neither Tom Devereux nor his sons could be correctly 
 designated horse-dealers, but when you have such a quan- 
 tity of horses as were required for the work of a farm, to 
 say nothing of a long string of hunters and carriage horses, 
 it stands to reason that there must necessarily be a good 
 deal of buying and selling connected with the establish- 
 ment. Further, there were a few brood mares at North 
 Leach, aud, consequently, a certain amount of young 
 stock, some of which usually had to be disposed of. There 
 was one thing certain at the big farm, they could utilise 
 horseflesh in a great number of ways, and if a horse gave 
 no promise of making a hunter, there were many other 
 paths in life to which he could be introduced. 
 
 Inside, the house was, as might be expected, a roomy, 
 comfortable old building, which had been most judiciously 
 modernised. In the central, or original house, so to speak, 
 the rooms were low, with black oak panelling, and floors 
 to match ; but in the wings the rooms were far more lofty, 
 and a very pleasant drawing-room in the one wing was 
 balanced by an equally comfortable billiard-room on the 
 other side of the hall. 
 
 At the time my story opens, John Devereux, the eldest 
 son, had left the University some two years, and had 
 feteadily settled down as his father’s partner ; not but what 
 
NORTH LEACH. 
 
 5 
 
 old Tom Devereux was a hale, hearty man of his years 
 yet ; but men do not, as a rule, ride quite so hard to hounds 
 at sixty as they do in the days of their hot youth. We all 
 learn to take our pleasures more soberly, and it is well for 
 us, too, if we can take our work somewhat more leisurely. 
 The overlooking of two such farms as North Leach and 
 the adjacent one, held upon lease, involves a considerable 
 amount of hard work, and Tom Devereux was well pleased 
 when his son settled down to follow steadily in his foot- 
 steps. There had been times when he had somewhat 
 doubted the wisdom of having allowed his sons to go to 
 the University — at all events the eldest ; he had been 
 afraid it might unsettle him, and give him a distaste for 
 the calling of a yeoman farmer ; and then the old man had 
 thought solemnly of what was to become of the land if 
 there was no one to take his place when he was gone. He 
 was fond of the old acres that had come down to him 
 through so many generations of Devereux. He had made 
 his money out of the land, and respected it accordingly. 
 Moreover, he was as honestly proud and fond of the old 
 home of his family as any noble in the land could be of 
 the stately mansion transmitted to him through a long line 
 of ancestors. 
 
 A gray November day is closing in as Lettice Devereux 
 enters the drawing-room, and promptly rings for tea. She 
 is soon seated in a comfortable armchair in front of the 
 glowing fire, in lazy enjoyment of that luxury. A sharp 
 gallop with the hounds that morning has induced a pleasant 
 langour, which now that she has changed her dress, she 
 feels justified in indulging in. She is already half asleep, 
 when the door opens abruptly, and her brother in well- 
 splashed boots and well-stained pink enters the room. 
 
 “ Hulloa, Lettice,” he exclaimed, “ what became of you? 
 You didn’t come to grief of any kind with the young one, 
 did you ? But I missed you just after that rattling burst 
 we had in the morning ; and though we were lucky enough 
 to find an afternoon fox, who gave us a very decent run, I 
 never caught sight of your habit again.” 
 
 ‘‘ No, John,” rejoined the girl, laughing, “ and I will tell 
 you why. That four-year-old has the makings of as good 
 
6 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 a hunter as we have got in the stable. He carried me 
 beautifully, and made never a mistake at his fences all the 
 morning. But when we trotted off to look for that second 
 fox, he began to blunder a good deal. And the reason 
 was obvious, the horse was tired ; quite reason enough for 
 taking him home. We all know nothing breaks the heart 
 of a young one so much as asking him to go on when he is 
 tired.” 
 
 Ah ! you really think well of the young one then, do 
 you?” said John Devereux with evident interest, as he 
 sipped his tea. 
 
 “ I do,” replied Lettice, and what is more, I have an 
 idea that he has a great turn of speed. I think it would 
 be quite worth your while at the end of the hunting season 
 to try him. I think you will find that he is rather above 
 hunter class.” 
 
 “ We shall see,” replied John. “ Anyway your schooling 
 will go a great way towards the completion of his educa- 
 tion. Have you heard from Charlie, and when is he com- 
 ing down ? ” 
 
 “ Next week. Do you know anything of this Mr. 
 Furzedon that he is bringing with him ?” 
 
 “ No. You see although Charlie and I certainly just 
 were together at Cambridge, I was a good bit before his 
 time. I was leaving just as he came up, and during the 
 term or two we were there together, our sets were very 
 different. As for this fellow, Furzedon, I never heard of 
 him, but he is evidently a great pal of Charlie’s; at all 
 events he can ride a bit, and therefore we shall have no 
 trouble about making him happy here, as long as the 
 horses hold out ; and if he wants a breather after part- 
 ridges, goodness knows we’ve plenty of them, although it 
 takes hard walking to pick up a few brace now.” 
 
 “I've no doubt we can make it pleasant enough for Mr. 
 Furzedon,” rejoined Lettice. “I am bound to say that 
 most of the friends you and Charlie ask here generally 
 seem excessively pleased with the amusements we provide 
 for them, and I have very little doubt Mr. Furzedon will 
 fall into our grooves quite as naturally as the rest of them.” 
 “Well, now Fm off,” rejoined John Devereux, “to ex- 
 
NORTH LEACH. 
 
 7 
 
 change my dirty boots, etc., for more civilised garments.” 
 And so saying, he left his sister to enjoy her second cup of 
 tea, and indulge in dreamy reflection. 
 
 Miss Devereux was so far very well satisfied with her lot 
 in life. A high-spirited girl of twenty, disposed to make 
 the best of everything, she found her home life very enjoy- 
 able. There was always plenty to amuse her about the 
 farm, and, although North Leach was rather an isolated 
 residence, yet people in those parts had generally full 
 stables, and made little of distances, and thought nothing 
 of a ten or twelve mile drive to a country ball or other 
 revel. Balls, it is true, were not very numerous ; but then 
 Lettice, though she could throw her heart and soul into a 
 dance, was by no means hungry for such entertainments. 
 As for the winter time, the prevalent feeling in those parts 
 was, as Whyte Melville puts it, that “ the business of life 
 was to hunt every day ; ” and Lattice dearly loved a good 
 gallop. As she sat lazily there in front of the fire, she was 
 speculating a good deal on the return of her favourite 
 brother. She was very fond of John, but his quiet, sedate 
 manner did not accord with her own mirth-loving nature, 
 like Charlie’s. John was some six or seven years older 
 than herself, but might have been, from the grave, serious 
 way in which he took both his work and his pleasure, a 
 score of years her senior. It was difficult to work John up 
 to great enthusiasm about anything ; his cool head never 
 seemed to lose its balance for one moment ; such high 
 spirits as at times possessed herself and Charlie never ran 
 away with John. She did not trouble her head very much 
 about this Mr. Furzedon, although her brother had been 
 very lull of him during the last few months. Truth to tell, 
 she was thinking more about how well her horse had carried 
 her than anything else. 
 
 Seated in the sitting-room of a quiet lodging in Duke 
 Street, smoking a short pipe, was a fair-haired, blue-eyed 
 young fellow, gazing into the fire, and evidently deeply 
 absorbed in thought. Thoughts not of the pleasantest, 
 apparently, to judge from the knit brows and somewhat 
 serious aspect of the young face. 
 
 “ What an ass I have been,” muttered Charlie Devereux 
 
8 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 as he puffed savagely at his pipe. “ I wish to Heaven I’d 
 never let Furzedon persuade me to go to Newmarket. I 
 have had a bet before, of course, but I never went regu- 
 larly in for it till this time, and three such meetings as I’ve 
 had are enough to break any one ; indeed, if it hadn’t been 
 for Furzedon’s help, I should have been unable to settle. 
 Bad form, too, borrowing money from a pal, and as to pay- 
 ing him, there’s only one thing for it. I must sell the 
 hunters. It is rough, but as he is coming down to North 
 Leach to hunt with me, I suppose he’ll let me have two or 
 three months of them before the sacrifice. However, even 
 then, if I’m bid a good price I shall have to take it. I 
 wonder whether they have anything at home they will let 
 me have the riding of.” 
 
 None knew better than Charlie that the big London 
 dealers always had their eye upon North Leach* Many a 
 letter did Tom Devereux get in the course of the season to 
 know whether he had a hunter or two that he was disposed 
 to part with. The dealers knew very well that when a horse 
 from North Leach was guaranteed a made hunter, they 
 could perfectly rely that it was so. And for an animal of 
 that description a London dealer invariably has a market. 
 There are plenty of his wealthy customers who would 
 always sooner trust to his judgment than their own, and 
 have no objection to pay the extra price. 
 
 “ Well,” thought Charlie with all the elasticity of youth, 
 “ it will be very jolly to have a real good gossip with Let- 
 tice, and to have a good time with, the Brocklesbys. I 
 never think hunting so good anywhere as it is in my ‘ ain 
 countree.’” Here his reflections were interrupted by a 
 sharp knock at the door, and the appearance of a tall dark 
 young man with a florid countenance, and slightly Semitic 
 nose. 
 
 What, Charlie, all in the downs 1” he said, “ what non- 
 sense ! It is no use being down in your luck because 
 you’ve had a facer ; besides, it’s all squared up now. Let’s 
 dine together, have a bottle of champagne, and then go off 
 to the theatre. I’ve got all my business done in London, 
 and am good now to go down to North Leach with you 
 
NORTH LEACH. 9 
 
 whenever you like, and what’s more we ought not to lose 
 such beautifully open weather as this.” 
 
 So the two dined at Limmer’s, and the bottle of cham- 
 pagne, as was only natural, expanded into two, and then 
 they adjourned to the Strand Theatre, and were convulsed 
 with laughter at one of the burlesques which characterised 
 those palmy days of the Strand. I am writing of a good 
 many years ago, when night-houses existed in the Hay- 
 market, and in pursuit of that very questionable experience, 
 the seeing of life, it was deemed incumbent on the young 
 men of the day to drop into two or three, before returning 
 home. Inferior alcohol, and the most dubious company, 
 male and female, was all the entertainment that these dens 
 afforded, but then it was the proper thing to do, and in our 
 younger days there are very few of us who do not deem 
 that sufficient reason for the committal of any absurdity. 
 
 Furzedon and Charlie Devereux, of course, thought it 
 necessary to have a lobster or some oysters at one of these 
 houses, and as they sallied out after having their supper, a 
 dilapidated man suddenly exclaimed : “ Ah, Furzedon — I 
 beg pardon, Mr. Furzedon — you’re good I’m sure to stand 
 a sovereign to an old pal who is down in his luck.” 
 
 Furzedon ’s eyes gleamed dangerously in the gaslight for 
 a moment as he retorted in stern measured tones, “ I don’t 
 know who you are, but I do know that youTl get never a 
 sixpence from me to-night.” 
 
 “ D’ye hear him, mates ?” replied the dilapidated one, 
 addressing some three or four similar birds of ill-omen, 
 who were hanging about the entrance of the house in ques- 
 tion. “ Pretty conduct this to expect from a fellow who 
 was your intimate friend, and for whom you did some 
 tolerable dirty work no very short time ago.” 
 
 “ Shame, shame,” cried the ragged chorus, why don’t 
 you stand to the gentleman now he is down in his luck ?” 
 Keenly alive, these supporters of the sturdy mendicant, to 
 the probability of “ glasses round,” should he succeed in 
 extorting that sovereign from the “ swell.” 
 
 Close up, Charlie,” said Furzedon in a low voice. 
 
 These curs are going to rush us, and see what they can 
 make of turning our pockets out. Just follow my lead. 
 
to 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 soon as that scoundrel comes up with his whining petition 
 again, I shall let him have it hot. Hit out at once all you 
 know, and we shall be through them, and into a hansom 
 in less than two minutes. In the meantime do as I do.” 
 And Mr. Furzedon rapidly buttoned his overcoat up tightly. 
 Another moment, and the suppliant for relief advanced 
 with an impudent leer, and said, Come, Mr. Furzedon, 
 we don’t part like this. I’m not going to want a sovereign 
 while your pockets are well lined.” 
 
 “ Ah ! you think so,” replied Furzedon, with a low laugh. 
 ‘‘ I told you you should get nothing from me to-night. I 
 lied; you shall,” and taking a step forward, Furzedon let 
 go his left straight and true from the shoulder, and stretched 
 the luckless mendicant well-nigh senseless on the pave- 
 ment. There was a rapid rush of his companions, but the 
 quick, straight, determined hitting of Furzedon and Charlie 
 speedily dissipated that attempt at plunder, and in another 
 minute the pair were driving rapidly home to their lodg- 
 ings in Duke Street. 
 
 Nothing perhaps in the episode of a mere night row in 
 the Haymarket to influence the destiny of anybody con- 
 nected with this history, and yet it is these very small 
 events that so often bear curiously upon our lives. Had 
 Furzedon given the unfortunate outcast of the Haymarket 
 a sovereign, instead of a blow, it would probably have 
 made a considerable difference in the course of his life. 
 
 II. — Major Braddock’s Dinner. 
 
 T he Strangers’ room at the Thermopolium was very full, 
 and there was much talk and laughter going on at the 
 various little tables as the wine passed merrily round them ; 
 but, perhaps, from none did the laughter ripple more freely 
 than from a round table in the middle of the room, around 
 which half-a-dozen men were gathered, the guests of jolly 
 Major Braddock. The Major was in his eleoient ; he was 
 never more happy than when giving a little dinner ; he 
 
MAJO*R BRADDOCK'S DINNER. 
 
 II 
 
 flattered himself that he knew how to do it, and, what was 
 more to the point, he did. Looking at his rubicund face 
 and portly figure, it was difficult how to imagine the Major 
 a smart officer of Hussars, and yet, ten years before, when 
 he finally doffed the pelisse, he was as good-looking a 
 dragoon as ever wore sabretache. 
 
 But a man naturally a bo7i v'lvant, and who gives himself 
 free licence in the matter of good living, and who is not 
 given in any way to field sports, rapidly puts on weight 
 after he has turned thirty. The Major was comfortably 
 off, and when he sold out subsided at once into a man 
 about town. The giving and partaking of little dinners 
 entered prominently into the scheme of his life, and it was 
 now well known that an invitation from Bob Braddock 
 was not a thing to be lightly declined ; nor, on the other 
 ^hand, was he a man to whom an invitation was to be lightly 
 issued. It was well known through Clubland that Bob 
 Braddock’s verdict on a dinner was unimpeachable, and 
 there were some one or two of those monarchical institutions 
 which he specially tabooed, saying that it was a positive 
 insult to ask anything but a raw boy to partake of food 
 within their gates while they kept such an atrocious cook. 
 
 “ Ha — ha !” laughed the Major, and it was one of those 
 mellow laughs which almost instinctively carried the 
 hearers away with it. “ What times those were ! What 
 constitutions we all had in those days, and, heaven help us, 
 how shamefully ignorant we were on the subject of wine 
 and cookery! Just you try that champagne, Norman, 
 Here, waiter, get Mr. Slade a clean glass; don’t be afraid 
 of it ; there’s no gout in it, and even if there is, upon my 
 soul it’s worth risking an attack for.” 
 
 Norman Slade, a dark, wiry little man, whose age defied 
 all conjecture, filled his glass gravely, and, as he tasted it, 
 said : “ Yes, it’s rare good stuff, but you ought to have laid 
 the foundation of podagra pretty substantially by this time.” 
 
 “ Yes, it was the Exhibition year, and they wanted some 
 cavalry just to show off before the big swells who came 
 over to see Paxton’s glass-house,” continued the Major. 
 “ So they brigaded five regiments of light cavalry at Houns- 
 low, and, you may guess, with all that going on in London, 
 
12 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 that the way us young ones streamed up to town fevefy day 
 was a caution. Except the unhappy subaltern for the day, 
 I should think there wasn’t an officer left in any one of the 
 regiments.” 
 
 “ And you were the fellows the rest of us were paying 
 taxes to provide for.” 
 
 “ Of course you were,” retorted the Major. We looked 
 well, were full of go, and did very well for ornamental pur- 
 poses, which was all you wanted in those days. We didn’t 
 do so badly either in the Crimea as long as it lasted ; the 
 worst of it was we were so soon used up. However, they 
 don’t stand those sort of larks now ; do they, Bertie !” 
 
 ‘‘ Well,” replied the young man addressed, ‘‘ I don’t 
 think the authorities would stand some of the things you’ve 
 been recounting.” 
 
 Bertie Slade was nephew to both these gentlemen.* 
 Norman’s brother had married a Miss Braddock, and hence 
 the connection ; and, different as the two men were, was, 
 strange to say, an equal favourite with both of them. No 
 greater contrast than the two brothers-in-law could be con- 
 ceived. The one, open-hearted, full of jest and story, with 
 the art of dining as the main pursuit of his life. The 
 other, a quiet, self-contained, reticent man, whose passion 
 was the Turf, with a dry, caustic wit of his own, who often 
 dribbled out a thing that brought down the laugh of the 
 smoking-room of the club to which he was affiliated. 
 Capable, too, of biting sarcasm, if exasperated, and it was 
 not very difficult to move Norman Slade’s wrath. 
 
 “ Just one more glass of claret,” said the Major, “ or a 
 glass of Madeira if you prefer it, while I relate another 
 reminiscence of those times. As I have said, we all 
 trooped up to London pretty well every day. Well, in 
 those days, there was a very famous supper-house just off 
 the Haymarket, which was much frequented by the 
 soldiers. Indeed, if ever Her Majesty’s officers, to speak 
 metaphorically, ever did rally around the old flag, it was 
 that particular supper-house in ’51. The precious insti- 
 tution has long since disappeared, but, about three in the 
 morning in those days, you were sure to find fellows from 
 Woolwich, men fron) Hounslow, all anxious to pick up 
 
MAJOR BRADDOCK'S DINNER. 1 3 
 
 some one to share a hansom home. Indeed, as far as the 
 Hounslow division, as they called us, went, we formed a 
 perfect procession of hansoms ; constantly ten or a dozen 
 of them proceeding in file past Hyde Park Corner on their 
 way to our quarters. Well, there was constantly con- 
 siderable difference about the fares when we arrived at 
 Hounslow. The cabbies invariably argued that they had 
 waited a good bit for us, and then demanded an excessive 
 tariff for the time at which we employed them. Now, 
 remember the prize ring was by no means dead in Eng- 
 land in those days, and most of us had more or less 
 learnt to use our hands pretty smartly ; a turn up or two 
 with the cabman became at last quite an orthodox finish 
 to an evening, and we seldom came home without a fare 
 or two being referred to the arbitration of battle. No need 
 to tell you that the London cabman is pretty wide awake, 
 and, as our fellows invariably went on the double-or-quits 
 system, the Hounslow lot were soon taken up by some 
 pretty clever bruisers amongst them. Well, it was a bright 
 June morning, about five o’clock, and the cabmen were in 
 great feather ; they had sent down that night a couple of 
 semi-professionals, and two or three of our best men had 
 been handsomely polished off. We’d a big empty barrack 
 room, containing nothing but some empty wine-cases, 
 where these little differences were adjusted. They were 
 glove fights, you must remember, so that our fellows didn’t 
 get so dreadfully marked as you might suppose. It was 
 all over, the successful cabmen had carried away their 
 double fares, and were gone, when the attention of those 
 who were left of us was suddenly called to Jerry Moclerce. 
 I and one or two others recollected seeing him at the 
 beginning of the scrimmage struggling with a small cabman 
 in the corner, but we had all been too absorbed in the 
 fight to take further note of his proceedings. Now he was 
 sitting on a champagne-case mopping his brows with a 
 cambric handkerchief, and exclaiming, in maundering tones, 
 ‘ Oh, dear, what a time I’ve had of it ! Do, for goodness’ 
 sake, get me a hammer and a few nails, some of you fel- 
 lows.’ * What’s the matter, Jerry ? ’ we exclaimed ; 
 ‘ what’s the matter, old maq ? ’ ‘ Oh, dear, what an evening 
 
14 
 
 saddle and sabre. 
 
 I’ve had/ in half-crying tones. ‘What a trouble he has 
 been to me ; for heaven’s sake get me a hammer and nails.* 
 ‘ What do you want — what’s the matter ? ’ we cried. ‘ Oh, 
 don’t,’ he cried, still half- weeping ; ‘ oh, dear, what a time 
 I’ve had. You never saw such a disagreeable little beggar.’ 
 ‘What do you mean, Jerry — what is it?* ‘The little 
 beast,’ he replied, in a broken voice ; ‘ he wouldn’t go into 
 the case, though I told him I wanted to send him to my 
 mother. It’ll please the dear old lady. But I’ve got him in 
 at last, thank goodness ; do help me nail him down at once, 
 the discontented little brute ! I can feel him still wriggling 
 about.* ‘ Do you mean to say,’ we cried, ‘ that you’ve got 
 a man in the case?* ‘Got him in,’ he returned, lugu- 
 briously, ‘ yes, and it has taken me the whole night to get 
 him there. Now do, like good fellows, bring the nails and 
 a direction card.’ But here we thought it was high time to 
 intervene. Jerry, who had retained a high state of maudlin 
 drunkenness, was carried off to bed, earnestly requesting 
 that the case might be sent by the first train in the 
 morning to his mother. Of course, we deuced soon had 
 the top off the case, and high time, for the small cabman 
 inside was quite past making any further efforts on his own 
 account. Indeed, it required the help of a doctor to bring 
 him round, and a handsome solatium on Jerry’s part to 
 hush up the business. Poor Jerry ! A shell at Balaklava, 
 as I daresay some of you know, killed as good a fellow as 
 ever crossed saddle. Now, gentlemen, come along, and 
 we’ll have a cigar and coffee downstairs.” 
 
 “ Well, Bertie, how’s the regiment getting on ? Still in 
 its chronic state of difficulties as regards ways and means 
 as of yore, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Gilbert Slade, laughing; “we still hold 
 a ten-pound note in much veneration, but, fortunately, we 
 are not tried quite so high at Aldershot as they were in 
 the days of your Hounslow campaign. The powers that 
 be don’t stand such incessant running up to town — a 
 restriction which, though unpleasant, keeps us afloat.” 
 
 Gilbert Slade was a subaltern in his uncle’s old corps, 
 and, of course, amongst the seniors were several who had 
 been in the re^ment with him. Besides, the Major never 
 
MAJOR BRADDOCK’S DINNER. 
 
 15 
 
 missed the annual dinner, and, indeed, had much to say 
 to its management. They said at the Albion that Major 
 Braddock was a very fastidious gentleman, but, as the 
 ohef added enthusiastically, “ he is a judge, and it’s quite 
 a pleasure to cook for him.” So that one way and another 
 Major Braddock had never lost touch of his old regiment, 
 and knew something about pretty well every officer in it. 
 
 “ I suppose you'll be moving in the spring,” he said, as 
 he lit a big cigar. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Gilbert; “it’s our turn to move, and, I 
 suppose, in April, we shall go to the Northern district ; 
 but where I don’t exactly know — Manchester, I’m afraid.” 
 
 “ And why afraid ? ” rejoined Major Braddock. “Mer- 
 chant princes, bless you, who know how the thing should 
 be done. If you play your cards properly, you ought to 
 manage to get your legs under the mahogany of all the 
 best houses, and wind up by marrying a hundred thousand 
 pounds. Don’t tell me, sir ! It’s not often a young fellow 
 gets such a chance so early in life. I can only say I regard 
 it as sending the regiment to play by the waters of Pac- 
 tolus, and it’ll be a disgrace to the lot of you if you ever 
 know want afterwards.” 
 
 “All I know is that Manchester is not a popular quarter 
 with the Dragoons generally,” rejoined Gilbert, laughing. 
 “ However, it is by no means settled yet that that is our 
 destination.” 
 
 “ Going on leave ? ” asked the Major, drily. 
 
 “ Yes — am on leave, indeed, now, though I shall pro- 
 bably run back to Aldershot for a night to arrange one or 
 two little matters that I left unsettled when I came away. 
 Then I am going to stay for a little while with some friends 
 in Nottinghamshire, where I am promised a few days wuth 
 the Belvoir.” 
 
 “Ah!” said the Major, “you’ll have to look lively to 
 hold your own with the Duke’s. It’s a rare country,' and 
 if you’ve the luck to throw in for good sport, you will find 
 it will try the best horse in your stable to live with them.” 
 
 And then the conversation became general, reverting to, 
 amongst other things — as it was apt to do in those days — 
 what a friend of mine used to call the great annual pro< 
 
I6 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 blem, namely, what was to win the forthcoming Derby, 
 and about this there was, needless to say, much diversity 
 6f opinion. In these days men trouble their heads very 
 much less concerning the solving of that riddle, and it is 
 hot until the race is near at hand that much interest is 
 manifested about it. 
 
 Gilbert Slade was a shrewd observer, and he noticed 
 that, whereas the Major and the other men had much to 
 say about it, and expressed their opinions freely, pooh- 
 poohing each other’s judgment with much disdain, Norman 
 Slade, who, as Gilbert well knew, had far more knowledge 
 of the subject than all the others put together, smoked 
 silently, and listened to all the talk with a somewhat deri- 
 sive smile on his countenance. At last he was appealed 
 to point blank to give them his views on the subject. 
 
 “Can’t, my good fellow,” replied Norman, drily; “I 
 haven’t got any views about it whatever. I simply say I 
 don’t know. If you consider my advice worth anything, 
 it is merely that it is best let alone for the present.” 
 
 “Well, Norman,” said the Major, laughing, “we cer- 
 tainly can’t be said to have got much out of you.” 
 
 Slade simply shrugged his shoulders in reply, and turned 
 the conversation. Those who knew Norman Slade were 
 quite aware of two things: first, that you might as well try 
 'to extract information from an oyster about any coming 
 turf events as from him ; secondly, on the rare occasions 
 when he did vouchsafe a hint, it was sure to be well worth 
 following. Perhaps Gilbert had been benefited as much 
 as any man from such hints; he was a great favourite with 
 that somewhat sarcastic uncle of his, and he had the good 
 sense never to trouble him with questions about these 
 matters. Gilbert Slade had a very shrewd head on his 
 shoulders. He was a popular man in his regiment, but 
 there was a touch of his Uncle Norman’s reticence about 
 his character. He most assuredly did not wear his heart 
 upon his sleeve, nor did he unbosom himself quite so 
 readily to his chums as many men of his age do. So far, 
 his life at present could not be said to have been eventful ; 
 he had knocked about with his regiment from one garrison- 
 town to another for the last four years, had always plen^ 
 
MAJOR BRADDOCK^S DINNER. 17 
 
 of houses open to him in the leave-season, and enjoyed a 
 run in London as much as most men. 
 
 “ Curious,” muttered Gilbert, as he strolled homewards, 
 ‘‘ the difference between these two uncles of mine. As far 
 as giving me a dinner goes, or writing me a moderate 
 cheque if I got into difficulties. I’ve no doubt the Major 
 would stand to me like a man ; but in a serious scrape I 
 fancy Uncle Norman would be worth a dozen of him. 
 Every one who knows him seems to think he might have 
 done anything if he had taken the trouble to try, while as 
 for the Major, my impression is that it is well for him his 
 father left him very comfortably off. P'rom all accounts 
 he was a rattling good fellow, but a precious bad officer in 
 the days of his soldiering. Ah ! well, fortunately I need 
 trouble neither of them for assistance.” And then Gilbert 
 began lazily to reflect on his coming visit to Nottingham- 
 shire, and speculate upon how much fun he could get out 
 of the couple of hunters that he was taking down with 
 him. When he got back to Limmer’s he strolled into the 
 coffee-room. It was tolerably late by this time, for the 
 smoking-conclave at the Thermopolium had been of some 
 duration, and it had been late when they had sat down to 
 dinner. 
 
 There were some half-dozen young fellows in the coffee- 
 room, solacing themselves as ‘‘ young gentlemen laden with 
 care ” are wont to do, according to the famous lyric. 
 
 “Thought I was in for a real row to-night, coming out 
 of Bob Croft’s,’' said one. “ They were a queer lot who 
 rushed two fellows in front of me; but, by Jove! they 
 caught a brace of Tartars. I never saw men hit out 
 straighter or cleaner ; and as for the leader of the gang, 
 he went down at once from a left-hander I should have 
 been sorry to have caught, and his pals got thoroughly 
 sick of the job in less than two minutes.” 
 
 “ What the deuce are you boring us with the account 
 of a night-house row for ? We’ve all seen it, and shall, 
 doubtless, see it again before we’ve done. Bertie Slade, 
 by Jove 1 What are you doing here ?” 
 
 “ Well, just now,” said Gilbert, as he raised his hat, 
 
i8 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 smiling, ** I was listening to your friend’s account of the 
 row which he witnessed in the Haymarket.” 
 
 “ Oh ! there’s nothing much in it, I dare say,” replied 
 the narrator, somewhat sulkily. “ But Barton interfered, 
 as he invariably does, just before I came to the point of 
 the story. I never heard such a fearful malediction as 
 that man hurled after the fellow who had struck him down 
 when he picked himself up. I can’t get the pale, blood- 
 stained face out of my head. He evidently knew him, for 
 he cursed him by name, and swore never to forget nor 
 forgive him ; vowed that his turn would come, and that 
 then Ralph Furzedon might look to himself. Never heard 
 the name before, and don’t suppose any of you did.” 
 
 The company shook their heads in ignorance, and Gil- 
 bert, who, at all events, considered care sufficiently dissi- 
 pated for that evening, nodded “ good-night.” 
 
 III. — Thrown Out. 
 
 M r. furzedon was a gentleman wise far beyond 
 his years. What his antecedents were previous to 
 his arrival at the University was a fact concerning which 
 no one knew anything. He never alluded in the faintest 
 way to his family. He seemed plentifully supplied with 
 money, had avowedly not the slightest intention of taking 
 a degree, and conformed to the rules of his college just 
 sufficiently to prevent coming into serious collision with 
 the authorities. He spent his money freely, but invariably 
 with an object in view. However off-hand his invitations 
 might seem, they were not so in reality; and never was a 
 young man less given to spontaneous outbursts of that 
 description. He was by no means proud of his progenitor, 
 though he admitted the old gentleman had behaved exces- 
 sively well in quitting this world when he, Ralph, was 
 about sixteen years old, and leaving him very comfortably 
 off. He had come up to the University with the object 
 solely of forming a circle of acquaintance. The men he 
 
THROWN OUT. 
 
 *9 
 
 was civil to were all such as he thought would prove useful 
 to him in life. His father had acquired his riches by tho 
 simple process of money-lending, but Ralph Furzedon had 
 no idea of continuing that business, profitable though it 
 was. His ambition was to take a good social position, 
 and college was to him a mere stepping-stone to that end. 
 He was fairly popular, he went in for most of the games 
 and diversions so much esteemed by the undergraduates, 
 and, if he did not distinguish himself in any particular 
 pursuit, still he was passably good at many things ; not, 
 perhaps, a very amiable character, if you knew him tho- 
 roughly, but he was much too clever to let the spots on 
 the sun be seen. Young men are not usually suspicious, 
 and very few of his companions had the slightest idea of 
 the ingrained selfishness of the man’s nature. It never 
 occurred to them that the first view that anything pre- 
 sented to his mind was how it would affect him, Ralph 
 Furzedon. 
 
 Charlie Devereux was a very popular man, and it suited 
 Mr. Furzedon to become intimate with him on that ac- 
 count ; then, again, young Devereux was an undoubtedly 
 fine horseman. Mr. Furzedon, in his far-sighted sagacity, 
 opined that in a few years Charlie might have blossomed 
 into a crack gentleman rider. Furzedon was very fond of 
 a small racing speculation, when, to use his own language, 
 he saw his way, and he thought that his friend might turn 
 out useful to him in this latter capacity later on. Furzedon 
 had come up to the University late ; he had begun life for 
 himself at the age of eighteen, and it was only after knocking 
 about London for a couple of years that he realized how 
 very difficult it was for a young fellow to form eligible 
 acquaintances. Friends, as they would term themselves, 
 were easy enough to make by a young gentleman with a 
 liberal command of money, but, shrewd beyond his years, 
 Ralph Furzedon was not to be imposed upon by these 
 Brummagem imitations. He aspired to mix with gentle- 
 men, and he knew that the very best of the acquaintance 
 he had made had only a doubtful status in that way. For 
 instance, he saw no possibility of getting into a decent 
 dub, and that was a point that troubled him much. It 
 
20 
 
 iniDDLB AND SABRE. 
 
 showed something for the determinati^^o of the man’s 
 character that, when he thoroughly awoke to this state 
 of things, he made up his mind to submit to the repaints 
 of the University solely to attain the end he had m view. 
 Mr. Furzedon did not intend to honour the University 
 much longer, but so far was very well satisfied at the 
 results of his experiment. 
 
 Furzedon and Charlie Devereux duly carried out their 
 programme, and arrived at North Leach. Once settled in 
 their quarters and they lost no time in commencing the 
 serious business of life. That is to say, hunting at every 
 available opportunity. Charlie had come down rather late 
 for breakfast one morning. He was a terrible sinner in 
 that respect, and generally “ stumped up ” a cover hack in 
 the course of the season. 
 
 “We can’t wait for you, Charlie,” said Lettice. “ Re- 
 member we’re riding our hunters, whilst you no doubt 
 have sent on, and intend riding that luckless slave of 
 yours.” 
 
 “ All right,” rejoined Charlie, “you and Furzedon had 
 better jog on. I shall overtake you before you get to 
 Harrow Wood, I daresay.” 
 
 Charlie, perhaps, lingered rather longer over his break- 
 fast than he dreamt of; but certain it is when he turned 
 oif through a line of gates that led down to the wood he 
 had seen nothing of Furzedon or his sister on his way. 
 He looked at his watch, and saw that he was late ; still he 
 fancied that the hounds had not yet left the cover. He 
 galloped rapidly on, and as he came to the next field, 
 caught sight of a lady in difficulties at the gate on the far 
 side. It had swung to, and her horse was too fidgety to 
 allow her to open it. Again and again did she get it a 
 little way open, and then her hunter, in his impatience to 
 '^et on, twitched it out of her hand. 
 
 “ Pray allow me to do that for you,” exclaimed Charlie, 
 is he raised his hat. 
 
 “ Oh! thank you so much,” rejoined the fair horsewoman, 
 “ Dandy is always troublesome at gates, but this morning 
 le is behaving shamefully. You see he knows we are latOi 
 an4 is so dreadfully anicious to get on,” 
 
THROWN OUT. 
 
 2t 
 
 By this time Charlie had got the gate open, and held it 
 while his new acquaintance made her way through. 
 
 “ *Twas so late,” she said, gaily, as they cantered across 
 the next field together,” “ that my husband declined to 
 wait any longer for me. Husbands are capable of such 
 things at times, and I daresay you will give the verdict 
 against me on an occasion of this sort. JBut surely,” she 
 exclaimed, “ we are not riding for the next gate.” 
 
 “ No,” answered Charlie. “ But I know every yard of 
 this country by heart. If we slip through the gap at the 
 top here, it is nothing of a jump, we shall find a similar 
 place in the next fence, which will take us down to the top 
 end of the cover. It’s a great cut, and if I know anything 
 about it, we haven’t a minute to spare. Listen I ” he 
 exclaimed, as the full-throated chorus rang musically on 
 their ears. “ Those hounds will be away almost immedi- 
 ately, if they are not already.” And Charlie pressed his 
 hack to a gallop, and led the way at a pretty sharp pace 
 in the direction he indicated. 
 
 As they cleared the fence there was a crash of canine 
 tongues that was a revelation to a fox-hunter. 
 
 “ They are away, by Jove ! ” cried Charlie, ‘‘ and on the 
 far side the cover, I am afraid. I will do my best for you, 
 but they will take a deal of catching. As for me, I am 
 clean out of it, unless by miraculous luck I happen to pick 
 up my hunter at the cover-side. I’ve rather taken it out 
 of my hack already, and, though good of his kind, he is 
 hardly equal to catching hounds that have slipped you.” 
 “Too true,” exclaimed the lady, as they jumped into the 
 field adjoining the cover; “they’re gone, and apparently 
 everybody else.” 
 
 Charlie made no reply, but sat down and bustled his 
 hack round the top of the cover, his fair companion keep- 
 ing close at his heels ; but when he got to the other side, 
 and found nothing but a small group composed of a couple 
 of gamekeepers in velveteens and half-a-dozen labourers, 
 he realised that his prediction was only too fatally fulfilled. 
 There was no sign of his hunter, and, worse still, no like- 
 lihood of his reaching the hounds. These, indeed, were 
 already out of sight, and their vicinity only to be judged 
 
^2 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 by sundry red and black coats that bobbed over the fences 
 from time to time. With difficulty Charlie suppressed a 
 malediction on his own indolence, and then, glancing at 
 his companion, wondered what view she would take of it. 
 
 “ Ah! ’* she said, half laughing, half pouting, we are 
 fellows in affliction. It is aggravating to have lost a good 
 gallop, and still more aggravating to know that we have 
 only ourselves to blame for it. Yes,” she continued, as 
 laughter triumphed over petulance in her mood, “ we are 
 both victims of our own Sybaritism. We couldn’t tear 
 ourselves from our pillows this autumn morning, nor 
 restrain our appetites at the breakfast-table. What are 
 we to do ? ” 
 
 Charlie made no reply for some few minutes. “ Lost a 
 run,” he thought, ‘‘missed my hunter, and have got a strange 
 demoiselle thrown on my hands, whom I have no idea 
 what to do with.” 
 
 “Catching them,” he answered, at last, “|s out of the 
 question. I can only suggest we follow leisurely on, and 
 trust to the chapter of accidents to fall in with them 
 towards the afternoon.” 
 
 Very good,” replied the lady; “ and if you will kindly 
 accept the charge, I will place myself in your hands.” 
 
 They jogged along for some little time in silence, and 
 were now plodding along a road which, as Charlie informed 
 his companion, would bring them to Nareham Gorse, a 
 cover which, he continued to explain, it was very probable 
 that the fox would make for. But on arriving at that 
 favourite refuge of foxes they found no signs of the hunt ; 
 in short, they had now utterly lost the hounds, and were 
 like people adrift in the desert, as far as having any recog- 
 nised point to aim for. All inquiries proved hopeless ; 
 none of the farmers or labourers whom Charlie questioned 
 had seen “aught of the hounds” that day. As for the 
 lady, she bore her disappointment with great equanimity, 
 and even laughed at the fiasco. 
 
 “ I don’t know whether you keen^^hunting diary,” she 
 said, at length. “I do ; but f^^n^t think I shall make 
 any entries concerning this day.” 
 
 Weil, I don’t,” replied Charlie ; “ if I did I should 
 
THROWN OUT. 
 
 23 
 
 simply write in, ‘Was an indolent idiot. IVe no doubt it 
 has been the run of the season, so far. What a fool I 
 shall feel when they are all talking it over at dinner this 
 evening.” 
 
 “You won’t deem me too curious,” said his fair com- 
 panion, “ if I ask the name of my fellow-sufferer ? ” 
 
 “ I am Charles Devereux,” he replied, “ and live at 
 North Leach, where we have been settled time out of 
 mind.” 
 
 “Devereux,” she replied. “You are a brother, no 
 doubt of that handsome Miss Devereux who rides so well ; 
 we are neighbours ; my husband. Major Kynaston, has 
 taken The Firs, which no doubt you know, for the season.” 
 “ Yes,” replied Charlie, “ I know the place very well. 
 It is about ten miles from us. I hope you like it. The 
 owner never lives in it, but it is nearly always let for the 
 hunting season, though people don’t so much care about it 
 in the summer time. The fact is, it is a widely-scattered 
 neighbourhood, and though we natives don’t mind the long 
 distances between our houses, yet strangers are apt to 
 think them impossible.” 
 
 “ They certainly strike me in that wise,” replied Mrs. 
 Kynaston, laughing, “ though I suppose, after all, it doesn’t 
 matter if you have plenty of horses. But if I mistake not, 
 I turn off here, and so shall no longer be a trouble to you.” 
 “ Yes, you are close to home, which I only wish I was. 
 My horse will have had enough of it before I get him 
 back.” 
 
 “ Good bye,” replied Mrs. Kynaston, as she extended 
 her hand ; “I trust the next time we meet, it will not be 
 to pass such an unprofitable day.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston laughed as she trotted homewards. “ It 
 is a blow, a sad blow, my dear,” she muttered to herself ; 
 “ your good-looking cavalier was blind, both to your charms 
 and his opportunities. There are plenty of men I wot of who 
 would have thought a day well spent at Kate Kynaston’s 
 bridle-rein. This fox-hunting is a very brutalising amuse- 
 ment. I don’t believe Mr. Devereux knows what I’m like this 
 minute. He was chafing all the way at having lost his 
 beloved sport. As a gentleman, he couldn’t refuse to take 
 
24 
 
 SADBLB AND SABRfi. 
 
 care of an errant waif like myself ; but I really believe U 
 he had come across the hounds I should have been left to 
 follow him as I best might. It is fortunate I had nothing 
 to do with his mishap, or I veritably believe he would never 
 have spoken to me again.*’ 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston had read young Devereux pretty accur- 
 ately. Charlie was bitterly disappointed at his misadven- 
 ture. That young gentleman, although by no means 
 insensible to his fair companion’s charms, was an enthusiast 
 about hunting. As before said, he rode well, and at twenty- 
 one it was excusable that he should be a little conceited 
 about it ; no woman’s smile at present could compare in 
 his eyes with having had all the best of a real good fifty 
 minutes, and nbw, after having missed all his fun, here he 
 was with a good many weary miles to jog home on a tired 
 horse, and haunted with the idea that there had been a 
 real good run. And he had good grounds for so thinking. 
 He knew that they had found and slipped away, certainly 
 at a rare pace to start with, as he knew from the glimpses 
 he had got of what might be termed the tail of the field. 
 The hounds and the leading division he had never caught 
 sight of. Then he wondered how Furzedon had got on. 
 Then came speculation as to what luck had attended his 
 chief rivals. Had they been lucky in getting away ? 
 Whom had fortune favoured ? And who could lay claim to 
 the proud distinction of having been in front throughout ? 
 Then he began to think once more of his late companion. 
 
 Yes,” he reflected critically, “ she is a pretty woman, and 
 sits her horse very nicely. She was got up, too, most cor- 
 rectly. I wonder whether she is much of a horsewoman, 
 and what sort of a fellow Major Kynaston is. Keen, I 
 should say, or he wouldn’t have left his wife to follow on 
 by herself. I don’t suppose my people know them yet, or 
 I should have heard Phyllis speak of them. Hold up, old 
 man ” he exclaimed, as his hack made an awkward stumble, 
 “ we’ve only another four miles to do now, and you shall 
 take your own time to do it, only don’t go to sleep over it.” 
 The hack seemed to understand what his master said to 
 him, for he pricked up his ears and proceeded of his own 
 5LCCord to jog on. It was probable that he awoke to the 
 
THROWN OUT. 
 
 2 $ 
 
 fact that he was pretty close to his own stable, and de^ 
 termined that the sooner he got his day’s work over the 
 better. Charlie, as he anticipated, found himself the first 
 home, as he had been the last to start. That he should vent 
 his ill-humour on the luckless groom, who had charge of the 
 missing hunter, was only natural. The poor fellow had 
 done his best, but his master not turning up he had had to 
 act on his own inspiration, and had unfortunately waited at 
 the wrong end of the cover. He had then followed at a 
 respectful distance, with three or four second horsemen 
 who had fallen into the same mistake. This much ouly 
 could he tell — that the hounds had run straight away from 
 him, and this by no means assuaged the wrath of his angry 
 master, who, having informed him that he was a perfect 
 idiot, strode into the house. As the groom remarked to 
 his fellows, with considerable justice, “ It wasn’t my fault. 
 How am I to know which end of a wood a fox will break ? 
 If Mr. Charles had only been in time, we should have 
 changed horses all right, and then he could have judged for 
 hisself.” 
 
 Mr. Charles Devereux that night at dinner found that 
 his instinct had not deceived him. He had to face a fire 
 of merciless chaff about his coffee-house proclivities. He 
 learnt that they had had a capital run with their first fox, 
 who, after an hour and forty minutes, with only one check, 
 had fairly beaten them ; how that they had a capital second 
 gallop in the afternoon after a fox which was brought satis- 
 factorily to hand ; and then, after the manner of sportsmen 
 over their wine, they spared never a point nor details of the 
 day’s doings. They quoted every village and cover they had 
 been near ; from Winnington Scrubs to Bubbleton Brook, 
 not a point was spared him , till even Furzedon, who had 
 gone satisfactorily to himself through the whole business, 
 rather winced under this little geographical victory. Es- 
 pecially cruel to the outsiders are fox-hunters when they 
 get to full cry over the wine cup, and recount their won- 
 drous accounts over Dabchick Pastures, or some similar 
 locality in which nobody but a fox-hunter or a parish 
 doctor ever found themselves ; and then came a sharp 
 cross-examination of bow Charlie himself bad spent his 
 
26 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 day, but his answers were so curt and sulky, and his ill- 
 humour concerning his mishap so very palpable, that they 
 very soon gave over teasing him. One thing was curious 
 — ^that the name of Mrs. Kynaston never passed his lips, 
 whether it was accident, or whether he thought the ad- 
 misssion would lead to further banter on the part of his 
 sister and Furzedop, I can’t say ; there merely remains the 
 fact that it was so. 
 
 IV — Lincoln Spring.’ 
 
 L incoln Races l l he budding of the Turf campaign, 
 the first burst of spring for that mysterious world 
 which regulates its winter by the Racing Calendar without 
 respect to weather or almanac ; a meeting sometimes post- 
 poned from frost and snow, but run off as a rule in bitter 
 weather, and yet which attracts to it all the sport-loving 
 denizens of the adjoining counties, to say nothing of that 
 great body to whom racing is a business, and who have 
 oeen growling over the inaction of the last two or three 
 months. There is money to be made at Lincoln, no doubt, 
 though it more often falls to the bookmaker to gather it 
 than to the sanguine backer who so boldly invests his 
 i:apital on some probably half-trained horse, of whose 
 present form the stable have but a misty idea. But, be- 
 sides these, there were the great hunting contingents 
 from Yorkshire, from Nottinghamshire, and Leicestershire. 
 Hard riders from the Quorn, the Pytchley, and the Bedale, 
 from the Fitzwilliam, from the Brocklesby, and the Bel- 
 voir — all interested in the Open Steeplechase, the Hunt, 
 and the Gone Awa}^ Plate, to any of which it is probable 
 that some of these, or, for the matter of that, half-a-dozen 
 Other well-known packs, sent a competitor. 
 
 On a drag, opposite the Grand Stand, were congregated 
 most of the people mentioned in the previous chapter. 
 North^ Leach had come down in a strong party to the races. 
 Old Tom Devereux and all his family were there, and with 
 
** LINCOLN SPRING. 
 
 ^7 
 
 them were the Kynastons, for by this time a considerable 
 intimacy had sprung up between the two houses; and then 
 had not both the Devereux and Major Kynaston both got a 
 horse running ? The old man was as keen as possible to 
 see his son ride the winner both of the Hunt Steeplechase 
 and the Gone Away Plate. In the former the Devereux 
 had entered their four-year-old, of which Miss Lettice had 
 thought so highly at the beginning of the hunting season, 
 while the Major had picked up something a little before 
 Christmas, that he had ascertained was pretty fast, and 
 had hunted it just sufficiently to qualify. The North 
 Leach people, indeed, knew very little about the Major’s 
 mysterious purchase. Seen him, of course, they had; but, 
 whether Mrs. Kynaston was on his back, or the Major, he 
 was never seen prominently, if there was anything like a 
 run. The lady, although she rode nicely, was by no means 
 given to hard riding. She enjoyed the sport in her own 
 way, and by no means aspired to eclipsing other habits 
 that might be out by witching horsemanship. Charlie 
 Devereux was by this time amongst Mrs. Kynaston’s 
 devoted admirers, and she had not a few. One special 
 trait that recommended her much in that young gentle 
 man’s eyes was that she did not want a “ lead,” or expect 
 to be taken care of after the find, and always bade him not 
 waste his chance of a good start by dallying too long at 
 her side. About the Major nobody in that country knew 
 much, although there were plenty of people in the London 
 world that could have told a good deal concerning him. 
 
 Lounging on the lawn, his hands buried in the pockets 
 of his ulster, was Gilbert Slade; he had come across with 
 some friends from the country house in which he was stay- 
 ing to see the first big handicap of the season run, and at 
 this moment one of his friends came up and suggested that 
 they should go up to the top of the stand and see the race. 
 Gilbert readily assented. 
 
 ‘‘ It’s a grind to get there,’' he said, but there’s nowhere 
 that you can "see the race so well from;” and the two 
 accordingly toiled up the narrow little stone staircase that 
 led to the roof, which they found already thickly peopled. 
 
 “ How are you, Jocelyn ? ” said a tall, good-looking fel- 
 
2 $ 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 low, standing a pace or two in advance of them. “ Bitter 
 cold weather, isn’t it ? Have you got a wager on this 
 affair ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ No,” replied the other, “ it isn’t often I indulge in that 
 wise.” 
 
 “Nor I,” was the reply; “if I ever did, I should have 
 been tempted this time ; the joint owners of the Siren are 
 wonderfully confident, and have insisted on all our leading 
 people about here backing their jacket.” 
 
 “ It is too late now,” said Gilbert, “ or else I would have 
 had a trifle on that tip.” 
 
 The horses were already mustering under the starter’s 
 hand. Two or three false starts, and then they got off, on 
 moderately level terms. 
 
 “ Well, the owners of the Siren should be satisfied,” 
 exclaimed the tall young fellow who had before addressed 
 them. “ The only thing they were afraid of was their 
 mare getting a bad start, but she’s got off right in front.” 
 
 For once the owners of the hot favourite had proved 
 right in their calculations concerning a big handicap ; 
 before they had gone a quarter of a mile, the Siren had 
 got a clean lead of her field, and from that out, she never 
 caused her backers one moment’s uneasiness. She went 
 on improving her lead, was never even approached, and 
 finally ran home an easy winner by half-a-dozen lengths. 
 
 “ Well,” said Gilbert, “ I never saw such a procession 
 as that in my life in a big race ; and now it is over, I vote we 
 forage for food. A north-east wind makes me confound- 
 edly hungry.” 
 
 “ Ah ! I’m afraid you’ll have to rough it rather in that 
 respect. There is not that magnificent choice of luncheon 
 that generally presents itself at Ascot.” 
 
 They made their way slowly down the crowded stair- 
 case, and went into the luncheon-room, but it was thronged ; 
 and there was apparently small chance of obtaining even 
 standing room at one of the tables. 
 
 “Ah ! ” said Jocelyn, laughing, “ you will have to con- 
 trol your unholy appetite for some time longer. When we 
 do get an opening, it will be useless ; these locusts will 
 have de^'^’Qured everything,” 
 
"LINCOLN SPRING. 
 
 29 
 
 “ Let’s come away,” rejoined Gilbert with a smile. ‘‘ It’s 
 too much for a man in my state to watch his fellow-crea- 
 tures feed.” And the two young men pushed their way 
 down stairs with the determination of assuaging their 
 hunger with tobacco. 
 
 They had barely reached the centre of the lawn, when a 
 portly, clean-shaven gentleman, with rosy cheeks and a 
 good-humoured smile on his face, suddenly exclaimed, 
 “ Good-day, Mr. Jocelyn, I hope you like the chestnut ? ” 
 “ Best horse I’ve got in my stable, Devereux. I only 
 wish I could afford to come to you for another. You 
 never miss Lincoln Spring, do you ? ” 
 
 “No, nor the Autumn either: but we are come down a 
 large party this time. We’re going to have a shy at a 
 couple of the local races. There’s a coach load of us all 
 come to see Charlie win, we hope. By the way, gentlemen, 
 will you have a glass of champagne ? or mebbe you’ve had 
 no lunch ; I know by old experience that it’s pretty rough- 
 and-tumble work getting anything to eat in there.” 
 
 “ Well, we couldn’t, Devereux, and that’s all about it.” 
 replied Jocelyn laughing; “if you can get us anything, 
 you’d be doing a real charity.” 
 
 “ Come along,” said the old gentleman, with a jolly 
 laugh. “ The missus, when she has an outing, likes to do 
 it comfortable, and you may depend upon it, when she gets 
 on the coach it’s well victualled.” 
 
 “ Manna in the wilderness, by Jove,” whispered Gilbert 
 as they followed the old gentleman across to his drag, 
 where the debris of luncheon still lingered. 
 
 The two gentlemen were quickly introduced to the 
 ladies, and hospitable Mrs. Devereux insisted upon their 
 coming up on the drag, and having their luncheon “ quite 
 comfortable.” 
 
 “ I think we have met before, Mr. Slade,” said Mrs. 
 Kynaston, with a bright smile. 
 
 “ Of course,” replied Gilbert, “ I remember you at Lady 
 Ramsbury’s garden party.” 
 
 “Ah, Mr. Slade,” said the lady, laughing, “ Fll give you 
 one bit of advice. There is nothing so dangerous as remem- 
 bering too much. It couldn’t have been at Lady Rams- 
 
30 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 bury’s, because I don’t know her, but I came down to one 
 of the big Aldershot field days last summer, and you 
 lunched us all in your mess-room before we returned to 
 town. The care Mr. Slade took of me on that occasion made 
 a deeper impression on me than my charms did upon him.” 
 “ To be sure ; very stupid of me,” rejoined Gilbert, 
 coolly, ‘‘that’s the worst of a London season: one does 
 get places muddled up so.” 
 
 “ Ah, you’ll remember me another time. I’m about to 
 embalm myself in your memory. Let me give you some 
 of this pigeon pie, and next time we meet you’ll murmur^ 
 to yourself, ‘ Ah, she fed me when I was hungry.’” 
 
 “Thank you,” rejoined Gilbert, laughing, “and if you 
 could only guess how hungry I am, Mrs. Devereux. I am 
 perfectly ashamed of my appetite.” 
 
 “Can’t pay me a better compliment,” rejoined that lady. 
 “ I know, then, my cook has done her duty.” 
 
 Neither Jocelyn nor Gilbert Slade were in any hurry to 
 quit their new quarters. They could see there just as well 
 as from the Grand Stand ; while, as for the ladies, swathed 
 in furs and rugs, there was no temptation for them to leave 
 their seats. Old Tom Devereux was backwards and for- 
 wards between the drag and the betting lawn continuously. 
 He had a large and numerous acquaintance, and was con- 
 sequently shaking hands and exchanging jokes with old 
 friends. Suddenly Gilbert’s attention was diverted from 
 the lively conversation he was holding with Mrs. Kynaston 
 by an exclamation from Miss Devereux. 
 
 “ Good gracious ! Mr. Furzedon,” she cried ; “ I never 
 dreamt of seeing you here.” 
 
 “ Ah ! I was bound to come down,” he replied, “ to see 
 how the horse that carried you so well last winter acquits 
 himself in the Hunt Steeplechase; and, from the hint I 
 got in town a day or two ago, I thought I might find it 
 profitable to get here in time for the big handicap.” 
 
 “ And I hope it has proved so,” said Miss Devereux. 
 
 “ Yes, thank you,” he replied ; “ I had a very good race. 
 No, nothing, thank you, Mrs. Devereux ; I did all that at 
 the Great Northern, before I came up to the course.” 
 “Furzedon,” thought Gilbert, “where was it I bearcj 
 
"LINCOLN SPRING.'* 
 
 31 
 
 that name only the other day ? Ah ! '* he muttered to him- 
 self, “ in Limmer’s Coffee Room. That’s the man they 
 mentioned as having felled an unhappy wretch in the Hay- 
 market, who hurled after him a malediction so terrible as 
 to have attracted the attention of those fellows who saw it, 
 and they were a festive lot, to whom a row in those parts 
 was no novelty ; ” and then Gilbert dismissed the matter 
 from his mind, and turned once more to his fair companion. 
 
 And now the numbers went up for the Gone Away Plate, 
 and there was great excitement on the top of the drag to 
 see Charlie’s performance. Both Mrs. Kynaston and 
 Lettice had a small venture in the success of Charlie’s 
 mount, which they regarded as already won. Could they 
 have overheard a conversation between the Major and a 
 seedy, sinister individual at the back of the betting-ring, 
 they would not have felt quite so sanguine about the 
 result. 
 
 “ Ah, Major,” said the latter, I knows your horse well. 
 Knew him before you had him, and you’re quite right : 
 he’s just the sort to pick up these hunters’ stakes oa the 
 flat ; but, I warn you, you haven’t got it all your own way 
 this time. There’s another party trying just the same 
 game. I’ve no idea which of you has got the best of it ; 
 but remember there’s another horse in the race which is no 
 more a hunter than yours is.’^ 
 
 “ You’re sure of what you say, Prance ? ” 
 
 “ Quite,” rejoined the other. 
 
 “ Confound it. I’ve got a good bit of money on this.” 
 
 “ Well, you tell your jockey to keep his eye on The 
 Decoy. And now. Major, times are hard, and I give you 
 my word that information is worth a sovereign to you.” 
 The Major paused for a second, and then unbuttoned his 
 overcoat, took the coin from his waistcoat pocket, and 
 handed it to his companion. 
 
 “ Thank you, sir,” replied the tout, for such he was, 
 “ I’ve always run straight with you. Major, and I’m quite 
 sure of what I tell you. Yours and The Decoy will run 
 first and second, and it’ll be a race between ’em. I hope, 
 for your sake, sir, yours is good enough to win.” And 
 thereupon Mr. Prance vanished with the utmost celerity, 
 
32 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 and immediately invested the sovereign he had just received 
 with a ready money bookmaker on Decoy 
 
 Great was the excitement on the top of the drag as the 
 competitors for the Gone Away Plate, after galloping 
 three-quarters of the distance, turned into the straight, and 
 the Major’s black jacket was seen in the clear lead, and a 
 cry arose from the Stand of “ Rob Roy wins ! ” “ Rob 
 Roy in a canter ! ” but Mr. Prance had been only too cor- 
 rect in his diagnosis of the race. 
 
 As he came away from his field Charlie looked anxiously 
 right and left for The Decoy, as the Major at the last 
 moment had told him that that was the one quarter from 
 which he might apprehend danger. But the gentleman on 
 The Decoy was no neophyte ; he had ridden many more 
 races, was a far more cunning placer than Charlie, and 
 was quite as well aware ^as young Devereux that he had 
 nothing but Rob Roy to beat. Trusting to Charlie’s inex- 
 perience, the minute he came away he followed directly in 
 his track, the former casting anxious glances right and left 
 could see nothing of his dangerous adversary, but some- 
 what astonished at the non-appearance of The Decoy, 
 Charlie raced steadily home. Suddenly just before reach- 
 ing the Stand, like a flash he saw the white jacket and 
 crimson belt of Mr. Sexton’s mare at his girths. It flurried 
 him a little, no doubt, as the being caught close to home 
 does most men in their first public race, still he kept his 
 head marvellously well, and it wasn’t till he saw that his 
 opponent had fairly collared him opposite the Stand that 
 he sat down and began riding in earnest. But it was of 
 no use, his crafty opponent had already got a neck the best 
 of him, and, to say nothing of being on perhaps the best 
 horse, was certainly the more experienced ‘‘ finisher ” of 
 the pair. He, too, began to ride his horse in resolute 
 fashion, and not only held the advantage he had gained, 
 but improved it to a good half length before he passed the 
 winning-post. 
 
 There was wailing, half earnest and half laughing, on 
 the top of the drag at the defeat of their champion. There 
 were bitter maledictions on the part of the Major as to 
 what he was pleased to term Mr. Sexton’s unscrupulous 
 
“ LINCOLN SPRING." 33 
 
 conduct, totally ignoring that Mr. Sexton had only suc- 
 ceeded and that he had failed ; that otherwise their proceed- 
 ings had been precisely similar, and there was considerable 
 hilarity on the part of Mr. Prance, who had succeeded in 
 adding three sovereigns to his store. 
 
 “ Very bad, Miss Devereux,” said Slade, “but we can 
 only say that your brother, though defeated, was not dis- 
 graced. No man could have made a better struggle for it, 
 and we can only say that it was his ill-luck to encounter 
 an enemy a little too good for him.” 
 
 I doubt whether Gilbert’s uncle Norman would have 
 given quite so merciful a verdict. I think he would have 
 said, “ He rides very nicely for a young one, but the old 
 practitioner did him at the finish. If he had made the 
 most, of the commanding position he held when he got into 
 the straight I should rather doubt The Decoy ever having 
 caught him.” 
 
 “ Good-bye, Mrs. Devereux,” said Slade. “ Of course, 
 we shall see you all here to-morrow, and then I trust your 
 own jacket will be hailed the winner. In the meantime, 
 Miss Devereux, let me thank you for your kindness to a 
 couple of famishing wayfarers. And now here come your 
 horses, and we must say good-bye.” 
 
 “ Good-bye,” returned the hospitable old lady. “ Good- 
 bye, Mr. Jocelyn. Remember, I shall expect you both to 
 luncheon to-morrow.” 
 
 And with a cordial adieu all round the two young men 
 took their departure. 
 
 “ Deuced good find that,” said Gilbert, as he and Jocelyn 
 walked back to Lincoln. “ Very pleasant people, and they 
 have entertained us royally. What are they exactly ?” 
 
 “ People who have farmed in the Wolds for centuries^ 
 and on a large scale. The old man is held in the highest 
 respect, and almost treated as a squire by the scattered 
 gentlemen around him. As for Mrs. Kynaston, you appar- 
 ently know more about her than I do. I hope they’ll pull 
 off the Hunt Steeplechase to-morrow, for they were evi- 
 dently sadly disappointed about being beaten to-day.” 
 
34 
 
 SADDLE AND SABREL 
 
 V. — The Hunt Steeplechase. 
 
 HE next day was a great improvement on its predeces- 
 
 sor : the wind was still keen, but there was very little 
 
 of it, and a bright sun not only threw out considerable 
 heat, but also had an enlivening effect on people’s spirits. 
 Mr. Prance, in high feather at his yesterday’s success over 
 the Gone Away Plate, was, for a gentleman of his satur- 
 nine temperament, quite genial, and was laughing and jest- 
 ing with two or three of his mates — race-course hangers-on 
 — who, like himself, picked up a precarious living in a by 
 no means straitlaced fashion. Suddenly the man’s manner 
 was utterly transformed ; he started as if he had been 
 stung ; and had any of those who had witnessed fracas 
 in the Haymarket been present to see, they would have 
 noticed the same look of implacable resentment which had 
 so arrested their attention on that evening. The cause 
 was not far to seek, for they had just passed Mr. Furzedon 
 strolling leisurely up the course with a friend. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” muttered Mr. Prance to himself, “ let me ever 
 have the chance, and if I don’t give you quittance in full, 
 Mr. Furzedon, for all I owe you, may my hand and tongue 
 be numb for ever in this world ! ” 
 
 Mr Furzedon, quite unconscious of the very question- 
 able blessing invoked on his head, passed on. It is doubt- 
 ful whether he would have been much perturbed at Mr. 
 Prance’s thirst for vengeance had he been aware of it* He 
 had been far too conscious of his superior physical strength, 
 to say nothing of his infinitely superior position, to feel 
 any anxiety about any harm such a man as Prance could 
 work him. That the cause of quarrel between the two lay 
 deeper than the blow he had struck him that night outside 
 the supper rooms had been transparent even to the casual 
 ^'spectators, but what that was must at present remain a 
 matter between themselves. One of the first persons the 
 tout came across when he had made his way into the 
 enclosure was Major Kynaston, who was carefully studying 
 his race card. 
 
 Well, sir,** he said, “ what I told you yesterday was 
 
^ THE HUNT STEEPLECHASa 35 
 
 right enough ; and it was a very close fit between yours 
 and The Decoy.** 
 
 “ Yes, you were right enough, my man ; and, change the 
 jockeys, and it is possible it might have been quite the 
 other way. Not but what Mr. Devereux rode very nicely ; 
 still the old hand, of course, proved a little too much for the 
 young one. Race-riding, like everything else, requires a 
 lot of practice ; it was pretty nearly my man’s first appear- 
 ance in public, while Mr. Long has been riding for years. 
 However, your information was worth the sovereign.** 
 
 “ Thank you, sir,” replied Prance ; “ if I find out any- 
 thing to-day I’ll let you know.” 
 
 The Major nodded ; he could take pretty good care of 
 himself on a racecourse, and was by no means to be led 
 away by what he might pick up from a tout ; Prance, he 
 knew from former experience, was worth listening to, and 
 now and again, as in the case of yesterday’s race, really 
 had come by a bit of genuine information. 
 
 Tom Devereux’s drag, it need scarcely be said, was early 
 drawn up opposite the Stand. The ladies were in high 
 spirits, and confident in the extreme about victory to-day 
 in the Hunt Steeplechase. In vain Charlie protested 
 against such extreme confidence. “ I’ve a good horse, I 
 know, Lettice,” he said ; “ but I may meet a better, just as 
 I did yesterday.” 
 
 “ It won*t do, Charlie,” replied the girl ; ** we are bent 
 upon returning victors to North Leach, and mind you 
 don’t disappoint us.’* 
 
 By this time the drag was surrounded by several young 
 men, amongst whom Gilbert Slade, Jocelyn, and Furzedon 
 were prominent. 
 
 I suppose you are very fond of racing. Miss Devereux? ” 
 said Gilbert Slade, who had climbed to the roof of the drag. 
 
 “ Fond of it ? ** she replied. “ I can hardly say. I know 
 next to nothing about it. We always take the coach to 
 Doncaster, and I have been there two or three times. My 
 father knows Lincoln races well ; but neither mother nor I 
 ever came here before ; and this time it is in honour of 
 Charlie’s first appearance as a rider at the big meeting of 
 his county,*’ 
 
36 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRB. 
 
 ** Then you are ignorant of the glories of Ascot and 
 Goodwood ? ** said Slade. 
 
 Utterly/' replied Miss Devereux. “ I know very little 
 of London and its gaieties, although, of cou/se, I am aware 
 what great gatherings of fashion those two race meetings 
 are. We are very plain, humdrum people. A run to the 
 sea when the crops are in constitutes our summer gaiety, 
 though occasionally I get asked to my aunt’s in South 
 Kensington. She is papa’s sister, you must know, and 
 married a man who was in some kind of business in Lon- 
 don, I’m sure I don’t know what, but he has left her a very 
 comfortably oflf widow, and she knows a lot of people, and 
 I always have a very pleasant time when I go to stay 
 with her.” 
 
 “ Ah ! I daresay Mrs. — , I beg your pardon, what did 
 you say your aunt’s name was ? ” said Slade. 
 
 “ I didn’t mention it,” rejoined Lettice, smiling, but it 
 is Mrs. Connop, and she lives in Onslow Gardens. She is 
 a very bustling woman, who enjoys life keenly, entertains 
 herself a good deal, and goes to everything. I have 
 always had a very gay six weeks with her, and that’s all I 
 ever know of London dissipation. You, I dare say, have 
 had years and years of it ?” 
 
 “ I have had my fling,” rejoined Slade, quietly ; “ but I 
 am a soldier, and am very often quartered a long way from 
 London. Just at present I am at Aldershot ; but we 
 expect to move northwards in a couple of months, and 
 though I dare say I shall manage a month or six weeks, it 
 will be, like yourself, a mere gulp at the wine-cup, but no 
 draining of the goblet to the dregs ; I only trust that we 
 shall meet.” 
 
 I haven’t been asked yet,” rejoined Miss Devereux, 
 ** and that is the first and most important step in my 
 London season ! But — there, the numbers are up surely for 
 the next race.” 
 
 ‘‘Ahl” rejoined Gilbert, laughing. “I am afraid they 
 have just finished that race, and we have actually been 
 gossiping during the contest. Never mind it was only a 
 small selling affair; and I don’t suppose any of us are 
 really interested in anything but the Hunt Steeplechase,^ 
 
THE HUNT STEEPLECHASE. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Now,” said Mrs. Kynaston, with a little grimace, 
 
 “ there must be an end to all this idle gossip. The serious 
 business of the day is about to commence — we have don^ 
 with the entrees, and come to the pike de resistance. I have 
 got a fortune on the sky-blue jacket and white sleeves. I 
 don’t often go in for a gamble, but I have asked Mr. Fur- 
 zedon to put me ten pounds on Pole Star.” 
 
 “ That’s plunging with a vengeance,” rejoined Lettice, 
 “ and you ought really to win a good deal of money. But 
 Charlie tells me that he has got me fifty pounds to five 
 about his mount.” 
 
 “ Yes,” interrupted Jocelyn, “you’re entitled to a good 
 price. Miss Devereux. I don’t suppose even your father 
 or your brother are backing Pole Star heavily, and the 
 Fletchers are supposed to farm this race — to enjoy almost 
 a monopoly of it. The only thing that ever puzzles us is 
 which to back of the two brothers, George or Jim ; they’re 
 about equally good horsemen, and the difficulty is to find 
 out which is riding the best horse.” 
 
 “ And what are they doing about these formidable 
 brothers now ?” inquired Mrs. Kynaston. 
 
 “ George Fletcher’s mount is first favourite,” replied 
 Jocelyn, “but I noticed some very shrewd farmers taking 
 the longer odds about Jim’s horse. Don’t think me a rene- 
 gade, Miss Devereux; I have backed your brother, but I 
 have also got a trifle on Jim Fletcher.” 
 
 And now the horses, having paced past the Stand, come 
 thundering down again in their preliminary canter. Noth- 
 ing, perhaps, goes better than a big raking chestnut that 
 Charlie Devereux is handling ; th'e favourite looks “ fit ” as 
 hands can make him, and is pronounced a nice “ mover ” 
 by the cognoscenti, and the men of the Midlands have keen 
 eyes for that sort of thing. There is a varmint wear-and- 
 tear look, too, about Jim Fletcher’s mount that led good 
 judges to think he might prove troublesome to the winner 
 at the finish. Still, although out of the half-score runners 
 that were all backed more or less, yet it was quite evident 
 that the Ring, as well as the backers generally, believed in 
 nothing but the Fletchers. Rattle, indeed, was a hot 
 favoixrite, and Jim Fletcher’s mount advanced so rapidly in 
 
SADDLB AND SABRE. 
 
 38 
 
 public estimation, that when the starter mus4«red the 
 horses it was quoted at only a couple of points behind his 
 brother’s. It is not very difficult to dispatch a lot of horses 
 on a three-mile race. A few lengths, which are often never 
 to be recovered in a short distance on the flat, are of very 
 little account in the long cross-country journey, and in a 
 very few minutes they are away. For the first half-mile 
 nothing takes a very decided lead ; at the end of that time 
 Jim Fletcher’s black jacket shoots ‘decidedly to the fr@at, 
 and many of his backers at once deplore their infatuation, 
 as they murmur, 
 
 “ The fiLVOurite’s the real pea, after all, and Jim is only 
 making running for his brother and that this impression 
 was shared by the jockeys riding in the race seemed pro- 
 bable, as Charles Devereux and the best of them waited in 
 a cluster upon George Fletcher, who was distinguished 
 from his brother by wearing a red cap. 
 
 In the mean time Jim sailed gaily away, his varmint- 
 looking steed jumping in faultless fashion, until he had 
 stolen a lead of nearly a field from his opponents. Half 
 the distance had now been traversed, and young though 
 Charlie Devereux was at the business, it suddenly occurred 
 to him, as it also did to one of his companions in a bright 
 green jacket, that they were letting Jim Fletcher get a very 
 dangerous distance in front ; he turned it over for a few 
 seconds in his mind, and the minute they had cleared the 
 next fence he shot to the front, closely attended by the 
 green jacket, and, a little to his bewilderment, by George 
 Fletcher. The latter worthy laughed low in his beard, as 
 he muttered, 
 
 “ It’s getting about time to give the backers of the 
 favourite a show for their money ; but if Jim ever let’s us 
 catch him now, he is a much bigger fool than I think him.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston was a lady who had seen a good deal of 
 racing, one way and the other, and, what is more, was 
 really a fair judge when she did see it. 
 
 “ I am afraid they have let the black jacket slip them,” 
 she said ; “ they have let him gain such a tremendous 
 lead, they’ll never succeed in catching him. However, 
 Mr. Devereux seems quite alive to the situation now#*' 
 
THE HUNT STEEPLECHASE. 
 
 39 
 
 Jim Fletcher continued to pursue the even tenor of his 
 way. Now and again he shot a glance over his shoulder, 
 but could see no antagonist near him. 
 
 “ They can’t intend me to come in alone, surely,” he 
 thought. 
 
 But already Charlie, closely attended by George Fletcher, 
 the green jacket, and one or two others, was rapidly dimin- 
 ishing the wide gap that lay beteewn himself and the 
 leader. 
 
 ‘‘ Ah,” exclaimed Miss Devereux, “ they will catch the 
 black jacket now by the time they enter the straight !” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mrs. Kynaston ; “ my only fear is that he 
 has been rather hard upon Pole Star in doing so, and that 
 he will find that he has not much left in his horse just 
 when the pinch comes.” 
 
 Miss Devereux was quite right. As Jim Fletcher jumped 
 the fence on to the racecourse, his companions had begun 
 to take close order with him, but he still held the four 
 lengths’ lead of Pole Star. But there was just this differ- 
 ence : whereas Jim Fletcher’s horse jumped the fence well 
 and cleanly, Pole Star, for the first time, fenced in slovenly 
 fashion. There was nothing now between the competitors 
 and the winning-post but a hurdle about half-way up the 
 straight — nothing of a jump, but just the sort of a thing 
 to botl^er a beaten horse. Charlie was still lying second, 
 with the green jacket waiting at his quarters. Steadily he 
 crept up, and as they neared the hurdle Jim Fletcher held 
 a bare two lengths’ lead. But there was this difference 
 between him and his antagonists : he had never bustled or 
 called upon his horse the whole way round. Zadkiel, the 
 leader, jumps it beautifully, but Pole Star hits it heavily, 
 and blunders nearly on his knees, and quickly though 
 Charlie recovers him, the contretemps is fatal ; before he can 
 fairly set his horse going again the green jacket has passed 
 him, and George Fletcher is alongside of him ; but Zadkiel’s 
 rid is not the man to throw away a chance. His horse 
 is ^ ’ng strong with him, and he comes right away at once. 
 Desperately though the green jacket rides his horse he 
 cannot get within hail of the leader, while Charlie and 
 George Fletcher, after one brief call upon their steeds, 
 
40 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ceased riding, and finished third and fourth respectively. 
 
 “ Yes,” said the Major, as he watched the race from that 
 high bit of scaffolding designated as the Stand in Tatter- 
 sail’s Ring, “ I was right — quite right. My dear young 
 friend, till you’ve had a good bit more practice it is throw- 
 ing money into the fire to back your mount. You would 
 have about won to-day if you had not been so completely 
 gammoned by those Fletchers. I should like to know 
 them ; they’ve a pretty idea of picking up a race. To win 
 with a horse that was supposed to be making running while 
 the field were all waiting on the favourite is ingenious. 
 Prance was right. He said he couldn’t make out which, 
 but that one of the Fletchers would take that steeplechase 
 for certain. I haven’t done so badly over it, but, of course, 
 I mustn’t admit that ; they will think it rank heresy over 
 the way if I acknowledge to having followed anything but 
 the Devereux colours.” 
 
 “ Oh, dear,” cried Miss Devereux, on the box of the 
 drag, “ what a piece of bad luck ! I’m sure Pole Star 
 wouldn’t have been beaten if it hadn’t been for that unlucky 
 mistake at the last hurdle.” 
 
 ‘‘No,” said Mrs. Kynaston, quietly, “there’s a great 
 deal of luck in racing, and this unfortunately wasn’t run 
 to suit your brother. Better luck next time, Lettice.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston knew a great deal better than that. She 
 was perfectly aware of how the race had been run, and 
 why Pole Star had blundered so badly at the last hurdle — 
 seen it all, indeed, just as clearly as her husband, but she 
 was not the woman to make herself unpleasant by insinu- 
 ations of that sort, and so they had another glass of cham- 
 pagne all round, and indulged in strong tirades against the 
 shameful machinations of the Fletchers, and agreed that 
 tricks of this description were not legitimate, and that the 
 Fletchers ought to be ashamed of themselves. 
 
 People who lose their money are somewhat apt to argue 
 in this wise. There was nothing inadmissible in the tactics 
 of the Fletchers. All that could be said was that 
 their opponents, had they not been rather inexperienced, 
 would never have been fooled by them, and yet practised 
 jockeys have fallen into similar error. 
 
SIR RONALD RADCLIFFE 
 
 4t 
 
 At this juncture Charlie Devereux appeared at the side 
 of the coach. “ Awful sorry, Lettice,” he said. “ I apolo- 
 gise all round. I really think I had a pretty good chance, 
 but the Fletchers really gammoned me out of the race. 
 So sorry I lost your money, Mrs. Kynaston, but I plead 
 guilty to having been green as any gosling. When 
 I recognised the trap they had laid for us it was too 
 late. I had to be so hard on Pole Star to catch Jim 
 Fletcher that it is little wonder that my horse had had 
 enough of it when we got into the straight.’' 
 
 Never mind, Mr. Devereux, you’ll ride the winner of 
 the Liverpool before two or three years are over. All 
 trades require a little practice, and,” she said, leaning over 
 the coach to speak to him, “ you can ride, you know.” . 
 
 Charlie made no reply, but if ever eyes acknowledged 
 the balm poured into wounded vanity, he did. Men, and 
 more especially young men, are wont to think tenderly of 
 women who bind up their hurts in this wise. Charlie con- 
 cealed his feelings tolerably well, but he felt in his heart 
 he had thrown the race away, and firmly believed that if 
 he had never let Jim Fletcher get more than some ten or a 
 dozen lengths in front of him, he would have beaten him. 
 And now the horses come up, and, with many handshakes 
 and hearty wishes for meeting again, the little party breaks 
 up, the Devereux and Kynastons returning to North Leach, 
 while Gilbert Slade and Mr. Jocelyn again crossed the 
 Nottinghamshire border. 
 
 HE bitter north-east wind has at last departed, the 
 
 swallows in scores are cutting the clear, pure, sweet 
 air. The spring handicaps are things of the past ; the 
 trees are all in the glory of their early foliage ; and spring 
 its fast melting into glorious summer. 
 
 The London season is in full swing, strawberries are 
 rapidly becoming within the reach of people of moderate 
 
 VI. — Sir Ronald Radcliffe. 
 
SADDLE AND SABRBL 
 
 4 ^ 
 
 incomes ; the Derby has been lost and won, and Ascot is 
 a thing to be looked back upon with feelings of bitter 
 anguish, or joyous murmurs of victory. The Row is all 
 alive this bright June morning, thronged with the votaries 
 of fashion, thronged with those who would fain pass as, 
 such, crowded with cynics who watch the gaudy parade 
 with scoffing eyes. Yes, with struggling young men, who 
 only wish their profession would leave them no leisure to 
 show there ; with men who cannot get rid of their weari- 
 ness ; with men who have quite got rid of their money, but 
 cling to the gay pageant from habit, and as the cheapest 
 amusement that is left to them ; young ladies, whose rosy 
 cheeks, sparkling eyes, and animated manner betoken that 
 they are new to the joys of the season ; their more expe- 
 rienced sisters, with the languid air of those who have 
 awoke to the knowledge that ‘‘ the gilt is off the ginger- 
 bread ; veteran campaigners, both married and single, 
 painfully alive to the misery ot their exacting dressmakers, 
 wearily conscious of those four new dresses for Ascot that 
 have produced no results ; the equestrians canter up and 
 down with careless smile, as if Care never sat behind the 
 horseman, although young Locksley wonders whether his 
 hack will ever be paid for ; while Mr. Manners carries a 
 note in his breast-pocket from McGillup, the livery-stable 
 keeper, with an intimation that that is the last mount he 
 can be supplied with, till he, McGillup, has had something 
 on account. 
 
 Looking on at the queer raree-show is a man who seldom 
 troubles it. A slight, wiry, clean-shaved man, with keen 
 dark eyes and a most determined expression about the 
 mouth. He stoops slightly, and his hair is heavily shot 
 with white ; his dress is peculiar, scrupulously neat, but 
 slightly old-fashioned ; but though Norman Slade would 
 never have been accused of spending much money on his 
 attire, yet the man would have been a very poor judge 
 indeed who took him for anything but a gentleman. He 
 has possessed himself of a chair, and having lighted a 
 cigar, sits there ruminating. He seldom has occasion to 
 raise his hat, for with ladies his acquaintance seems to be 
 very limited. But with the other sex it is different. Nod 
 
SIR RONALD RADCLIFFB. 
 
 43 
 
 after nod is exchanged with Norman, and many of those 
 who salute him are members of the aristocracy, or well- 
 known men about town. Norman Slade, although his 
 name figures neither in the Peerage nor in Burke’s Landed 
 Gentry, comes of a good and perfectly well-known family; 
 but it is chiefly through his passion for the Turf and his 
 long career about town that he has acquired the numerous 
 acquaintances which he undoubtedly possesses. Men, as 
 a rule, like and respect, but are just a little afraid of 
 Norman ; he is what is termed “ thoroughly straight,” a 
 word of great significance on the Turf ; he is an excellent 
 companion, full of anecdote, and can be most amusing 
 when pleased with those about him. But, as before said, 
 he has a rough edge to his tongue, and, if annoyed, can be 
 bitterly sarcastic. He has lounged into the Park this 
 morning to indulge in what he calls a “ think.” During 
 the past week he has met Major Kynaston at dinner, and 
 it is not to be supposed that, although he had never 
 encountered him, a man like Norman Slade did not know 
 Major Kynaston pretty well by repute. The Major en- 
 joyed a reputation that even he would have deemed it 
 desirable to bury if possible ; nobody could have brought 
 any direct charge against him, but it is equally certain 
 that nobody would ever have described the Major as 
 “ thoroughly straight.” He was notoriously lucky at ecarU^ 
 and indeed at cards generally, while he w^s equally 
 considered a terribly sharp practitioner in his betting 
 transactions. 
 
 Of all this Norman Slade was well aware ; but what was 
 it to him ? He would have grinned at the idea of the 
 Major inveigling him into any little things to his detriment 
 on either card-table or race-course ; but at this dinner 
 Major Kynaston had not only mentioned having made the 
 acquaintance of Gilbert, but had very much exaggerated 
 the extent of their intimacy. Now Norman was fond of 
 his nephew, and had often said, “ Thank God, the boy is 
 no fool ; ” but he knew by repute what a very pretty and 
 attractive woman Mrs. Kynaston was, and in his own 
 vernacular he could not help thinking that the pair might 
 be a little too much for any “ young one/’ be he ever so 
 
44 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 clever. He had not heard of Bertie for some time, and 
 was far too good a judge, if he really had got intimate with 
 these Kynastons, to interfere directly. But he was not 
 going to see his favourite nephew plucked and made a fool 
 of either ; and it was notorious that many a plump pigeon 
 had emerged from the Kynaston dovecot so utterly devoid 
 of feathers that his dearest friends stood aghast at the 
 completeness of the operation. Gilbert Slade, however, as 
 we know, was in no such danger as his uncle pictured. 
 He had seen nothing of Mrs. Kynaston since Lincoln 
 Races, and, though thinking her a very pretty and pleasant 
 woman to talk to, had been by no means fascinated ; he 
 did not possess that inflammable and susceptible tempera- 
 ment that is so easily smitten with love-fever. His was 
 one of those harder natures, somewhat slow to feel anything 
 of that kind, but who, when they do succumb to the arrow 
 of the rosy god, are wont to love with a strong earnestness 
 not easily diverted from its purpose. 
 
 But though Gilbert Slade would have freely acknowledged 
 the charms of either Mrs. Kynaston or Miss Devereux, yet 
 he had thought but little about them since he had wished 
 them “ good-bye.*’ His regiment had moved, as he had 
 said it would, up to the North from Aldershot, and the 
 consequence was that Gilbert had baen little in London 
 this season. 
 
 The Kynastons had thrown up The Firs at the end of 
 the hunting season, and were now quietly established in a 
 snug little house in Mayfair. Mrs. Kynaston was a woman 
 who went a good deal into society ; there were people who 
 declined to know her, saying that her flirtations were 
 rather too numerous and pronounced for their taste ; but 
 she had never committed herself by causing a grave scan- 
 dal, and in many houses was a favoured guest. As for the 
 Major, he took his own way in London; he was never seen 
 with his wife, and rarely in society; he had his own haunts 
 and amusements, such as the club card-room, bachelor 
 dinners, little theatrical suppers, trips down to suburban 
 meetings, etc. He and his wife certainly lived under the 
 same roof, but when in London saw very little of each 
 other — their dining iitc-i-tiU being a rare occurrence, and 
 
SIR RONALD RADCLIFFE. 
 
 4S 
 
 the Major was not given to entertaining. Mrs. Kynastoi- 
 always pleaded their poverty on this point; but for all that, 
 it was notorious amongst her intimates that she gave the 
 nicest little lunches possible. There were never, at the 
 outside, above half-a-dozen people, and there was no 
 laboured profusion, but the three or four dishes were 
 admirably cooked and the wine always undeniable. 
 
 Norman Slade had been rather indignant at finding 
 Major Kynaston amongst the people he had been asked 
 to meet. He was by no means particular, and had met 
 queer people at the dinner-table before now, but he had 
 always disliked all he had heard about Kynaston, and 
 when they met he conceived an actual antipathy to him. 
 He was a man strong in his dislikes, and it so happened 
 the Major had been placed next him on this occasion. 
 Kynaston, for his, own purposes, had grossly exaggerated 
 his acquaintance with Gilbert, which was, in reality, of 
 the very slightest, as he had seen but little of him on the 
 one occasion of their meeting. Moreover, like most of his 
 class, he had a tremendous idea of his own astuteness ; he 
 was always vaunting that nobody ever got over Dick 
 Kynaston, and fell, as such men invariably do, into the 
 mistake of thinking he could turn his fellows inside out. 
 He thought Norman Slade might give him many a valu- 
 able hint in Turf matters. He had heard of that gentle- 
 man’s reputation for reticence, but only let him — Dick 
 Kynaston — make his acquaintance, and he would very 
 soon worm out of him what he knew. 
 
 Norman Slade actually swelled with indignation at that 
 dinner, when, under an affectation of boisterous jocularity, 
 he recognized that the Major was actually attempting to 
 pump him I Can you fancy what the feelings of a crack 
 leader at the Old Bailey would be at being cross-examined 
 by Mr. Briefless? But after a while Norman began to 
 take a saturnine pleasure in the operation, though the 
 Major would have been hardly reassured could he have 
 heard Slade’s remark to himself as he walked home : 
 
 “ If that chattering beast puts together all he has got 
 out of me, he’ll find it amounts to very little, and is more 
 calculated to mislead him than not.’* 
 
46 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 The Major, on the contrary, went home with the impres- 
 sion that he had quite subdued the slight prejudice against 
 him on the part of Norman Slade to commence with ; that 
 he had parted with that gentleman on the most friendly 
 terms, and had already possessed himself to some slight 
 extent with Slade's views on forthcoming Turf events. 
 We do at times go home pluming ourselves on the favour- 
 able impression we have produced, serenely unconscious 
 that our host and hostess may have mutually agreed that 
 as it was the first, so should it be the last time we gather 
 round their hospitable board. There is no end to the 
 limit of human vanity, and the people who honestly recog- 
 nise that they have, to use a slang phrase, not “ come off" 
 in a social gathering are few and far between. Most of 
 us believe that it is our jest or repartee that gave brilliancy 
 to the meeting, or that it was our never being vouchsafed 
 an opportunity clothed the gathering with such unmiti- 
 gated dulness. No man had a higher opinion of himself 
 as a conversationalist than the Major. He had a good 
 stock of stories, and not hackneyed stories, which he told 
 well, and he had a jovial ofif*hand sort of manner, very apt 
 to impose upon those who were not shrewd observers. 
 He never made a greater mistake than when he thought 
 he had imposed upon Norman Slade. The gentleman, 
 who had carefully avoided knowing him for some years, 
 was never so thoroughly convinced of the correctness of 
 his judgment as at this moment. 
 
 Suddenly a tall, haggard-looking man stopped abruptly 
 opposite Norman, and with a curt “ How d’ye do, Slade?” 
 sat himself down on the adjacent chair. The merest novice 
 could have made no mistake about the status of the new- 
 comer. He was undoubtedly a man about whose position 
 in the world there could be little doubt, though the worn 
 and haggard face was that of a man who, though still in 
 his prime, was living a life that must break the strongest 
 constitution if persisted in. The dark circles under the 
 eyes, and the careworn lines about the mouth, were indi- 
 cative of a man who kept abnormal hours, and never 
 ceased battling with fortune, and his face did not belie 
 
SIR RONALD RADCLIFFE. 47 
 
 Lim — play in some shape was pretty much Sir Ronald 
 Radcliffe’s idea of existence. 
 
 ‘‘Nice morning, Slade,’* he said, as he settled himself 
 in a chair. “ Not often you come amongst the trees and 
 the dickey birds, and you’re about right. Awful bore, you 
 know, if it’s only the taking your hat off. Don’t know 
 why I come here, Knowing such a lot of women as I do. 
 Heard anything of old Bill Smith lately ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” said Norman, gravely. “I’d a few lines from 
 him not long ago, in which he said he had small hopes of 
 his half-dozen two-year-olds this year, that they were all 
 backward, and he believed most of them bad — in short, I 
 am afraid, Radcliffe, that Bill has gone to the deuce. 
 There isn’t such a horseman on the Turf, there isn’t such 
 a judge in a trial in England, but I hear from up in the 
 North that they can trust him no longer. I don’t mean 
 that he isn’t square enough, but that drink has laid hold 
 of him, and there’s no depending on his being sober when 
 w^anted.” 
 
 “ End of everything when it comes to that,” said Sir 
 Ronald. “ A fellow gets mistaking the winning-post and 
 all sorts of games.” 
 
 “ Ah, well,” said Slade, dreamily, “ you and I, Radcliffe, 
 have landed many a pretty coup out of poor old Bill’s 
 inspirations. I shall go up and stay with him about the 
 back end, and I’ll slip you a line then, and tell you what I 
 think of him. As for the horses, I don’t suppose his young 
 ones are worth looking at.” 
 
 “ It’s getting about time I had a turn over something,” 
 replied the baronet, moodily. “ Money is getting scarce 
 as corn was in the bad times of Pharaoh. Don’t know 
 how the deuce you manage, Norman ; things never seem 
 to fly up and hit you in the face.” 
 
 “Well, Radcliffe,” rejoined Slade, “I neither bet nor 
 spend money like you — haven’t got it, and never had it, 
 so I can’t. I go for a coup now and again, as you know, 
 but then it is on the strength of very excellent information, 
 and I always stand to win a good stake at comparatively 
 a small risk. My usual betting is a thing that never makes 
 
SADDLE AND SABREL 
 
 48 
 
 me uncomfortable, and as for my whist, shillings and half- 
 crowns content me.” 
 
 “ By Jove !” said Sir Ronald, turning half round in his 
 chair and surveying his companion in languid astonish- 
 ment. “ What a deuce of a lot of time you must have to 
 spare ! Why, it would take you hours, and be a sinful 
 waste of luck, to collect a few pounds at that price.” 
 
 Never you mind,” rejoined Slade ; “ I only play for 
 amusement.” 
 
 “Of course — so does everybody; whist is a healthy 
 recreation. My dear Norman, beware of indolence ; and 
 whist, for such pitiful points as you mention, is a waste of 
 those golden hours, concerning which that impostor, the 
 bee, is always dangled before our eyes. Don’t know much 
 about that insect myself, but a fellow conversant with his 
 habits told me the other day that the bee was nothing like 
 such a fool as these ballad-mongers made him out ; that 
 when he had the chance, he infinitely preferred stealing 
 honey from the nearest grocer’s to toiling for it on his own 
 account. 
 
 “ Well, Baronet,” rejoined Slade ; “ you and I are old 
 friends, and I’m not likely to leave you out in the cold 
 whenever I get a chance. You can work a commission as 
 well as anybody I know, and I know from experience ; 
 don’t cackle. But, honestly, at the present moment I 
 know nothing more than most racing men about coming 
 events ; and as for what you want, a real good chance at 
 long odds, have no conception of such a thing.” 
 
 “Well,” rejoined the Baronet, “much obliged to you 
 for your good opinion, old man. The financial crisis pre- 
 sents its constantly-recurring aspect ; but there’s nothing 
 more to be done than, in the words of the ballad, ‘ Fear 
 not, but trust in Providence,’ and devoutly hope my credi- 
 tors will trust in me;” and with this Sir Ronald picked 
 himself out of his chair, and, with a slight nod to his com- 
 panion, strolled onwards. 
 
 “ Good fellow that,” muttered Slade ; “ and, for all his 
 swagger and languid airs, just as ^cute a man about racing 
 as I know. They tell me he plays a capital rubber be- 
 sides : but it must all beat him at last* He’s an extrava- 
 
FURZEDON STARTS ON HIS WAR-PATH. 
 
 49 
 
 gant man, and perpetually playing for stakes out of all 
 proportion to his capital. I wonder what Sir Ronald 
 began the world with. He had a fair income, no doubt, 
 to start with, but I should think he has reduced it a good 
 deal since he came into the property, and, from all ac- 
 counts, her ladyship is not likely to make his income go 
 further.'’ 
 
 As for the subject of these remarks, he strolled in his 
 usual listless fashion towards Hyde Park Corner, exchang- 
 ing greetings right and left on his way. Everybody seemed 
 to know him, and with every one did he seem popular. 
 Women smiled and bowed to him with empressement ; men 
 greeted him heartily, and not with that careless nod that 
 signifies utter indifference at meeting one. Radcliffe was 
 as popular a man as any in London ; but how he had 
 lasted so long with his extravagant habits was an enigma 
 that puzzled those who knew him best extremely. 
 
 VII. — Furzedon starts on His War-path. 
 
 ^^TTTELL, Lettice, I am very glad to have you with 
 V V • again, though I don’t quite know how I shall 
 
 amuse you now you are here.” 
 
 ‘‘Nonsense, auntie,” rejoined Miss Devereux, laughing. 
 “ You London people always seem to us country folks to 
 go out so much. I am sure when I pass six weeks with 
 you I go out more than I do in all the remaining weeks of 
 the year.” 
 
 “I am a sociable being,” laughed Mrs. Connop; “and 
 as Providence has given me the wherewithal to keep up a 
 good house, I like to see people about. I like to see young 
 people, too, about me. It keeps one from getting rus'ty, 
 and I have no idea of settling down into an old woman 
 before my time.” 
 
 Nobody certainly would have described Mrs. Connop 
 as an old lady. She carried her fifty years wonderfully 
 well; without Meeting any undue juvenility, she was as 
 
50 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 sprightly a woman of her age as any in London, fond of 
 society, full of go, and a fluent talker, she had got together 
 a large if somewhat mixed acquaintance. She went every- 
 where, and, though it is quite possible that fastidious people 
 would have pronounced her not in society, she mixed freely 
 in an extensive social world of her own. She might be 
 unrecognised by the queens of the fashionable world, but 
 there are various circles in London that exchange the most 
 friendly relations, although their names never figure in the 
 Morning Post. A young lady under Mrs. Connop’s chap- 
 eronage would be certain t® have a good time of it, although, 
 perhaps, she would not be seen in the stately mansions of 
 Belgravia. Lettie made no disguise about it : she always 
 looked forward eagerly to an invitation to Onslow Gardens. 
 
 The Devereux were an energetic family, and never 
 allowed themselves to be bored anywhere ; they were 
 people who could always make for themselves occupation, 
 and although North Leach was a quiet enough place when 
 the hunting-season was over, yet Miss Devereux never 
 found her time hang heavily on her hands. Still, Lettie 
 invariably regarded her London visit as one of the best 
 ‘‘ bits ” in her year. There was, too, just a little bit of 
 uncertainty about it, that gave a zest to the invitation. 
 Although her aunt had asked her regularly since she had 
 left school, yet there was always a possibility that that 
 enterprising lady might take it into her head to go abroad 
 for a time. This year Lettie was looking forward to seeing 
 a good deal of the Kynastons while in town ; she did not 
 care very much about the Major, but she had struck up a 
 great friendship with Mrs. Kynaston. That lady recipro- 
 cated the feeling. There was a freshness about Lettie 
 which, though it a little amused her, she could not but 
 regret the loss of in herself. Married to a man like the 
 Major, she had not been likely to retain that quality long; 
 and there were times when Kate Kynaston felt bitterly 
 sick of the life she was condemned to lead. The only 
 daughter of fashionable, but impecunious parents, it had 
 been impressed upon her from her childhood that she was 
 bound to marry the first eligible suitor that presented him- 
 self, Captain Kynaston, as be was then, a fast young 
 
FURZEDON STARTS ON HIS WAR-PATH. 5 1 
 
 man in a crack Dragoon regiment, and with the reputation 
 of considerably more money than he had ever possessed, 
 seemed to Kate’s father to fulfil all reasonable expecta- 
 tions ; it is true, when they came to the settlements, that 
 battered old roue felt somewhat disappointed, but things 
 had gone too far to retract, and he could do no more than 
 to see that such settlement as Kynaston could or would 
 make was tightly tied up. There is much virtue in a 
 settlement to gentlemen of the Kynaston type, as it not 
 uncommonly becomes to them after a few years the sole 
 source of income upon which they can confidently count. 
 The Major’s case was not exactly so bad as that, but with 
 his tastes for good living, the card-table, and the race- 
 course, his income, outside that settled on his wife, might 
 be termed a little precarious. 
 
 There were people who spoke slightingly and shook 
 their heads over Kate Kynaston ’s doings, although civil 
 enough to her when they met. Kate’s audacity sometimes 
 paralysed them, and Kate’s quick tongue undoubtedly 
 awed them. She was a dangerous woman to splinter 
 lances with ; she had a quick eye for the joints in her 
 adversary’s harness ; she mixed much in the world, and 
 was thoroughly au courani with all the fashionable scandal 
 of that world ; and the quick, rapier-like thrust she could 
 deliver under a traducer’s guard had made women won- 
 drous shy of personally attacking her. But for all that, 
 there were times when Kate tired bitterly of this ceaseless 
 battle of life — of this continuous struggle to hold her own 
 in the weary treadmill of society. It is all very well if you 
 are one of the heavy galleons that sail under a recognised 
 flag, but for the dashing privateers that flaunt their own 
 gay colours, and only hold their own by finesse, adroitness 
 and cajolery, its fruits savour of the Dead Sea. 
 
 Kate Kynaston was just the woman who in the last cen- 
 tury might have renounced all pomps and vanities, and 
 betaken herself to a convent, might also very probably 
 have got painfully bored with the seclusion in six months, 
 emerged again into the world and become more mondaine 
 than ever ; but in the days of which I am writing this was 
 lxot to be thought of ; moreover, the Major, if he had HQ 
 
52 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 great regard for his wife, would have been the last man to 
 permit anything of that sort. Mrs. Kynaston usually 
 assented to his wishes with easy indifference, but the Major 
 had a dim perception that there might come a time when 
 some point should raise a battle royal between them, and 
 that, should such arise, Kate might prove troublesome to 
 coerce. 
 
 It is singular how we re-act upon each other’s destinies ; 
 we go along on our own jog-trot road till suddenly some 
 new being, of whose existence we have so far never heard, 
 crosses our path, and changes the whole current of our 
 destiny Impossible to say what this new factor in the 
 woof of our lives may do for us, but so it is ; his advent 
 changes our fate for good or evil. Mr. Furzedon, a few 
 months ago, was utterly unknown, even by name, to all 
 the characters in this story ; even Charlie Devereux, whose 
 acquaintance with him was the longest, had known him 
 scarce eighteen months ; and yet this man is destined to 
 considerably affect most of the leading characters in this 
 narrative. Mr Furzedon has left Cambridge, not seeing 
 his way into getting much more profit out of that Uni- 
 versity. He gave some very extensive wine and supper 
 parties previous to his departure, at which no expense was 
 spared. As before said, he was a man who could spend 
 money freely when he saw a possible return for doing so. 
 And in this instance he was anxious to thoroughly clinch 
 his acquaintance with all the eligible young men he had 
 contrived to get intimate with. 
 
 Mr. Furzedon has established himself in chambers in 
 Ryder Street, and, as he sits lingering over a latish break- 
 fast, is meditating deeply how he is to set about working 
 his way into society of some sort. A shrewd, pushing 
 man, callous to a rebuff, and of considerable tenacity of 
 purpose, he was pretty certain to attain his end before long. 
 As he had gone to the University with the sole purpose of 
 making desirable acquaintance, so he had lately contrived 
 to get himself elected to a club. It was not, perhaps, one 
 of the crack establishments of the West End, but had a 
 fair second-rate reputation, and its ballot was known to be 
 UQt ^ ^io^ent as ia some possessed of greater 
 
FURZEDON STARTS ON HIS WAR-PATH. §3 
 
 Like even the best of clubs, its members were rather a 
 mixed lot. Mr. Furzedon frequented the Parthian with 
 great assiduity ; he set himself to work to learn the names 
 and history of the members, and it is astonishing how much 
 a man who makes that kind of thing his business can pick 
 up about his brethren. There are clubs of which it is 
 said : ‘‘ They never let the wrong man in there.’* Sheer 
 fallacy ! The most exclusive coterie, like any other com- 
 munity, cannot avoid falling into that mistake. If at times 
 institutions like the Parthian, owing to a shortness of 
 members, are not quite so strict in their ballot, it naturally 
 follows that the proportion of black sheep is larger, and it 
 was in sifting the black from the white that Mr. Furzedon 
 was now engaged. The conduct of clubmen is erratic ; 
 there is the pleasant, genial, talkative man, known to every 
 one, but of whose life nobody can tell anything after he 
 has passed the club porter ; there is the man who dines 
 there three hundred nights out of the year, but who appar- 
 ently knows nobody, and invariably takes his meal in soli- 
 tude ; there is the member who drowns you with his own 
 affairs ; the irascible member who is in weekly communi- 
 cation with the Committee. 
 
 It was not likely that Furzedon could arrive at a sketch 
 of the lives of all of his brethren, but he did of a great 
 many. He himself was merely a representative of a type 
 found in all similar institutions, the man who invariably 
 calls the waiters and inquires the name of any one whose 
 face he does not know. Where Furzedon thought hi? 
 inquiries satisfactory, he endeavoured to scrape an acquaint 
 ance. This brings in again another type of club man, not 
 quite such a bore, perhaps, as Joe Thompson, who, as the 
 legend goes, always commenced his insidious advances by 
 treading on his victim’s corns and then apologising, but 
 Mr. Furzedon was conscious that he must do something 
 more than that. Club acquaintance by no means leads to 
 intimacy with social surroundings. He was busy this 
 morning thinking what houses he could call at, and Mr. 
 Furzedon felt gloomily that, with the end he had in view, 
 they were very circumscribed in number. There was Mrs. 
 Kynaston, but then be did not know where she was. She 
 
u 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 was a lady with no fixed abode, and though she and the 
 Major usually spent six months of their year in town, yet 
 they rented their house as they chanced to pick it up. Ah ! 
 there was Mrs. Connop, that was the aunt Miss Devereux 
 always came to stay with, and surely Miss Devereux must 
 be in town by now. No difficulty in finding Mrs. Connop, 
 she had a permanent abode, her address was easily to be 
 arrived at in the Blue Book, and if he could only see Miss 
 Devereux, she would probably know where Mrs. Kynaston 
 resided. 
 
 Adhering to his plan, Mr. Furzedon made his way out 
 towards South Kensington that afternoon, and in Piccadilly 
 he passed Gilbert Slade. Now he had never seen that 
 gentleman, except at Lincoln races, and the Slades as a 
 race were not people who knew you lightly. Furzedon 
 even on that occasion had hardly exchanged half-a-dozen 
 words with him, but, constant to the principle he had laid 
 down, he nevertheless nodded genially to Gilbert. That 
 gentleman’s face simply expressed blank recognition, and 
 then he returned the salutation by slightly touching his 
 hat. Gilbert Slade, in good truth, had no recollection of 
 who it was that had bowed to him ; but Mr. Furzedon had 
 two points invaluable to him in the role he proposed to 
 play — he had a capital memory for both names and faces. 
 
 That afternoon witnessed the debut of Mr. Furzedon in 
 Onslow Gardens. The defunct pawnbroker’s son had, at 
 all events, mastered one of the mysteries of fashion : he 
 had learnt how to knock. One may think the knocking at 
 a door is of no consequence, perhaps not to the proprietors 
 of the house, who may or may not hear it, and who very 
 likely, if they do, pay little attention to it. I am not going 
 to enter into that vast question so intelligible to those con- 
 versant with the history of the knocker, to whom the knock 
 of the post, the dun, the taxes, the begging petitioner, the 
 borrower, the wealthy but exasperated relative, etc., areas 
 easy to read as telegrams. I am alluding only to the 
 visitor’s knock. And in the servants’ hall this is interpreted 
 on a mutely acknowledged scale accordingly. On those 
 of the nervous, timid and hesitating knock, they invariably 
 bestow arrogance and contumely, but to the donor of the 
 
FURZEDON STARTS ON HIS WAR-PATH. 55 
 
 bold, audacious roulade on the knocker they are invariably 
 cap in hand. Delicious are the errors into which these 
 clumsy menials constantly fall, except they are servants of 
 the very best class : the swaggering manner and a certain 
 gorgeousness of dress will constantly impose upon them. 
 They kootoo to the confident stockbroker, and turn up 
 their noses at the more diffident peer. 
 
 Mr. Furzedon, in all the gorgeousness of his summer 
 raiment preceded by his dashing peal on the knocker, wa^ 
 just the sort of man that quiet servitors would be startled 
 by. There was nothing oittrS about his garments, but 
 everybody will understand what I mean when I say that 
 they were just a little too glossy. It is difficult to explain, 
 but a well-dressed man of the world never seems to put on 
 a new coat. Furzedon was wont to have the appearance 
 of having received his clothes only the night before from 
 his tailor. 
 
 Yes, Miss Devereux was staying there, and Mrs. Connop 
 would be very glad to see Mr. Furzedon, was the answer 
 that came down in acknowledgment of his cards. Mr. Fur- 
 zedon lost no time in responding to the invitation, and as 
 he entered the drawing-room Lettice advanced to meet 
 him, and, after shaking hands with him, at once presented 
 him to her aunt. 
 
 “ Very glad, indeed, Mr. Furzedon, to make your 
 acquaintance. I am always pleased to see any friends of 
 my family ; and Lettie tells me that you have been staying 
 at North Leach all the winter, and are now quite a known 
 man with the Brocklesby.” 
 
 “ I am afraid Miss Devereux is a little laughing at me 
 when she says that. I certainly can claim in one sense to 
 be a well-known man in that country, namely, that I was a 
 constant attendant at their meets, and had capital good 
 fun ; but a well-known man is usually translated into a 
 very prominent horseman with such hounds. I am afraid 
 I wasn’t quite that. They were all a little too good for me 
 down there.” 
 
 “ Ah, Auntie, you must not trust to this mock humility. 
 Mr. Furzedon held his own with most of us,” 
 
 “ Very good of you to say so, Miss Devereux, and I’ll 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 S6 
 
 not be such a fool as to argue that view of the case with 
 you. Anyway, Mrs. Connop, I had a capital time at North 
 Leach, and two very jolly days at Lincoln afterwards, 
 although, sad to say, the family banner — that is meta- 
 phorical for colours, you know — was not triumphant.'* 
 
 “ Never mind,” exclaimed Mrs. Connop; “ I wasn’t born 
 a Devereux without knowing something of these things. 
 I didn’t see it, but Charlie’s young, and I’ll go bail he does 
 better yet. From my recollection of all those cheery Hunt 
 Steeplechases, the young ones were very apt to get a little 
 the worst of it at first, but a few years’ practice and they 
 turn the tables. There is no truer adage, Mr. Furzedon, 
 than that youth will be served. I don't call myself an old 
 woman, and never mean, but if you ask me whether Lettie 
 can walk me down — well — I suspect she can.” 
 
 “No,” said Furzedon; “ nobody ever does grow old in 
 these days. Why look at all our leading public men — 
 boys still, in spite of what their baptismal registers assert 
 to the contrary. By the way. Miss Devereux, have you 
 seen anything of the Kynastons since you have been in 
 town ? '* 
 
 “Not as yet,” rejoined Lettie, “but I have only been 
 here three days as yet. In fact, I am rather surprised at 
 your having heard of my arrival.” 
 
 “ Well,” replied Furzedon, “ that is a pure piece of good 
 fortune on my part. I remember that you said in the 
 winter you very often spent a few weeks with Mrs. Connop 
 about this time of the year, so I thought I would call.” 
 
 “ Charlie tells me you have done with Cambridge.” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Furzedon; “I never intended to take 
 a degree, but my guardians were right — it is good for a 
 man to go to the University for a time. It opens his eyes, 
 and gives him a glimpse of the world.” 
 
 Mr. Furzedon’s guardians were shadowy people to whom 
 he only alluded when it suited his purpose. They had 
 interfered very little indeed with him, and the going to 
 Cambridge had been entirely his own idea, and of his 
 object in doing so we are already aware. He had been, 
 moreover, of age now some little time, and was conse- 
 quently emancipated from the very light control his guar- 
 
LADY RAMSBURY'S GARDEN PARTY. 
 
 s; 
 
 dians had ever attempted to exercise. After a little more 
 desultory talk, Mr. Furzedon rose to take his leave, and 
 received from Mrs. Connop, as he did so, a cordial intima- 
 tion that she would be glad to see him whenever he chose 
 to call. He had also learnt from Lettice that the Kynas- 
 tons had taken a house in Chester Street, Mayfair. 
 
 “Not a bad beginning,” thought Mr. Furzedon, as he 
 strolled eastwards. “ I’ve got my foot fairly inside that 
 house, and it will be my own fault if I don’t establish 
 myself on Mrs. Connop’s visiting list. Mrs. Kynaston, 
 too, can be a very useful woman to me if she likes. I 
 don’t suppose that they entertain much, but I fancy they 
 have a very numerous acquaintance in London, and that 
 Mrs. Kynaston could introduce one pretty widely if she 
 chose.” 
 
 VIII. — Lady Ramsbdry’s Garden Party. 
 
 M ore hospitable people than the Ramsburys never 
 existed. They lived in a great red brick house in 
 Chelsea — one of those modern imitations of the old Eliza- 
 bethan style of house such as you may see in Pont Street. 
 It stood in the midst of a large garden, and the Ramsburys 
 delighted in big dinners during the winter months, and in 
 large garden-parties in the summer. What Sir John 
 Ramsbury had been knighted for was rather a mystery. 
 He was known as a “ warm ” man in the City, was Aider- 
 man of his Ward, and though he had never passed the 
 chair, it was always regarded that was an honour he might 
 aspire to any day. However, he had attained the distinc- 
 tion of knighthood, the why could be only explained other- 
 wise than that he had been the chairman of several com- 
 mercial enterprises, supposed to have resulted in much 
 benefit to the country, and, what was rather more to the 
 point, in considerable benefit to Sir John Ramsbury. 
 
 Lady Ramsbury ’s “ gardens ” were a well-known feature 
 in the London season. The company might be a little 
 mixed, but there were plenty of right good people always 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 58 
 
 
 to be found there. Sir John, as director of various com- 
 panies, had come across a good deal of the salt of this 
 earth, and in this latter half of the nineteenth century, 
 when the struggle for existence waxes har der and harder, 
 both to those with the bluest of blood in their veins and to 
 those born in the gutter, the man with the capability of 
 putting money into his friends’ pockets is a power. 
 
 There has never been a time when fashion in pursuit of 
 its follies did not grovel at the feet of Plutus. How our 
 neighbours bowed down at the shrine of Law, and many 
 of us can remember when to sit at the table of the Railway 
 King was matter of gratulation to half the best society in 
 London. Who could whisper such auriferous secrets into 
 dainty ears as he could ? and though irreverent guardsmen 
 might put up their glasses at some of the social solecisms 
 he was wont to commit, yet their seniors and the mothers 
 that bore them were too worldly-wise not to overlook such 
 trifles as those. In similar fashion, Sir John Ramsbury 
 commanded a considerable number of guests at his parties. 
 He did the thing right well ; there was never any lack of 
 everything of the best in the commissariat department at 
 his parties, and it must, in justice to the worthy knight and 
 his lady, be added that they were unconventional people, 
 but by no means vulgar. Lady Ramsbury and Mrs. Con- 
 nop were old friends; the lamented Connop had been 
 mixed up with various business speculations in Sir John’s 
 early days, before he blossomed into knighthood and the 
 dignity of a house at Chelsea, so that there was nothing 
 singular in Lettie and her aunt finding themselves in that 
 pleasant old garden one fine June afternoon. 
 
 After shaking hands with their hostess Mrs. Connop and 
 her niece began to slowly pace the lawn. They met plenty 
 of acquaintances, and were enjoying themselves in a care- 
 less, gossiping way, when Lettie’s eye was caught by a 
 group of three people who were occupying a garden-bench, 
 and conversing somewhat earnestly. The centre of the 
 group, and the person who had first attracted her atten- 
 tion, was a slight, elderly man, with a decided stoop, and 
 an eye like a hawk. Seated on one side of him was a 
 stout elderly lady, richly dressed, but who evidently con- 
 
LADY RAMSBUHY’S GARDEN ^ARTY 
 
 59 
 
 sidered that Nature was a handmaid to Art. The merest 
 tyro would have known her colour was not that of fresh 
 air and superabundant life, and made a shrewd guess that 
 her exuberant tresses came straight from her hairdresser’s. 
 But Lady Melfort was a well-known and very popular 
 person. Ascot or Newmarket, Epsom or Doncaster, would 
 have seemed incomplete without the presence of that dash- 
 ing and evergreen Countess. On the other was Gilbert 
 Slade. As far as Lettie could see, the conversation rested 
 principally with the lady, who was declaiming volubly, 
 while Norman Slade, who was the central figure of the 
 group, merely threw in an interjectional word now and 
 again. 
 
 Norman Slade had no objection to fighting the Turf 
 battles of bygone days over again with any one who really 
 understood racing, and the sporting Peeress, who was a 
 thorough enthusiast, was by no means a bad judge. 
 
 “ I don’t agree with you. Lady Melfort,” he ejaculated, 
 in reply to some story of her ladyship’s, the gist of which 
 appeared to be that she had lost her money when she 
 thought she ought to have won it. “ It is true, in his pre- 
 vious form, the horse ought to have won, but it by no 
 means follows there was any foul play connected with his 
 running ; horses, like ourselves, are not always quite them- 
 selves, and the cleverest trainer sometimes fails to detect 
 that his charge is a little off. I know that people con- 
 nected with Lucifer backed him upon that occasion.” 
 
 “ I should like to know what his jockey did,” rejoined 
 her ladyship, sharply. 
 
 ‘‘ His best, I think,” rejoined Norman; <‘he’s a steady, 
 civil boy enough, and we are rather too apt to make the 
 jockey answerable for the shortcomings of the horse.” 
 
 But her ladyship was evidently not convinced, she was 
 given to be somewhat suspicious of unfair play when her 
 racing calculations proved fallible. 
 
 At this juncture Gilbert caught sight of Miss Devereux, 
 and, as he was by no means such an enthusiast about the 
 “ sport of kings’* as his companions, he at once raised his 
 hat and proceeded to join her. 
 
 “ How d’ye do, Miss Devereux ? Rather different 
 
6o 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 weather from that when I last saw you. How long have 
 you been in town ? ** 
 
 “ Only about a week,” rejoined Lettie ; “ but let me 
 introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Connop, with whom I 
 am staying.” 
 
 Gilbert bowed, and muttered something about ** doing 
 hfmself the pleasure of calling ; ” and then turning to 
 Lettie, said, “ I suppose now you’ll see the season out.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” replied the girl. “ I want to go everywhere 
 and do everything, see all there is to be seen, and meet all 
 my friends. I suppose, Mr. Slade, that your intentions 
 are somewhat similar.” 
 
 “ Ah ! it doesn’t signify what my intentions may be. 
 When you’re a soldier you find the Horse Guards inter- 
 fere with such things in ruthless fashion. No, I regret to 
 say that I only got a month’s leave, and that half of it is 
 already gone. Has Pole Star won his spurs yet. Miss 
 Devereux ? ” 
 
 “No,” rejoined Lettie; “how can you recall that day 
 of disgrace to me ?” 
 
 “ Not disgrace,” rejoined Gilbert ; “ you were defeated, 
 as we all are at times ; but I fancy if the race had been 
 run over again your brother would have made a closer 
 thing of it.” 
 
 “Ah! I daresay Charlie will have another opportunity 
 of distinguishing himself in the autumn. Is there any like- 
 lihood of your being present at the Autumn Meeting on 
 the Carholme ? ” 
 
 “ It is very likely,” rejoined Gilbert. “ I am quartered 
 at York, and I should think it is easy to slip down from 
 there. However, it is a long way off as yet.” 
 
 “ Who was that gentleman you were talking to, Mr. 
 Slade?” inquired Miss Devereux. 
 
 “That was my Uncle Norman,” replied Gilbert. “It 
 is not often that he leaves his usual haunts for anything 
 of this sort ; but, for some reason, he is very fond of the 
 Ramsburys — he has known them a good many years ; and 
 I’ve a vague suspicion that Sir John did him a kindness at 
 some period of his life. All I know is that, though he is a 
 real good fellow, my Uncle Norman is peculiar, and it is 
 
LADY RAMSBURY'S GARDEN PARTY. 6t 
 
 by no means every one that could lure him to their dinner- 
 table ; not many people, I fancy, who would have got him 
 to do a thing of this kind.” 
 
 “ I am sure it is charming,” replied Miss Devereux, 
 laughing ; “ such pretty grounds, so many people, and 
 such a good band to listen to ; I don’t think your good 
 uncle is much to be pitied.” 
 
 “ No,” said Gilbert ; “ but people differ in taste, and 
 this is not much in my Uncle Norman’s line.” And the 
 conversation turned upon military affairs ; for, not a little 
 to Gilbert’s surprise. Miss Devereux manifested no small 
 curiosity anent “ soldiering.” It was easy of explanation. 
 During the winter she and her brother Charlie had had 
 many a talk together as to what line of life he was to 
 pursue, and he had more than once spoken seriously of 
 the army as a profession calculated to suit him when his 
 career at Cambridge was done with. Lettie warmly ap- 
 proved of that determination. She had a v^ry vague 
 idea of what a soldier’s life was like ; but thought that a 
 man who was a good horseman ought to make a likely 
 Dragoon. 
 
 Norman Slade continued to talk in his lazy way to Lady 
 Melfort. The Countess always amused him, while he 
 usually acted as a pleasing irritant upon her. He listened 
 to her vehement protestations of the iniquities of the Turf 
 with a quiet smile, and invariably exasperated her by 
 claiming a high position for the main part of those con- 
 nected with it, and declaring that people who lose a little 
 money shrieked and made bitter wail over the treachery 
 that they had encountered, forgetting about the extreme 
 uncertainty that distinguishes racing beyond even most 
 mundane affairs. 
 
 “ My dear Countess,” he would say, you don’t rail 
 against M. Blanc when you lose your money at Monte 
 Carlo, and yet when you come to gambling on the Turf — 
 and you know. Lady Melfort, you are a gambler — you 
 don’t bet merely upon the races you understand and can 
 form an opinion about, but you bet on all sorts of handi- 
 caps and selling races, of which, concerning the merits of 
 the competitors, you know nothing.” 
 
62 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ** Well, I hate to see a race, Mr. Slade, without having 
 something on it.’’ 
 
 ‘‘Just so,” rejoined Norman; “then you couldn’t bear 
 to see the ball spinning round at Monte Carlo without 
 having a stake on it, aad, whether you back the red or the 
 black, it is just about as great a lottery as some of these 
 races you speculate on.” 
 
 If Norman somewhat irritated her. Lady Melfort had a 
 profound respect for his judgment. She believed him to 
 be able to elucidate many a Turf mystery that had puzzled 
 racing people profoundly, and in this she was right ; there 
 were few men perhaps more behind the scenes than Nor- 
 man Slade. There were not many Turf robberies of which 
 he could not explain the history. Pray don’t think for one 
 moment he was a participator in them. Like the general 
 public, he had occasionally been a victim ; but when 
 the scandal connected with such events was once blown 
 over, a story in Turf circles is pretty certain to leak out in 
 more or less accurate form, and he sometimes regaled Lady 
 Melfort with the true history of one of these bygone sur- 
 prises. Like many men of his type, good-hearted fellow 
 though he was at bottom, he would hardly have interfered 
 to save any one in whom he was not interested from being 
 awfully taken advantage of 
 
 “ It is wonderful,” he was wont to say, “ the amount of 
 foolishness there is in this world, and, as regards racing, 
 the man who undertook the task of being guardian to the 
 dovecot would have a thankless and onerous office. These 
 ‘ squabs,’ if they have any independence, emerged from the 
 parental dwelling with a complacent self-sufficiency no 
 warning could disturb.” 
 
 He would have interfered fast enough on behalf of his 
 favourite nephew had he seen occasion, but Gilbert was a 
 man quite able to take care of himself, aad with no taint of 
 gambling in his blood. Norman in his varied life'had seen 
 young men come to grief from various causes, and had 
 more than once, at the instigation of anxious relatives, in- 
 terfered in their behalf. One rule he always firmly adhered 
 to. “ Don’t ask me,” he would say, “ to meddle in the 
 afffUrs pf a young gentleman who is going down hill at ^ 
 
LADY RAMSBURY'S GARDEN PARTY. 63 
 
 hand gallop. I don’t like young gentlemen — their talk 
 bores me, and they don’t like me. They are sure not to 
 ^ take my advice, and call me an old fogey, I have no doubt, 
 ' when my back is turned. However, when your hopeful 
 has gone a ‘ real perisher ’ I will step in, if you wish it. 
 The young man in difficulties, and the young man with his 
 quill feathers still unplucked, are very different people to 
 deal with.” 
 
 Miss Devereux and Gilbert Slade continued to improve 
 their acquaintance during the best part of the afternoon. 
 The young lady had not a very numerous acquaintance 
 present, and was not at all averse to having this good-looking 
 Hussar dangling by her side. Gilbert thought her, as he 
 well might, a very pretty girl. He had not been so much 
 struck with her at Lincoln, but now she was arrayed in all 
 her summer braveries he freely acknowledged her beauty, 
 and, what was more to the point, her lively talk amused 
 him. It was not that he did not know plenty of people, 
 for many a fair head was bent in salutation to him as he 
 paced the grass by Lettie’s side, but Gilbert was too 
 pleased with his present companion to seek for change — in 
 fact, by the time he had put Mrs. Connop and her niece 
 into their carriage it was quite arranged that he should 
 call at Onslow Gardens the next day. 
 
 “ She is rather a nice girl, that,” mused Mr. Slade, as he 
 paced homewards with a vigilant eye for a passing hansom, 
 “ besides, after the way in which her mother lunched me at 
 Lincoln, I am bound to make my obeisance to the young 
 lady and her aunt. What splendid brown eyes she has — 
 and what a figure for a riding habit ! ” 
 
 I fancy those eyes had much to say to Gilbert’s puncti- 
 lious politeness, for had Miss Devereux been other than she 
 was he would not so clearly recognised the necessity of 
 calling in Onslow Gardens. He was a young man apt to 
 be a little careless of such social obligations, but though 
 very far from impressionable, he had always a genuine 
 admiration for a pretty woman, and was fond of women’s 
 society. He differed from both his uncles in that respect, 
 who^ though leading very different lives, were alike in that 
 
SADDLE AND SABRR 
 
 64 
 
 one thing — they both eschewed the society of the fair sex, 
 except upon very rare occasions. 
 
 Miss Devereux, as she drove along, looked back on a 
 very pleasant afternoon. “ Charlie must be a soldier,” 
 she thought, “ I rather like soldiers.” And then Lettie 
 could not help laughing as she considered how very limited 
 her military acquaintance was — Mr. Slade, and two or 
 three officers vffiom she had danced with at Hunt Balls — ^ 
 and had no recollection of being particularly impressed 
 with them at the time. She was conscious herself that she 
 was basing her predilections for the army entirely upon 
 Gilbert Slade, whom, after all, she had only met three 
 times. Major Kynaston, who was the only soldier of whom 
 she had much knowledge, she undoubtedly had but little 
 admiration for, but then she decided in her own mind that 
 he was probably an unfavourable specimen. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Connop exclaimed, with some abrupt- 
 ness, “ When did you hear from Charlie last ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, not for some days.” 
 
 Where do you suppose he is ? ” inquired her aunt. 
 
 ** He is sure to be at Cambridge.” 
 
 I don’t think he is, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Connop. 
 ** I forgot to tell you, but when I was out shopping this 
 morning, Charlie passed me in a hansom cab, unless I am 
 very much mistaken.” 
 
 “ Did he see you, auntie ? 
 
 “ No ; of that I am quite sure. It is very odd he should 
 be in town and not come out to see me.” 
 
 Miss Devereux made no reply. It was not very likely 
 that her aunt was mistaken, and she knew that Mrs. 
 Connop much resented any of her family not duly present- 
 ing themselves in Onslow Gardens on such occasions, 
 while Lettie was also aware that young gentlemen at the 
 University were not uncommonly in London without the 
 knowledge of their relations. She kept her misgivings 
 carefully to herself, but from a little that had escaped 
 Charlie in the winter she felt pretty sure that there were 
 money troubles impending over his head, and that the 
 f^tprm was likely to burst at any moment? 
 
A LITTLE GAME AT BILLIARDS. 
 
 65 
 
 IX.— A Littlb Gaub at Billiards* 
 
 I T IS a curious thin^, but it is nevertheless most generally 
 the case, that when a young gentleman gets into diffi- 
 culties he is apt to bestow his confidence, and take advice, 
 in all probability, from the very last man he should select. 
 To go to the home authorities, undoubtedly the best 
 people in whom to confide until by repetition their patience 
 has been exhausted, is about the last thing that occurs to 
 many of us in those days of hot youth and difficulties. 
 Charlie Devereux had g;ot a bit dipped at the University, 
 but it was not that which troubled him ; he could have 
 carried such debts as those straight to his father without 
 fear of his reception. He might be called “an extravagant 
 young dog,” and there might be a good bit of grumbling 
 over it, still he knew they would be paid. But Furzedon 
 had gradually imbued him with a taste for racing and the 
 backing of horses at Newmarket. Charlie was of far too 
 impulsive a disposition ever to do much good in that way. 
 A man may be a very fine horseman, or even more, he may 
 be a very fair judge of racing, and yet have no manner of 
 discretion in the backing of horses. Charlie in the first 
 place had been indebted to Furzedon for the means with 
 which to meet his liabilities, but as he got intimate with 
 the Kynastons he was, like many another young man 
 before him, very much impressed by the Major’s apparent 
 knowledge of the world. 
 
 The Major always did impose upon young men in this 
 wise. A man who really does believe in himself is very 
 apt to imbue his fellows with like belief, and, despite many 
 rude shocks that should have shaken his opinion, Kynaston 
 still prided himself upon his astuteness. There was not a 
 “leg” at Newmarket that he was not more than a match 
 for ; the cleverest adventurer in London would never get 
 the best of him at either the billiard or the card-table. As 
 for the Stock Exchange, they knew a thing or two there, 
 but they would have to get up very early in the morning 
 to get the best of Dick Kynaston. 
 
 Dining at The Firs one night after a capital day’s hunt- 
 
66 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ing, when the Major had suggested that just a couple of 
 glasses of port apiece could not possibly huit them after 
 such a glorious gallop in the open, Charlie had made a 
 clean breast of his troubles to his host. The latter listened 
 with great interest. Young men’s difficulties always had 
 an interest for him. His knowledge of money-brokers and 
 bill-discounters w^as extensive, and nobody understood the 
 rights of salvage better than he did. He delighted in being 
 hailed by the sinking ship when the skipper was young, 
 and too thankful for his help to dream of disputing the 
 price of his redemption. Very pretty pickings to be had 
 in these cases, the Major knew. Of course there were 
 others who must be permitted to share in the spoils; but 
 the Major was a jackal of mark, and by no means, wdien 
 the picking of the carcase took place, to be put off with 
 bare bones. 
 
 He told Charlie that he had no doubt he could help him, 
 but he would take a little time to consider of it, which, 
 being interpreted, meant that Dick Kynaston intended 
 leisurely to appraise his victim. It w^as not, remember, 
 that he had won any money from Charlie, but that the 
 latter had come to him with the story of his difficulties. 
 When the Major came to consider the speculation, he 
 considered it might probably turn out a profitable one. 
 To begin with, the Devereux were unmistakably well-to-do 
 people, and that, therefore, the money was certain to be 
 all right in the long run — a thing that the gentleman to 
 whom he meant to confide the relief of Charlie’s necessities 
 w^ould be doubtless anxious about. Secondly, he thought 
 there was nothing more probable than that from this, as 
 yet, embryo North Leach stable might spring a dangerous 
 steeplechaser or tw^o, and to be behind the scenes in such 
 a case might be the means of putting several hundreds 
 into his pocket. Lastly, like Mr. Furzedon, Kynaston 
 recognised that Charlie had the makings of a real horse- 
 man — a little green, perhaps, at present, but only wanting 
 practice to develop into a first-class gentleman lider. 
 Acting on all this, the Major had enabled Charlie to dis- 
 charge his debt to Furzedon and save his hunters, but it 
 had all been done in the usual way — bills of six monthSi 
 
A LITTLE GAME AT BILLIARDS. 67 
 
 bearing ruinous interest, which Charlie had signed, with 
 the Major’s rollicking assurance ringing in his ears, of 
 — “ Pooh, my dear boy ! we shall have one or two more 
 rolls of the ball before these come due, and you’ll probably 
 win a nice little stake on one of the Spring handicaps, 
 which will enable you to just light cigars with them.” 
 
 There are pec^le who have broken the bank at Homburg, 
 and I suppose there are people in Charlie’s circumstances 
 who have won enough money to discharge similar liabili- 
 ties, but to the ordinary run of humanity such a thing 
 never happens, and when it does I, in the superstition 
 engendered by long years of watching the battle of the 
 gambler with fortune, fear every gruesome fate for him. 
 One I knew, who, after steadily plodding through years of 
 ill luck on the Turf that might have deterred many men 
 from continuing, at last had his year. He was no heavy 
 gambler, but how much he won between the First New- 
 market Spring and the finish of the Ascot week was pre- 
 posterous, considering the stakes with which he originally 
 started. That he had followed his luck there is no need 
 to say, and had bet at Ascot in a way hitherto unknown to 
 him ; but it benefited him, poor fellow, but little, for ere 
 the next twelve-month was over he was laid peacefully in 
 his grave, and recked little of what went on on that Turf 
 he had loved so dearly. 
 
 But those bills had at last become due, while that nice 
 little stake which the Major had so jauntily predicted had 
 not as yet been landed. Kynaston dropped a line to his 
 young friend, and informed him that, unless he saw his 
 way to meeting them, it was absolutely necessary he should 
 come up to town and make arrangements for their renewal; 
 and this it was that had brought Charlie Devereux to 
 London. ^ Kynaston determined to take advantage of the 
 opportunity to give a little dinner to Devereux and Furze- 
 don. The latter somewhat puzzled him. He was con- 
 scious that Furzedon was a shrewdish young gentleman, 
 though he would naturally have derided the idea of any 
 one of his years getting the better of Dick Kynaston. A 
 thing that had rather puzzled Furzedon had been where 
 Charlie bad pfoou^ed the money to settle with h^ ; but 
 
68 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 the Major had cautioned Devereux to keep silence respect- 
 ing those bill transactions, and, as Charlie had not volun- 
 teered any information, Furzedon could not, of course, 
 press him on the subject. Kynaston was not given to 
 entertaining, and, like one of his guests, usually had some 
 object in view when he did extend his hospitality; but the 
 tastes of young men who had either money or well-to-do 
 relatives he always considered were worth studying. He 
 had gathered up in the Wolds during the hunting-season 
 that Charles, amongst other things, was a little proud of 
 his billiard-playing, but at The Firs, and upon the two or 
 three occasions that he had dined at North Leach, there 
 had been no opportunity of testing young Devereux’s skill 
 in that particular. 
 
 The Major’s oflf-hand invitations to dine with him at the 
 Thermopolium were both accepted, although Furzedon 
 pleaded, in consequence of another engagement, that he 
 should have to run away soon after dinner was over. 
 Major Kynaston could be a good host when he chose to 
 take the trouble, and the trio, after a satisfactory repast, 
 lingered for some time over their wine. At last Furzedon 
 declared he must go, and after his departure Kynaston 
 proposed that they should have a game of billiards with 
 their cigar. Charlie was delighted with the proposition, 
 and, having adjourned to the strangers’ billiard-room, they 
 commenced their game. They happened to have the room 
 to themselves, and at first seemed evenly matched, but 
 towards the middle of the game Charlie began to draw 
 away from his opponent, and apparently won pretty easily 
 at the finish. Kynaston seemed a little nettled at this, 
 proposed another game of a hundred up, and offered to 
 bet a crown he won it. He certainly made a better fight 
 this time, but Devereux was once more victorious ; still 
 the Major declined to own himself defeated, and suggested 
 another game for the same nominal stake. Devereux 
 assented, and even offered to give a few points, which the 
 Major testily declined. This time the scoring ran pretty 
 even, when a stout gentleman, smoking a very large cigar, 
 lounged into the room, nodded slightly to Kynaston, and, 
 
 bimseU the adjacent benchi proceeded tQ wateh 
 
A LITTLE GAME AT BILLIARDS. 
 
 69 
 
 the play. The arrival of the new comer seemed slightly 
 to disconcert the Major, but at the same time, it seemed 
 to have improved his play. A somewhat amused expres- 
 sion stole over the looker-on’s face ; and when Kynaston 
 eventually proved the conqueror by a few points, he rose 
 from his seat, and, as he sauntered out of the room, 
 remarked, 
 
 “ Hardly up to your usual form, Kynaston.” 
 
 “Always the case,” replied that gentleman, “when you 
 drink champagne at dinner ; you never can quite tell what 
 the effect will be. You either play below your game, or a 
 good many points above it.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so,” rejoined Bob Braddock, for it was he 
 who had been the amused spectator. “ I don’t know who 
 that very young gentleman is,” he muttered to himself as 
 he left the room ; “ but if he thinks that he can form the 
 slightest idea of Dick Kynaston ’s game of billiards from 
 what he has seen to-night, he is very much mistaken. I 
 don’t suppose he has any conception that he has got hold 
 of about the very best player we have got amongst us, and 
 whom I don’t suppose there are half-a-dozen gentlemen 
 players in London can tackle.” 
 
 Major Braddock was right ; although Charlie was no 
 fool, he had not the slightest idea, so well was it done, 
 that Kynaston was concealing his game ; he looked upon 
 him as much such a player as himself; but thought that 
 he was a little the best of the two. However, they played 
 a couple more games upon even terms, and whatever Kyn- 
 aston’s object might have been, it was evident he had no 
 design upon Charlie at present ; for in one of these games 
 he was easily beaten, and the other he just won by an j 
 apparent fluke. Nor did he make the slightest attempt 
 to induce Charlie to bet further than the modest stake first 
 proposed. 
 
 Whether Mr. Furzedon, if he had remained and witnessed 
 the episode of the billiard playing, would have been much 
 enlightened about his host’s character, it is hard to say. 
 Furzedon was very shrewd, no doubt, and it must be borne 
 in mind a good five years Devereux’s senior ; but it is 
 very difficult, indeed, knowing nothing of a good billiard* 
 
70 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 player’s game, to know whether he is doing his best , 
 then, again, Furzedon had never set himself to study Major 
 Kynaston. He knew that he was a sporting man, much 
 addicted to horseracing, and he had little doubt with a 
 taste for play ; but he had never troubled his head to take 
 further stock of him. He had dined with Kynaston at 
 some little inconvenience, simply with the view of cement- 
 ing the acquaintance commenced at North Leach ; but it 
 was to Mrs. Kynaston he looked principally to helping him 
 in the main ambition of his life, namely, the working his 
 way into London society. Mr. Furzedon had a high idea 
 of utilising his fellows in anywise ; but it had not so far 
 struck him that the Major could be useful to him. He 
 had not yet fathomed the vainglorious weakness of Kynas- 
 ton’s nature. The Major never could resist vaunting his 
 triumphs when fortune favoured him, either on the baize 
 or on the grass. 
 
 Young Devereux regained his quarters with all the com- 
 placency of a man who has spent a thoroughly satisfactory 
 evening. He had had an excellent dinner, a good tussle 
 at billiards with an opponent worthy of his steel, but of 
 whom he firmly believed he had legitimately got the best, 
 and, crowning mercy of all, the Major had told him those 
 bills would be comfortably arranged for the present. It is 
 true that there was something bitter within the cup, and, 
 young and reckless as he was, even Charlie made a wry 
 face at the price he was told he would have to pay for this 
 further accommodiMKon. Only he had a delicacy about it, 
 he had far better have taken Furzedon into his confidence. 
 Even if that gentleman had charged him interest for extend- 
 ing his loan, it would have been something bearing a very 
 mild proportion to what his present benefactors required 
 for their services. As Mrs. Connop rightly surmised, 
 Charlie had not seen her. He was only up for two or 
 three days, and did not particularly wish his relations to 
 know of his presence in London, more especially Lettie. 
 He was very fond of his sister, knew that her suspicions 
 were already slightly aroused about the state of his affairs, 
 and was not at all inclined to submit to her keen question- 
 ing, Nq/* he tboughtr Lettie always could worm any. 
 
A LITTLE GAME AT BILLIARDS. 
 
 ft 
 
 thing out of me, and it’s not a bit of use worr 5 ring her with 
 this scrape, and she has all her life taken my troubles a 
 deuced deal more hardly than I ever did myself. ^ It ia 
 awkward, and if I can't win a race with Pole Star in the 
 autumn 1 don’t see my way out of it. But Lettie’s a real 
 good sort, and she shan’t be bothered with my troubles so 
 long as I can help it.” 
 
 Miss Devereux, as we know, was already anxious about 
 her brother, and had she known where to write to him 
 would have communicated with him at once, but Charlie 
 had not as yet attained to the dignity of a club, and 
 though when in London he always encamped in the vicin* 
 ity of St. James’s Church, the precise street as well as 
 number of the house were always uncertain. Duke Street, 
 Ryder Street, Bury Street, Jermyn Street, etc., he had 
 lodged in them all. At this time of year rooms in that 
 locality were at a premium, and Miss Devereux kne\y 
 that it was more a case of getting in where you could than 
 where you chose. The only person she could think of 
 likely to know Charlie’s address was Mr. Furzedon, and 
 that gentleman, whether he found people in or out, was 
 much too wary not to leave his card on the hall table. 
 Lettie accordingly dropped a line to Mr. Furzedon at the 
 Parthian Club, asking for her brother’s address, or, should 
 he come across him that evening, would he tell him to call 
 in Onslow Gardens. 
 
 It was late before Kynaston left the ThermopoHum after 
 his billiard tournament. He had accompanied Charlie 
 down stairs, but at their foot encountered an old chum 
 whom he had not seen for many years, had consented to 
 turn into the smoking-room on the ground floor, and have 
 just one small cigar and a chat over old times. Bidding 
 Charlie good night, he did this “ ancient mariner’s” bid- 
 ding, and ah me I how many of us can remember the dire 
 headache that is the result of those chats about old times, 
 how that small cigar and niodest liquor accompaniment 
 expands, and how “ hearing the chimes at midnight ” is a 
 lukewarm jest in comparison with the chimes we do hear 
 upon such occasion. It was very late indeed as Kynaston 
 prepared to emerge from the wicket of the Thermopolium. 
 
7a 
 
 SADDLE AND SABR& 
 
 The bi;^ doors had been long since closed, and only that 
 rabbit like portal was open to the belated members. As 
 the night porter unlatched it for him he handed him a 
 mean and dirty-looking note, which, after one glance at 
 the superscription, the Major thrust carelessly into his 
 waistcoat pocket. 
 
 O, there’s not much difficulty about it, and from what 
 
 you tell me. Miss Devereux, I should think it is 
 
 the very profession to suit your brother. There is an 
 examination to pass, of course ; but most of us manage to 
 do that after being sharpened up by a coach for a few 
 months.” 
 
 “Yes; and Charles has had a University education,” 
 replied the young lady, 
 
 “ Ah ! they don’t always bring much book-learning away 
 from that,” rejoined Gilbert Slade laughing ; “ but they 
 are not required to be so very deeply read to qualify for 
 the service as yet. If your brother has made up his mind, 
 he ought to lose no time about it. It’s a pleasant life 
 enough. The one drawback about it is that it is not a 
 money-making profession.” 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Slade, I shall look to you to put us in the 
 way of making Charlie a soldier.” 
 
 “ I am atraid they won’t pay very much attention to the 
 recommendation of a subaltern of Dragoons ; but I might 
 be of some use to you for all that, Miss Devereux. My 
 uncle, familiarly known in the service as Bob Braddock, 
 He was christened Henry, but a fellow who is good for 
 anything always gets re-christened in his regiment. He is 
 hand-and-glove with all sorts of swells, and a nomination 
 for a commission is not much to ask for.” 
 
 “Ah! here comes Auntie!” exclaimed Miss Devereux, 
 as her quick ear detected a hand upon the door-handle. 
 “ Not a word about my brother,” she added, hurriedly, in 
 an undertone ; ** he is a little in disgrace just now.” 
 
 X. — In Onslow Gardens. 
 
IN ONSLOW GARDENS. 
 
 73 
 
 Mrs. Connop welcomed Gilbert cordially. She was 
 fond of young men, and always did her best to make 
 her house pleasant to them. She had a critical eye for 
 masculine good looks, and Gilbert’s tall muscular figure 
 and dark, resolute face were of the type she most admired. 
 There was a touch of romance about Mrs. Connop, with 
 which only those who knew the good-tempered, vivacious 
 lady intimately would have credited her. 
 
 Lettice understood her aunt thoroughly, and knew that 
 she revelled in sentimental poetry ; and that her eyes would 
 even yet moisten over the perusal of a thrilling love-story. 
 
 “ You have kept your promise, Mr. Slade,” said Mrs. 
 Connop, as she shook hands. “ And you will be so far 
 rewarded in that you will meet another of your sporting 
 acquaintance in a quarter of an hour or so. I call them 
 so,” she continued, laughing, “ for as far as I can make out, 
 you, Lettie, and Mrs. Kynaston have only met on the 
 racecourse.” 
 
 “ Not as yet,” replied Slade ; “ but I trust it will be 
 different in future. I’m not at all one of those men who 
 spend the best part of their lives in the pursuit of racing.” 
 “ It is exciting,” exclaimed Lettie ; “ remember what a 
 fever we were all in about Charlie and Pole Star at Lincoln.” 
 “Exciting? Yes,” replied Gilbert, quietly, “you had 
 special cause for it then. Nobody appreciates and enjoys 
 a good race when it comes in my way more than I do ; but 
 it is not to me what it is to my Uncle Norman, for instance — 
 the very breath of his nostrils.” 
 
 “May one inquire, Mr. Slade, what are your tastes?” 
 said Mrs. Connop. 
 
 An amused smile played upon Gilbert’s mouth as he 
 rejoined, “ That is a question that can be answered from 
 so many different points of view. Professionally, I should 
 reply, military glory ; diplomatically, that they are those 
 of the lady I am talking to. Honestly, I should say, catholic 
 in the extreme, as far as I know myself. I should say I 
 have a keen appreciation of the best of everything there is 
 going, whether it is hunting, shooting, travelling, sight- 
 seeing, or whether it takes the baser form of mere eating 
 and drinking.” 
 
74 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 ** Ah, Mr. Slade,” rejoined Lettie laughing, “ I have ' 
 some remembrance of that latter characteristic. I believe 
 he was starving, Auntie, when father found him at Lincoln.” 
 
 “ Quite true. Miss Devereux. And I can never be suffi- 
 ciently thankful that he did find us. Jocelyn and I were 
 almost capable of devouring each other.” 
 
 A peal on the knocker here heralded the arrival of Mrs. 
 Kynaston, and in another minute that lady had glided into 
 the room, shaken hands affectionately with Lettie, been 
 presented to Mrs. Connop, and exchanged a cordial greet- 
 ing with Gilbert Slade. 
 
 “ Glad to catch you at last, Lettie, though you’re one 
 of the latest swaUows that ever made a season. There’s 
 nothing new, there never is^ you know, to an old Londoner 
 like me ; they may call it this, they may call it that, but it 
 is always the old show dished up under a new name. 
 However, it’s all very pleasant, and I am enjoying myself 
 as much as ever, and so will you. I heard by the purest 
 accident in the Park this morning that you were at the 
 Ramsbury’s ‘ garden ’ yesterday. I don’t know them 
 myself, and have always understood they do the thing 
 prettily.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed,” rejoined Mrs. Connop. “ I don’t care 
 where it is, I think there are very few garden parties given 
 in London where you will find the thing better done than 
 it is at Chelsea Gate.” 
 
 ‘‘ Did you happen to be there, Mr. Slade ?” inquired 
 Mrs. Kynaston carelessly. 
 
 ** Yes,” replied Gilbert, “ it was there I discovered Miss 
 Devereux ; and it is to that I owe the pleasure of meeting 
 you again.” 
 
 ‘‘ Very nice of you to say so,” replied Mrs. Kynaston ; 
 
 “ and I shall only be too glad, as will my husband, if you 
 can find time to honour us with a call in Curzon Street. 
 How is Charlie, Lettie ; has he done with Cambridge yet ?’ 
 
 Miss Devereux was slightly discomposed by this ques- 
 tion. She detected a defiant sniff on the part of her aunt 
 at once. She knew perfectly well that Mrs. Connop was 
 already fuming because that erratic young gentleman had 
 not paid his devoirs in Onslow Gardens. She had particu* 
 
IN ONSLOW GAKuiiNS. 
 
 75 
 
 larly requested Gilbert to avoid alluding to him, and now 
 Kate Kynaston had brought his name prominently forward. 
 
 “ No,” she replied, “ I have not heard of him lately, but 
 I believe he is still at Cambridge.” 
 
 “ Do you, Lettie ?” said Mrs. Connop, sharply. “ I feel 
 pretty sure that he is at the present moment in London.” 
 “ You can’t be sure, Auntie,” rejoined Miss Devereux ; 
 in such a city as this, I should think your double, or your 
 treble, for the matter of that, might be about. It is so easy 
 to make a mistake of that kind.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Mrs. Kynaston, with some languid curi- 
 osity, “you think Mr. Devereux is in town, apparently, 
 Mrs. Connop?” 
 
 “ I don’t think it — I know he is; and it’s very rude of 
 him not to call.” 
 
 “Now, Mr. Slade,” cried Lettie, “I appeal to you; 
 don’t you think it is very possible to make a mistake in 
 the street, and fancy you’ve seen a person who is not 
 within miles of London ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly,” rejoined Gilbert ; “ as a brother officer of 
 mine remarked on this point, ‘ Fellahs are so confoundedly 
 alike, you know, there is no knowing them apart ; if they 
 were only like horses, you know, dash it all, you couldn’t 
 make a mistake about ’em.’” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston inwardly congratulated herself that she 
 had been reticent of speech. It was in perfectly good 
 faith that she had asked if he had done with Cambridge, 
 as she knew that his time there was drawing to a close ; 
 but she certainly knew, further, that he had dined with 
 her husband the previous night. That Charlie should be 
 in London and his own sister not know of it puzzled her 
 a little ; but Mrs. Kynaston was not the woman to make 
 mischief, and therefore passed Lettie’s remark over in 
 silence. 
 
 “ Come and lunch with me to-morrow,” she said, “ all 
 of you; and if your brother’s shadow should take material 
 form, I shall only be too pleased, Lettie, if you will bring 
 him with you. We can have a real good talk then, and 
 I shall be enabled to honestly make your acquaintance, 
 Mrs. Connop. This afternoon I have half a dozen places 
 
SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 76 
 
 to go to, and have only time to shake hands and say how 
 very pleased I shall be to see you again.*' 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston’s invitation was gladly accepted; even 
 Gilbert Slade thought luncheon with the sparkling, bonny 
 brunette would be pleasant, and, as before said, he had an 
 epicurean admiration for pretty women — though at the 
 present moment he was regarding these two living, breath- 
 ing models much as a man might regard a couple of pic- 
 tures — still, they were pleasant to the eye, and afforded 
 him that gratification that arrives to all of us from the 
 contemplation of the beautiful. They were a striking con- 
 trast, but both very perfect in their way. Kate Kynaston's 
 ebon locks, flashing dark eyes and well-rounded form was 
 a pretty foil to the lithe figure, dark chestnut tresses and 
 laughing brown eyes of her friend. 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston could not be said to puzzle her head 
 much, but she did wonder a little what had brought 
 Charlie Devereux to town in this somewhat mysterious 
 way. She reflected, also, that her husband was not the 
 man to throw dinners away, and that from those upon 
 whom he bestowed his hospitality he was not so much 
 apt to expect, but to feel certain, of receiving some return. 
 What his object might be in entertaining Mr. Devereux 
 Kate could not fathom ; and she was still further be- 
 wildered as to what had led him to entertain Mr. Furzedon. 
 About the latter Mrs. Kynaston had her own opinion ; she 
 might be somewhat of a Bohemian, but she had mingled 
 too much with the best people not to know good form** 
 when she saw it, and her instinct told her that Furzedon 
 was not quite a gentleman. He might pass as such with 
 most men, but a well-bred woman would be sure to detect 
 the base ring in the metal. 
 
 Still, that was no business of hers. The Major, as a 
 rule, was a good husband in one respect. Considering in 
 how many others he failed to deserve this definition, it was 
 well that he should have something to the credit side of 
 the ledger, He had scores of dubious acquaintances — men 
 at whom society was wont to look somewhat askance, 
 men of whom, to put it mildly, there were divers queer 
 stories afloat— but, to do him justice, be rarely asked these 
 
IN ONSLOW GARDENS. 
 
 77 
 
 across his own threshold, nor was Mrs. Kynaston ever 
 thrust into the slightest acquaintance with them. When 
 it was absolutely necessary to his plans that such should 
 make their objectionable appearance, they were relegated 
 strictly to the Major’s own den, and his wife knew no 
 more than that “somebody on business” was closeted 
 with him. 
 
 How very often invitations are either given or accepted 
 which, on reflection, people feel to have been a great mis- 
 take, and Mrs. Kynaston’s luncheon invitation had not 
 long left her lips before she became conscious that this 
 vras not exactly what she wanted. There was no disguise 
 about her being quite willing to entertain them all, but it 
 suddenly occurred to her that she did not want to enter- 
 tain them all at the same time, that to have a good gossip 
 with Lettie she wanted that young lady all to herself! 
 That a tite-d-tete with Gilbert Slade would be no doubt 
 enjoyable, but would rather lose its flavour with Mrs. 
 Connop and Miss Devereux being there to assist at it. 
 There was nothing mean about Mrs. Kynaston. She was 
 free-handed as an Arab in the matter of hospitality; her 
 impromptu “little lunches” were usually successes, but on 
 this occasion she felt that she had not picked her guests 
 with her usual good judgment. However, she was too 
 much a woman of the world to be disconcerted for a 
 moment about a trifle like this. To recollect a previous 
 engagement, which must necessitate the postponement of 
 their contemplated banquet, was easy, and it was with 
 many apologies to Mrs. Connop for having spoken so care- 
 lessly that Mrs. Kynaston took her departure. “ It was 
 very stupid of me, but really in the season no one should 
 speak without looking at their engagement-slate, and I 
 really had quite forgotten all about that water-party at 
 the Fitzgerald’s. I only wish, Lettie, they had too, but 
 I’ve promised Mrs. Fitzgerald, and, as she has about the 
 longest and bitterest tongue in all London, I daren’t offend 
 her. I don’t know what crimes might not be laid at my 
 door should I fail to put in an appearance. A line to the 
 Thermopolium will, of course, always find you, Mr. vSlade, 
 and you must come ^nd see me before you wend your way 
 
78 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 northwards. For the present, good-bye to all of you.” 
 And then Mrs. Kynaston took her departure. 
 
 Gilbert soon followed her example, and had hardly left 
 the house when Mrs. Connop exclaimed, with a snap that 
 made Lettie start, “ Now, what did she mean by that ? ” 
 
 “ Mean I Who? What are you thinking of, Auntie ? ** 
 “ Mrs. Kynaston ! Why did she suddenly withdraw 
 her invitation to lunch ? Don’t look so bewildered, child,” 
 continued Mrs. Connop, merrily. “ It does not much 
 matter, but I have mixed too much in the world not to 
 know that to say one thing and mean another is by no 
 means the exclusive privilege of politicians. The Fitz- 
 geralds’ water party I Rubbish ! Doubtful whether there 
 are any Fitzgeralds; bet any one Mrs. Kynaston is not 
 going to them to-morrow. She’s a very glib liar, Lettie ; 
 quite good enough to deceive any man, and most women ; 
 but I’m a solicitor’s widow, my dear, and exceptionally 
 gifted in the detection of false speech.” 
 
 ‘‘ Absurd, Auntie ! You are too suspicious. Kate is as 
 liberal a soul as ever lived, and little likely to be niggard 
 of her wine or her cutlets.” 
 
 “ Nonsense! It’s not that I mean. I have never seen 
 Mrs. Kynaston before, but she changed her mind about 
 having us to lunch. I feel quite sure of it. It is of no con- 
 sequence, but I am curious about ‘ the why.’ ” 
 
 “ You are prejudiced against Mrs. Kynaston,” said Lettie. 
 ‘‘ No, my dear, I am not ; but it is no us« pretending one 
 does not take fancies or aversions at first sight. Dogs, 
 acting up to the lights of their nature, often fight in real 
 earnest on first meeting. Reason tells me I know nothing 
 of Mrs. Kynaston. Instinct tells me to mistrust her.” 
 
 “ Oh, Auntie 1 She is one of my greatest friends,'’ cried 
 Miss Devereux. 
 
 “ I trust I am wrong, and that you may never rue it. 
 She’s a very pretty, pleasant, lady-like woman, but for all 
 that Well I 
 
 The reason why I cannot tell, 
 
 I do not like thee, Doctor Fell. 
 
 Say no more, child ; but I don't take to Mrs. Kynast0Hf 
 
A WAIF ON life’s STREAM. 
 
 79 
 
 XI. — A Waif on Life’s Stream. 
 
 L et Dick Kynaston's habitation be where it might, one 
 thing was always an imperative necessity. Most men 
 affect more or less to have a sanctum of their own, but with 
 Kynaston it was a bona fide den, into which even the house- 
 maid was jealously admitted. It was furnished after the 
 Major’s own peculiar fancy, and tobacco and the Racing 
 Calendar were predominant features in its arrangement. 
 There the owner, seated at his writing-table, cigar in mouth, 
 would pore for hours over volumes of the great Turf Lexi- 
 con, and make astounding calculations about weights, 
 distances, and the varied running of horses. He was as 
 great a votary of racing as Norman Slade ; if he had not 
 studied so long he had studied it quite as attentively ; but 
 there was this great difference between the two men : 
 whereas the one loved it purely as a sport, and exulted in 
 seeing a good horse win, the other regarded it much as one 
 might the tables at Monaco ; he looked upon it as a mere 
 means of gambling, and would infinitely sooner have seen 
 the good horse beaten had it profited him more. It is 
 curious how this greed for money so constantly is, on the 
 Turf, the cause of its pursuer’s undoing. Is not the legend 
 still extant of that luckless bookmaker who, after months 
 of infinite patience and manipulation, had succeeded in 
 getting his horse into the Chester Cup at a weight that 
 made it a gift to him ? Carefully was the commission 
 worked, and he succeeded in plotting a coup that should 
 have made him and his associates rich men for their lives. 
 In a reckless moment, only a few days before the event 
 was to come off, in his anxiety to let no money escape him, 
 he laid the odds to lose ten thousand pounds against a 
 horse, the owner of which had no intention up to that time 
 of sending it to the banks of the Dee. Strange fatality ! 
 That very horse upset the deep-laid scheme by a neck, and 
 turned the well-nigh mighty triumph into bitter defeat and 
 disaster. 
 
 It was very rarely that any of Dick Kynaston’s friends 
 were made welcome to what was conventionally called 
 
8o 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 the study.” Nor was it exactly the room in which a man 
 would elect to receive any one but an extreme intimate. 
 In Curzon Street this sanctuary was simply the back dining- 
 room, and after the books and cigar-boxes, the chief charac- 
 teristics were a leathern armchair and a large, plain, sub- 
 stantial writing-table. 
 
 The Major had no connection whatever with literature, 
 but he was certainly a man with very extensive corre- 
 spondence. The letters he received and the replies thereto 
 were generally of the briefi^, and a great many of them 
 were apparently from peof^ to whom the handling of a 
 pen was a strange and toilsome labour. Their spelling, 
 like their caligraphy, was of a doubtful order. There was 
 much uncertainty apparently amongst them as to the 
 orthodox way of spelling “ Major,** and they discovered 
 more varieties on that point than one would think so simple 
 a title was capable of. These correspondents not uncom- 
 monly followed their letters. Quiet, unassuming people, 
 as a rule ; whose dress might prompt a well-drilled servitor 
 to keep his eye on the umbrellas in the hall, but who 
 otherwise were unmistakably business visitors ; and they 
 vere a strange and curious lot, these jackals of the Major’s. 
 
 It was a sad revelation of how educated men who have 
 iunk beneath life’s stormy waters are driven to get their 
 living, to find that amongst this little band several of them 
 were men well educated, and who once held a good posi- 
 tion ; ruined mostly by their own mad folly, they had 
 descended to the depths of racecourse touts, or still more 
 often had become the tools of the professional usurers, 
 who in former days had helped them to their ruin. The 
 Major himself, very indignant though he would have been 
 had any one ventured to hint so, was simply one of these 
 latter in a very large way of business. If he had burned 
 his fingers considerably he had not come to utter financial 
 grief. He had never forfeited membership of his clubs, he 
 still held his own very fairly socially, and it was essential 
 to his scheme of life that Mrs. Kynaston should take her 
 place in the world, and be seen where that world of some 
 ten thousand people do please to congregate. The differ* 
 euce between him and his emph^is is obvious. To the 
 
A WAIF ON LIFE'S STREAM. 
 
 8i 
 
 well-dressed denizens of Clubland the spendthrift of family 
 and expectations was easily accessible, which, of course, 
 he was not to those more ragged of his bretlxren long since 
 cast out from the gay scenes of their undoing. What 
 hardly pressed young man would not welcome the pros- 
 perous gentleman in broadcloth and clean linen, who sym,* 
 pathised with his embarrassments over a cigar, and wound 
 up by saying, “ Deuce of a mistake, borrowing. But, 
 Lord! what’s the use of preaching! Young blood will 
 run its course. I never argue with a man who must have 
 money, unless he is trying to demonstrate the possibility ol 
 having it out of me. I’ll give you a line to old Moggs if 
 you like. He’ll rob you, naturally — they all do. It’s their 
 trade, but he’ll let you have it as cheap as any man in 
 London.” 
 
 Amongst Dick Kynaston’s habitual visitors was that 
 luckless individual who has already twice flitted across the 
 pages of this narrative. We have seen him righteously 
 struck to the earth by Furzedon outside the night-house in 
 the Haymarket. Unjustifiable though the provocation was, 
 as this story will show, it was questionable whether the 
 striker had any right to deliver it. We have met him 
 again as a mere racecourse tout at Lincoln Races, speaking 
 in the slang vernacular of his tribe, and yet Prance was a 
 man of good education, who had known a much better 
 position, and who, though some years older than Ralph 
 Furzedon, had been tempted by that precocious young 
 gentleman to his undoing. How that happened will 
 appear later ; for the present it suffices to say that to Dick 
 Kynaston he is a mere purveyor of racing intelligence, 
 picked up it is impossible to say how, but at all times worth 
 listening to, as the Major has discovered from experience. 
 That there had ever been the slightest connection between 
 Furzedon and Mr. Prance Kynaston was totall}^ unaware. 
 Had he been a spectator of that scene in the Haymarket 
 no one would have been keener to know what called forth 
 the final malediction launched against Ralph Furzedon, and 
 what had been the previous relations between the pair to 
 warrant the bitter intensity in which it was couched. The 
 ordinary rough who, in his avocation of robbery, gets 
 
82 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 knocked down, may swear a little, but takes it usually 
 after the manner of his betters, as a mishap in the matter 
 of business, but as we know the casual lookers-on had felt 
 that no ordinary discomfiture in a street row could have 
 brought forth the animosity concentrated in Mr. Prance’s 
 curse. 
 
 It is the morning after the Major’s little dinner at the 
 Thermopolium that, while engaged in those mystic calcu- 
 lations somewhat akin to the researches of the old alche- 
 mists in their untiring, though unavailing, endeavours to 
 transmute baser metals into gold, the Major was informed 
 that “ a person ” wanted to see him. Like the old alche- 
 mists, Kynaston had discovered that much more human 
 but baser secret that it is quite possible to induce the 
 weaker portion of humanity to part with their small store 
 of wealth with a view to increasing it. Now, “ a person to 
 see you ” is an announcement disturbing to a considerable 
 portion of society generally. The “ person to see you ” is 
 apt to be a very undesirable person to interview — apt to 
 either want money in some form, or to be the bearer of disa- 
 greeable intelligence. We all know it except those affluent 
 past redemption, and for whom some special paradise of 
 their own must be preserved, or those, and they are a very 
 limited number, whose record is so entirely blameless that 
 they can laugh at the idea of the limelight filing turned 
 upon it. But the Major was used to this curt announce- 
 ment. He neither dreaded that Miss Minnever had called 
 to say that unless she had one hundred on Mrs. Kynaston’s 
 account she should be compelled to take legal proceedings ; 
 nor had he any fear of similar threats from creditors on 
 his own account. Dick Kynaston was a business man in 
 this wise : whatever he might have done once, he was a 
 pretty rigidly ready-money man now. He made his wife 
 a fairly liberal allowance, but he had given her pretty 
 sharply to understand that this must never be exceeded. 
 
 Therefore this announcement brought no misgivings to 
 his mind. 
 
 , Another minute, and the servant had ushered into his 
 room Mr. Prance. 
 
 Well/’ said the Major, ‘‘ what is it ? Sit down, and 
 
A WAIF ON LIFE'S STREAM. 
 
 83 
 
 don’t let us waste any time about it. We know ore 
 another pretty well now. If you merely want money, say 
 so. You know I’m usually good for a trifle, and I will tell 
 you at once what I can let you have. If you’ve brought 
 me information, you know very well that you can trust me 
 to pay for it, if I find it valuable.” 
 
 “Well, Major,”* replied Prance, as he seated himself in 
 a chair, “ I’ve brought you a bit of Turf information which, 
 I think, is worth your taking note of. I can’t say it’s valu- 
 able, probably never may be. You’re a business man, and 
 I don’t expect you’ll ever think you owe me anything on 
 that account. I believe you were hunting up in the Wolds 
 of Lincolnshire last year. Didn’t you make the acquaint- 
 ance of a Mr. Devereux ? We both saw him ride at 
 Lincoln, and, mind you, he will ride some day, but he’s 
 got to practise a bit yet. Now, I’ve heard something 
 about that young gentleman. He’s got into trouble a bit, 
 and from the little that I can learn, is falling into about the 
 worst hands that could happen to any young man starting 
 in life.” 
 
 It took a good deal to astonish the Major, but that 
 Prance should be aware that he was mixed up in Charlie 
 Devereux’s aflairs did surprise him. He hesitated a little 
 before he made answer. It was scarcely likely that a man 
 like Prance would presume to come and tell him to his face 
 that he was no fit mentor for youth. Prance, with a direct 
 pecuniary interest in keeping on good terms with him, was 
 hardly likely to commit himself in this fashion. What 
 did he mean ? What did he know ? What could the 
 fellow be driving at ? 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the Major, slowly, “ I know Mr. Charles 
 Devereux and all his people, but I am not aware that he 
 has fallen into particularly bad hands.” 
 
 “ Did you ever come across a man of the name of 
 Fur2:edon ? ” said Prance, lowering his voice. 
 
 “ I know a gentleman of that name,” replied Kynaston, 
 as he rose from his chair and assumed a lounging attitude 
 against the mantlepiece. 
 
 Gentleman retorted the other with a bitter sneer. 
 You may call him that if you like. There’s a good many 
 
4 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 iravel under that name who, if it means anything like 
 straightforwardness and honesty, have little right to it. 
 From the little Tve seen, but more from what Fve 
 heard, I believe that Furzedon is a great friend of Mr. 
 Devereux’s.” 
 
 “ Mr. Furzedon, you mean,” observed the Major, quietly. 
 
 “ No, sir, I don’t,” rejoined Prance, doggedly. “ I’ll call 
 him ‘ that Furzedon.* But if you’re a friend of Mr. Deve- 
 reux’s tell him to take care of himself, for that he’s inti- 
 mate with as slippery a young scoundrel as ever trod the 
 Heath at Newmarket.” 
 
 “ Surely Mr. Furzedon does very little in that way ? ** 
 
 “ Look here. Major,” said his visitor, ‘‘ you go about a 
 good deal, and are supposed to have cut your eye-teeth, 
 just judge for yourself. Another hint, and it’s worth a 
 sovereign, too. I don’t know what sort of a card-player 
 you are, but if ever you take a hand with Furzedon, don’t 
 be too sure of getting the best of it.” 
 
 “ Ah,” rejoined the Major, I don’t suppose that is very 
 likely to happen, but it is worth a trifle to know that your 
 antagonist is of the highest class when you sit down. 
 Now you recollect what I asked you to find out if possible. 
 Have you succeeded ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know that I can quite say that,” replied Prance, 
 diffidently, “ and I shall have to write to you again on the 
 subject ; still, as far as I can make out, they have got no 
 first-class two-year-old in the Northern stables.” 
 
 “ All right,” replied the Major, as he handed the tout a 
 gratuity. “ If you discover one later on, you must let me 
 know. And now, good-bye,” and a curt nod of dismissal 
 indicated to Mr. Prance that his audience was terminated. 
 
 “ Ah,” said the Major to himself, after his visitor had left 
 the room, “ I was somewhat deceived in that young man. 
 I did not think him a fool, but I had no idea he was so pre- 
 cociously clever. I must study him a bit. I wonder how 
 much he has had to say to young Devereux’s losses ? I 
 shouldn’t wonder if my friend Prance knows an ugly story 
 or two about him, the possession of which would render 
 him very amenable to reason if he and I should ever happen 
 to differ. And it*s a (quarrelsome world/’ mused the Major^ 
 
BOB BRADDOCK'S CONDITIONS. 8§ 
 
 and men lose their temper as often as they do their money, 
 and sometimes, sad to say, both simultaneously.*’ Mr. 
 Prance’s hint was quite a revelation to the Major. He had 
 regarded Furzedon as a quiet, tolerably well-mannered 
 young man, not at all likely to exhibit speculative tastes, 
 but, according to this informant, Mr. Furzedon was an 
 exceedingly astute young man, with a decided taste for 
 gambling in every form. Dick Kynaston had been brought 
 up too much amongst “ the right people ” not to detect that 
 there was a clash of Brummagem about Ralph Furzedon. 
 He was a very good imitation, but the initiated could not 
 fail to see that he was not quite genuine. The base coin 
 appears good money to the eye, but it won’t ring, it jars 
 upon the ear when put to that test, and similarly Furzedon, 
 though at first he thoroughly passed muster, when you 
 came to associate with him jarred a little on the feelings. 
 You couldn’t quite indicate the flaw, but you felt intuitively 
 that he was not quite a gentleman. 
 
 Suddenly a thought flashed across the Major’s mind. A 
 confederate might be useful in many of the transactions in 
 which he was habitually engaged, especially a confederate 
 over whom he had a hold. And this, he thought, through 
 Prance very possible in the case of Ralph Furzedon. 
 There was plenty of time to make inquiries, for he had no 
 particular scheme on foot at the present moment that 
 required a coadjutor. The Major then seated himself at 
 his writing table, and made some brief and mysterious 
 memoranda in his betting book, without which volume, 
 unless perchance it had been in his bath, Dick Kynaston 
 had for years never been met with. 
 
 XII. — Bob Braddock’s Conditions. 
 
 I’;n to be civil to Mr. Furzedon, am I ?” mused 
 ^ Mrs. Kynaston, as she sat in her pretty drawing- 
 room the day after her meeting with Miss Devereux. “ Now 
 1 wonder what that means. Dick never gives me those 
 
86 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 instructions without a reason. I don’t particularly fancy 
 Mr. Furzedon myself ; I wonder what Lettie thinks of him. 
 She had ample opportunity of studying him during the 
 month he was at North Leach ; however, as she is coming 
 to lunch here, I shall have an opportunity of ascertaining.” 
 Miss Devereux was true to her appointment, and the 
 two ladies sat down to their meal tite-d4He. After gossip- 
 ing gaily over various subjects, Lettie asked her friend 
 whether she thought there was any chance of their taking 
 The Firs again next winter. 
 
 “ I am sure I can’t say,” replied Mrs. Kynaston. “ You 
 see men like my husband now and then don’t hunt at all. 
 Dick will race, and there are bad years as well as good 
 ones at that amusement ; and then we can’t afford horses. 
 The Firs is a cheap place, but I don’t think Dick quite 
 liked it. He prefers a more thickly populated neighbour- 
 hood. By the way, have you seen anything of that Mr. 
 Furzedon who was staying with you last winter ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; he called the other day. He has quite done 
 with Cambridge, you know, now, and is settled in London.” 
 “ Yes,” replied Kate, “ I have an idea he is trying hard 
 to push his way into London society. What did you think 
 of him, Lettie ?” 
 
 “ He made himself very pleasant while he was with us — 
 was very good-natured, and seemed to enjoy himself.” 
 
 “ All of which, my dear,” said Mrs. Kynaston, laughing, 
 “ does not give me the slightest insight into what you think 
 of him. Do you consider him quite good form ? Is he of 
 the same stamp as Mr. Slade, for instance ?” 
 
 “No,” rejoined Miss Devereux, quickly; “but he is a 
 soldier, and there is something different about soldiers, 
 you know. I am so anxious that Charlie should become 
 one. He is much too fend of hunting to become a clergy- 
 man, and I’m sure he would never do any good as a 
 barrister, and he must be something.” 
 
 “ Quite so,” replied Mrs. Kynaston, with mock gravity; 
 “men must be something, if it is only to keep them out of 
 mischief, and they don’t always do that. Charlie would 
 make a very dashing Hussar ; and I ought to be a judge, 
 for I knew the ringing of bits and bridles well in my eaijiy 
 
BOB BRADDOCK*S CONDITIONS. 
 
 87 
 
 Harried days. Dick didn’t sell out for a couple of years 
 after we married. Mr. Slade is good-looking,” she con- 
 tinued, after a momentary pause. “ Don’t you think so ?” 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Lettie ; “ it is one of those dark, hand- 
 some faces we are all apt to go wild about.” 
 
 “ He can be very agreeable, too, when he likes. I hope 
 you found him so the other day at Lady Ramsbury’s.” 
 
 “ Very much so,” replied Miss Devereux. “ I am glad 
 to say that there is a chance of your seeing a little of him 
 next winter.” 
 
 “ How so ?” inquired Mrs. Kynaston, 
 
 “ His regiment has been moved up to York, and the 
 Dragoons from there often come down to our county 
 balls ; besides, he has declared that he will come down and 
 see Pole Star run at Lincoln in the autumn.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston cast one quick look at her companion, 
 and wondered how far she and Mr. Slade were interested 
 in each other. Kate Kynaston felt almost inclined to resent 
 this idea. She had commenced a slight flirtation with 
 Gilbert at Lincoln ; and when Mrs. Kynaston did that, she 
 was wont to regard a man as her own peculiar property, 
 and looked for unswerving allegiance on his part. Like 
 many women of her type, she was very good-tempered and 
 pleasant till you happened to interfere with any of her 
 schenies or caprices : and then one who should have known 
 her well — for had he not been in the toils ? — said, 
 
 ‘‘ You may look out for squalls; you’ve got one of the 
 cleverest women in England against you, and it’s long odds 
 she carries her point, more especially if she is playing 
 against a man.” 
 
 Gilbert Slade is lounging in the smoking-room of the 
 Thermopolium with a view to, if possible, catching hold of 
 Major Braddock. He had promised to consult his uncle 
 as to whether he could assist young Devereux to a nomi- 
 nation for the army, a fact which, when it came to Mrs. 
 Kynaston’s ears, disconcerted that lady not a little. She 
 argued that when men exert themselves to assist young 
 ladies’ brothers, they, at all events, have considerable 
 admiration for the young lady herself ; and Mrs. Kynaston, 
 upon very insufficient grounds, considered that Gilbert had 
 
8S 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 no business just at present to admire anybody but herself. 
 She need not have perturbed herself^ that insouciant 
 Hussar thought of his two recent acquaintances only as a 
 couple of pretty, agreeable women ; but he certainly did 
 go this length, that of the two he preferred Miss Devereux. 
 No very great preference, perhaps, but still such it was as 
 far as it went. It would have angered both ladies to know 
 that what occupied his mind at the present moment much 
 more than their fair selves was the nuisance of having to 
 go back to York. York was all very well when you came 
 to the grouse time, the races, and the hunting; but York 
 during the London season was unendurable. He loathed 
 the loud blare of the barrack-yard ; he knew how hot and 
 dusty Cony Street would be, everybody would be away, 
 and an evening country ride without any object was not 
 much for a man to look forward to. “No wonder,'* he 
 muttered, “ we soldiers drink a good deal of claret, and 
 rather stiffen our joints at whist in these dull country 
 quarters. What a deuce of a bore it is having to go back.” 
 
 When his uncle entered the smoking-\oom he at once 
 confided his grievances to him ; but that veteran simply 
 
 “ D d his impudence,” and called him a discontented 
 
 young dog. “ By Jove, sir,** he said, “ it would do you a 
 lot of good to get a good rattling Irish out-station. I had 
 one once myself. My troop was detached from Dundalk ; 
 there wasn’t a soul to speak to, and as for dining, I didn’t 
 do such a thing for four months and the Major quite 
 shuddered at the hardships he had undergone upon that 
 occasion. 
 
 “ It’s a wonder you ever pulled through,” said Gilbert, 
 laughing. 
 
 “ I don’t know that I should have done so,” replied his 
 uncle, twinkling his eye, “ if I hadn’t made friends with 
 the priest. He had some marvellous whiskey, and was 
 the only man I ever met who could really brew whiskey 
 punch. By Jove, sir, I lived upon it. He taught me to 
 play spoiled five, and I’d just get through the evening that 
 way till the cards began to get hazy, and I felt it was time 
 to go home. It’s a beautiful game, spoiled five ; but his 
 reverence used to take the sixpences out of me amazingly, 
 
BOB BRADDOCKS CONDITIONS. 
 
 and I dare say he played a better game ; but I know he 
 had a better head for punch.” 
 
 “ You think he rather rooked you, then,” said Gilbert. 
 
 Pooh, nonsense ! we played for merely nominal stakes; 
 but Father O’Shea was a keen card-player, and, like Mrs. 
 Battle, loved the rigour of the game. I was generally 
 foggy towards the end of the proceedings.” 
 
 “ I say, uncle,” said Gilbert, quietly, you’ve lots of 
 interest, you know, at the Horse Guards ; do you think 
 you could get a nomination for a commission for a young 
 fellow in whom I am interested ? ” 
 
 “ Young fellow in whom you are interested ; friend of 
 yours, I presume?” 
 
 “Well, I can’t exactly say that,” rejoined Slade; “for 
 the fact is I barely know him.” 
 
 “ Then what the deuce do you mean,” rejoined the 
 Major; “you can’t expect me to go bothering at the Horse 
 Guards to a?k favours for your slight acquaintances.” 
 “Well,” rejoined the Hussar, coolly, “his sister is a 
 deuced nice girl, and I’ve promised to do what I can to 
 help her in this matter.” 
 
 Major Braddock’s sole reply was a low chuckle and an 
 expressive wink. The suspicion of a sentimental affair 
 was apt to arouse the mirth of that bon vivant^ who be- 
 lieved in nothing but sensual gratification. 
 
 “ I say, Bertie, my boy, spoons at your time of life is 
 only natural. You will find out the vanity of it before 
 you’re much older. Only, as far as my authority goes, 
 and remember you’ll have a good bit of my dollars when 
 I go, I bar matrimony before you’ve got your troop. If 
 you don’t think you’re better as a bachelor, then please 
 yourself. I’ve nothing more to say against it.” 
 
 “ Your warning is quite uncalled for,” rejoined Gilbert 
 Slade. “ One may like and admire a girl without the 
 slightest thought of marrying her. Besides, I am quite of 
 your opinion. It ought to be made illegal for subalterns 
 to marry. But will you help me in this matter ?” 
 
 “ I can’t say. You admit you know nothing about this 
 young fellow. I’ve no doubt his sister is a nice, ladylike 
 gill. You are not likely to make a mistake about that. 
 
90 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 But the prettiest and nicest of them are sometimes cursed 
 with the most objectionable brothers.” 
 
 “ I can assure you young Devereux will pass muster.” 
 Not a bit of use, Master Bertie. I am not begging 
 till I have seen him. I’ve too great a regard for Her 
 Majesty’s service to inflict upon any regiment a youngster 
 whom his brother officers might feel ought never to have 
 been amongst them. Let me see him, and then, if I con- 
 scientiously can. I’ll do my best for him.” 
 
 “ I am afraid there will be some little difficulty about 
 that,” said Bertie, meditatively. 
 
 “ I can’t help it,” replied the Major, testily. “ I have 
 told you I won’t backra dark horse. You surely can’t be 
 
 afraid to show him, because that’s enough to d him 
 
 at once.” 
 
 ‘‘Nonsense, Uncle Robert; it’s not that. The slight 
 difficulty is this : that he is at the present moment at 
 Cambridge, and I don’t know whether he can get away; 
 while at the same time my leave is running out, and I 
 must return to York. Of course, I can say nothing until 
 I have seen Miss Devereux ; but I don’t quite see my way 
 into bringing you together before the end of the season. 
 And when I’m in town in the winter you are as likely as 
 not to be staying at some country house or another.” 
 
 “ Can’t be helped, Bertie,” returned the Major, doggedly, 
 “ as I said before. I’ll see him before I back him. How it 
 is to be managed is your business ; but if you ask us to 
 meet at dinner, for goodness’ sake, my dear boy, let me run 
 my eye over the menu. Boys of your age never under- 
 stand eating. 
 
 Man may live without love — what is passion but pining ? 
 
 But where is the man that can live without dining ? 
 
 There was no more poetry in the Major than in an 
 oyster, and I question much whether he knew anything 
 about “ Owen Meredith’s ” poem as a whole, but that one 
 passage he certainly had by heart — he thoroughly endorsed 
 every line of it, and was rather given to quoting it. 
 
 Gilbert felt there was no more to be said. His uncle 
 had delivered his ultimatum, and the bringing of Charlie 
 
BOB BRADDOCK'S CONDITIONS. 
 
 91 
 
 and Major Braddock together he felt could only be com- 
 passed after consultation with Miss Devereux. He nodded 
 to his uncle as the latter left the room, and continued to 
 smoke on in silent meditation. He had, at all events, 
 successfully accomplished the first step. He had no fear 
 but what Charlie Devereux would pass muster with the 
 Major, and the veteran had given his word to interest him- 
 self in his behalf should that be the case. 
 
 It must be remembered that the days of which I am 
 writing were before the time of competition, when a nomi- 
 nation for a regiment held good, providing you passed a 
 certain specified examination, a more practical test to my 
 mind than the present system, which is calculated to fur- 
 nish the army with excellent linguists and arithmeticians, 
 but not quite the best stuff from which soldiers are made. 
 I am afraid this higher knowledge is of little account in 
 the field, however telling it may be in the class-room. 
 There was a hero who won the V.C. scarce a decade ago, 
 whom rumour declared had been twice “ plucked in one 
 of the ceaseless examinations that now dog the steps of 
 the unfortunate British officer, but he had great determina- 
 tion, quickness, and grit, which served him in better stead 
 that day than science or tactics. 
 
 The one thing quite clear to Gilbert Slade is that he 
 must see Miss Devereux without loss of time, and accord- 
 ingly, as soon as it became near the canonical hour for 
 calling, he wended his way towards Onslow Gardens. He 
 arrived there somewhat early, but he did this with inten- 
 tion, as he honestly wanted to get in. To his enquiry as 
 to whether Mrs. Connop was at home, he received an 
 answer in the affirmative, and was duly ushered up stairs. 
 To his dismay he found that estimable lady alone, and 
 after the warning he had received the other day from Miss 
 Devereux, he knew that it would be imprudent to ask her 
 for her nephew’s address. However, there could be no 
 harm in asking after Lettie, and his mind was considerably 
 lightened when he ascertained that that young lady 
 was not only in, but would probably be down in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 She ii just putting on her bonnet, Mr. Slade, as we are 
 
SADDLE AND SAfiRfi. 
 
 §2 
 
 going over to Lady Ramsbury’s for a cup of tea, and 
 intend to have a turn in the Park afterwards.** 
 
 A few minutes* lively conversation, for Mrs. Connop was 
 by no means one of those women whom talking to becomes 
 painful and wearisome labour, and then Lettie entered the 
 room, looking, as Slade thought, handsomer than he had 
 ever seen her yet. She greeted Gilbert with much cordi- 
 ality, and then, to Slade's great relief, Mrs. Connop got up, 
 and said, laughingly : 
 
 “ I must leave you to take care of Mr. Slade, Lettie. I 
 am sure you will excuse me for a few minutes,** she added, 
 turning to Gilbert, but I also must array myself for our 
 drive.*’ * 
 
 “ I wanted much to see you alone for a few minutes. 
 Miss Devereux,” said Gilbert, as the door closed. “I have 
 lost no time in seeing if I could be of any assistance to 
 your brother in obtaining a commission. Now, my uncle, 
 popularly known as ‘ Jolly Bob Braddock,’ can, as I told 
 you, help him if he chooses, and he has promised he will if 
 he likes him.” 
 
 “ Likes him I ” repeated Lettie. But that is rather a 
 doubtful thing.** 
 
 “You don’t know the Major, and therefore you can’t 
 quite understand. He is straight as a die, but he won't 
 exert his influence to procure a commission for any young 
 fellow whom he does not consider pleasant and a gentle- 
 man — in short, he insists upon seeing him.** 
 
 “ Oh dear I ** exclaimed Lettie with a comic expression 
 of despair, “ this is terrible. It*s worse than going in for 
 his ‘ smalls.* ** 
 
 “ Nothing of the kind,** replied Gilbert. “There will be 
 no trouble about it if I can only get hold of your brother 
 at once, and induce him to meet my uncle at the Thermo- 
 polium. As long as his dinner is all right — and as we have 
 agreed that he is to have the ordering of it, it will be hard 
 lines if it isn*t — Charlie will pass muster triumphantly, and, 
 I hope, spend a pleasant evening. But, you see, my time 
 in London is limited, and the question is, Can he get away 
 from Cambridge ? ** 
 
 “ He is away, Mr. Slade ; I believe him to be in London 
 
SEEKING A COMMISSION. 
 
 93 
 
 at this minute, though I don’t Jcnow his address ; but I 
 think it very possible I may in the course of the day. I 
 have written to a great friend of his, who is pretty certain 
 to know where he is staying, and I will let you know the 
 moment I hear. He is very keen upon this army idea, and, 
 I am sure, would make a great effort in answer to your 
 kindness, and it really is very, very kind of you, Mr, Slade, 
 to have taken so much trouble for people of whom you 
 know so little as you do of us.” 
 
 ** That is a fault to be amended, Miss Devereux,” rejoined 
 Gilbert. “ You cast your bread upon the waters that bitter 
 afternoon at Lincoln, and won undying gratitude from a 
 half-famished man.” 
 
 “ It is very good of you to make so little of the service 
 you are rendering us.” And as Lettie spoke, the door 
 opened, and Mrs. Connop sailed into the room. 
 
 Gilbert felt that his mission was accomplished, and 
 though he would willingly have prolonged the tete-d-tete^ 
 there was nothing left him now but to put the ladies into 
 their carriage and take his departure. 
 
 XIII. — Seeking a Commission. 
 
 M r. FURZEDON was a little puzzled on the receipt 
 of Miss Devereux’s note. There was no difficulty 
 about giving Charlie’s address, but it was just possible that 
 young gentleman, for the day or two he was in town, might 
 not care about seeing his relations. What had brought 
 him up Furzedon did not know; he had no opportunity of 
 private conversation with him at Dick Kynaston’s dinner, 
 but he did know that unless the University had intimated 
 that they could dispense with Mr. Devereux’s presence for 
 some time, or even altogether, that his stay in London 
 must be very short. However, after a few minutes* con- 
 sideration, it was obvious to him that the best thing to do 
 would be to consult Charlie himself on that point. That 
 young gentleman, as soon as he had read the note, 
 
94 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 observed, “All right, I didn’t mean going to Onslow Gar- 
 dens, but Lettie is a clear-headed girl, and wouldn’t par- 
 ticularly want to see me unless she had a good reason for 
 it. I had no idea my respected aunt knew I was in town, 
 or else I should have gone up there yesterday. Mrs. Con- 
 nop has a great idea as to what is due to her, from her 
 nephews and nieces, and, as she is a regular trump, I 
 wouldn’t offend her for the world.” 
 
 “You’d be a precious fool if you did,” rejoined Furze- 
 don. “ She’s good, no doubt, for many years to come, 
 but she has money to leave behind her whenever she makes 
 an end of it.” 
 
 “ I wasn’t thinking of that,” rejoined Charlie, curtly. “ 1 
 only remembered she was always a jolly kind aunt to me 
 from my school-boy days, when she used to take me to the 
 pantomime, till last winter, when she gave me a cheque 
 for 50 /. to buy another hunter with.” 
 
 “I see,” replied Furzedon, “one of those beneficent god- 
 mamas that only exist in fairy tales. This is the first I 
 ever heard of in real life.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. I fancy Aunt Connop is a sort you don’t 
 often come across.” 
 
 “ Well, good morning,” rejoined Furzedon. “ I shall 
 write a line to Miss Devereux to say that you’ll be in 
 Onslow Gardens this afternoon. An independent aunt 
 who is lavish of cheques for fifty is a relative to cling to, 
 take my word for it.” 
 
 Charlie’s appearance in Onslow Gardens that afternoon * 
 speedily made his peace with Mrs. Connop. With that 
 lady, indeed, he was an especial favourite. She liked him 
 better considerably than his steady-going brother, and, 
 though very fond of Lettie, perhaps cared more about the 
 scapegrace of the family than her niece. Charlie had 
 never done anything very terrible, but he had a knack — 
 some men have — of being incessantly in scrapes. He had 
 never come actually to grief, but from his earliest days he 
 had occasioned considerable anxiety to his family by per- 
 petually hovering on the brink of it. Lettie was his most 
 trusted counsellor, and in small financial muddles, at her 
 instigation, Mrs* Connop bad more than Qnce come to the 
 
SEEKING A COMMISSION. 
 
 95 
 
 rescue. Clear-headed Lettie saw that with a nature like 
 her brother’s the sooner he was set to some serious work 
 ^ the better. She knew he was floing no good at the Uni- 
 ' versity, and she was now very hot upon his getting into 
 the army as soon as possible. You can’t keep a man in 
 leading strings, but to let him saunter through life with no 
 occupation is bad for any, destruction to some. 
 
 The preliminary greetings over, Lettie plunged at once 
 in tnedias res, and had the satisfaction of finding both her 
 auditors thoroughly with her. Mrs. Conhop was as keen 
 that Charlie should enter the army as he was to get into it, 
 and said that, to see her nephew a Dragoon, she would not 
 at all grudge contributing handsomely towards his outfit. 
 And then she went on to tell Charlie how she had per- 
 suaded Mr. Slade to ask his uncle. Major Braddock, to 
 interest himself in his — Charlie’s — favour, and how that 
 distinguished officer had promised to do so, providing that 
 he approved of this candidate for military honours. 
 
 “ But Charlie, Major Braddock will see you — to use Mr. 
 Slade’s words, he won’t recommend a recruit he hasn’t 
 himself inspected; but Mr, Slade says — and it’s awfully 
 kind of him — that if you could manage to dine with him at 
 the Thermopolium one day next week, he will get his uncle 
 to meet you.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is very good of him,” replied Charlie ; “ and I will 
 manage it if he will only let me know what day ; but, 
 remember, I must go back to Cambridge to-night. I have 
 only leave for three days (he didn’t think it necessary to 
 mention that he had obtained leave of absence for three 
 days, under pretext of consulting a London physician) ; 
 “ but I can always manage to run up and get back by the 
 first train in the morning.” And Charlie felt, though he 
 did not venture to express it, that he would willingly risk 
 being sent down, sooner than miss this chance of getting 
 a nomination for a profession he had now set his heart on. 
 
 “Very well, then,” said Lettie ; “ I shall write and tell 
 him you will gratefully accept his invitation, if he will for- 
 ward it to your Cambridge address.” 
 
 “That’s all right,” rejoined Charlie, gleefully. “And 
 now, Aunt, I must say good-bye. You are a trump, 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE* 
 
 g6 
 
 Lettie ; ’* and having given his sister a hearty kiss, and 
 shaken hands with his aunt, Charlie shot down the stairs 
 and made his way back to Duke Street. 
 
 Charlie’s meditations were a little mixed as he walked 
 Westward. He was in high spirits at the idea of the open- 
 ing which presented itself to him ; but the usual bitterness 
 was mingled in the cup, to wit, that he would have to make 
 some arrangements about those confounded bills. Still, 
 his Aunt Connop had just distinctly said that she would 
 come down with something handsome to see him a Dra- 
 goon. Perhaps she would see him out of this scrape. 
 She had done so once or twice before in a small way, and 
 Charlie felt rather afraid of confessing the extent of his 
 misdoings this time to his sister, and she was the medium 
 through which he generally approached his aunt. How- 
 ever, he thought, “ Only let me once get into the army, 
 and some of them, I think, are bound to see me through it.” 
 
 As he passed through Piccadilly, Charlie took out his 
 watch, and wondered whether he had time to turn into 
 Curzon Street and call upon Mrs. Kynaston. He was 
 beginning now to entertain a lively appreciation of that 
 lady’s charms. In the hunting-field she had a serious rival 
 in the goddess Diana, for the prettiest woman in England 
 would have had to ride hard and straight to keep Charlie 
 in her company while hounds were running, but in London 
 it was very different. There Mrs. Kynaston had no rival 
 in Charlie’s estimation, and, miss his train or not, he deter- 
 mined to call. “ Yes, Mrs. Kynaston was at home,” so the 
 servant informed him, and he was duly ushered into that 
 lady’s pretty little drawing-room in Curzon Street. 
 
 She received him with much empressement^ for he really 
 was a favourite of hers, and was quite aware of his admira- 
 tion for herself. She sometimes thought with a saucy air 
 of triumph of their first meeting, and how utterly oblivious 
 he had been to the fact that he was doing escort to a 
 very pretty woman, and Kate Kynaston would softly 
 murmur to herself, “ Things would be very different now, 
 I think.” 
 
 “ Delighted to see you, Mr. Devereux. Are you up in 
 
 town for long ? Heard you were dining with my husband 
 
SEEKING A COMMISSION. 
 
 97 
 
 last night ; but I suppose they don’t give you a long fur- 
 lough from Cambridge ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ No,” laughed Charlie ; “ very short, indeed, but I hope 
 soon — yes, very soon — to have done with it. I have a 
 chance of entering the army, and if that comes off I shall 
 cut Cambridge at once. Don’t you think I shall be right ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, I do,” replied Mrs. Kynaston. “ You will 
 make a very fair Dragoon, and I don’t think you ‘ frame ’ 
 for anything like bookwork.” 
 
 “ That’s just what Lettie says ! ” exclaimed Charlie. 
 
 “ Yes. The life will just suit you — and remember I speak 
 as a woman having experience.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I am clever,” replied Devereux, laughing ; 
 ‘‘ but you needn’t tell a fellow so, Mrs. Kynaston. I think 
 I can ride a bit and play a decent game of billiards. I had 
 some tough battles with the Major the other night, and 
 had decidedly the best of it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps he was not in form,” replied Mrs. Kynaston, 
 drily. My husband takes a good deal of beating in a 
 general way.” 
 
 ‘‘ And I flatter myself I do also,” rejoined Charlie, a 
 little piqued. ‘‘No, I honestly believe I am a few points 
 better than the Major.” 
 
 “ Well, perhaps, it is so,” replied Mrs. K}^aston, “ only 
 recollect that my husband has had far wider experience 
 than you have had. He is apt to play carelessly except 
 for money.” 
 
 “ We had a trifle on, just to make it interesting,” replied 
 Charlie. 
 
 “ Well, perhaps you are the best,” said Mrs. Kynaston, 
 indifferently, “ only I wouldn’t be too sure. How is 
 Pole Star ? ” 
 
 “ Doing wonderfully well, I hear, and very much im- 
 proved since we got so disgracefully beaten at Lincoln. I 
 hope to avenge my defeat there in the autumn, and that 
 you will be there to see it.” 
 
 “ I hope so too,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston. “ But our 
 movements at present are very uncertain. The Major 
 never makes up his mind until the end of the season, and 
 very often not until the end of October.” 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 9? 
 
 Major Kynaston’s movements were in good truth 
 governed considerably by his financial success on the 
 Turf, as his wife had confided to Lettie, but Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton was not likely to enter into such confidences with 
 Charlie. 
 
 ‘‘ And when do you expect to go up for your inspection ? 
 Lettie told me all about it, and I know that you are to be 
 paraded before Major Braddock. I trust that the wine 
 may be properly iced, and that the cook may have done 
 his devoirs deftly,” continued Mrs. Kynaston, laughing. 
 ‘‘ I suppose you know that a mistake in a side dish, or the 
 claret served at an undue temperature, may nip your 
 aspirations in the bud ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied C^rlie, joining in her laugh. ‘‘ I have 
 heard that Major Braddock regards dinner as a very 
 solemn function ; but we are to dine at his own club, and 
 surely there should be safety in that. I should think the chef 
 for his own sake would do his best for Major Braddock.” 
 
 ‘‘ There is much worldly wisdom in your speech,” 
 rejoined Mrs. Kynaston. Gourmets like Major Braddock 
 ‘back their bills,’ and make bitter the lives of both cook 
 and committee should even their mutton chop not be done 
 to the exact turn.” 
 
 “ Let us hope the Fates will be propitious. And now, 
 Mrs. Kynaston, I must wish you good-bye, for I have but 
 just time to pack up my traps and catch my train.” 
 
 “ Good-bye and may all success attend you. Write as 
 soon as you know ; or, better still, come and tell me you 
 are to be a Dragoon.” 
 
 Kate Kynaston sat plunged in reverie for same time 
 after Charlie had taken his departure. She knew her 
 husband too well to suppose that the light-hearted boy 
 would have any chance with him at cards or billiards. 
 What could Dick mean ? He surely did not intend to 
 ^plunder such small game as Charlie Devereux, and yet 
 that the latter had any chance with her husband at billiards 
 or cards she did not believe for one moment. Poor Kate ! 
 it was far from her nature to turn hawk, and she had 
 winced at first when her eyes were opened to the fact that 
 Dick Kynaston got his living for the most part by his skill 
 
SEEKING A COMMISSION. 
 
 99 
 
 in all description of ‘ play. But she soon grew callous, 
 and even stooped to make use of her own smiles and bright 
 eyes to lure men into her husband’s net. But she was 
 loyal to her favourites, and Dick, though he ruled her with 
 an iron hand, on the whole knew that now and again she 
 would stand no plundering of the innocents. It was on 
 behalf of the young ones Kate chiefly interfered. Her 
 elder admirers, she deemed, ought to be able to take care 
 of themselves, but she would interfere sharply sometimes 
 on behalf of her boyish adorers, and she was just the sort 
 of woman whom quite young men especially worship. I 
 don’t mean to say that Kate Kynaston had not plenty of 
 men of all ages at her feet, but she had a quiet way with 
 her that put “ young ones ” at their ease in the first half- 
 hour. No, she would not have this thing. She would tell 
 Dick that he must stay his hand as far as Charlie Devereux 
 was concerned. She knew that he was wild, and she knew 
 that he was weak, but she would not have it on her con- 
 science that she stood by and saw this boy ruined on the 
 threshold of his career. She was submissive in general, 
 and Dick Kynaston was not the man to bear the thwarting 
 of his schemes patiently, but this matter should be speedily 
 settled between them, and she would let him know that 
 Charlie Devereux must be spared. 
 
 Then her thoughts ran back to the old channel. She 
 did not deceive herself in the least. She knew that her 
 liking for Gilbert Slade was growing on her. She knew it 
 from the dismay with which she had learnt that he had 
 interfered in Charlie Devereux’s behalf at Lettie’s request. 
 Gilbert, she argued, must be much struck with that young 
 lady to take all this trouble on her brother’s account. She 
 had taken a great fancy to Lettie, but unfortunately she 
 had taken an equally strong one for Slade, and when two 
 such friendships clash it is pretty safe to predict that the 
 woman will be thrown over in favour of the man. 
 
 Again, Mrs. Kynaston had chosen, in virtue of her prior 
 acquaintance, to regard Gilbert Slade as her own peculiar 
 property. How very slight that acquaintance had been 
 was shown by the fact that when he met her on old Tom 
 Devereux’s drag at Lincoln be had failed to remember her. 
 
TOO 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRHL 
 
 True, Gilbert had devoted himself to her upon that occa* 
 sion more than to Lettie, but a man would have laughed 
 at Mrs. Kynaston’s entertaining such an idea that she held 
 right of vassalage over Gilbert, though a woman would 
 perfectly have understood it, and have divined in a moment 
 that the friendship of those two would be of short duration 
 now that Mrs. Kynaston’s jealousy was aroused. That 
 lady, rousing herself at length from her reverie, sprang to 
 her feet, and as she paced up and down the drawing-room, 
 was quite as determined that Lettie Devereux should never 
 wed Gilbert Slade, as that her husband should not plunder 
 the brother. 
 
 ILBERT SLADE contrived to see a good deal of 
 
 Miss Devereux during this last fortnight. As the 
 diplomatist who had the arranging a meeting between 
 Charlie and Major Braddock on the most favourable terms, 
 he found it necessary to consult Lettie very often. The 
 Major usually, and more especially at this time of year, had 
 pretty numerous engagements in the dinner way. There- 
 fore it was necessary to ascertain, first, what evening would 
 suit him. Then it was imperative that Charlie should be 
 written to, and told that if anything should prevent his 
 attending on that occasion he must telegraph at once, as 
 otherwise he would create a most unfavourable impression 
 on the Major, who regarded engagements of this sort as 
 bonds of the most sacred description. Charlie also had to 
 be cautioned against the heinous sin of unpunctuality. 
 Very fond was the Major of laying down the axiom, that to 
 be late on such an occasion was an offence unpardonable. 
 When in the army he had been always given to harrying 
 the subalterns about being behind time for the men’s duty. 
 Unpunctuality on other parades he might look over, but 
 not on this one ; so that altogether Gilbert was a good 
 deal in Onslow Gardens. However, at last everything 
 was arranged Charlie had been most carefully tutored, 
 
 XIV. — Charlie on Probation. 
 
CHARLIE ON PROBATION. 
 
 lOI 
 
 as far as Lettie, inspired by Slade, could do so by the post. 
 He had even been tutored into studying “ Lucille, and 
 warned, if he saw a fair opportunity, to fire off the follow- 
 ing quotation from that poem : — 
 
 Wc may live without friends, we may live without books ; 
 
 But civilised men cannot live without cooks. 
 
 “ I am so very anxious,” said Lettie, when the important 
 day was finally fixed. “ I do so hope Charlie will acquit 
 himself creditably. I have done as you told me. I have 
 warned him to be highly-appreciative of the good things 
 set before him ; but to be a little diffident as to giving an 
 opinion about the wine.” 
 
 “ Quite right,” said Gilbert, laughing. “ Very young 
 men are apt to set up as judges in that respect, and I know 
 that always moves Uncle Bob’s wrath. I even once heard 
 him assert that no man knew anything about wine until he 
 had had a fit of the gout.” 
 
 “ But,” cried Lettie, “ men don’t always have the gout, 
 do they ? ” 
 
 “ I fancy my uncle and his cronies are unanimous con- 
 cerning that complaint. We must only hope that he is 
 not disposed to just now.” 
 
 “ It is very good of you, Mr. Slade, to take all this 
 trouble for me, and I am very grateful to you ; but I feel 
 wofully nervous about Charlie’s ordeal. Your uncle seems 
 somewhat peculiar.” 
 
 “ Not at all. Miss Devereux ; not more so than the gene- 
 rality of mankind. The only thing is that, as I want Charlie 
 to show to the best advantage, I’m giving you a chart ol 
 the country. We have most of us peculiarities, and it is 
 just our clashing of these that makes people take a dislike 
 to us when we first meet them.” 
 
 “ It is very good of you, and I can’t be sufficiently 
 grateful.” 
 
 “ Don’t think of it,” interrupted Gilbert ; “ I’m only toG 
 pleased that I managed to arrange the matter before my 
 time was up. I must leave London the day after to-mor- 
 row ; but I was so afraid that it might not come off.” 
 
 “ But I shall see you again before you go ? ” said Lettie^ 
 
102 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, Fll come down to-morrow afternoon, if you’ll 
 allow me, and tell you how things went off. And now I 
 must say adieu. Depend on it, it will be all right, Miss 
 Devereux. Uncle Bob is a good-natured fellow, though 
 perhaps over-fond of his dinner, and has always done any- 
 thing I wanted ; ” and with these words of encouragement 
 Gilbert Slade took his departure. 
 
 Lettie really was very anxious that Charlie should get 
 into the army. She thought, unless he had some occupa- 
 tion, that volatile brother of hers would most assuredly 
 come to grief. She had been greatly pleased with the en- 
 thusiasm he showed at the prospect of entering the army, 
 and it was therefore no wonder that she should be anxious 
 about his success. 
 
 “ It’s odd,” thought Lettie, “ but really at present his 
 chance seems to depend on the caprice of a middle-aged 
 gentleman.” Then she thought how very kind Mr. Slade 
 had been about the whole business ; and then I think her 
 whole reverie rather concentrated itself on Mr. Slade him- 
 self. It is a very easy transition, when the subject is a 
 good-looking young man, to glide from ** how very kind ” 
 to “ how very nice ” he was, and from that to those day- 
 dreams in which all young ladies are prone to indulge, and 
 to what answer she should give if ever he should ask the 
 momentous question, and from that the vrhole thing dies 
 away in a background of orange flowers, bridesmaids, rice, 
 and old slippers. 
 
 The fateful evening at last arrived. Charlie Devereux, 
 having compared his watch with the Horseguards in the 
 afternoon — the one authority on time that Major Braddock 
 recognised, to which all other clocks were expected to bend 
 — arrived at the Thermopolium at least ten minutes before 
 the appointed hour. Gilbert shook him heartily by the 
 hand, and said, laughing, 
 
 “ This will do. Uncle Robert is not here himself yet. 
 Don’t forget the hints I have sent you ; I know you’ll excuse 
 my doing so, but of course we have a point to carry : ap- 
 preciative but not demonstrative about the dinner, and 
 somewhat diffident on the subject of wine ; bear in mind 
 it’s all the Major’s ordering ; and everything is sure to be 
 
CHARLIE ON PROBATION. I03 
 
 ^ood, or else I prophesy a very stormy morrow down below 
 for the cook and butler.” 
 
 “ I shall do my very best,” rejoined Charlie, ** to profit 
 by your hints. As I am terribly in earnest about this thing, 
 I hope I shall pass muster. Anyway I can’t sufficient-y 
 thank you, Slade, for the trouble you have taken about it ! ” 
 
 “ Nonsense,” replied the other, “ but hush, here comes 
 the great pasha himself.” 
 
 “To the minute. Uncle Robert. Let me introduce my 
 friend, Mr. Devereux.” 
 
 The Major shook hands cordially with Charlie, but at 
 the same time Gilbert noticed an extremely puzzled express 
 sion on his countenance. As they went upstairs to the 
 coffee-room, Major Braddock took advantage of an oppor- 
 tunity to whisper to his nephew. 
 
 “ Deuced odd, Bertie, but I’ll swear I have seen your 
 friend before.” 
 
 “ Not likely, I think,” rejoined Slade. “ Some likeness 
 probably misleads you.” 
 
 “ Not a bit of it,” rejoined the Major testily. His valet 
 had forgotten his buttonhole, and had to be despatched in 
 a hansom cab in hot haste in search of this indispensable 
 adjunct at nearly the last moment. Notwithstanding, 
 Major Braddock sat down to his dinner. The clear 
 turtle was undeniable, and by the time the glass of 
 Madeira, its natural sequence, had been swallowed, the 
 Major dismissed the subject, and had given himself up 
 to enjoyment. The dinner proved a success on every 
 point. The champagne was iced to a turn, the claret was 
 warmed to a nicety, and Charlie, with the aid of the 
 few hints he had received, had no difficulty in passing as 
 what he really was, a genuine unaffected gentlemanly young 
 fellow. It was evident that he had found favour in the 
 Major’s sight, and when the quotation was dexterously 
 fired off over a wondrous cunning salmi that appeared as 
 the dinner wore on, the Major exclaimed : 
 
 “ My dear young friend, allow me to congratulate you. 
 You have the making of an epicure, and a considerable 
 rudimentary knowledge of the highest art of civilisation. 
 I have little doubt that in course of time you’ll be as good 
 
104 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRR 
 
 a judge of a dinner as I am ! ’’ And the Major uttered 
 these words in the same manner that another man might 
 have suggested a Victoria Cross or a K.C.B.-ship as goals 
 in a military career. “ It is to be regretted,” continued the 
 Major, glancing sadly down at his own portly proportions, 
 
 that the acquirement of such knowledge does spoil the 
 figure, but as Mr. Weller remarked, and he must (in his 
 rough way) have been as one of us, ‘ Width and wisdom 
 go together.* ** 
 
 After a couple of cigars Charlie, in obedience to a hint 
 from his mentor, took his departure. 
 
 “ He’ll do, Bertie ; he’ll do ! As nice a young one as I 
 have seen for some time. I shall have great pleasure in 
 doing all I can for him. I cannot think who his face 
 
 reminds me of God bless my soul ! I have it now ! — 
 
 being here, recalls it to my memory. That is the young 
 fellow I saw about a fortnight ago playing billiards in the 
 next room with that old robber, Dick Kynaston. And I’ll 
 tell you what, Bertie, my boy ; if Devereux has got any 
 money, the sooner you give him the hint the better. I 
 know what Dick Kynaston can do on a billiard-table. And 
 during the little time that I looked on he was playing with 
 young Devereux as a cat plays with a mouse.” 
 
 “ I shouldn’t think that Charlie Devereux was worth Ky- 
 naston’s attention in that way. Of course he knows them. 
 They were up hunting in his country all last season. But 
 I’m very glad you like young Devereux, and hope now that 
 you’ll give him a lift.” 
 
 “ I will, I will ! But don’t say too much about it, Bertie ; 
 for I don’t want to disappoint him. And — it may not come 
 off.” 
 
 ** Quite good enough. Uncle Robert, to know that you’ll 
 do your best. But I’ll be careful not to arouse undue 
 expectations.” 
 
 The next afternoon Gilbert wended his way to Onslow 
 Gardens to tell Lettie what had been accomplished. 
 
 ‘‘ Most satisfactory, I assure you. Miss Devereux. Major 
 Braddock was perfectly satisfied with your brother, and 
 pronounced him a very nice youngster. Even the quota- 
 tion was fired off with great dexterity. I have done every* 
 
CHARLIE ON PROBATION. 
 
 105 
 
 thing possible, and though of course we can’t be quite cer- 
 tain, yet I have little doubt my uncle will obtain him a 
 nomination. The examination, of course, is Charlie’s 
 affair, but I don’t suppose that will bother him much.” 
 
 “ Whether it bothers him or not, he must pass it,” 
 rejoined Miss Devereux, laughing ; “ even if I have to turn 
 schoolmistress, and hear him his lessons daily. However, 
 I have no fear about that. Charlie will work hard enough, 
 if it is wanted, with an object in view. And now, do you 
 really leave London to-morrow ? ” 
 
 “Yes. Leave is up. and I must return to York. It is 
 not a bad quarter, but no place seems a good one when 
 you want to be somewhere else. By the way, you are very 
 intimate with the Kynastons, are you not ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Lettie. “ That is, with Mrs. Kynaston. 
 I like her very much. She is as bright as she is pretty, 
 and can be so excessively amusing.” 
 
 “ But,” said Gilbert, “ I gather you don’t care much for 
 Major Kynaston ? ” 
 
 “ No,” said Lettie, “ I’m sure I don’t know why not, for 
 he has always been very civil and polite to me. I have no 
 doubt I am quite wrong, but he always gives me the idea 
 of being so insincere.” 
 
 “I fancy he rather bears that character,” said Slade; 
 “ but what has become of Mrs. Connop ? ” 
 
 “ She is to come back for me, and take me out driving, 
 and is very nearly due now,” and Lettie glanced at the 
 clock. “ I was so anxious to hear of Charlie’s prospects, 
 that I waited to see him. As for thanking you for the good 
 news you brought, I cannot sufficiently ; but you do under- 
 stand, Mr. Slade, how very grateful I am, don’t you ? ” 
 Lettie had risen from her chair, and very handsome the 
 girl looked in the excitement of the moment, and very 
 handsome the girl looked with her cheeks slightly flushed, 
 and her gray eyes sparkling with pleasure. This getting 
 her brother into the army was an object very near to her 
 heart. She was of a warm-hearted, impulsive disposition, 
 and very fond of Charlie, and was extremely gratified at 
 the prospect of Charlie’s becoming a Dragoon. Gilbert 
 was by no means blind to her attractions, and thought 
 
1 00 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 V 
 
 
 Miss Devereux had never looked so handsome as she did 
 at this moment. 
 
 ‘‘ You’re making much of a very small service,” he said, 
 ‘‘ and I’m quite ashamed at the wealth of gratitude by 
 which it is repaid. Don’t you know we all go upon the 
 recruiting service sometimes ? I can only trust in the 
 future that you’ll have no cause to shake your head, and 
 pointing at me, say ; ‘ There’s the Sergeant Kite that 
 trapped my brother.’ ” 
 
 “ I have no fear of the result,” rejoined Lettie. ‘‘ But 
 happen what may, I will promise never to blame you for 
 it ; here is my hand on it.” 
 
 Slade took the small palm which Lettie extended, and 
 not only pressed it warmly, but detained it a trifle longer 
 than there was any necessity for. The girl coloured 
 slightly as he at last released it, and then exclaimed : 
 
 “ I hear the carriage, and must run and get my bonnet 
 on. You stay and tell my aunt all about it. I shall be 
 down again in ten minutes.” 
 
 Mrs. Connop was as much delighted as Lettie with the 
 news, and full of anxiety to know when Charlie might 
 expect his nomination. When did Gilbert think that 
 Charlie would be gazetted ; what regiment was he likely 
 to be appointed to ? and various questions of a like nature, 
 which Mr. Slade had to plead his utter inability to answer. 
 Then, in the expansiveness of her nature, she begged him 
 to come and dine, and spend his last evening with them ; 
 but Lettie fortunately returned just in time to remind her 
 that they themselves were engaged that evening. And 
 Lettie felt rather put out that it should happen to be so. 
 However, there was no help for it. So Gilbert made his 
 adieux, supplemented with a promise to be at Lincoln to 
 witness Pole Star’s triumph in the autumn. 
 
 “ I shall be a very happy woman, my dear,” said Mrs. 
 Connop, as the carriage rolled away Park-wards, “ if I see 
 Charlie a Dragoon, and you engaged to be married before 
 the year’s out.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, aunt,” replied Lettie. “ How can you be 
 so foolish ? ” 
 
 Mr. Slade is a very good-looking man, and althongh 1 
 
ENTERED FOR THE ARMY. 
 
 107 
 
 dcn*t suppose he’s at all made up his mind yet, I doubt 
 whether he’d call the idea * nonsense ’ exactly. At all 
 events Charlie’s commission is an event more than proba- 
 ble, you must admit.” 
 
 “ Much more probable than the other, Auntie, dear,” 
 rejoined Lettie, as she turned her face away. 
 
 “ We shall see,” said Mrs. Connop, tersely. 
 
 XV. — Entered for the Army. 
 
 T DON’T exactly see your object, Dick; but, as you 
 
 I know. I’m not in the habit of bothering you abou^ 
 reasons. It is usually sufficient for me to know what you 
 want without troubling my head about why you want it, 
 I have been civil to this Mr. Furzedon, as you requested ; 
 and, if you think it worth while, could make a small dinner 
 for him. What he wants is obvious : the man is mad to 
 push his way into London society ; we are one of his step- 
 ping stones. Of course I can help him, though I don’t 
 think much of him ; but it is for you to decide whether it is 
 worth our while.” 
 
 “ Never mind the dinner, Kate, and never mind the 
 * why.’ I have a strong idea that Furzedon may be very 
 useful to me before long. I have made a mistake about 
 him to start with, and thought that because he was young 
 he was innocent. That young man was born the wrong 
 side of forty, and one would have to get up early to teach 
 him anything he don’t know. Why, if I didn’t detect him 
 foxing at billiards with me ! It isn’t that I couldn’t beat 
 his head off ; but the cheek of his thinking that he could 
 impose on a man of my experience,” and the Major looked 
 as Tennyson might do at receiving a hint from a provincial 
 poetaster. 
 
 “ I had nothing to do with that,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston 
 quietly ; “ only remember, if I am civil to him and forward 
 his views, it is because you desire it. And now, Dick, one 
 word in earnest. 1 don’t say you mean the boy any harm j 
 
io8 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 but I do know you have imbued Charlie Devereux with the 
 idea that he can beat you at billiards, and probably many 
 other games.*' 
 
 “ What the deuce is it to you if he should think so ? I 
 can scarcely suppose, my lady,” he continued with a sneer, 
 “ that you have interested yourself in a boy like that 1 ** 
 
 “ You happen to be wrong, Dick,” she said quietly. I 
 have, though not in the way you would insinuate ; but 
 mind. I’ll not see that boy plundered. And while paying 
 this compliment to your skill, I will also point out that it 
 is surely not worth your while.” 
 
 That is a thing, Kate, you will perhaps allow me to 
 judge for myself. You will be good enough to bear in mind 
 that I stand no interference with my plans.” 
 
 “ It is very rarely that I run counter to your wishes,” 
 rejoined Mrs. Kynaston ; ** but you know from past experi- 
 ence that when I am firmly resolved on a thing I can be 
 every bit as obstinate as you. Charlie Devereux shall 
 come to no harm at your hands if I can prevent it. As for 
 Mr. Furzedon, I’ll not raise a finger in his behalf.” 
 
 “ You fool ! ” rejoined the Major. “ Only that you are 
 creating a storm in a teacup, I would soon show you that 
 you have to obey orders ; but I am not likely to harm 
 Charlie Devereux, for the best of all possible reasons — the 
 game would not pay for the candle. There is never any 
 harm in ascertaining any man’s form at any game he 
 fancies himself at, and that young undergraduate thinks he 
 can play billiards.” 
 
 ‘‘ Now we understand each other,” said Mrs. Kynaston, 
 ‘‘ we will leave him, if you please, in that delusion. At all 
 events, he shall not be rudely awakened at my hands.” 
 
 ‘‘A good deal of talk about nothing, as usual,” sneered 
 the Major. ‘‘ I shan’t be at home either to lunch or dinner, 
 so make your own arrangements,” and, so saying, the Major 
 put on his hat, and having looked in the glass, and given a 
 last twirl to his moustache, took his departure. 
 
 Hawks speedily recognise hawks ; in short, beasts of prey 
 rarely fail to detect one another. The carnivora of hu- 
 manity are swiftly aware of each other’s presence. Just as 
 amongst those outside the pale of the law there are cabal- 
 
ENTERED FOR THE ARMY. 
 
 109 
 
 istic signs and a shibboleth not understood by ordinary 
 people, so amongst the higher vultures of society there is a 
 recognition that takes but a short time to arrive at. The 
 adventurer who has lived over half Europe very rapidly 
 takes stock of his brothers, and Kynaston had already dis- 
 covered that Ralph Furzedon was a very promising pro- 
 fessor of his own line of business. 
 
 ‘‘ Just the partner I want,*’ thought the Major. “Has 
 some capital, but wants introductions and opportunities. 
 We might do great things together. He would be an apt 
 pupil with my experience to guide him.” 
 
 Apt pupils, when you are engaged in such ticklish pursuits 
 as the Major’s, are likely to prove inconvenient in the long 
 run. There is an old adage that runs 
 
 To teach his grandson draughts, then his leisure he’d employ, 
 
 Until at last the old man was beaten by the boy. 
 
 It is rather a nuisance when our protege gets the best of 
 us at our own game, and in the sort of games played by 
 the social bandits of the Kynaston type there is not uncom- 
 monly disagreement about the division of the spoil. Furze- 
 don, though young in years, was, as the Major rightly 
 conceived, old in the iniquities of play of all kinds, and 
 Dick Kynaston is destined to have many uncomfortable 
 hours in consequence of the projected partnership. 
 
 “ Honour among thieves” is just as fallacious a saying 
 as that “ Force is no remedy,” or that “ Coercion is the 
 dragooning of a country.” All civilised countries live under 
 coercion, which simply means that the inhabitants have to 
 observe the laws of the land they live in ; and force is usually 
 the remedy employed to those who infringe them. As for 
 coercion, I suppose no city in the universe is under the 
 extreme coercion of London, where your lying down is 
 almost provided for as in the days when the Norman 
 ordained that the curfew should toll, whilst the Sabbath 
 you, if a man without a home or a club, are bound to ob- 
 serve in weariness and fasting. There is very little honour 
 observed of thieves, whatever their rank in life, when their 
 interests clash. What had first opened Kynaston ’s eyes to 
 the precociousness of his young friend had been Furzedon ’s 
 
no 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 accurate information with regard to Turf matters. The 
 old usurer, of whom, as a parent, that gentleman was so 
 heartily ashamed, had Jewish blood in his veins, and an 
 intimate acquaintance with the tribes generally, and especi- 
 ally with those in his own way of business. Now the Jews 
 have been invariably mixed up in all sport at which money 
 is to be made — from the prize-ring to the racecourse. I can’t 
 call to mind a Hebrew cricketer, but to the Turf and the 
 Ring the Israelites have largely contributed, and the former 
 sendeth the Gentile constantly to Shadrac for the means 
 with which to appease Gideon. Therefore racing secrets 
 are rife amongst these people, and Furzedon was constantly 
 permitted to share their knowledge ; and the information 
 he had thus been occasionally able to proffer the Major 
 had given that gentleman a high opinion of his capacity. 
 
 Who lists the wind where it blows? 
 
 Who can tell what mischief a woman’s vanity and 
 caprice may occasion when wounded and disappointed ? 
 But let that woman’s love be not a caprice, but a serious 
 passion, and it’s odds, like other fires, it leaves ruin behind 
 it ere it burns itself out. Mrs. Kynaston, still brooding 
 over her fancy for Gilbert Slade, is a woman in whom the 
 fire is already smouldering, with vanity already mortified, 
 and, in spite of an outwardly easy-going manner, of a 
 temper that will reck little of consequences should the 
 flames break out. 
 
 As for that Hussar speeding northwards, he little dreams 
 of his conquest, or of the coil he has left behind him. He 
 is by no means blind to feminine beauty, and quite recog- 
 nises that Mrs. Kynaston is fair to look upon, and it was 
 quite possible that had not a fairer in his eyes than she 
 dawned simultaneously on the horizon, he might have 
 become her devoted cavalier for a time ; but as it is he 
 thinks only of Lettie, and has well-nigh forgotten Mrs. 
 Kynaston’s existence, a circumstance which that lady has 
 far too good an opinion of her own attractions to ever 
 dream of. That Gilbert Slade was wavering in his allegi- 
 ance, she did think. She was accustomed to that, but 
 
ENTERED FOR THE ARMY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 with this difference, that the wavering was usually in her 
 favour, and at some other woman’s expense. 
 
 Gilbert Slade found the stream of life in the Northern 
 capital run somewhat sluggish after London. A quaint 
 old city waxes somewhat drowsy in the dog days, only to 
 wake up again when August brings racing on the Knaves- 
 mire, and the Leger and the hunting season are near at 
 hand. However, Gilbert made the best of things, and was 
 getting through what is rather the dead season in the 
 country — to men — very fairly, wondering occasionally 
 what Miss Devereux was doing, and whether she was still 
 in town, when one morning the post brought him a letter 
 from his Uncle Robert, which necessitated his at once 
 communicating with that young lady. It was dated from 
 the “ Thermopolium,” and ran as follows: — 
 
 ** Dear Bob, — 
 
 “ I have succeeded in getting a nomination for 
 your proteg^y and if he prospers he won’t be the first soldier 
 who has owed success in his profession to the attractions 
 of his female relations. His Royal Highness was exceed- 
 ingly nice about it, and said, ‘ I can oblige you. Major 
 Braddock, in what you want, and 1 shall have much 
 pleasure in doing so. There is a cornetcy going in your 
 old regiment, and I’m sure I can’t do better for him than 
 that. I inspected them not long ago, and found them, as 
 usual, all that they ought to be. Leave his name and 
 address in the outer room, and I’ll see Mr. Devereux gets 
 his nomination at once. There will be an examination in 
 October, and he will be gazetted as soon as he has got 
 through that,’ and then His Royal Highness remarked, 
 laughing, * I was glad to find that the champagne of the 
 — th Hussars was as good as ever; Colonel Higginson 
 told me that you still looked after them in that respect, and 
 are a sort of honorary mess president even yet.’ I thanked 
 His Highness, and told him I still tried to do my duty to 
 my country And so I do, you dog ! Am I not always 
 recommending her defenders to drink the best brands only ? 
 Nothing injures the constitution more than drinking bad 
 wine. Now, Master Bertie, I have succeeded in getting 
 
II2 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 young Devereux entered, bear in mind I shan’t like it if 
 he’s beat. Tell him he must pass. I don’t want His 
 Royal Highness to blow me up for having interfered in 
 behalf of a confounded fool. You had better write to him 
 at once, and tell him to look up his books again. Thank 
 goodness, in my time they didn’t think it necessary we 
 should know so much before we began. They caught us 
 young, and left it to the regiment to break us. 
 
 “ Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 “ Robert Braddock.” 
 
 Gilbert Slade was excessively pleased at the result of 
 the Major’s interference. He felt that he really had been 
 of prompt service to Miss Devereux in this business. And 
 then he thought that it would be rather a credit to himself 
 to have introduced a recruit who could ride like Charlie 
 into the regiment, for Gilbert had too much of the racing 
 instincts of his family not to recognite that Charlie only 
 wanted practice to become a really good gentleman rider, 
 and even in a cavalry regiment men really good between 
 the flags are rare. There was one thing — it was of course 
 imperative upon him now to write to Miss Devereux, and 
 somehow he thought it would be rather pleasant to open a 
 correspondence with Lettie. . That missive duly arrived in 
 Onslow Gardens, and threw the recipient and Mrs. Connop 
 into a state of the wildest delight, tempered with no little 
 anxiety on the subject of this examination. She had heard 
 Charlie speak of men being plucked for their ‘‘little go,” 
 which she knew meant failure to pass an examination of 
 some sort, and her confidence in her brother’s riding was 
 considerably greater than that she reposed in his reading. 
 As for Mrs. Connop, she felt quite confident of her 
 favourite nephew’s ability to do anything in that way. 
 Had he not gone through a course of University training ? 
 and was it likely that an examination for the army could 
 have any terrors for a man who had undergone such a 
 training ? But she, too, had her misgivings ; it is often 
 the case, we attain what we ardently desire, and are 
 immediately afflicted with doubts as to whether, after all, 
 we were not, perhaps, better without it. Charlie, she 
 
ENTERED FOR THE ARMY. 
 
 II3 
 
 knew, although she knew it very partially, had developed 
 a faculty for getting into money troubles at the University, 
 and her experience told her that equal facility and greater 
 temptation existed for indulging this infirmity in the army. 
 And it did occur to Mrs. Connop, even in this hour of 
 triumph, that his outfit might not be the only demand 
 that would be made upon her purse strings. 
 
 But Lettie hastened to reply to Gilbert Slade’s letter, 
 and thank him for the trouble he had taken in her brother’s 
 behalf. “ Indeed, Mr. Slade,” she said, “ it has been very 
 good of you to take all this trouble in Charlie’s behalf. 
 And I have no doubt that it was mainly thanks to the 
 cunning hints he received from you which enabled him to 
 make himself acceptable to Major Braddock, to whom also 
 we feel very indebted about the whole business. The idea 
 of his being in the same regiment with yourself is delightful, 
 because I am sure that you will put him in the way of 
 things ; and, though I Imve no fear of his soon making his 
 way, yet the life will be strange to him at first, as he has 
 had no experience of the ways of military men. As for 
 passing, he writes very confidently, and vows * that he 
 shall pull through, though it may be with a fall or two ; ’ 
 and as I know he is very much in earnest about obtaining 
 his commission, I believe him. Once more, Mr. Slade, I 
 must say that I don't know how to tell you how grateful 
 we feel to you. You must come down and see Pole Star 
 win at Lincoln ; and then, perhaps, we may induce you to 
 come on to North Leach, and have a few days’ hunting in 
 the Wolds. With kind regards to Auntie, 
 
 Yours most sincerely, 
 
 “ Lettie Devereux.” 
 
 Gilbert conceived this letter required acknowledgment, 
 and wrote a courteous reply, in which he expressed his 
 hope of assisting at Pole Star’s expected triumph in the 
 autumn ; and further requesting that he might be informed 
 as speedily as possible of the result of the fray between 
 Charlie and his torturers ; but Miss Devereux made no 
 further sign, and it was not till the end of September that 
 be received a letter from Charlie himself ; — 
 
114 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ Dear Slade,” he began, “ I have gone through my 
 ordeal, and, although not formally apprised of it, feel sure 
 that I have passed. They have put me on in about the 
 easiest chapter of all Caesar’s Commentaries, the one about 
 which, if you know anything about Latin at all, you couldn’t 
 go wrong in. Then they asked me if I would take up 
 French, and, being excessively shy concerning my know- 
 ledge of that language, I said, ‘ No, thank you.’ I was 
 only compelled to take up one, you know, and felt sure 
 I’d pull through in Latin. The whole examination, as it 
 stands at present, is a farce, and one which no ordinary 
 schoolboy could possibly be spun over, with one exception. 
 Old Bridge Hall, who examines in history, has collected a 
 bundle of very dry facts, thickly studded with dates, which 
 he has published. He examines you chiefly out of his own 
 book, and dates are his hobby. Of this I luckily got a 
 hint, so just struggled hard at his chronological table for 
 six weeks ; deuced lucky I did so, for the bigger half of 
 my questions were of that nature. I answered them like 
 the well-crammed gosling I was, and have very little doubt 
 that I shall have totally forgotten all about them ere six 
 months are over my head. Never mind ! they have served 
 my turn, and I shall hope to be with you at York this 
 winter, and have a good time with the York and Ainsty. 
 Good-bye, and no end of thanks for all you have ever done 
 for me. « Ever yours, 
 
 “ Charlie Devereux.” 
 
 Army examinations, it must be borne in mind, were quite 
 in their infancy when Mr. Devereux passed so triumphantly 
 through the ordeal. They have become competitive since, 
 and assumed a very different complexion ; education, in- 
 deed, seems highly necessary for anything except as a 
 qualification for the electorate. 
 
DEAREST FRIENDS "MAY" DIFFER. 
 
 1x5 
 
 XVI. — Dearest Friends “May" Differ. 
 
 I T was not till the very last week of her London visit 
 that Lettie received Slade’s letter containing the news 
 of Charlie’s nomination, and it was only when she wrote 
 to Kate Kynaston, proposing to call and say “ good-bye," 
 that lady learnt the fact that in the event of success young 
 Devereux was to be gazetted to Gilbert’s regiment. If 
 she had not been satisfied with Mr. Slade’s interference in 
 the matter before, her anger about it now was tolerably 
 pronounced. She was not going to be out-manoeuvred by 
 a chit of a country girl like that if she knew it ; and she 
 persistently regarded Gilbert as having fallen captive, 
 metaphorically speaking, to her own spear. She was not 
 likely to submit to having the spoils of the chase wrested 
 from her in this fashion. Charlie in the same regiment, 
 and naturally, at his sister’s bidding, perpetually bringing 
 Mr. Slade with him to North Leach ! Had Mrs. Kynaston 
 been on the Board of Examiners I would not have given 
 much for Mr. Devereux’s chance of passing, nor had she 
 been colonel of the regiment do I think much leave would 
 have been accorded to him just at present. On one point 
 that lady was more resolute than ever — that though he 
 might escape from her thrall, Gilbert should never be 
 husband to Lettice Devereux. 
 
 But outwardly her brow was as smooth as of yore, and 
 her congratulations to Lettie on paper apparently warm 
 and sincere. Women, when the quarrel is d Voutrance^ 
 know better than to betray themselves ; they bide their 
 time, but when that comes don’t think they will spare fheir 
 hand, or fail to send the steel home to its bitterest length. 
 She turned over in her mind how this union might be 
 prevented ; there was plenty of time — it was a thing that 
 might never come about, and even should she learn that 
 the pair were engaged, it was very possible, thought Mrs. 
 Kynaston, to arrange a slip ’twixt that cup and lip. Mar- 
 riages may be made in heaven, perhaps, but that they are 
 frequently ruptured on earth, both in the egg and when 
 full-grown, we have much demonstration of, and hpw often 
 
ii6 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 woman’s jealousy or man’s frailty contributes to such sad 
 ending what philosopher shall determine? But I fancy 
 the former has shattered as much matrimonial happiness 
 as can be attributed to any enemy of Hymen. 
 
 Suddenly it flashed vaguely before Mrs. Kynaston’s mind 
 that this new protege of her husband — Mr. Furzedon — 
 might be a useful card in her hand in the game she con' 
 templated playing. She had read that gentleman’s char- 
 acter pretty correctly, considering the little she had seer 
 of him. She knew that he was selfish, had a strong 
 suspicion that he was niggardly, but she further knew for 
 certain that his great ambition was to attain some social 
 status in the great London world. He admired Miss 
 Devereux — that was a fact patent to any one gifted with 
 the power of perception — but Mr. Furzedon was not a man 
 likely to marry, except deliberately, and in furtherance of 
 the line he had chalked out for himself. 
 
 ‘‘ It would not be such a hard thing,” mused Mrs. 
 Kynaston, “ to make Furzedon anxious to marry Lettie 
 Devereux. Her brother getting into a crack Dragoon 
 regiment is one step towards it ! Let Mr. Furzedon only 
 be persuaded that Miss Devereux is an acknowledged 
 beauty, whose face is a passport to fashion’s portals, and 
 he will be keen -enough to woo her. He would prefer a 
 wife with money, perhaps — with a handle to her name, 
 undoubtedly — but he is far too shrewd a judge not to know 
 that a man with no antecedents and only a moderate com- 
 mand of money cannot expect the pick of the matrimonial 
 market. Yes,” continued Mrs. Kynaston, still following 
 up the same train of thought, “ it is quite possible that Mr. 
 Furzedon may be a very useful card to me in future. I 
 don’t like the man myself, nor do I suppose Dick does 
 either, for, to do him justice, although necessity compels 
 him to know very electro-plated gentlemen at times, poor 
 old Dick thoroughly understands good form when he meets 
 it. I usually obey my lord and master, and for once his 
 wishes and mine conform. He has his reasons for wishing 
 me to be civil to Mr. Furzedon ; I also have mine. That 
 slightly underbred young man promises to be rather a tame 
 qat about our establishment and then Mrs. Kynaston, 
 
DEAREST FRIENDS “MAY'’ DIFFER. 
 
 ii; 
 
 glancing at the clock, muttered softly to herself “ Lettie, 
 my dear, it is time you made your appearance. How 
 pleased I shall be to see you ! How sad I shall be that we 
 are about to part I And how sad, my love, I am at the 
 thought that I cannot bite you !” 
 
 She had not to wait long. A few minutes more and Miss 
 Devereux was announced, and Mrs. Kynaston rose and 
 received her with the greatest effusion. 
 
 “ I’m rather late, I know,” said Lettie, as she sank into 
 an easy chair, “ but there is always so much to do the last 
 few days ; people whom one has almost forgot have to be 
 called on, and people whom you had hoped had forgot all 
 about you suddenly turn up, and pay visits of unwarrant- 
 able length and never-to-be-forgotten dreariness. I don’t 
 know how it is, but these latter people always circumvent 
 the servants ; your dearest friends may be turned away 
 from the door, but, whatever the instructions, these people 
 invariably at least gain the drawing-room, and you are 
 very lucky if they don’t catch you in it.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Mrs. Kynaston, gaily, “ few people possess 
 such a treasure as Staples. He was with the Major before 
 I married. He is a little brusque in his manner, I grant, 
 but he has almost an unerring instinct of whom to let in 
 and whom to keep out. He has a capital memory, and 
 the slightest hint suffices him. Dick always says, in joke, 
 that there are times when Staples will say ‘Not at home ’ 
 to him, and that nothing but his latchkey makes admission 
 to his own house a certainty. Undoubtedly Staples is a 
 very superior watchdog. As for the importunate creditor — 
 don’t looked shocked, Lettie, half the West End of London 
 are troubled in this wise — Staples recognises them, I verily 
 believe, by their knock, let them play such salvo as they 
 will upon our door ; while the vagueness of his knowledge 
 as to whether Major Kynaston is in town, or ever will be 
 in town again, is simply unsurpassable.” 
 
 “ An invaluable man. Staples,” rejoined Lettie, “ I must 
 consider myself fortunate to be in his good graces.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; he knows you, and that you are one of the 
 privileged, but I haven’t congratulated you. I am so 
 pleased about Charlie, and how very nice it is that be 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 should have got into Mr, Slade’s regiment. It will be 
 especially nice for you, my dear 1” continued Mrs. Kynaston, 
 archly. 
 
 “ Why so ?” asked Lettie. 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Kynaston, carelessly, 
 Still, it’s always convenient to have one’s brothers and 
 admirers in the same bundle. When you want a few young 
 men for a ball you will always be able to write to Charlie 
 to come, and bring two or three brother officers with him. 
 And if you haven’t, after the first twelve months, taught 
 him whom to bring, then you deserve to die an old maid.” 
 ‘‘ How can you say such things ?” cried Lettie, hotly. 
 “ My brothers have always been accustomed to bring such 
 friends as they like to North Leach^ and it is not likely 
 that Charlie, when he becomes a Dragoon, that he will 
 renounce that privilege — why should he ? And why should 
 not one of those friends be Mr. Slade ? He, at all events, 
 has a strong claim on our hospitality, if only for the ser- 
 vice he has just rendered us.” 
 
 “ Quite so, my dear,” assented the other speaker. “ Men 
 have done more than that for the love of ces beaux yeuxy 
 and received far less guerdon than, I prophesy, will be Mr. 
 Slade’s lot Now, don’t get angry, Lettice, but, bear in 
 mind, these soldiers are arrant flirts — they woo, and they 
 ride away. Don’t let your heart out of }^our keeping till 
 the engagement ring is on your finger.” 
 
 “ What nonsense you are talking,” rejoined Lettie, petu- 
 lantly. “ Mr. Slade has undeniably been very kind in this 
 business to Charlie. I presume I may feel grateful to him 
 without having the slightest ulterior thought ? ” 
 
 Of course you may,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, with a 
 sarcastic little smile ; “ but you wouldn’t be a woman if 
 you hadn’t one. What do you suppose made Mr. Slade 
 take such interest in a young gentleman he had never even 
 seen ? Pooh ! Lettie, don’t juggle with facts ; nor attempt 
 to hoodwink a woman of the world like me. If it was not 
 from admiration of yourself, I would simply know why did 
 he trouble his head about Charlie ? ” 
 
 Lettie flushed, and felt very uncomfortable under the 
 merciless raillery of her hostess. She most devoutly wished 
 
©BAREST FRIENDS "MAY*' DIFFER. 
 
 II9 
 
 herself well out of Chester Street, and that she had never 
 come to bid Mrs. Kynaston good-bye. She was quite con- 
 scious that there was a good deal of truth in what her 
 hostess had said. She was not yet quite in love with Gil- 
 bert Slade ; but she did not disguise from herself that she 
 was in a very fair way to become so. And all these semi- 
 jeering remarks of Mrs. Kynaston's stung like so many pin- 
 pricks ; but, sharp as the stab may be, no Indian brave 
 ever stands torture with more assumed indifference than a 
 woman in society endures the jibes of her sisters. 
 
 I can hardly answer that question,” Miss Devereux 
 replied at length. My experience, of course, does not go 
 so far as yours by some years, but I have known people do 
 kindly actions without seeking much gain for themselves. 
 You know best ; but don’t you think it would be rather a 
 dreary world if we never did our neighbour a good turn 
 without calculation ? Surely, Kate, you don't look to be 
 paid in kind for every small assistance you may render 
 your fellow-creatures in this world ? ” 
 
 “ I usually am,” replied that lady, with asperity. “ ‘ As 
 we sow, so shall we reap,’ so say the Scriptures — a truth 
 that knowledge of the world tells me may be read in very 
 different lights. The kindnesses you have sown generally 
 produce but a crop of ingratitude. Be a good friend to a 
 man, and he drops you for the first face that catches his 
 fancy ; be a good friend to a woman, and she devotdfe 
 every art she possesses to steal from you your lover or 
 your husband. Don’t look so * mazed,’ Lettie ! You were 
 kind enough to remind me of my many years’ additional 
 experience, and that is the outcome of them.” 
 
 If Miss Devereux was young, she was no fool : she was 
 vaguely conscious that some jealousy concerning Gilbert 
 Slade was at the bottom of Mrs. Kynaston’s bitterness ; 
 but she had never grasped, nor was it likely she ever would, 
 that that lady had considered the Hussar her own peculiar 
 property, and, as has been said before, this was a conclu- 
 sion on Mrs. Kynaston’s part that circumstances by no 
 means warranted. 
 
 There is no helping these things, men go on telling 
 stories till they arrive at the belief that they were bona Jidc 
 
120 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 the heroes of them. Men regard property that may come 
 to them very often as property that must come to them, 
 and eventually as property that actually belongs to them. 
 When the holder dies, and his will announces that the late 
 proprietor has taken a diflferent view of things, such men 
 are simply crushed with a sense of injustice, and that they 
 have been the victims of heartless robbery 
 
 ‘‘ I don’t know what makes you speak so bitterly to-day, 
 but I suppose you are in low spirits, something has gone 
 wrong perhaps, and then, v/e all know, life looks none so 
 rosy. I can’t plead guilty to knowing much about that 
 sort of thing ; but even a school-girl has occasional fits of 
 depression : her music gets the best of her, or she’s baulked 
 in some expected pleasure. I thought you would be so 
 glad to hear of Charlie’s good fortune.” 
 
 ** So I am, of course ; haven’t I told you so ? And how 
 nice you will find it having him in a crack Hussar regiment. 
 
 Miss Devereux did not reply immediately — there is more 
 than one way of offering congratulations, and Lettie was 
 quite conscious that there was a flavour of hyssop about 
 those of Mrs. Kynaston. ** Well, good-bye,” she said, 
 rising ; I do hope you will think better of it, and take 
 ‘ The Firs * again for next season. We shall miss you and 
 the Major sadly as neighbours; and remember that the 
 advantages which you have just said will accrue to me 
 from Charlie’s commission will also tend to make our few 
 balls still more lively for you ; in short,” concluded Lettie, 
 with a laugh, ‘‘ if we can muster a few young men at North 
 Leach, it is good for the whole neighbourhood in that way.” 
 “ Good-bye,” said Mrs. Kynaston as she shook hands 
 with her again. “ I don’t know at all as yet if ‘ The Firs ’ 
 is destined to be our winter quarters this year. One piece 
 of advice, my dear, at parting: don’t be too philanthropic, 
 nor too ready to part with the partners your brother has 
 delivered into your hand. You are very pretty, Lettie ; 
 but men are very fanciful, and let the bell-wether take up 
 with a Gorgon, and the rest of them are struggling madly 
 to secure her hand for the next dance.” 
 
 Miss Devereux made no response. She was^ indeed, 
 only too glad to bring her visit to a termination. She 
 
BELLATON WOLU 
 
 121 
 
 was quite conscious that their conversation, though nomi- 
 nally friendly, had been “ on the jar ” throughout, and that 
 Mrs. Kynaston’s congratulations had been very far from 
 cordial ; she did not understand it. She had thought that 
 lady really fond of them all, and that she would have been 
 delighted at hearing of Charlie’s good fortune. But she 
 felt quite sure that there was something in his appoint- 
 ment to the — th Hussars that did not meet Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton’s approval. Then as Miss Devereux drove back to 
 Onslow Gardens her thoughts reverted to Mrs. Kynaston’s 
 innuendo that when Charlie had joined his regiment there 
 would be much facility for asking Mr. Slade to come down 
 with him to North Leach. She wondered if Mr. Slade 
 would care to pay such a visit. She wondered a little as 
 to whether he cared for her. She had good evidence that 
 he had not forgotten her, or he would hardly have taken all 
 this trouble in Charlie’s behalf. “ Ah,” thought Lettie, 
 “ how jolly it would be if Pole Star should win at Lincoln, 
 and they all come back to North Leach to have two or 
 three days’ hunting, and celebrate his triumph.” And in 
 they I fancy Mr. Gilbert Slade was emphatically included. 
 
 HE wind whistled shrill across the Yorkshire Wolds 
 
 this March evening, but at that time of night there 
 were few wayfarers about to suffer from that bleakness. 
 Here and there a belated shepherd might have been seen 
 hurrying to some hamlet nestling at the foot of the hills, or 
 some stalwart farmer making a short cut to the snug house 
 that called him master. A little distance below a species 
 of plateau, well known as a famous training-ground, stood 
 a many-gabled, well-thatched farmhouse. It was about 
 the ordinary -sized dwelling that a well-to-do yeoman, who 
 cultivated his own land, might be supposed to inhabit. 
 By no means a large house or a house of any pretence, 
 remarkable only for one thing, the rather extensive range 
 
 XVII. — Bellaton Wold, 
 

 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 of stabling that stood around it. There was accommoda- 
 tion for many more horses than the tiller of such a farm as 
 might be supposed attached to the dwelling would require. 
 A bright light penetrated through the chinks of the shutters 
 of a latticed window on the ground-floor and suggested the 
 idea of warmth and a comfortable fireside within. Using 
 our privileges of Asmodeus, we peep inside the parlour and 
 see two men seated on either side of the glowing hearth, 
 with a table well supplied with spirits and water. Alas ! 
 too well supplied for one of them. 
 
 “ Yes, Mr. Slade, I’ve been main bad. I can’t stand the 
 winters as I used to do, and the gout lays hold of me ter- 
 rible now at times.” 
 
 The speaker was a little dark, very dark, wiry man, with 
 eyes like gimlets, whose countenance bore the traces of 
 recent indisposition. 
 
 “You ought to be a bit more careful,” replied Norman 
 Slade. “ It’s no use. Bill, the old ’uns can’t live with the 
 young ones ; you can’t expect to take your liquor freely 
 overnight and turn out to ride trials in the keen morning 
 air, now you’ve got within the forties, without feeling it.” 
 
 “ Now don’t you preach, Mr. Slade,” rejoined Bill 
 Smith, testily. “ I should like to know what a man’s to 
 do when he can’t get about to look after his horses. He 
 must take a drop to comfort him ; horses indeed 1 such a - 
 lot as they are too. I don’t believe there’s one of them 
 worth a row of gingerbread. I tried my two-year-olds 
 last October, and a pretty moderate lot they are. No 
 chance of their doing any good as three-year-olds.” 
 
 “ You will have to get rid of them in selling-races,” 
 rejoined Slade, flipping the ash off his cigar. “ I suppose 
 they’re good enough to do you a turn there.” 
 
 “ Well, I should hope so,” growled the other, as he took 
 a gulp of a mahogany-coloured mixture which no doctor 
 would have dreamt of recommending for gout ; “ however, 
 
 I shall be about again in a few days now, and then I must 
 put ’em through the mill again and see what they’re really 
 fit for.” 
 
 Bill Smith’s was a common enough case: a man who 
 now passed a good deal of his time between drinking-bouts 
 
BELLATON WOLD. 
 
 «3 
 
 and severe attacks of the gout. One of the finest horse- 
 men in England, he had at an early age established him- 
 self as one of the crack jockeys of the day. Formidable 
 at Epsom, invincible at Doncaster, and dangerous any- 
 where,” had been the comment on his riding, only a few 
 years back, by one of the shrewdest judges of racing on 
 the turf. 
 
 Cast by nature in a light mould, he was exempt from a 
 great deal of the abstinence and privation that forms so 
 prominent a part of a jockey’s life. Always a free liver, 
 and of a convivial disposition, he had latterly allowed his 
 craving for strong waters to get the upper hand of him. 
 It began to be whispered about that “ Black Bill,” as he 
 was called by his brother jockeys, was very often “ half- 
 cocked ” when he got up to ride. It was some time before 
 the fact became generally recognized. A man could ride 
 as well half-drunk as sober, save in one respect ; and it is 
 just that which invariably cuts short the career of a jockey 
 who takes to drinking, namely, that in the critical moments 
 of a race he lost his head. Instead of taking advantage of 
 every point in the game, he failed to note what his anta- 
 gonists were doing ; he got muddled ; he timed his rush 
 either too soon or too late. That deadly rush of his, for 
 which he had once been so famous, and which had snatched 
 so many races out of the fire on the very post, was now 
 wont to be delivered at the wrong time. He who had been 
 wont to measure his supreme effort to the very stride, now 
 either won his race two lengths before the chair, or perr, 
 haps the same distance the other side of it ; but he failed 
 to win at the winning-post. Gradually his riding fell awa;^ 
 from him ; owners naturally ceased to employ a jockey 
 upon whose sobriety there w^as no dependence. The same 
 pitiless authority whom we have quoted above as giving 
 such a laudatory opinion of Bill Smith’s riding, now said 
 ** that he threw away more races than any man in Eng- 
 land.” The great stable of the North, which had held 
 first claim on his services for many years, had now with- 
 drawn its patronage ; and the world generally frowned 
 upon the once-famous jockey. Still, every now and then 
 he astonished the turfites by a bit of brilliant riding worthy 
 
tu 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 of his best days. It was evident that his right hand had 
 not lost its cunning, nor his nerve failed him ; and that if 
 only he could keep from drink the man was as fine a horse- 
 man as evef. Ah I the infinite conjectural probabilities of 
 those “ ifs ! ” 
 
 Bill Smith took the neglect of his old patrons bitterly. 
 That he had lost the greater part of his business soured the 
 man. True, it was from his own fault ; and in his own breast 
 he most likely acknowledged that it was so ; but it rarely 
 happens that upon these occasions a man does not put his 
 own sins upon other people, and think all the more hardly 
 of them on that account. In his palmy days, too. Bill 
 Smith had been arrogant and coarse of speech to most of 
 the turf officials with whom he came in contact ; a bully 
 amongst the younger jockeys and a very unscrupulous 
 rider, to say the least of it, amongst those of his own 
 standing. A man like this has not many friends when the 
 tide turns against him ; and, though his brethren of the 
 saddle were chary yet of provoking the rough side of 
 ‘‘ Black Bill's " tongue, they made no disguise of their 
 satisfaction when he throw a race away in consequence of 
 his besetting failing. Two of his old friends they were who 
 stood staunchly to him, in spite of his transgressions ; and 
 these were Norman Slade and Sir Ronald Radcliffe. 
 
 I can’t quarrel with the old fellow, Norman,” Sir 
 Ronald had observed after one of Bill Smith’s later fiascos. 
 ‘'He’s put me in for too many good things in his time for 
 that, but I’ll back him no more. He simply threw that 
 last race away by coming too late.” 
 
 It would have been well for Sir Ronald if he had adhered 
 firmly to that resolution. 
 
 “ Well,” said Slade, after a pause of some minutes, 
 “ very little sleep does for me as a rule, but I feel tired to- 
 night, and, as you know, when in the country am always 
 an early man in the morning. I think I’ll be off to bed. 
 Shall you be out with the horses to-morrow morning ?” 
 
 “ No,” returned the jockey. “ I’m not rid of this con- 
 founded gout yet, and I am especially ordered to be careful 
 about taking cold. You had better wrap well up, for you’ll 
 find the air confounded keen on the Wolds.” " 
 
BELLATON WOLD. 12$ 
 
 I know all about it,” rejoined Slade* ** I suppose I 
 shall find Torn Parrott in charge ?” 
 
 Yes, he is a right good lad is Tom. I don't know how 
 I shall get on without him, for I’ve been able to look after 
 the horses very little all this winter. Sure you won’t have 
 anything more before you go ?” 
 
 “ No ; good night,” rejoined Slade, as he picked up a 
 hand-candlestick off the sideboard, “ and I hope the enemy 
 will let you sleep to-night. When you come down to 
 breakfast I shall be able to tell you what I think of the 
 three-year olds.” 
 
 Bill Smith replied with a grimace, and turning to the fire 
 observed as Norman left the room, “ There’s mighty cold 
 comfort in that.” 
 
 A little before eight the next morning saw Norman Slade 
 attired in breeches, gaiters, stout shooting boots, and 
 shooting-jacket, plodding up the winding road that led to 
 the plateau. There, walking up and down, clothed in their 
 rugs, were some half-score horses bestrode by stable-boys, 
 the whole evidently under the control of a little man riding 
 a clever-looking pony, and, though he was every day of 
 five-and-thirty, was perhaps better known by the sobriquet 
 of Bill Smith’s head lad than by his legitimate appellation 
 of Tom Parrott. The string, with one or two exceptions, 
 were the property of Bill Smith himself, for few people 
 cared to intrust the preparation of their horses to a man 
 with Bill’s unfortunate reputation. If he could not curb 
 his propensity for strong waters when such urgent call 
 upon his faculties was demanded as on the racecourse, 
 was it likely that he would put any check upon himself on 
 the training-ground ? and the Turf, like all other profes- 
 sions, requires sobriety among its votaries. 
 
 Tom Parrott cantered briskly towards Norman the minute 
 he saw him' striding across the grand expanse of springy 
 turf. It was not that he was going to do anything that all 
 the world might not have seen, but he had all the instinc- 
 tive jealousy of some trainers at finding his charges watched 
 in their work. 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. Slade I” he exclaimed, as he recognised his visitor* 
 Plamed if I didn’t think it was one of those woudy toutSf 
 
126 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRR 
 
 Not, I am sorry to say, that we have anything worth their 
 spying about, but I can’t abide the varmin.” 
 
 “ Glad to see you looking so well, Tom,” rejoined Nor- 
 man. “ No, Mr. Smith told me last night that you had 
 nothing in the string that you had any hopes of. ’Tis so, 
 sometimes, the stable gets clean out of form, and hasn’t a 
 horse in training good enough to win a saddle and bridle 
 next year. Luck changes, and you sweep the board. 
 What work are you going to give ’em this morning ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, they’ll do a little slow cantering, and then old 
 Knight-ojf-the- Whistle will lead the three-year-olds a smart 
 mile spin. It’s time to get on with them, you see, Mr. 
 Slade ; if they’re ever to addle their keep, they ought to 
 begin at the Newmarket Spring Meetings.” 
 
 “Just so,” said Norman. “You use the old gallop, I 
 suppose ? I shall go and stand about half up the rise at 
 the finish, and then I shall see them well extended.” 
 
 “ Can’t do better, sir,” replied Parrott ; and, turning his 
 pony short round, he cantered back to his charges. 
 
 Slade made his way to the coign of vantage he had 
 mentioned, unshipped his glasses, and gazed lazily at the 
 horses, as on the other side of the down they went through 
 some slow exercise. Presently he saw four of them walk 
 quietly down to the mile-post, and knew that he was about 
 to see the cream of Bill Smith’s lot gallop. There was no 
 keener race-goer than Norman Slade. No man more 
 thoroughly loved racing for sheer sport ; he could be as 
 deeply interested in the issue of a trial on those Yorkshire 
 Wolds as on the result of the Derby ; but still, it was with 
 languid curiosity he awaited the forthcoming gallop. 
 There could be little interest in seeing a few notoriously 
 bad horses scurry over their mile in an exercise-gallop. 
 Suddenly his attention was aroused ; before the quartet 
 had gone a quarter of a mile he could see that the second, 
 a slashing big brown colt, had got his head up, and was 
 fighting with his rider. Another few seconds, and, drop- 
 ping his head, he makes an angry snatch at the bridle, 
 bolts out of the Indian file in which they are galloping, 
 tears past old Knight-of-the- Whistle, and comes thunder- 
 ing along the gallop by himseiff 
 
BELLATON WOLD. 
 
 127 
 
 Got clean away with the lad,” muttered Norman, as 
 he watched the boy throw himself right back in his saddle, 
 ^ and strive in vain to check his horse ; “ but what on earth 
 does old Bill mean by saying his three-year-olds are no 
 good ? If that’s not a galloper I never saw one. What a 
 stride he has I and how well under him he biings his 
 quarters ; now he is really going.” 
 
 In vain the boy pulled ; the big brown colt had com- 
 pletely overpowered him, and was bent upon doing a 
 gallop entirely on his own account that morning. Norman 
 watched him keenly as he swept past him, breasting the 
 slight ascent like a lion, and going a good quarter of a 
 mile past the termination of the gallop before his rider 
 succeeded in pulling him up ; he did so at last, and turned 
 his mount a little ruefully to walk back. ‘‘ It’s well,” he 
 muttered, that Parrott is in charge this morning instead 
 of old Bill himself.” Although it is at times impossible to 
 prevent it, yet trainers look with considerable disfavour at 
 a boy who lets his horse get away with him ; and with 
 a violent-tempered, coarse-tongued man like Bill Smith 
 such a mistake was met with a volley of abuse. By this 
 time Tom Parrott had joined Slade, and, walking his 
 pony alongside of him, they both proceeded to meet the 
 culprit, 
 
 “ Well, you young duffer,” exclaimed Parrott, ‘‘ what 
 possessed you to let him get his head up like that ? You 
 might have known that he would twitch the bit out of 
 your hands directly he dropped his head. Now don’t you 
 say you couldn’t help it. In the first place, you should 
 have helped it ; and in the second place, if I thought you 
 could have helped it, you’d get your walking ticket this 
 afternoon ; ” with which rather contradictory rebuke Mr, 
 Parrott closed his lecture. 
 
 “ Stop a moment, boy,” said Slade, authoritatively ; 
 “I want just to look your horse over ;” and Norman’s 
 practised eye at once took keen stock of the colt’s under- 
 standings. 
 
 “ Can’t see much of him here, Tom, but I’ll have a good 
 look at him in the stable, where you can strip him for me { 
 his legs look sound enough,” 
 
128 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ Oh, he*s sound as a bell,” rejoined Parrott ; “ if he was 
 only as good as he is sound he’d do.” 
 
 “ What do you call him, and how is he bred ? ” 
 “Belisarius, by Triumph, out of Darkness,” rejoined 
 Parrott, laconically. 
 
 ‘‘ As stout blood as any in England,” remarked Norman ; 
 “and what’s more, Tom, as fine a mover as I’ve seen 
 gallop for some time. Mr. Smith told me last night that 
 he had tried all his three-year olds — good for nothing. Do 
 you mean to tell me that brown colt was in the trial ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” replied Parrott, “ and well beaten off.” 
 
 “ Well, Tom,” said Slade, “ did you see the colt go this 
 morning ? Can you shut your eyes to that ? Who rode 
 him in the trial ? ” 
 
 “ One of the boys,” replied Parrott. “ I forget at this 
 moment which, but I can easily ascertain.” 
 
 “ Do, Tom, as soon as you get back. I’ll lay pounds to 
 crowns the triafs all wrong. I’ll come round, and have a 
 look at Belisarius in his box after breakfast.” And with 
 that Slade strode away down the hill to satisfy the keen 
 appetite that a morning on the Wolds was wont to induce. 
 “ It’s all nonsense,” he said to himself as he stepped smartly 
 out in the direction of the farm-house. “ That trial was 
 all wrong. I’ll lay guineas to gooseberries; old Bill was 
 most likely too ill to superintend it himself, and, at all 
 events, no doubt, never rode in it. Tom Parrott’s a good 
 head boy, but putting horses together is a little beyond 
 him. If Bill had ridden in it he would have known what 
 every horse in it was doing. As it is, I fancy Belisarius is 
 a great big lazy colt that takes a deal of getting out. I 
 dgaa’t suppose any of them ever saw him gallop till this 
 morning. Well, come. I’m going to have a more amusing 
 week than I reckoned on. I’ve at all events found out 
 something to do. I’ve got to discover the rights of that 
 trial, to induce Bill to try them again, and also to ascertain 
 whether that big brown colt is entered for any stakes worth 
 winning.’* 
 
TRIAL OF BELISARIUS. 
 
 lap 
 
 XVIII. — Trial of Belisarius. 
 
 S Norman entered the house his host called out to him 
 
 from the parlour, “ Is that you, Mr, Slade ? Come 
 
 along in, and we’ll have breakfast up in a twinkling. I 
 feel more like myself this morning than I have done for 
 some time ; the jaw with you last night did me good.’* 
 
 “ Glad to hear it,” replied Norman. “ I’ll just run up- 
 stairs and wash my hands and be with you in less than 
 
 No sooner had Slade entered his bedroom than he dashed 
 at once to his portmanteau, and eagerly took from it a 
 volume of the Calendar bearing the title of “ Races to 
 Come.” He turned over the leaves quickly. Yes, there it 
 was, Belisarius, by Triumph, out of Darkness. It didn’t 
 take Slade’s practised eye long to run over the horse’s en- 
 gagements. “ By heavens ! ” he exclaimed, “ if I should 
 prove right, and my opinion be confirmed at the subsequent 
 trial. I’ve discovered a veritable gold mine. Here’s a 
 three-year old entered for all the big races of the year 
 whose name has never been even whispered among racing- 
 men, who has never run, and whose very owner looks upon 
 him as good for nothing. Now this is real fun. If we 
 have got hold of a flyer, what a dressing we will give those 
 south country stables. As for money we can win as much 
 as we please over him. Properly worked, Radcliffe, Bill, 
 and myself may stand to win perfect fortunes with very 
 little risk.” And so saying Norman Slade went down 
 stairs to breakfast. 
 
 “Weill Mr. Slade,” exclaimed the jockey, as Norman 
 entered the parlour, “ I hope you found an appetite upon 
 the moor if you found nothing else. I suppose you saw all 
 my rubbish,” 
 
 “Rubbish, are they?” ejaculated Norman, “perhaps 
 so% I wonder what you’d take for the three three-year- 
 olds Knight of the Whistle led in their gallop this 
 morning ? ” 
 
 “Have you got a commission?” inquired the jockey, 
 eyeing his guest keenly. “ If you have you may take 
 
 five minutes.” 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 130 
 
 those three for a monkey, and I shall think myself well 
 out of them.'* 
 
 “ Well, Bill, you take my advice, don't you be in a 
 hurry to part with those three for five hundred until you 
 know a little more about them. How did you try them 
 last back end ? " 
 
 “They had a six-furlong spin with old Knight of the 
 Whistle, as true a trial horse as ever was foaled. Two of 
 'em were tried at weight for age, but Belisarius I rather 
 fancied, so I put him in at seven pounds less. The old 
 horse cleaned out the lot, and as for my fancy, he finished 
 last of all?" 
 
 “You neither saw it nor rode in it, I suppose," rejoined 
 Slade. 
 
 “ I certainly didn’t ride in it, and I only half saw it. I 
 was very ill, and it was a very misty day, and I left the 
 management of the whole thing to Parrott." 
 
 “ Well, then," retorted Slade, “ I maintain your trial is 
 no trial at all, and that you know nothing about your own 
 young ones." 
 
 “You’re a very tidy judge, Mr. Slade, and know a bit 
 what you’re speaking about," rejoined the jockey, not a 
 little nettled, “ but if you think you can learn me my busi- 
 ness you are damnedly mistaken." 
 
 “ Never supposed I could teach you anything. Bill," 
 replied Norman, perfectly unmoved, “ but no man ever 
 lived who didn’t make a mistake at times ; and he never 
 did so without there being a looker-on with half his brains 
 who could point it out to him. If you had been well 
 enough to ride in it yourself I should look upon that trial 
 as conclusive. You weren’t, and I look upon it as all 
 skittles." 
 
 “ I know what I’m about,” rejoined the jockey, sulkily. 
 “ I’ll come to you when I want to know the time of day, 
 ^4hank you; in the meantime you can’t say you’re invited 
 to risk money on anything of mine." 
 
 “ Now, do listen to reason. Bill,” rejoined Norman, 
 quietly; “don’t say anything now — just turn it over in 
 your mind. Give me three or four days to worm out what 
 I can about that trial. You have got nothing to do, 
 
TRIAL OF BELISARIUS* 
 
 remember, but to get well, and just before I leave you 
 get on that brown colt, and see whether Knight of the 
 Whistle can give him twenty-one pounds over a mile.*’ 
 
 At first the jealous, irritable old jockey bluntly refused ; 
 said that he had satisfied himself about the brutes; that 
 he was not going to trouble himself to get into the saddle 
 to see how far Belisarius was behind a good horse ; that 
 Slade had better not waste his time in the experiment of 
 turning Yorkshire geese into Epsom swans; but in his 
 innermost heart Bill Smith began to ponder over what his 
 guest had said ; he knew that Norman Slade was a really 
 right good judge of a thoroughbred. He had had, in the 
 first instance, a great opinion of Belisarius himself, and in 
 his best days the man’s natural egotism had invariably 
 prompted him to little belief in a trial in which he had not 
 taken part. No man had more often expressed his dis- 
 belief in the issue of what he designated a “mooddling 
 gallop,” and he was forced to admit that this trial of his 
 might strictly be described as such. As for Slade, he was 
 much too^ clever a man of the world to touch upon the 
 subject for a couple of days. He was up every morning 
 to see Belisarius do his work, and the more he saw of him 
 the more convinced he was that he was a good horse. He 
 had got hold of the boy who rode him in that rough York- 
 shire gallop at the back end of last year, and by dint of 
 bribery, cajolery, and intimidation had at last wrung from 
 him the confession that he had been so bad with boils on 
 that occasion as to be perfectly unfit to ride, and quite 
 unable to do justice to his horse. 
 
 Norman Slade communicated his discovery to Smith, 
 who received the intelligence with a savage execration 
 and a muttered growling, in which strong expletives and 
 such terms as “ Break every bone in his body,” “ Cut the 
 little devil in two,” etc,, were alone audible; but Slade 
 eventually smoothed him down, and pleaded that he had 
 pledged himself the boy should go scatheless if he told 
 the whole truth. “ Besides,” urged Norman, “it’s no use 
 thrashing him for his sins of five or six months back ; the 
 poor little beggar will doubtless commit himself again 
 before long,” 
 
132 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 The jockey burst out laughing. “ Well, Mr. Slade,” he 
 cried, “ you are an ingenious advocate, but Fd as lief you 
 weren’t arguing for my defence. Don’t hang him now, 
 because you’ll have another chance before long. Well, 
 there’s something in it, and I promise to let the young vil- 
 lain off this time.” 
 
 “ Thanks, it’s very likely all for the best ; nobody has the 
 faintest idea that you hold a trump card in your hand. I 
 want you to have another spin with them Saturday morn- 
 ing, and ride Belisarius yourself — it’ll do you more good 
 than all the doctors. Bill, if you find him what I think, 
 don’t ask him to do a heartbreaking thing, but still let us 
 ask Belisarius the question in real earnest.” 
 
 Right you are, Mr. Slade ; I shall be perpetually on 
 the fidget till I know the worst, as old John Day always 
 puts it.” 
 
 There was an eager discussion that night at dinner 
 between Slade and his host as to what weights should be 
 apportioned to the Knight of the Whistle and Belisarius. 
 The Knight was a five-year-old, who from his youth up- 
 wards had always been a fairly good horSe. He was by 
 no means first class, and his chief merit lay in his being a 
 consistent performer. If he didn’t win when he was 
 expected, still he was always there or thereabouts ; and on 
 the training-ground, as Bill Smith always said, you might 
 thoroughly depend on what a gallop with him told you as 
 regarded the young ones. Slade insisted upon it that if 
 Belisarius could beat the old horse, in concession of a stone, 
 it would be quite good enough for the present, and then it 
 would be time enough to try him a little higher later on, 
 whilst Smith was for asking the sterner question at once. 
 However, after much discussion, Slade’s proposition was 
 agreed to, and it was determined that the trial should come 
 off on the Saturday morning. 
 
 Eight o’clock on that day consequently saw the little 
 group gathered together at the mile-post. As on the first 
 morning Slade had gone up to the moor, with this rather 
 important difference, that old Bill Smith himself, his throat 
 enveloped in many folds of a silk handkerchief, was on the 
 back of Belisarius, Tom Parrott was down at the mile- 
 
TRIAL OF BELISARIUS. 
 
 *33 
 
 post to start them, while Norman took up his favourite 
 position halfway up the ascent which terminated the gallop. 
 All three boys had their orders, the best lad in the stable 
 being put on Knight of the Whistle. At the word “ Go I 
 one of the three-year-olds rushed to the front and made the 
 running at a smart pace, the Knight lying second, while 
 Belisarius was last of all. A quarter of a mile from home 
 the leader had shot his bolt, and the running was immedi- 
 ately taken up by the other three-year-old, the Knight still 
 lying second and Belisarius last As they neared the 
 ascent the Knight assumed the command and Belisarius 
 crept rapidly up to him. Just before reaching Norman the 
 brown colt, pulling double, reached the Knight's quarters. 
 
 It’s a monkey to a mousetrap on the young ’un,” mut- 
 tered Norman Slade, with a flush of exultation in his dark 
 eyes, when suddenly Bill Smith stopped riding, eased his 
 horse, and left Knight of the Whistle to gallop in two or 
 three lengths in front of him. 
 
 By Jove, it has been too much for him 1 ” exclaimed 
 Slade, as he hurried across to speak to the jockey. “ What’s 
 the matter. Bill ? Are you faint, or sick, or what is it ? ” 
 ‘‘ Hush ; nothing is the matter,” replied Bill Smith, as 
 he bent over his saddle-bow. “ He’s a flyer. I could have 
 won the length of a street if I had gone on, but it would 
 have been a sin to show him up.” 
 
 This concluded the work for the morning. Belisarius 
 was handed over to his boy, and Slade and his host, get- 
 ting into the trap which had brought them up, made the 
 best of their way home to breakfast. A very merry meal 
 was that. The two men were very jubilant over the event 
 of the morning. 
 
 ‘‘You are quite right, Mr. Slade; that colt is a good 
 deal beyond the common. The horse will have a chance 
 for any one of the big races that could beat the Knight at 
 a stone. I could not only have beaten him this morning, 
 but had a lot in hand besides.” 
 
 “We know enough about Belisarius now,” rejoined 
 Slade, “ at all events, to ensure your not parting with him 
 with the other two for five hundred pounds. Now, no- 
 body suspects you of owning a good horse at present.’ Sg 
 
134 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 you can back him to win you a good stake for a very 
 trifling outlay. You stick to the colt and leave the com- 
 mission to be worked by Radcliffe and myself. The horse 
 is very forward, so I suppose you’ll run him for the Two 
 Thousand ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, if all goes well,” rejoined the jockey. “ It’s 
 a big stake, and the opposition don’t threaten to be strong. 
 It’s never any use keeping a good horse in the stable when 
 he is fit to ride.” 
 
 The next day was passed in much talk of bygone racing- 
 lore. Bill Smith was highly elated at discovering that 
 amongst what he had deemed his worthless string there 
 was probably one very high-class racer. Money was 
 scarce with him at the present moment, but it may be 
 doubted whether five thousand would have induced him to 
 part with the horse just now ; and both he and Slade knew 
 well that there were many men in England who would 
 gladly give that sum for Belisarius on hearing the result of 
 that morning’s gallop. Everything was arranged between 
 the jockey and his guest during that last evening. 
 
 Bill Smith had settled how much he could afford to 
 trust his horse with for the Two Thousand Guineas, and 
 either Slade or Radcliffe was to do that commission for 
 him on the former’s return to town. 
 
 To those three the secret of Belisarius’s prowess was as 
 yet, if possible, to be confined. On the Monday Bill 
 Smith drove his guest to the nearest station, and Slade, 
 to use his own expression, returned to town with the 
 winner of the Derby in his pocket. 
 
 There was not a little curiosity at Tattersall’s the suc- 
 ceeding Monday, when Sir Ronald Radcliffe lounged in a 
 little before five, and asked, in his languid way, what they 
 were betting on the Two Thousand. 
 
 “ Three to one on the field,” exclaimed one of the leading 
 speculators. “ What do you want to do, Sir Ronald — do 
 you want it to money ? ” 
 
 “ Thank you, Cookson,” was the reply. “ I don’t want 
 to back the favourite. What is Chelmsford’s price ? ” 
 
 “ Six to one,” rejoined the bookmaker promptly. ** What 
 shall I put it down to ? ” 
 
TRIAL OF BELISARIUS. 
 
 13S 
 
 ••You needn’t put it down at all,” rejoined Sir Ronald, 
 carelessly. “ Who’ll make me a bid against one not men- 
 tioned in the betting ? ” 
 
 ** What is it, Sir Ronald ? ” inquired two or three book- 
 makers eagerly. 
 
 “ Belisarius,” replied the baronet. 
 
 “ Beli, what ? ” cried Cookson. “ How do you spell it ? ” 
 
 “ There’s the name,” rejoined the baronet, as he showed 
 a page in his betting-book upon which Belisarius was 
 clearly written. “ What will any one lay me to a hundred ? ” 
 
 “ Never heard the name before,” rejoined Cookson, 
 sharply. “ And it’s not a very good betting-race, but if 
 you like to have three thousand to a hundred. Sir Ronald, 
 you can put it down.” 
 
 “ All right ! ” replied the baronet. “ Does any ane want 
 to do it again ? ” 
 
 There was some little sparring, but eventually the same 
 odds were laid to the same amount twice more. Then one 
 of the speculators produced a “ turf guide ” from his 
 pocket, and exclaimed, “ Why, it’s a dark colt of old Bill 
 Smith’s. Here’s twenty to one, Belisarius, to a hundred. 
 Who will have it ? ” 
 
 Sir Ronald simply shook his head, and, saying << that he 
 had got quite sufficient,” sauntered out of the subscription- 
 room in his usual indolent manner. 
 
 The sudden appearance of Belisarius in the betting was 
 much talked of for a day or two in racing-circles ; and all 
 sorts of wild rumours were current concerning old Bill 
 Smith’s dark three-year-old. But as no authentic infor- 
 mation regarding him came to hand, and, in spite of the 
 liberal offers of the bookmakers, nobody seemed to have 
 the slightest inclination to back him, Belisarius faded once 
 more out of the betting. And it was only now and again 
 at intervals that here and there a very crafty speculator 
 dribbled a little bit on him at long shots, on the sole 
 ground as he explained that Sir Ronald Radcliffe wasn’t 
 a fool, and that there might be something in this dark cok 
 after all. Still, at the rare intervals that the name of 
 Belisarius cropped up in the betting, it was always at 
 very long odds* As for Sir Ronald, he was a reticent mast 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 13^ 
 
 concerning his turf transactions; and with a few intimates, 
 who felt entitled to question him on the subject, he simply 
 replied “ that he had never seen the colt in his life, but 
 that he believed those connected with him considered that 
 he had a good chance for the Two Thousand.'* 
 
 In the meantime Belisarius strides away over the York- 
 shire Wold in grand style ; and old Bill Smith, who has 
 entirely shaken off his gout, grows “ sweeter " day by day. 
 
 XIX. — In the Gazette# 
 
 •• th Hussars. Charles Devereux, gent., to be Cornet, vice 
 
 Langley, promoted. October 14th.” 
 
 I WONDER if there is any man who has once worn Her 
 Majesty’s uniform who cannot.recall the exultation with 
 which he once read a similar notice in the Gazette, It is, 
 in all probability, the first time he has ever seen his name 
 in print ; and, lightly though he may affect to take it, he 
 still, whenever he can possess himself of the paper, reads 
 ‘that announcement furtively for the next day or two. If 
 he does not carry his head a trifle higher, and feel inclined 
 to put on some slight amount of swagger amongst his 
 youthful acquaintance, then most assuredly he is not of 
 the clay of which soldiers should be kneaded. Most of 
 us, I should think, could remember the fever-heat of those 
 few days after our first appearance in the Gazette; how 
 anxiously we made ourselves acquainted with all the 
 braveries of our regiment ; and, for the matter of that, 
 dedicated much time to the costumes of the British army 
 generally. What special designation our corps might be 
 known by in the slang of the service was also the subject 
 5f much delight and congratulation. Whether we were in 
 the Slashers, the Springers, the Red Lancers, or the Dirty 
 half-hundred, whether Black Watch or Cameron High- 
 landers, was a distinction which it was maddening that 
 our civilian friends (we had begun to call them so by this 
 time) failed to comprehend the importance of. Then 
 
IN THE GAZETTE. 
 
 13; 
 
 came all the fun of the outfit — the trying-on of ouf 
 uniforms (that first experience of the pomp and circum- 
 stance of glorious war) ; and, though we have a dim 
 recollection of getting our sword between our legs, of 
 feeling exquisitely uncomfortable in the unaccustomed 
 dress generally, and of a tendency to snigger, on the part 
 of the tailor’s young man, at the awkwardness we dis- 
 played in our new cloth and broideries, still, upon the 
 whole, it was a joyous time, with life and the career of 
 our choice all opening before us. 
 
 Charlie Devereux was delighted with the official letter 
 that confirmed his appearance in the Gazette^ and further 
 informed him that he was granted leave of absence until 
 the 31st of December, on which day he was requested to 
 report himself to the officer commanding the — th Hussars, 
 at York. Old Tom Devereux had been much pleased with 
 his son’s appointment. He authorized him to draw for a 
 very liberal sum on account of his outfit, and further 
 promised to make him a present of Pole Star for first 
 charger, as soon as that gallant animal had fulfilled his 
 engagement in the Autumn Steeplechase at Lincoln. About 
 this latter there was considerable excitement at North 
 Leach. The young one had no doubt come on a good 
 deal during the year, and was a very much better horse 
 than he had been in the spring. Charlie was once more 
 to ride, and was sanguine about turning the tables on his 
 successful antagonist of last March. 
 
 “ I rode very green then,” he cried, “and allowed myself 
 to be gammoned out of the race. Whether I could have 
 quite won I don’t know, but I ought to have been much 
 nearer, I am sure. I was looking after George Fletcher, 
 when all the time it was Jim I ought to have been stick- 
 ing to.” 
 
 “ Given the same animals and you ought to have the 
 best of them this time,” said John Devereux, “ but there’s 
 no knowing what those Fletchers will run ; and, remem- 
 ber, they are as full of dodges as an old dog-fox. Next 
 time. Master Charlie, ride your own race, trust your own 
 judgment, and don’t hang upon them.” 
 
 To fight the spring battle of the Carholme over again 
 
*38 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 would be to weary the reader. Suffice it to say that Pole 
 Star fully justified the improvement claimed for him by his 
 friends, and that Charlie, when they turned into the 
 straight, having satisfactorily disposed of Jim Fletcher, 
 felt like sailing in an easy winner, but half way up the dis- 
 tance, George Fletcher, who seemed to Charlie to have 
 dropped from the clouds, as he had seen nothing of him 
 after the first half-mile, challenged, and a desperate race 
 home ensued between the pair, but Charlie this time had 
 ridden his horse carefully, and Pole Star had a good bit left 
 in him to finish with. Holding George Fletcher’s riding 
 in great respect, Charlie determined to let him get no 
 nearer than he could help ; he was a length to the good 
 when the final struggle began, and in spite of all George 
 Fletcher’s efforts he could never quite get up, and Charlie 
 was returned the winner by a good neck, to the great glory 
 and jubilation of North Leach. 
 
 New Year’s Day saw Charlie Devereux installed in his 
 new quarters in the barracks at York ; his baggage had been 
 sent on in advance, and Bertie Slade had duly seen to the fit- 
 ting-up of the two rooms destined to become his domicile for 
 the present. He was in high spirits, disposed to like every- 
 thing, and to make light of such disagreeables as are the 
 inevitable portion of a soldier’s novitiate. Recruit drill 
 and the riding-school are necessities, but he must be a very 
 enthusiastic soldier who can describe them as pleasures. 
 He had been a little dashed by the confidences of a brother 
 cornet who was still undergoing the discipline of the 
 scho6l. 
 
 I shan’t mind the riding-school,” remarked Charlie, 
 confidently; “ I’ve been more or less on the top of a horse 
 from my childhood, and was good enough to just win a 
 steeplechase this autumn.” 
 
 “ So much the worse for you,” rejoined his new chum. 
 “ Our riding-master will tell you that it’s the fellows who 
 think they can ride give all the trouble. Same way dis- 
 mounted drill , the sergeant always says it’s the gentlemen 
 who thought they learnt it at their private tutor’s that 
 there’s no getting it into. I thought that it would be a 
 good thing to learn as much as I could before joining, and 
 
IN THE GAZETTE. 
 
 139 
 
 now my persecutor says, ‘ You see, Mr. Robertson, there’s 
 so much to knock out of you before we can properly set to 
 work on you.’ ” 
 
 “ Well,” replied Charlie, laughing, I’m ignorant oJ 
 everything, except having learnt to ride, well, we’ll say, in 
 my own fashion.” 
 
 Charlie Devereux commenced his military career about 
 three months before Norman Slade made that remarkable 
 discovery on Bellaton Moor, but neither Bertie Slade 
 nor himself were even aware of Norman’s presence in 
 Yorkshire. 
 
 Amongst many other people who had seen Charlie’s 
 name in the Gazette were the Kynastons. They were 
 both, of course, aware that it was impending, and they 
 both regarded it as a point to be utilised in their respective 
 games of life. The Major had again taken on “ The Firs ” 
 as a hunting-box; it suited him in some respects: first and 
 foremost, he got the place cheap. It was not every one 
 who cared to take a hunting-box in North Lincolnshire, 
 where neighbours ran scarce, and there was little but the 
 sheer sport to rely upon for amusement. Dick Kynaston 
 was undoubtedly very fond of hunting in his own way; 
 he took his pleasure leisurely in this respect now, but he 
 gave the idea of a man who had been able to “ ride a bit ” 
 in his youth. He was a constant attendant at the cover- 
 side, and, though he always laughingly said his riding days 
 were over, yet now and again, when fortune favoured him 
 and the country was not too stiff, he could hold his own 
 with the best in a fast thing. As for Mrs. Kynaston, as 
 before said, she rode in a somewhat similar fashion, taking 
 the role of a mere spectator for the most part, but some 
 two or three times in the season showing that when she 
 chose the best lady in the hunt would have to do all she 
 knew to beat Kate Kynaston. 
 
 In these country quarters the Major always looked for- 
 ward to doing a bit of horse-dealing, and though, whether 
 in the Wolds of Lincolnshire or those of Yorkshire, experi- 
 ence had shown him how difficult it is to get the better of 
 the natives in the matter of horseflesh, the Major was still 
 keen as ever about picking up bargains in that way ; then, 
 
140 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 again, there were always Tally Ho Stakes and Gone Away 
 Plates to be compassed, and it afforded the Major infinite 
 amusement, if no profit, as witness his disappointment at 
 Lincoln Spring Meeting, to pick up a horse that he fancied 
 capable of carrying off such races. 
 
 In spite of his resolutions in the early part of the year 
 he had supported Charlie once more in the Autumn Hunt 
 Steeple Chase, and won a very nice little stake upon Pole 
 Star. Young Devereux in a Hussar regiment quartered 
 at York he considered would be decidedly worth culti- 
 vating. His far-seeing eye looked out upon a very pleasant 
 billet for the York Races in the ensuing August. There 
 was sure to be plenty of card-playing and billiards, besides 
 the opportunities offered by the Knavesmire, and it was 
 on these varied opportunities that the Major depended 
 upon in great part for a living. 
 
 The Firs also suited Mrs. Kynaston for this winter; not 
 only did it allow her to retain Charlie Devereux within 
 her thrall, for whose devotion she honestly cared but little, 
 but it also offered the best possible chance she knew of 
 seeing something of Gilbert Slade, and in Gilbert Slade, 
 between pique and caprice, Mrs. Kynaston was much 
 interested. 
 
 It had been a mere whim in the first instance, but the 
 indifference Slade had shown to her charms, and, latterly, 
 his evident preference for Lettice herself, had aroused a 
 /ery tornado in this wayward woman’s breast. She had 
 dwelt upon it, brooded upon it, what you will ; but ended 
 by conceiving herself passionately in love with the good- 
 looking Hussar. Bertie Slade had run down for the day 
 to Lincoln to see Charlie ride Pole Star, but he had so 
 far put in no appearance at North Leach ; and, now that 
 Charlie had joined the regiment, it was not very likely 
 that he would do so. Mrs. Kynaston had quite enough 
 knowledge of things military to know that it was not very 
 likely young Devereux would get leave for the first few 
 months, until he had passed his noAit ate, in fact; and it 
 was hardly likely that Bertie would come to North Leach, 
 unless he accompanied his friend. 
 
 Gilbert Slade, indeed, when young Devereux suggested 
 
IN THE GAZETTE. 
 
 I4X 
 
 a run home to North Leach for a few days* hunting, 
 laughed as he replied, “ I can tell you what the chief’s 
 reply will be before you ask him. He will tell you, ‘ The 
 York and Ainsty are quite good enough for you to hunt 
 with for the present ; and it will be time enough for you 
 to go further a-field when you are through the school and 
 have learned your drill.* No, no, the chief is a rare good 
 sort for leave, but, as for your wanting it just after, you 
 have joined, he will regard that as unmitigated cheek.” 
 
 Charlie accepted his comrade’s dictum ; in reality, he 
 had no great desire to go back to North Leach. As far 
 as hunting went, the sport around York would satisfy any 
 man not wedded to the shires, and the new life was full 
 of pleasure and amusement to a young fellow like himself. 
 But then there were Mrs. Kynaston’s instructions, that he 
 was to be sure and come back, bring Mr. Slade with him, 
 and have a week in his own country, if he could compass 
 it. And Lettice, too, as she bade him good-bye, had said, 
 ** It would be awfully jolly, Charlie, if you and Mr. Slade 
 can run down and have a good gallop or two with us 
 before the season closes.** Well, he had done his best ; 
 and, as it couldn’t be managed, there was no help for it. 
 
 During the latter part of her stay in London Mrs, 
 Kynaston had seen a good deal of Ralph Furzedon. It 
 had been, in the first instance, because her husband had 
 wished her to do so. Their intimacy had increased, be- 
 cause Furzedon eagerly cultivated her acquaintance; and, 
 latterly, because she had seen her way into making use of 
 him. To say that she had easily detected Furzedon’s 
 besetting ambition would hardly describe the case. The 
 man had made a confidant of her from the first ; she knew 
 how anxious he was to push himself into society — the 
 higher the better; but, at all events, into society of some 
 sort to start with. She had done him more than one good 
 turn in that respect, and Furzedon clung tenaciously to 
 her skirts in consequence. Mrs. Kynaston had of late 
 made up her mind that he should marry Lettie Devereux. 
 Furzedon had thought Lettie a very pretty girl to start 
 with ; but it had never entered into his mind to make her 
 his wife until Mrs. Kynaston not only planted the idea 
 
142 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 there, but tendered it and ministered to it as a delicate 
 flower requiring careful cultivation. She was always 
 chanting Lettie’s praises. 
 
 “ That girl,'* she would say, ** only requires to be seen 
 to have half London at her feet. She is thrown away 
 amongst that dowdy set of Mrs. Connop’s ; and she is so 
 dreadfully loyal to her aunt that I can’t induce her to 
 come about a little under my chaperonage.** 
 
 “ I should have thought,” Furzedon had rejoined, “that 
 her family was hardly good enough to give her much chance 
 in the matrimonial market.” 
 
 “No chancel” replied Mrs. Kynaston, with a shrug of 
 her shoulders. “ Much you know about it. The bluest 
 blood in the peerage in these democratic days mates either 
 with beauty or money-bags, if it doesn’t do worse than go 
 to the coulisses for its countess. If Lettie Devereux only 
 marries a man with a tolerably good fortune she will 
 speedily be in what society she likes in London.” ' 
 
 Now all this, if not strictly true, was so in great part. 
 Lettie Devereux was a very pretty girl, quite likely to make 
 a good match, and whose antecedents were little likely to 
 stand in her way should a man fall in love with her. Day 
 by day all this sank deeper and deeper into Mr. Furzedon’s 
 mind. Mrs. Kynaston was far too clever ever to suggest 
 that Lettie would suit him — she spoke of the girl always in 
 the abstract, as one whom nature had so richly endowed 
 that she must have a brilliant future before her, always 
 accompanied by regret that that future was being muddled 
 away by the bad start she had at Mrs. Connop’s. Mrs. 
 Kynaston dilated upon Lettie’s charms in a manner that 
 her own estimate of them hardly warranted. Lettice 
 Devereux was undoubtedly a pretty girl, but she was not 
 such a striking beauty as it suited her friend to make out. 
 Anyway, the idea that it would be a good thing for him to 
 marry Lettice Devereux was beginning to take a strong 
 hold on Furzedon’s mind. He was a considerably wealthier 
 man than people had any idea of. Not only had his father 
 left him very well off, but recently an uncle had died who 
 bad bequeathed to him considerable business of the same 
 nature as the late lamented Furzedon’s. He bad turned 
 
IN THE GAZETTE. 
 
 Hi 
 
 up his nose at his father’s calling, but that was when he 
 was young and foolish. A shrewd, grasping, hard man, 
 devoted to money-making, he had determined to carry on 
 this latter, under an assumed name, of course ; but then 
 most usury is conducted on such principles, and the person 
 with whom a loan is contracted is apt to be a mere man 
 of straw acting for a principal in the background. 
 
 Now one of the first negotiations that had fallen to 
 Furzedon’s lot after taking up his uncle’s business had 
 tickled that gentleman immensely. It may be remembered 
 that Charlie Devereux, to meet his losses at Newmarket, 
 had been obliged to borrow money from Ralph Furzedon ; 
 he had given his acceptance in acknowledgment to three 
 bills of various amounts, but the total of which came to a 
 considerable sum. Worried about this, Charlie, it may 
 be borne in mind, had confided his troubles to Major 
 Kynaston, and that gentleman had promptly found him 
 the money with which to redeem those bills from Furzedon, 
 but to do this the Major had simply to raise the money 
 from a professional usurer. His knowledge of the money- 
 lenders in the metropolis was extensive, and amongst 
 others he had been in the habit of doing business with 
 Ralph Furzedon’s uncle, who traded, as before said, under 
 an assumed name. It is easy to conceive how Mr. Furze- 
 don chuckled upon discovering that the acceptances that 
 were redeemed had only been rescued for acceptances of 
 the same description bearing usurious interest instead of 
 the modest five per cent, with which as a friend he had 
 contented himself. In short, poor Charlie’s bills had 
 simply been transferred from one pocket to the other. 
 Major Kynaston was in profound ignorance of this , he 
 was aware of the death of the principal, but was informed 
 when he called that the business was carried on as usual, 
 and, having effected his business, had troubled himself 
 , no more« 
 
144 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 XX. — ^The Two Thousand. 
 
 T he race for the Two Thousand draws near, and, 
 though the betting thereon is languid in proportion 
 to what it usually was in those grand old gambling days, 
 still this could not be so much ascribed to the apathy of 
 the sporting public as to the narrow circumscription of the 
 betting. The race was regarded by those conversant in 
 Turf matters as a certainty for Glendower. Such a gift, 
 indeed, did it look to him, that it was rumoured there would 
 be hardly any opposition. And out of the half-dozen pos- 
 sible runners quoted no one can imagine that any of the 
 number had much chance of defeating the favourite colt, 
 whose two-year old career had consisted of six or seven 
 unbroken victories. Glendower, like the upas-tree, over- 
 shadowed and killed the market. In the teeth of his 
 triumphant career it seemed sheer madness to back any of 
 his opponents. And when there suddenly dawned upon 
 the horizon a dim star like Belisarius, and when men hav- 
 ing given time to collect such facts about him as that he 
 belonged to Bill Smith, the famous north country jockey, 
 and that he had been backed by one so intimately associ- 
 ated with Bill Smith’s former triumphs as Sir Ronald 
 RadclifFe, it was gradually whispered about that the New- 
 market crack Glendower might meet his master in the dark 
 colt from the ‘‘ north countree.” 
 
 It was not that Bill Smith and his friends had laid out 
 much money on Belisarius, indeed they were in no position 
 to do so — some eight hundred pounds at long odds had 
 been the sum-total of their collective outlay ; true they had 
 also secured various long shots about the colt for the 
 Derby ; but none of them were in a position to risk much 
 money on a race of any kind, let them fancy it ever so 
 dearly. Sir Ronald, as bold a plunger as ever was seen, 
 had from such reckless speculation so crippled his resources 
 that a monkey was the utmost left to him to venture. 
 Much less contented Bill Smith and Norman Slade ; and 
 therefore it was sheerly the money of the people and a few 
 
THE TWO THOUSAND. 145 
 
 astute Turfites that forced Belisarius into a prominent place 
 in the betting. 
 
 If there is one thing the speculative public are specially 
 fond of in connection with a race-horse it is a dark colt in 
 the hands of a well-known man at long odds. And this 
 w’as just the year to foment such a fancy. It was all very 
 well to say Glendower must win, but to back Glendower 
 meant the taking of a very short price about that noble 
 animal’s chance. Amongst the others it was impossible to 
 make out with any due regard to their previous perfor- 
 mances that any of them could have the slightest chance of 
 beating the favourite. There is no telling how good a 
 horse may be that has never run ; it is equally true that 
 the converse of the proposition holds good. 
 
 “ Bill Smith is a clever man,” argued the public, “ and 
 is a great horseman still, if he chooses to take care of him- 
 self ; it is quite evident that he fancies this colt of his, and 
 there is no better judge than he , surely he will keep steady 
 to ride his own horse, and if he only does that old Bill’s 
 good enough to tackle the very best of ’em yet.” And thus 
 reasoning the ever-sanguine army of backers began, with 
 that heroic constancy that ever characterises them, to stake 
 their money freely on Belisarius. In vain did bookmakers 
 ask each other what this might mean. The cry had gone 
 forth that Belisarius “ was good goods for The Guineas.” 
 And those who went down to the lists and staked, and their 
 number was numerous as those who go down to the sea in 
 ships, with one accord invested their money on the dark 
 colt of the North. And thus it came to pass, that as the 
 race drew nigh Belisarius was installed a second favourite. 
 It was rumoured indeed that, though quoted at two or 
 three points longer odds in the betting, he for all that 
 carried more money than the hitnerto unbeaten Glendower. 
 
 Norman Slade and his brother conspirator. Sir Ronald, 
 were in as high a state of excitement as it was possible for 
 two veteran Turfites to arrive at. Every two or three days 
 brought Norman Slade a mysterious telegram from Bella- 
 ton Moor, couched in agricultural language that must have 
 somewhat mystified the clerks on the transmission of the 
 message. Such intelligence as “ Sheep doing well,” “ Mut- 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 146 
 
 ton still commands a good price,” etc., etc., seemed hardly 
 worth flashing through the wires, but all such messages 
 conveyed to Slade the assurance that Belisarius was pro- 
 gressing favourably and was in the best of health. There 
 are two more of our acquaintances who are also much in- 
 terested in the coming result of the Two Thousand, and 
 these are Bertie Slade and young Devereux. Norman, as 
 was his custom, had written to his favourite nephew some 
 three or four weeks back, and informed him that if he 
 would like to have a bet upon The Guineas he could stand 
 a tenner in his, Norman’s, book. Now it so happened that 
 when he received this letter Charlie Devereux was sitting 
 in his quarters, and had just been unbosoming himself of 
 his troubles with regard to those bills. The Major’s-friendly 
 assistance had of course proved only temporary ; the ques- 
 tion had, as it inevitably must, reopened itself once more, 
 with the unpleasant addition that, like the snowball, these 
 bills had gathered bulk as time rolled on. Charlie had 
 taken very much to Slade almost from the very first ; to 
 begin with, he might have been said to almost owe his com- 
 mission to Gilbert ; then, again, he had all the admiration 
 that a facile disposition always has for a hard reticent char- 
 acter so exactly its antithesis. The trouble of these bills 
 weighed heavy on the young man as it is wont to do with 
 young men who are so free with their autograph in the 
 dawn of pecuniary difficulties. He had just made a clean 
 breast of it to Gilbert. 
 
 “ I can’t go to the governor about it. You see, he has 
 just had to shell out an awful lot of money for the outfit, 
 horses, etc., to say nothing of his having had to pay up a 
 good bit for me when I was at Cambridge.” 
 
 “ Well, you see, Master Charlie, this is rather a stiff 
 order ; to get you out of your scrape requires a thousand 
 pounds, and I tell you honestly, unless your father wiU 
 assist you, I don’t see to whom you can apply. Very few 
 of us are blest with a relation whom we can ask to help us 
 over such a shocking tall stile as this. Let me think,” 
 and for a few minutes Gilbert Slade stared into the fire, 
 and seemed wrapped in thought. 
 
 To 4o Charlie justice, no idea of seeking any other aid 
 
THE TWO THOUSANa 
 
 U7 
 
 than advice had ever crossed his brain when he confided 
 his troubles to his new friend As for Gilbert, if only half- 
 a-dozen years older in age, he was many years older in 
 knowledge of the world than his comrade. “ A deuced bad 
 start,*’ he thought, “ for a young one to join hampered in 
 this way ; of course he must come to his governor in the 
 end, but, as he says, it is rather an inopportune moment to 
 bring his necessities before him just now.** 
 
 “ Now, Devereux,** he said, at last, “ I’ve thought it aU 
 over, and I’ll tell you what vou must do. It is clear as 
 noonday that your father will nave to pay those bills sooner 
 or later You ought to have made a clean breast of it 
 when you w^ere gazetted, and told him then and there, that, 
 unless he was prepared to pay that sum for you, your join- 
 ing the regiment was an impossibility. No use talking any 
 more about that, you didn’t do it. The question is, What 
 you had better do now ? First of all, you must write 
 to Kynaston, and ask him on what terms he can make 
 arrangements for carrying over those bills for another six 
 months ; secondly, I can put you in the way of a chance 
 of winning as much money as might suffice for that pur- 
 pose. It won’t pay them, but it will possibly obviate the 
 necessity of going to the home authorities for another six 
 months.” 
 
 “ That would be a great point,” replied Charlie, ever 
 willing to postpone the unpleasant explanation if possible, 
 and at the same time keen to learn what it was his friend 
 was about to recommend, for he already conjectured that 
 the opportunity of winning money Gilbert spoke of was in 
 some way connected with the Turf. 
 
 I’ve just heard from my Uncle Norman,” replied the 
 other, “ and he has offered to let me stand in ten pounds 
 with him about a horse he has backed for The Guineas. 
 Now, if you like, this time to. I’ll ask him to let me have a 
 pony, and we will go halves in it. It won’t make much 
 difference to you if you do lose those few pounds.” 
 
 “ What’s the horse ?” exclaimed Charlie. Gilbert Slade 
 laughed as he replied, “ When my Uncle Gilbert dis- 
 tributes his benefits he takes very good care there shall be 
 no idle babbling. I can't tell you, because I don’t know. 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 148 
 
 He makes me that offer, and all he says is, ‘ The horse will 
 run well, and stands at very much longer odds at present 
 than he has any business to do/ Those who know Nor- 
 man Slade will tell you that’s a good deal for him to say, 
 and I put much more faith in it than I should in the most 
 glowing account of any one else.” 
 
 “ It’s very good of you, and I’m only too glad of the 
 chance. I hope we shall have the excitement of knowing 
 what the horse is before the race is won.” 
 
 “•Never fear,” replied Bertie ; “ there’s no more business- 
 like man than my uncle. Two or three days before the 
 race I shall get a line containing the exact note of the bet ; 
 but Uncle Norman is always mute as the grave about 
 stable secrets till it is too late for their disclosure to be of 
 any consequence.” 
 
 It is the morning of the Two Thousand, and the furore 
 for Belisarius had somewhat cooled down. The horse had 
 arrived at Newmarket all right a couple of days previous, 
 and had duly galloped and been looked over on the Heath. 
 But he failed to please the cognoscenti. Newmarket, ever 
 prejudiced against a horse not trained in their midst, 
 picked all sorts of holes in Belisarius. His action was 
 lumbering ; he was coachy ; he looked like a non-stayer ; 
 he would tire to nothing in the last two hundred yards. 
 Such were the verdicts of the horse-watchers, and also of 
 others who ought to have been better judges of the northern 
 colt’s powers. 
 
 ** Well,” said Sir Ronald, with just the faintest shade of 
 anxiety perceptible in his tone, as stepping from the 
 “ special ” he was met on the platform by Norman Slade, 
 “ how’s the colt ? They’ve been rather knocking him about 
 in the London market the last twenty-four hours.” 
 
 “ Frt to run for his life,” rejoined Slade ; “ and, what’s 
 equally to the point, old Bill is very fit too. He is keeping 
 himself wonderfully quiet, sticking to his horse ; and is not 
 to be drawn into sitting up and conviviality. He is in 
 real earnest this time ; but, if it comes oflf. I’m sadly afraid 
 he will make up for his present self-restraint. If he wins 
 on Belisarius to-day I’m afraid he’ll make a royal night 
 of 
 
THE TWO THOUSAND. 
 
 149 
 
 “ They don’t think much of Belisarius here, I suppose ?” 
 said Sir Ronald, as they got into the fly which was to con- 
 vey them to Norman Slade's lodgings, so that the baronet 
 might get something to eat before starting for the course. 
 
 “ No,” replied Slade ; “ Newmarket never believed in a 
 north-country horse till it has well beaten all they have 
 got to bring against it.” 
 
 On the Heath, from the very beginning of the racing, it 
 was matter of universal comment what a dull affair the 
 great race of the meeting was likely to prove. It was now 
 known that the field had dwindled down to half-a-dozen 
 runners; and, though all of these were backed in some 
 fashion, still it was only Glendower and Belisarius who 
 were backed in anything like earnest. As a well-known 
 member of the Jockey Club observed, “ If it hadn’t been 
 for the advent of this dark colt from the North the Two 
 Thousand would have been for all practical purposes a 
 walk-over.” Belisarius, although he might not find favour 
 with the Newmarket people and the majority of racing- 
 men, yet had lost none of his attraction for the public. 
 The dark horse who had never yet been seen on a race- 
 course, and against whom five and six to one could be 
 obtained, had a fascination for them that outbalanced all 
 Glendower’s victories, and they steadily supported their 
 champion in defiance of the sums that went down upon 
 the favourite at a price that had gradually shortened to 
 seven to four. However, the saddling-bell has rung, the 
 competitors are arranged in the birdcage, and in a few 
 minutes more make their way down to the starting-post. 
 For a moment Bill Smith checks his horse and bends over 
 his shoulder as he passes Norman on his way out. 
 
 It’s all right, Mr. Slade,” he murmurs. “ I shall just 
 come straight away from the Dip and strangle them.” 
 
 Norman simply nodded in reply, and then went off with 
 Sir Ronald to witness the race. 
 
 The tale of that Two Thousand is soon told. The hand- 
 ful of horses were easily despatched by the starter, and run 
 at a muddling pace for a good half the distance. Descend- 
 ing the hill Glendower assumed the lead and improved the 
 pace. At the Bushes he came right away from his field, 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 150 
 
 with the exception of Belisarius, who was going strong a 
 bare two lengths in rear on the whip hand. As they 
 breasted the ascent the north-country colt ran up to his 
 antagonist and challenged, and for the next hundred yards 
 it was a ding-dong struggle between them. Then Belisarius 
 got the best of it, and, wearing down his antagonist. Bill 
 Smith came right away in the last fifty yards and won 
 easily by a couple of lengths. 
 
 A great cheer rent the air as the numbers went up ; but 
 in the Jockey Club stand, and amongst the gentlemen 
 generally, there was a portentous silence. Neither was 
 there much exultation shown by the bookmakers ; it was 
 the general public that had won the money, and it was the 
 lungs of the general public that boisterously proclaimed 
 their satisfaction at the result of the race. 
 
 “ A great coup,'' said Slade ; “ but nothing to what we 
 will bring off at Epsom.*’ 
 
 “It is a coup," replied the baronet; “and we ought to 
 have a good chance of winning the Derby, and our double- 
 event money as well. Belisarius appears to me as sound a 
 colt as ever I looked over.” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Slade, “ he is sound enough wind and 
 limb. I’m not afraid of the horse, it’s the man. Belisarius 
 will stand the training all right. I wish I felt as certain 
 about Bill Smith.” 
 
 “ I should think he might be trusted to keep steady now 
 till after the Derby,” replied the baronet. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” replied Norman Slade ; “you see, he 
 was short of money and shaky of reputation ; and the 
 bringing off this Two Thousand meant a good deal to him. 
 Men like Bill don’t thrive upon success.” 
 
 XXI. — “You Shall Never Marry Him.” 
 
 G reat was Charlie Devereux’s exultation when the 
 telegram reached York containing the news of Beli- 
 sarius’s victory. A formal line had been received by 
 Bertie from his uncle a couple of days before, in which he 
 
• YOU SHALL NEVER MARRY HIM.” 151 
 
 notified the fact that Bertie had an excessively nice bet of 
 six hundred to twenty-five against Belisarius for The 
 Guineas, and now this comfortable stake was satisfactorily 
 landed. As for young Devereux, with the sanguine nature 
 of youth, he at once saw himself clear of all his financial 
 difficulties. 
 
 “ It’s all your doing, old fellow,” he cried, as he clasped 
 Bertie’s hand warmly. “I’m awfully grateful; it was a 
 great inspiration of mine to come and bore you with all 
 my troubles^.” 
 
 “ Never mind about that, but just bear in mind. Master 
 Charlie, you’re a long way off being out of the wood at 
 present. You’ve won three hundred pounds, but you don’t 
 suppose the holder of those bills will let you renew with- 
 out a bonus, do you ? You are in the hands of the money- 
 lenders now. I’m happy to say I’ve never been driven to 
 seek their services myself; but I’ve had something to do 
 with them on behalf of a great pal of mine, and am toler- 
 ably well versed in the ways of those gentlemen. The 
 holder of those bills, in the first place, will make you pay 
 pretty smartly for their renewal. I should guess about a 
 hundred pounds. How are you going to pay off a thousand 
 pounds with the remaining two hundred ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t you see ? ” replied Charlie, with a look of preter- 
 natural sagacity ; “of course I immediately put that two 
 hundred on Belisarius for the Derby — he’s at three to one 
 now — providing your uncle fancies his chance. Well, if 
 that comes off, I shall have got eight hundred together 
 towards clearing myself.” 
 
 “ Good ! ” replied Bertie ; “ how about the remainder ? 
 Remember, there’ll be another six months’ interest on, 
 which, at the price you are paying, will have added a 
 hundred and fifty to the original debt.” 
 
 “ I forgot that,” replied young Devereux, as his counte- 
 nance fell somewhat; “I suppose there’ll be nothing for 
 it, then, but to make a clean breast of it to the governor.” 
 “ That’s right,” said Slade ; “ you do that. Wait till 
 after the Derby; and then, win or lose, let them know the 
 worst at home. It’s better, anyhow, that you should be 
 in Cor one month’s interest rather than siiu” 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 And so it was agreed between them that Charlie should 
 'await the result of the great struggle on Epsom Downs, 
 and then confess the scrape he had got into to old Tom 
 Devereux. 
 
 A very few days brought a letter from Major Kynaston ; 
 and Bertie’s knowledge of the ways of money-lenders 
 proved only too accurate. The Major wrote, — 
 
 My dear Devereux, 
 
 “ I have just made the best terms I can with 
 Jordan & Co., but they will have their pound of flesh, you 
 know. Robbers, rank robbers, every one of them ; but 
 pray bear in mind that when I first suggested your apply- 
 ing to them you were dreadfully oppressed by the weight 
 of your obligations to Furzedon. I agreed with you, as 
 any man in the world would, that, bad as was the neces- 
 sity for seeking assistance from a professional money- 
 lender, it was better than remaining under such an obliga- 
 tion to a friend The rascals insist on having a hundred 
 down, and in consideration of that will let the bills run on 
 for another six months, at fifteen per cent, for that time. 
 This is the best I can do for you. Give me your consent, 
 knd enclose a cheque for the hundred, and you will hear no 
 more of Jordan & Co. for six months. 
 
 •• Ever yours, 
 
 “Richard Kynaston.” 
 
 ** The scoundrels 1 ” exclaimed Bertie, after reading this 
 letter. “ You must stick to your resolution, Devereux ; win 
 or lose at Epsom, mind. These vultures are charging you 
 just forty per cent, for the accommodation.” 
 
 Bertie Slade could have only guessed the state of the 
 case; scoundrels would have been not half a strong enough 
 word to have applied to the robbers into whose clutches 
 young Devereux had fallen. In the first place, half the 
 bonus went into Kynaston’s pocket, for having introduced 
 Mr. Devereux to Jordan & Co. Secondly, as we already 
 know, Jordan & Co. was no other than Ralph Furzedon. 
 Consequently, poor Charlie in reality was being shamelessly 
 
‘YOU SHALL NEVER MARRY HIM/* 153 
 
 stripped and plundered by a couple of men whom he looked 
 upon as intimate friends. 
 
 The following week brought a most satisfactory letter 
 from Norman Slade, intimating that he had paid six hun- 
 dred pounds into Bertie’s account at Cox’s, and saying 
 that he fancied Belisarius’s chance for the Derby very 
 much. “ The Two Thousand Guineas,” he went on to 
 say, “ was a good public trial ; and I can only say, he beat 
 Glendower a good deal more easily than we expected. He 
 is as well now as one could wish him ; and, should he only 
 continue so, it will take a right good colt to beat him 
 at Epsom,” It need scarcely be said that this letter 
 thoroughly confirmed Charlie Devereux in his resolution. 
 He sent off the required cheque to Kynaston, and forth- 
 with proceeded to put the remainder of his winnings on 
 Belisarius for the Epsom race ; and that done, as he said 
 to Bertie Slade, “ There is nothing now for me to do but 
 to sit down and wait. I feel like a man who has insured 
 himself to the extent of his ability.” 
 
 “Yes,” rejoined Slade, laughing, “we can only trust 
 that the insurance office may not prove a bogus concern. 
 Such insurance as yours is hardly recommended by our 
 grave and reverend signors.” 
 
 “ What a disagreeable beast you are, Bertie,” cried 
 young Devereux, laughing ; “ I don’t see why you should 
 always take such a gloomy view of my affairs.” 
 
 “ Not at all,” rejoined Slade, “you’ll pull through all 
 right enough ; I was only laughing at the queer view you 
 take of things. You speak as if you had done a highly vir- 
 tuous action in endeavouring to extricate yourself from 
 your difficulties by putting every shilling you can lay your 
 hands on on this race. I doubt, for instance, if your 
 father wcaild quite view it in that light.” 
 
 “Don’t preach, Bertie; I cannot work, and to beg I am 
 ashamed. If I only knew how to make this money by 
 work, you’d see I wouldn’t flinch from it. This is my sole 
 chance; and I don’t see much harm in dashing down my 
 winnings again.” 
 
 “Nor is there,” rejoined Bertie, still laughing, “only 
 don’t take quite such a high moral tone about it. Hur- 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 JS4 
 
 rah for Belisarius ! I shall trust him with a pony myself, 
 just to pay expenses; and, if all’s well, in the Derby 
 week well run up and’"^ee the race. A week’s leave is 
 always given to all who wish to assist in that festival.’* 
 
 Mr. Furzedon, during the autumn months, had been 
 turning over Mrs. Kynaston’s advice in his own mind. He 
 had at last come to the conclusion, considerably swayed in 
 his judgment, be it borne in mind, by the aforesaid Mrs. 
 Kynaston, that Lettice Devereux would make him a very 
 suitable wife. Shrewd, quick-witted, and cynical, the man 
 judged for himself, and pretty accurately, in that world he 
 knew — the world of the race-course, of club, smoking- 
 rooms, of the stage, the demi-monde ; but of that social 
 world to which he aspired Ralph Furzedon was not only 
 very ignorant, but credulous in the extreme to those whom 
 he believed to have its entree. 
 
 The Kynastons he thoroughly believed to possess this 
 passport. That Dick Kynaston was what he was did not 
 in the least surprise Furzedon ; he was quite prepared for 
 lax morality in high places. The papers unfortunately 
 bear pretty constant evidence that the cream of society is 
 no better than its humbler brethren on those points. What 
 did tickle Ralph Furzedon amazingly was, that while he 
 as a tacit partner with Kynaston was, when opportunity 
 served, introducing young men with expectations to the 
 Major, that worthy — all unconscious — was bringing them 
 back to Jordan & Co., alias Ralph Furzedon, for relief of 
 their necessities. 
 
 But in Mrs. Kynaston Mr. Furzedon believed immensely. 
 He looked upon her as a clever woman, moving in the very 
 best society, and, to use his own expression, Knowing 
 the ropes, able to hold her own with the best ; little likely 
 to make any mistake in her judgment of things.* “ And,” 
 said Ralph Furzedon to himself, “ this woman looks upon 
 it that Lettice Devereux will give any man with a little 
 money, who marries her, a great social start.” 
 
 In almost any other groove of life the man would have 
 depended upon his own judgment, but upon this point he 
 was not only crazed but conscious of his ignorance. We 
 have all our ambitions ; and Ralph Furzedon’s was to force 
 
••you shall never marry him/' is? 
 
 his way into the best society. He had always admired 
 Lettice, but had never dreamt of her as a wife till the idea 
 had been distilled into his mind by Mrs. Kynaston. He 
 had plenty of assurance, and perhaps rated his personal 
 appearance as high as most people. He was a good-look- 
 ing man, but there was that indefinable something which 
 the moment he came amongst experts would be certain to 
 arouse curiosity as to his antecedents. Still, with all his 
 self-confidence, though he hardly liked to admit it, he had 
 a hazy idea that Lettice Devereux was not quite the girl 
 to be had for the asking ; that she was a young lady upon 
 whom the revelation of his wealth might produce but little 
 impression ; and, moreover, that she was quite capable of 
 not being properly impressed with all the advantages — 
 personal and otherwise — that he was prepared to lay at 
 her feet. 
 
 Like the astute calculator he was, Mr. Furzedon at once 
 began to reckon what trumps he held in his hand. He 
 thought he could depend upon Mrs. Kynaston to forward 
 his interests, and he looked upon her as a very tower of 
 strength could he but prevail upon her to espouse his 
 cause. “Then,” he thought, with an evil smile, “there 
 are those bills of Charlie’s; a cornet in a fast Dragoon 
 regiment is not likely to get much nearer liquidating them, 
 and they grow, they grow. I wonder, by the way, how 
 the deuce he found that last hundred to renew with ! 
 Well, well, sisters before now have been known to wed to 
 help a favourite brother out of a scrape ; when the time 
 comes, I trust Lettice Devereux will be too entangled to 
 escape. I wish that fellow Slade didn’t hang about her 
 quite so much. Unlucky for me, Charlie getting into the 
 same regiment ; she is likely to see more of him on that 
 account ; and, from all I can make out, it strikes me he 
 has no idea of neglecting such opportunities as fall in his 
 way. If he ever wants to borrow money I’d make it easy 
 for him. I’d risk a good deal to get him upon my books.” 
 
 “ I suppose you have given up all hope of seeing Charlie 
 down again this season?” said Mrs. Kynaston, one after- 
 noon that Lettie had ridden over to call upon her. 
 
 •• Yes ; he declares that he cannot get away, and raves 
 
156 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 about the sport he is having with the York and Ainsty, 
 and how splendidly Pole Star carries him. Brothers are 
 awfully selfish. No ; I didn’t quite mean that ; but Charlie 
 knew I had so reckoned upon his coming down and our 
 having a few more gallops together.” 
 
 “ Ah, well,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, “ men are fond of 
 change ; and just at present your brother is dazzled with 
 all the glitter of a mess, and the swagger of a military life 
 generally. Still, I do wonder he has not come home. I 
 should have thought he would have been unable to resist 
 the pressure put upon him.” 
 
 “ I’m sure I’ve said all I can,” replied Miss Devereux. 
 
 “ Ah,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, with a most provoking 
 smile, ‘‘ I was thinking of a much stronger influence than 
 yours, my dear. If Mr. Slade had been as much in earnest 
 
 as we had thought him ” 
 
 “ You have no right to say we,” interrupted Lettie hotly; 
 
 “ I am sure I never thought ” 
 
 “ Of course not,” interrupted Mrs. Kynaston in her 
 turn, “ as I thought him, he’d have made Charlie bring 
 him down to North Leach before now.” 
 
 “ There is nothing to prevent Mr. Slade coming here on 
 his own account, if he pleases. Father gave him a general 
 invitation to come and have a few days with the Brockles- 
 by any time he liked this winter.” 
 
 “ What, when you were at Lincoln ?” replied Mrs. Ky- 
 naston. 
 
 Lettie nodded. 
 
 “ He can hardly be said to have shown himself keen to 
 take advantage of the invitation.” 
 
 “ I suppose he waited to come with Charlie, and now he 
 finds Charlie can’t come it is getting too late.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe in that ‘ can’t come.’ I know too much 
 of soldiering for that. A man may not be able to get away 
 a certain week, but don’t tell me he can’t get away any 
 week in the course of the winter. Depend upon it, Mr. 
 Slade has not been half a dozen years in the army without 
 being able to tell your brother how a trifle like that might 
 be managed.” 
 
 Now out of her military lore Mrs. Kynaston did know 
 
YOU SHALL NEVER MARRY HIM.' 
 
 157 
 
 that Charlie would have most likely some difficulty in ob- 
 taining leave just at present, but she was anxious for her 
 own purposes to make Miss Devereux believe that Gilbert 
 Slade was not in earnest in his attentions. He had no 
 doubt shown much devotion to Lettice during the latter 
 part of his stay in town. Mrs. Kynaston had not been 
 present at the Lincoln autumn races ; but she had gathered 
 that Gilbert had hardly left Lettie’s side the whole day, 
 and had heartily accepted old Tom Devereux’s cordial 
 invitation to “ come and bite a bit with us, Mr. Slade, and 
 have a look at the hunt in our country.*' 
 
 But many such invitations are given every year, and, 
 though both sides are thoroughly in earnest in the contract, 
 circumstances forbid their ever coming to pass. Mrs. 
 Kynaston was too wise to say more, but she had attained 
 her object in some measure. Lettie's pride had taken fire 
 at the thought that she was beginning to think seriously 
 about a man who was simply indulging himself in an idle 
 flirtation with her. 
 
 “ Have you seen anything of your other admirer ? ” 
 asked Mrs. Kynaston, after a rather prolonged pause. 
 
 “ My other admirer ? *’ replied Lettie ; “ I’m sure I don't 
 know who you mean — I certainly can count perhaps half- 
 a-score men who were very civil to me, and liked to dance 
 with me, but I really couldn’t single out one with any ap- 
 parent desire for anything more." 
 
 “ How innocent we are," replied Mrs. Kynaston, laugh- 
 ing. “ My dear Lettie, you don’t require to be told that 
 Mr. Furzedon adores the very ground you walk on." 
 
 “ Nonsense," replied Miss Devereux, “ he has always 
 been civil, as an intimate friend of Charlie’s naturally 
 would be, but I’m sure he has never said a word of the 
 kind you suggest to me — and what’s more I don’t think I 
 much like Mr. Furzedon." 
 
 “ I w’ouldn't be in too great a hurry to make up my mind 
 about that,” said Mrs. Kynaston, “ he is a good-looking 
 man, and Dick tells me he has lots of money. I assure 
 you many girls would think twice before they would say 
 Kalph Furzedon nay." 
 
 •‘Well, it dgesn’t matter," rejoined Lettie. “You are 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 158 
 
 quite mistaken ; it is not likely I shall be called upon to 
 decide that question ; and now I must scamper home, if 
 you will allow me to ring for my horse.” A few minutes 
 more, and Miss Devereux had said “good-bye.” Mrs. 
 Kynaston stood watching her as she mounted. “ Yes,” 
 she muttered, “ I like you better than any girl I ever met ; 
 and I’d have been loyal to you, too, Lettie, if Gilbert Slade 
 had not come between us ; but I cannot give him up to 
 you. You shall never marry him, if it is within my power 
 to prevent it.” 
 
 XXII.— Mr. Black’s Tip. 
 
 T he winter presses hard upon the poorer classes gener- 
 ally ; work becomes scarce, and days become short, 
 just as we seem to require more light, more food, more 
 fire, more clothes, more everything. Our wants expand as 
 the means to supply them shorten ; or, sad to say, in some 
 cases disappear altogether. The sole trade that seems to 
 thrive in this dark time is that of the burglar, who finds 
 the season propitious ; and, if he has the good fortune to 
 evade the emissaries of the law, easily acquires the where- 
 withal to indulge in the riotous living in which his soul 
 delighteth. Upon no class, perhaps, does a hard winter 
 press more heavily than the hangers-on of the Turf: men 
 who, while racing is going on, pick up a mysterious living 
 as small bookmakers, as horse-watchers, as turf-advisers 
 to young (can’t be too young) gentlemen. I am speaking 
 of those who are “ indifferent honest.” As for the scum, 
 who are a disgrace to our racecourses, it is more than pro- 
 bable that they take to burglary during the winter months ; 
 having spent the summer in robbery, there would be no- 
 thing repugnant to their feelings in housebreaking during 
 the close term. 
 
 But, to see these small betting-men, who in the summer 
 season are so blatant, boisterous, and self-assured, habited 
 in white hat, and the remarkable coats they affect, and 
 to see Um|>, luckless individuals, who with dilapi- 
 
MR. BLACK'S TIP. 
 
 IS9 
 
 dated hat, scanty raiment, and broken boots, who in hoarse 
 tones, more graphically designated a “ gin-and-fog voice,” 
 murmur into your ears a hope that you can spare half-a- 
 crown, or peradventure half-a-sovereign, to assist a broken- 
 down sportsman. To see them, I repeat, in the chrysalis 
 form, it is hard to believe them to be the same individuals. 
 The brazen self-assurance is all out of them now ; and they 
 really are as hard put to it for a living as any class in 
 modern Babylon. 'They are to be met with, for the most 
 part, anywhere between Charing Cross and St. Paul’s 
 Cathedral ; they gravitate principally towards the Ludgate 
 Circus. Among these men, Sam Prance was a good typical 
 specimen of his class ; he had begun life as assistant to a 
 pawnbroker, and that pawnbroker had been Ralph Furze- 
 don’s uncle ; hence had arisen a connection between them. 
 What had produced the undying enmity which Prance 
 bore to the man who now stood in his dead master’s shoes 
 is about to be explained. From his boyish days Ralph 
 Furzedon was precocious, vicious, and cunning; and even 
 at fifteen began to gamble on the turf. He was liberall}/ 
 supplied with money by his guardians, and the Jewish in- 
 stinct in his veins led him even then to turn over such capital 
 as he possessed by speculating in the unredeemed pledges 
 in his uncle’s shop. He would often, with the assistance 
 of Prance, invest money, say in the purchase of a ring. 
 This would be left exposed for sale in the shop window. 
 In the course of two or three weeks a pound or two profit 
 would usually be realised by the sale of it. Such profits 
 young Furzedon, again through Prance, invested on the 
 turf ; he was shrewd, he was fortunate, and the result of 
 his betting was decidedly profitable. 
 
 The first thing fatal to Prance in his connection was, 
 that he too got bitten with a taste for turf speculation. 
 Like all beginners, he was lucky at first, and this led to 
 too great intimacy between young Ralph and himself. 
 Furzedon became an habitual visitor at Prance’s house. 
 Mrs. Prance was a pretty and extremely vain young 
 woman ; the compliments and attentions of her visitor 
 turned her head ; don’t mistake me, and think there was 
 anything as yet further than the most open flirtation 
 
i6o 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRB. 
 
 between them, but Furzedon’s flatteries sank deep into 
 Mrs. Prance’s mind. That she was a very pretty woman, 
 and that if she was only properly dressed she would have 
 the world at her feet, became part of Mrs. Prance’s creed. 
 Sam was making money ; it was ridiculous, he must allow 
 her more for dress. They must live in better style, and so 
 Prance was gradually worried into giving up the modest 
 and comfortable tenement in which he had dwelt for the 
 last three years in favour of a showy, comfortless, suburban 
 villa. He vowed he couldn’t afford it, but, for all that, 
 he took it. 
 
 Mrs. Prance was not an atom in love with her boyish 
 admirer, but for all that she was very proud of her captive ; 
 he belonged to a class superior to her own, at all events in 
 her eyes, and the lady had a halcyon dream of being 
 surrounded by a knot of admirers — gentlemen — and not 
 mere tradesmen, like most of her husband’s friends. Well! 
 the sequel was not long in coming. Luck turned, and 
 Prance, who had been very far from confining his specula- 
 tions to such as were deemed advisable by his young 
 patron, got into difficulties, the usual result was the 
 consequence. Sam Prance, if he did not actually, meta- 
 phorically “ put his hand in the till ; ” he was detected in 
 dishonest practices by his master, and though old Nicholas 
 Furzedon declined to prosecute, yet Mr. Prance was 
 promptly turned out of his situation, and told that he need 
 look for no recommendation from his employer to assist 
 him in procuring another, that he might consider himself 
 fortunate to have escaped the inside of a prison. 
 
 And now came slow and grinding misery for Sam Prance, 
 his goods were sold, and he had to move into shabby 
 lodgings, carrying with him a peevish, discontented wife. 
 With the final catastrophe Furzedon directly had nothing 
 to do ; whether his relations latterly had been as innocent 
 with Mrs. Prance as the lady protested, her husband had 
 many jealous misgivings, but certain it was, that when 
 after months of wrangling she finally left her home 
 Furzedon was not the partner of her flight. From that 
 date. Prance regarded Furzedon as the originator of all 
 troubles ; despairing of employment, he h&d sunk into 
 
MR. BLACK'S TIP. 
 
 i6i 
 
 a mere jackal of the racecourse, and when times grew hard 
 with him appealed to Furzedon for assistance, this, in the 
 first instance, had been somewhat grudgingly extended, ^ 
 but no sooner did that gentleman detect an obvious dis- 
 position on Prance’s part to live upon him than he repelled 
 him with the utmost scorn ; he even taunted the wretched 
 man wfith his bad luck, and declared that his wife had 
 been right to leave so pitiful a creature. The idea that at 
 first possessed Prance’s morbid mind seethed and festered. 
 He traced every ill that had befallen him to Furzedon’s 
 door. It was true enough that, in some fashion, it had 
 been Ralph Furzedon’s precocious devilry that had 
 v/rought his undoing, but, for all that, his own weakness 
 and cupidity had not a little to say to it. Further applica- 
 tions for assistance were met with still more bitter 
 rejoinders on Furzedon’s part, until the quarrel between 
 them finally culminated when, flushed by drink. Prance 
 had attempted to rob Furzedon that night in the Hay- 
 market, and been stricken to the ground. A righteous 
 blow was that cruel left-hander, a blow such as a man is 
 well justified in defence of his property, but it filled to the 
 brim the cup of Sam Prance’s animosity, and his own 
 prayer was that the day might come when the opportunity 
 would be given him to settle accounts with Ralph Furzedon. 
 He was quite aware that he held many secrets of that 
 gentleman, and information as to his mode of life, which, 
 though in no way inimical to him in a legal sense, might, 
 deftly promulgated at the proper moment, be his social 
 ruin, and no Indian on the war-trail bided his opportunity 
 with more vengeful vigilance than did Sam Prance. 
 
 Fortune, it so happened, was throwing the chance he 
 longed for into his way. Major Kynaston was one of Mr. 
 Prance’s most liberal patrons. The broken man had con- 
 ceived a strong liking for the Major ; he knew him to be 
 no fool, though he was free-handed. He would toss his 
 jackal a sovereign sometimes, saying good-humouredly, 
 “Your information is not worth a cent. I’ve later myself 
 concerning the horse; and know that, however well you 
 saw it gallop last Friday morning, it will not be seen at 
 the post ; the stable can’t get their money on. Never 
 
1 62 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 mind ; you’re hard up, as usual, I daresay; take that, adid 
 perhaps next time you will be able to tell me something 
 better worth knowing.” 
 
 So far, Mr. Prance was in ignorance of the connection 
 between the Major and Furzedon. That they were 
 acquainted he was aware. He had seen them speak on a 
 racecourse, but he had no idea that their acquaintance 
 was other than of the most ordinary description. Still, it 
 is more than likely that a clue to their association will be 
 before long in Sam Prance’s hands, though what use he 
 will be able to make of such knowledge when he comes to 
 it is not quite so clear. 
 
 Sam Prance had lived through the winter months he 
 really hardly knew how, but never had he been harder put 
 to it to keep the wolf from the door than he had this time. 
 It was the period of the year at which there was little 
 chance of his running across his racing patrons, men to 
 whom he could appeal in extremity. He had the address, 
 it is true, of some of these who employed him as a tout, 
 and rewarded him for such information as he might send 
 them ; but a man like Prance, who had not the means 
 requisite for leaving London, had small opportunity of 
 picking up intelligence, and to all other appeals his 
 patrons had mostly turned a deaf ear. Dick Kynaston 
 was a bright exception. Like most buccaneers, the 
 Major, as before said, was free-handed. He had been for- 
 tunate during the autumn months, whether by cards or 
 racing matters little ; and had contrived in his own ver- 
 nacular, “ to land a nice little pot.” He replied to 
 Prance’s piteous cry for assistance by sending him a five- 
 pound note, and the man felt more than ever grateful for 
 such help in his present extremity. With the season Mr. 
 Prance resumed his regular vocation ; he was by turns 
 tout, betting-man, and tipster. As a tout he had no infcr- 
 ^mation to impart, to resume the calling of a betting-man 
 he must first acquire some small amount of capital, but to 
 i. be a tipster requires nothing beyond pen, ink, and paper, 
 and a modest amount of postage-stamps. But Mr. Prance 
 was dead out of luck, and even his guesses at the winners 
 of the Lincolnshire Handicap, etc., proved unfortunate, 
 
MR. black’s tip. 
 
 163 
 
 Men are not given to reward the giver of information 
 which leads to the loss of their money. And, therefore, 
 this latter industry, let him cultivate it never so sedulously, 
 brought little grist to Mr. Prance’s mill. But April had 
 brought a change in his fortunes ; he was walking gloomily 
 up the Strand, when he suddenly ran across a bookmaker 
 with whom he had done business in more prosperous days. 
 The thought struck him ; he stopped him, and exclaimed, 
 “ Mr. Black, give a poor devil, who is clean broke, a 
 chance.** 
 
 “ Well, you do look ‘ dead stony,* and that’s a fact,** 
 rejoined the bookmaker. What is it you want ? ** 
 
 “ Give me a tip, and a trifle to back it. I can’t pick a 
 winner myself nohow.” 
 
 “ Well,” replied Mr. Black, “ there’s half a sovereign for 
 you. As for the tip, remember, I don’t know much about 
 it, but I advise you to put it on Belisarius for the Two 
 Thousand. You’ll get something like twelve or fourteen 
 to one ; at least, they were laying hundreds to sevens an 
 hour ago in there,” and Mr. Black jerked his thumb in the 
 direction of the Victoria Club. 
 
 How Belisarius won the Two Thousand we already 
 know, and it is almost needless to say that Sam Prance 
 profited a little thereby. From that out he haunted the 
 neighbourhood of Wellington Street in the hopes of once 
 more coming across that good-natured bookmaker. It was 
 some days before he succeeded in doing that : though, 
 thanks to the few sovereigns he had won over the Two 
 Thousand, he was now more respectably attired, yet he 
 had not the audacity to call at the club and ask for 
 Mr. Bkck. When you have been half-starved and half- 
 frozen through a long winter you do not recover your 
 assurance all at once. Prance had been so utterly brow- 
 beaten in his misery that he had not as yet thoroughly 
 recovered his nerve, and shrank from meeting a rebuff. 
 Plowever, his patient vigilance was at last rewarded, and 
 he once more encountered Mr. Black. He of course 
 stopped him to thank him for the turn he had done him, 
 and wound up by asking him whether he fancied Belisarius 
 for the Derby, 
 
164 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 ** No,” rejoined the bookmaker, ‘‘ I don’t. I know no' 
 more now than I did last time. I am guided entirely by 
 the money-market. On his Newmarket performance he 
 ought to be a much hotter favourite than he is. What 
 they are going on I don’t know, but there are certain men, 
 who seldom make a mistake, seem to have the amount of 
 the National Debt to lay against Belisarius. That’s all I 
 know about it, Prance, and I should not be at all surprised 
 to see Belisarius go back in the betting at the last. If he 
 don’t, it will be a very warm Monday indeed for two or 
 three of them.” 
 
 Sam Prance, as he walked away, cogitated deeply upon 
 how he might best turn Mr. Black’s hint to his profit. He 
 had neither capital nor credit to make much of laying 
 against Belisarius, and certainly, after what he had heard, 
 had no wish to back him. It occurred to him that the 
 best thing he could do was to carry the news to Major 
 Kynaston. 
 
 The Major would understand how to make the most of 
 such intelligence as well as any man, and he knew from 
 past experience that when his patron won a good stake he 
 was liberal to any of his dependents who conduced to the 
 result. He had recommended Kynaston to back Belisarius 
 for The Guineas, and found it quite as profitable as backing 
 it himself. 
 
 “ The hint has proved well worth paying for, Sam,” the 
 Major had said to him upon that occasion. “ I told you 
 last summer to keep a sharp look-out as to whether they 
 had a good two-year-old in the North. You got hold of 
 him a little late — we ought to have been on at double the 
 odds.” 
 
 But when Mr. Prance made his appearance in Mayfair, 
 and communicated his new intelligence, Dick Kynaston 
 exclaimed : — 
 
 If you’re sure of what you say there is more money in 
 this than there was in the other ; but look here, Sam, there 
 must be no mistake about it. One reason I have stood to 
 you rather is that whatever your information might be you 
 have always told me exactly where you got it, and I could 
 depend upon its accuracy ; now, no nonsense, tell me the 
 
MR. BLACK'S TIP. 165 
 
 precise grounds you have for saying Belisarius won't win 
 the Derby." 
 
 Prance, in reply, detailed his conversation with the book-* 
 maker, winding up with “ And, as you know, sir, the tip 
 about Belisarius for The Guineas came from the same 
 man.” 
 
 “ Yes," observed the Major, meditatively, ** I know 
 Black ; he's as shrewd and close an observer as there is in 
 the Ring. I’ll just watch this little game for a few days 
 myself, and, when I have noted who are the colt’s most 
 persistent opponents, shall quite know what to think of it. 
 That’ll do for the present, Sam. You’re not given to run- 
 ning riot, and I need scarcely hint this is nothing to give 
 tongue about." 
 
 “ Never fear. Major, I'm not given to talk unless I am 
 paid for it." 
 
 “ Oh ! one thing more,” exclaimed Kynaston, “ if you 
 happen to hear what it is the opponents of the favourite 
 are going on, let me know." 
 
 “ Certainly, sir," replied Prance, as he picked up his hat, 
 
 “ if I can make out anything more you shall know it at 
 once. For the present, good-bye. Major.” 
 
 As Prance walked away from the Kynastons’ house, an 
 angry flush came over his face at the sight of Mr. Furzedon 
 leisurely lounging along on the other side of the street. 
 Furzedon was apparently quite unconscious of his pres- 
 ence, and, after he had got past him some little distance. 
 Prance turned round mechanically to glare once more at 
 his enemy. He was not a little surprised to see Furzedon 
 cross the street and knock at the Kynastons’ door. 
 
 ‘‘ I didn’t know,” he muttered, “ that he was thick with 
 the Major, and, if they are not pretty intimate, how the 
 deuce comes it that he is dropping in at this time of the 
 morning ? ” 
 
 Mr. Prance was not much versed in social ettiquette, 
 but he did know that a morning call signified either busi- 
 ness or considerable intimacy, and to ascertain what were 
 the relations between Kynaston and Furzedon became 
 now a problem which it behoved him to study, 
 
 • ^ ♦ 
 
166 
 
 SADDLE AND SA!I^& 
 
 XXIII.— Charlie’s Summoned to Town. 
 
 T he hunting is long a thing of the past, the sap runs 
 riotously through the trees, which are breaking forth 
 in all the glorious verdure of the month of May. Birds 
 are singing, buds are bursting, and grass is springing in 
 every direction. The song of the throstle from the top- 
 most bough re-echoes to chanticleer’s shrill defiance, as 
 the sun breaks forth in the early morning to kiss the white- 
 and-pink fragrant blossoms characteristic of the merry 
 month. Few girls had ever enjoyed the springtime more 
 than Lettice Devereux : but somehow this year the salt 
 seemed to have lost its savour. It struck her that North 
 Leach was a little dull. The Kynastons had left The 
 Firs ; Charlie was away soldiering ; as for John, he seemed 
 more absorbed in the farms than usual. Lettie did not 
 understand it ; she no longer took the interest in the young 
 horses that she used to do ; how the game-fowls were 
 doing became a matter of indifference to her ; and the 
 garden had ceased to be an attraction. She was restless 
 and discontented ; she had as yet received no invitation 
 from Mrs. Connop, and Lettie had reckoned more upon it 
 than she had ever done hitherto. Charlie, too, was so 
 stupid ; he wrote so seldom, and when he did his letters 
 were so dreadfully egotistical, he never said anything about 
 the people he mixed with, nor told her anything about his 
 brother officers. Of course his letters would be so much 
 more interesting if they contained some information 
 regarding his associates. As for coming to North Leach, 
 he only alluded to that as a possibility of next winter ; and 
 in the meantime Lettice recognized that there was a mono- 
 tony and solitude about North Leach hard to bear. 
 
 She took her solitary rides, she strove honestly to busy 
 herself with her accustomed avocations ; but, in spite of 
 all that, there were times when she felt that the stagnation 
 of life at North Leach was well-nigh insupportable. As 
 for Gilbert Slade, she would trouble her mind no more 
 about him. Mrs. Kynaston was right — if he had cared 
 ever so little about her he would have made an effort to see 
 
CHARLIE'S SUMMONED TO TOWN. 
 
 167 
 
 her before this. But Gilbert Slade had made never a sign, 
 and might as well have been shooting big game in India 
 as quartered at York for all she heard of him. Mr. Furze- 
 don, on the contrary, had twice, under some rather flimsy 
 pretext, visited them for two or three days. Plausible 
 though his account had been of how he had happened to 
 be in their neighbourhood, there was a ring of untruth 
 about it which gave Miss Devereux the idea that Mrs. 
 Kynaston was right, and that she herself was the attraction 
 that drew him into North Lincolnshire. Lettice, more- 
 over, could but see that, without venturing to proclaim 
 himself an admirer, he paid her considerable attention, 
 and with no undue vanity felt that he only wanted a little 
 encouragement on her part to become a recognized pre- 
 tender to her hand. 
 
 Still, Lettie had by no means got over her prejudice 
 against him. She was courteous, pleasant to him, and did 
 her best to make his brief visits to North Leach agreeable ; 
 but, for all that, she did not care about him herself. To 
 say that she disliked him would be too strong a phrase, 
 but she was certainly indiflerent to him, and, bravely 
 though she tried to master it, was conscious of an un- 
 grounded prejudice against him. It was probably the 
 ingrained cynicism of Furzedon’s character that jarred 
 upon Miss Devereux. He strove very hard to subdue it ; 
 he was aware that that vein is rarely popular with women ; 
 but nature combined with habit is not easily smothered, 
 and, in spite of all his care, his bitter views of men and 
 things would occasionally escape his lips. Still Ralph 
 Furzedon thought that he was making fair progress ; and 
 had he not clever Mrs. Kynaston to aid him ? and did he 
 not hold that tremendous card of Charlie’s difficulties to 
 launch whenever he thought fittest ? Ralph Furzedon 
 little thought as he left North Leach, in the very first days 
 of May, how speedily Mrs. Kynaston v/ould counsel an 
 application of the screw. 
 
 But, if Charlie Devereux could find no time to go to 
 North Leach, he could manage to get a week’s leave for 
 the purpose of running up to London. And hither he had 
 betaken himself in obedience to the express wish of Mrs« 
 
1 68 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Kynaston. She and Charlie corresponded pretty fre- 
 quently — a correspondence which they did not think it 
 necessary to mention to other people. Even at The Firs 
 Kate could often have given Lettie Devereux later news of 
 her brother than she herself possessed ; but Mrs. Kynaston 
 never thought fit to mention it. She was a lady much 
 given to philandering correspondence, and usually had two 
 or three what she denominated “ special friends ” of the 
 male sex, with whom she kept up much sentimental letter- 
 writing. No very great harm, perhaps, in the epistles ; 
 and yet they always contained a certain amount of love- 
 making, such as were hardly befitting a married woman to 
 receive. A prompt, energetic woman, as well as a capri- 
 cious one, was Mrs. Kynaston, accustomed to subdue 
 men easily. Her first feeling on discovering Gilbert Slade’s 
 insensibility to her fascinations had been astonishment, 
 then came pique, and finally she had framed herself into a 
 mad passion for this Dragoon, who declined to put his neck 
 beneath her foot. 
 
 But Mrs. Kynaston was not easily beaten when she had 
 set her mind upon a thing. She had determined that the 
 first thing it behoved her to put an end to was Slade’s 
 growing admiration for Lettie Devereux. Secondly, to 
 marry that young lady to Furzedon as soon as she could 
 compass it. Most women would have deemed these two 
 things beyond their power to bring about, but Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton had implicit reliance in her own abilities, and was 
 wonderfully adroit in making the most of such weapons as 
 came to her hand. Already she had put into Furzedon’s 
 head the idea that Lettie would make him an excellent 
 wife. Already she had implanted in Miss Devereux’s 
 breast mistrust of Bertie Slade’s intentions, that it was the 
 sort of conventional flirtation these soldiers always thought 
 proper to indulge in with any pretty girl they came across. 
 But she wanted to do more than that, she wanted to effec- 
 tually sever Lettie from her lover. It was in furtherance 
 of these purposes that she had urged Charlie to run up to 
 town ; “ she had so many things to say to him,” she wrote. 
 “ She wanted to see him now he had had a few months’ 
 military training, whether he was improved or the reverse ; 
 
CHARLIE’S SUMMONED TO TOWN. l6g 
 
 she hoped they hadn’t spoiled his seat in the riding-school ; 
 in short, Charlie,” she concluded, “ I must see you ; I’m 
 sure you can get a few days’ leave now, so, remember, I 
 shall take no excuse from you.” 
 
 However indifferently Charlie might have regarded Mrs. 
 Kynaston’s charms upon first making her acquaintance he 
 could no longer be accused of that indifference now. He 
 was no doubt very much in love with as thorough-going a 
 flirt as there was in all London, and he lost no time in 
 obeying her behest. He was ill all the flush of his Two 
 Thousand winnings, and sanguine, as young gentlemen of 
 his age are wont to be, about being equally fortunate over 
 the Derby. That he should present Mrs. Kynaston with 
 a very pretty bangle as a memento of Belisarius, and tell 
 her the whole story of how he came to baick that horse, and 
 of all that he hoped from his success at Epsom, one need 
 scarcely say. Mrs. Kynaston was interested in his story ; 
 she led him on till at last she drew from him the whole 
 story of his difficulties ; how that he had come to terrible 
 grief in plunging at the Houghton meeting at Newmarket 
 the year before last; how that Furzedon in the first 
 instance had lent him the money ; how he felt the obliga- 
 tion of being indebted to a friend so oppressive that he had 
 taken counsel with Major Kynaston on the subject ; and 
 how that the Major had borrowed the money for him 
 elsewhere. 
 
 “ And at usurious interest, no doubt,” interposed the 
 lady. “ Dick, I know from sad experience, is an adept at 
 such things ; but,” she continued, with a grave shake of 
 her head, ‘‘ my poor Charlie, you have to pay for it. How 
 is it all to end ? ” And then he told her how he looked 
 forward to his winnings on the Derby to discharge all his 
 liabilities ; and how that, when he had wiped the slate 
 clean, he would take very good care not to make such a 
 fool of himself again. 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston made no further comment upon his story, 
 but lightly changed the conversation. 
 
 “ And so you have seen nothing of any of your people 
 since you left North Leach the very end of last year ? ” 
 Charlie shook his head« 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 170 
 
 “ No ; foolish of me, of course. I know from your letters ' 
 you have not. What I mean is, Have you no news to tell 
 me from North Leach ? 
 
 “ No,'* replied young Devereux ; “ it is too early to know 
 much about the game ; too early to know much about the 
 crops. Lettice says she finds it very dull, and is looking 
 anxiously forward to an invitation from her aunt ; but so 
 far, I believe, it hasn’t arrived.” 
 
 Ah ! that is not exactly what I call news. Lettice did 
 not tell you, for instance, she was going to be married — 
 did she ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Lettice married ! No. Who to ? ** 
 
 “ My dear Charlie, brothers are always notoriously blind 
 to their sisters’ love affairs ; but still, I should have thought 
 you might have seen how very attentive your friend Mr. 
 Furzedon was to Lettice last season.” 
 
 ‘‘ You forget,” he replied, “ that I was only altogether a 
 very few days in town last year ; and, to tell you the truth, 
 
 I had an idea that there might be something of that sort 
 between her and Gilbert Slade.” 
 
 “ Ah ! You think, because at Lettie’s request he assisted 
 you to get a nomination for a commission, he was in love 
 with your sister— a natural mistake, but I should doubt 
 Mr. Slade being in a position to marry even if I thought 
 him a marrying man.” 
 
 “ Well, he came alfthe way down to Lincoln to see Pole 
 Star win last autumn, and I thought perhaps that the seeing 
 of Lettie ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; I know,” interrupted Mrs. Kynaston, with 
 some little acerbity ; ‘‘ he sat in her pocket all day, and 
 had hardly a word to bestow upon any one else ; but that’s 
 only the way of your precious profession. Still, I don’t 
 wonder that you were a little puzzled.” 
 
 “ You give me credit for noticing a great deal more than 
 I did upon that occasion. Remember, that was the day I 
 won my first steeplechase. I had the race and Pole Star 
 on my mind the whole afternoon ; and, beyond that, Gilbert 
 shook hands with me and congratulated me on my victory. 
 
 I know no more. How he and Lettie passed their time 
 I’ve no idea*” 
 
CHARLIE'S SUMMONED TO TOWN. tyi 
 
 “Then you don't know that Mr. Furzedon has been at 
 North Leach twice this Spring?" 
 
 “ Well, I’m not sure," rejoined Charlie, “ that Lettie did 
 not say something about it in one of her letters ; but it 
 made so little impression that I had forgotten it," 
 
 “ Well, I can’t say positively," rejoined Mrs. Kynaston ; 
 “ the two principals have neither of them thought fit to 
 make confession to me, but that Mr. Furzedon adores 
 your sister I know from his own lips (a little exaggeration 
 this) ; and as for Lettie, well, she knows it, and if she dis- 
 approved it how came Mr. Furzedon to go down to North 
 Leach twice ? " 
 
 “ I’m sure I don’t know," replied Charlie, “ I never 
 dreamt of his caring about Lettice in that way — he’s not a 
 bad fellow Furzedon, but I don’t think I quite care about 
 him as a brother-in-law." 
 
 Charlie Devereux’s vision had been a little enlarged 
 
 since he had joined the th Hussars ; he probably drew 
 
 a more correct estimate of his fellows than when he was an 
 undergraduate, and was conscious now that his comrades 
 would pronounce Furzedon not quite “ the right thing." 
 
 “ Don’t be foolish, Charlie," replied Mrs. Kynaston, 
 “your sister is doing very well for herself. Ralph Furze- 
 don is a very rising young man, much richer, I have some 
 reason to know, than he is usually supposed. A shrewd 
 man too, not a genius — they, poor things, rarely get on in 
 this life — but a clear-headed, practical man. Ralph Furze- 
 don will push his way in this world, he will get into Parlia- 
 ment, and has, no doubt about it, a future before him. 
 Lettice, like any prudent girl, knows which side her bread 
 is buttered, and is not likely to throw on one side a good 
 parti for poetical visions of love or perchance strawberry- 
 leaves." 
 
 “ You know best,” said young Devereux, “ and I suppose 
 Lettice is doing a good thing for herself. Furzedon has 
 always been a pal of mine, but for all that, let him be as 
 rich as may be, I wish he were not going to marry my 
 sister." 
 
 “You foolish boy," rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, “you are 
 confusing love and settling in life ; it is given to few of us 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 to marry the man we really care for. Oh dear ! how little 
 giving in marriage there would be if that was an essential 
 part of it.” And then Kate Kynaston plunged into one of 
 those charming little dissertations in which she was such a 
 proficient, in which she demonstrated that it was the duty 
 or three-fourths of womankind to sacrifice themselves for 
 the sake of their families, and that it was their misfortune 
 to come across those they could have loved later on in 
 life ; they were less to be blamed than wept over. What 
 the sacrifice had been in her own case was left most misty 
 and undefined, but Mrs. Kynaston always contrived to 
 send her admirers away with the idea that she was a 
 woman wrestling with a heavy burden, that her hearer 
 was the one man that had ever touched her heart, and 
 that, had they met earlier, life would have been so very 
 different. 
 
 As for Charlie, he went back to York uncomfortable 
 about Lettice s engagement, and with a hazy idea that he 
 had added to poor Mrs. Kynaston’s troubles by his own 
 fatal fascinations, and yet a less conceited man than 
 Charlie Devereux probably never trod shoe-leather. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, young ’un,” exclaimed Gilbert Slade, as Charlie 
 burst into his quarters a few minutes before the trumpet 
 sounded for dress — “had a good time? Whom did you 
 see, and what have you been doing? You didn’t forget to 
 call upon my Uncle B,ob, did you ?” 
 
 “ No,” rejoined Charlie, “ I called twice on him, but I 
 didn’t see him. I was most anxious to thank him for all 
 he had done for me , but the porter said he had not been 
 at the Thermopolium for three or four days, and he thought 
 that he must be out of town.” 
 
 “ Pick up any news ?” inquired Bertie, lazily. 
 
 “ I did,” rejoined Charlie. “ I saw Mrs. Kynaston, and 
 heard a very strange bit of news from her ; rather a queer 
 thing,” continued Charlie, “ to hear of your own sister 
 going to be married from any one but herself, but I did. 
 She told me that Lettice was engaged to be married.” 
 
 “ What ! ” exclaimed Gilbert Slade, springing to his 
 feet. “Miss Devereux going to be married? Nonsense, 
 CharUe. Who to?’* 
 
SAM PRANCE AT HOME. 173 
 
 ^ To Ralph Furzedon, of all people in the world,” replied 
 young Devereux 
 
 “ What, ^at cad \ ” exclaimed Bertie. “ Well, I’m 
 
 d d. No, I beg your pardon, Charlie, of course I 
 
 don’t mean that. I mean I congratulate you, old fellow. 
 I trust Miss Devereux will be happy. Pray forgive me 
 that slip of the tongue, and consider I’ve said all the pro- 
 per things usual under the circumstances.” 
 
 Charlie said no more, but, as he walked away to his own 
 quarters to dress, felt less reconciled than ever to this 
 engagement of his sister. Bertie’s involuntary exclama- 
 tion had strengthened his own conviction. Stripped of 
 his fine feathers Furzedon was a cad. Could Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton be right, and was Lettice really engaged to this man ? 
 
 “ Ah,” he muttered, “ women are so much clearer sighted 
 than ourselves in these matters. It is little likely that a 
 clever woman like Kate,” — and his face slightly flushed as 
 he murmured her Christian name — “would make a mis- 
 take in such a matter.” 
 
 XXIV. — Sam Prance at Home. 
 
 11 1 AJOR KYNASTON had been not a little puzzled at 
 iVl Sam Prance’s reference to young Devereux last 
 year ; he had wondered then whether Prance had the 
 slightest idea that there were business relations between 
 himself and Furzedon. They had now several Turf tran- 
 sactions in common, and moreover, Furzedon, as the 
 young man about town, when he had the chance, invari- 
 ably brought young gentlemen in difficulties to the Major 
 for advice. He would observe with a geniality which sat 
 ill upon him, on becoming the confidant of such troubles, 
 “ Let me introduce you to Dick Kynaston, he’ll pull you 
 through. He knows all these sort of fellows, and can 
 always tell you what to do, and who to go to.” And then 
 Mr. Furzedon would chuckle to himself at what was to 
 him an exquisite jest, to wit, that these young innocents 
 would shortly be brought round to his pen to be shorn ; 
 
174 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 and that Kynaston was in complete ignorance that he, 
 Furzedon, was in reality the shearer. 
 
 Kynaston had not seen Prance .for some months after 
 their interview, and had pretty well dismissed the subject 
 from his mind ; he thought it was impossibly that Prance 
 could know anything more of his connection with Furze- 
 don than that they were to some extent Turf confederates. 
 Still, when the succeeding spring in London Prance once 
 more made his appearance at the little house in Mayfair, 
 the Major reverted to the subject. But he soon found 
 that the tout knew little more than that Furzedon and 
 himself were acquainted ; that he had small knowledge of 
 the Devereuxes ; and that his main motive was a rabid hos- 
 tility and distrust of Ralph Furzedon. Prance had indeed 
 no particular object in rescuing Charlie Devereux from 
 Furzedon’s clutches other than the hatred he bore the 
 latter, and, although he considered his patron well able to 
 take care of himself, yet he thought it was better to give 
 him an insight into Furzedon’s real character. Dick 
 Kynaston had taken due note of the caution, and said to 
 himself, ‘‘ Fve had to do with some queer customers in my 
 time, but it is always a great advantage to know when you 
 ‘ sit down to play with Ah Sin 1 ’ ” This had been all Prance 
 had intended by his warning, and he had thought no more 
 of the matter until he saw Furzedon call at the house in 
 Mayfair just after he had left it. 
 
 But now all Prance’s curiosity was aroused. Two 
 strong passions urged him on to discover what was the 
 connection between the two men — his enmity to Furzedon 
 and his gratitude to Kynaston. Blunted and seared as all 
 his better feelings were, he still held a dogged fidelity 
 towards the Major. He had always been liberal to him, 
 and the unfortunate man felt very grateful to him for the 
 assistance he had rendered in the bitter need of last 
 winter. Still Mr. Prance, as he sits alone in his modest 
 apartment in Great Coram Street, does not exactly see his 
 way to arriving at what he wants. 
 
 ** What can have brought these two men together ? ” 
 and as he turns this knotty point over in his mind rhe man 
 puffs vigorously at his short clay pipe, Sam Prance's 
 
SAM PRANCE AT HOME. 
 
 175 
 
 domicile was by no means luxuriously furnished, A bed ; 
 a washstand ; a chair, by courtesy called easy ; and a 
 table or two, comprised its contents, but it was clean, and 
 the proprietor regarded it as princely compared to some of 
 the lodgings he had flitted in and out of during the past 
 few months. One of the tables was littered with a few old 
 turf guides, a blotting-pad, pens, ink, and paper, and at 
 length, by way of penetrating the mystery. Prance sat 
 himself down, and, taking up his pen, determined to, what 
 he called, “ Run ofif Ralph Furzedon's performances,” as 
 he would have gone through those of a racehorse with a 
 view to getting a line through him of some other horse. 
 
 “ Yes,” he muttered, after scribbling fast for ten minutes 
 or more, “ it’s a very nice sheet, it reads well, it’s a pity 
 his swell friends can’t see it. His sire, a pawnbroker ; 
 two-year-old performances ; trafficking in the sale of 
 unredeemed pledges ; backing horses on the turf ; making 
 love to his friend’s wife and urging that friend to neglect 
 an honest occupation for gambling and horse-races ; pretty 
 well that for a young ’un who had not reached his 
 eighteenth year. Three-year-old performances : laughing 
 at his friend when he was kicked out of his situation ; 
 mocking at him and remarking it was his own own fault 
 when his wife ran away ; refusing him assistance when he 
 was in difficulties ; gibing at him ; and, finally, knocking 
 him down because, in his extremity, he asked him in pity’s 
 sake for a sovereign.” 
 
 There was no doubt a basis of truth underlying Prance’s 
 summary, but the man’s morbid antipathy to Furzedon 
 must be allowed for ; the colouring was more bold and 
 vivid than the facts warranted ; and that Prance should 
 attribute every evil that had befallen him to Furzedon’s 
 malign influence must be taken very much cum grano sails. 
 He had contributed a fair share himself to his own undoing ; 
 , and the defalcations which cost him his situation and 
 blasted his character were in nowise due to any suggestion 
 of Ralph Furzedon. However, painting his enemy in the 
 darkest tints did not serve to elucidate the problem he had 
 sat down to consider. That the Major was fond of a 
 game of cards he thought was likely ; that the Major 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 176 
 
 preferred winning to losing had no doubt , he never knew 
 anybody who did not. That the Major was capable of 
 assisting fortune he deemed probable, and thought none 
 the worse of him for that. In his own easy code of 
 morality he regarded cheating and all games of chance as 
 cleverness ; and he was the best player who concealed 
 most cards up his sleeve without detection. Horse-racing 
 the same , he saw no harm in a robbery, provided you 
 were in it ; it was a rascally thing if you were not ; and, 
 if publicly discovered, there was always the chance of 
 your paying the penalties, and not being paid the money. 
 But then there it was again ; clever people were not dis- 
 covered, it was the bunglers that were found out. Now, 
 whatever Furzedon had done — and remember, there was 
 no enormity of this sort that Prance believed he had not 
 committed— he had never been found out. Surely Major 
 Kynaston could not have fallen into the mistake that this 
 was a young gentleman from whom there was money to be 
 won. No, no; the Major was far too ’cute not to have 
 found out for himself long ago that there was nobody 
 about better able to take care of his money than Mr. 
 Furzedon. What could be the link that bound the two 
 men ? Nothing but chance is likely to throw light upon 
 one face of their connection ; but of their confederacy on 
 the Turf it would be odd if Mr. Prance is not speedily 
 acquainted with ; and when that comes to pass there will 
 be slight doubt of Sam unbosoming himself. Of such 
 partnership he will feel certain that his patron must 
 eventually get the worst. 
 
 “ Because he is young,” muttered Mr. Prance to him- 
 self, even now in all ignorance of the facts, “ the Major 
 thinks he is green. He little guesses he is dealing with the 
 foxiest devil he ever met ; who makes capital out of his 
 youth and inexperience. The Major is wary, up to trap, 
 no doubt ; thinks, I dare say, that he is not to be had by 
 any one alive. It’s a queer world, and it seems a farce to 
 suppose that, sitting here in a room like this, my experi- 
 ence can be good for much ; but, for all that. I’ve learnt 
 this, that the biggest sharper in a skittle-alley is generally 
 the young and innocent -looking yokel* I must get to the 
 
SAM PRANCE AT HOME. 17J 
 
 bottom of this; for cleaned out by such a robber as 
 Furzedon I’m blessed if I see the Major.” 
 
 Dick Kynaston was in no very great danger; he was 
 much too wise not to have taken a pretty accurate estimate 
 of his new partner by this time ; he was quite aware that, 
 young though he might be, Furzedon was already con- 
 siderably more rook than pigeon ; and, whatever his 
 original intention might have been, had thoroughly 
 abandoned any idea of a snatch at his quill-feathers. The 
 revelation that Furzedon was practically Jordan & Co. 
 would certainly have surprised him, but would have made 
 very little other difference to him, save in one respect ; it 
 mattered little to the Major to what money-lenders he 
 took his young friends, his profits in the transaction were 
 pretty much the same in any case. But Dick Kynaston had 
 been born, and, however shady his avocation might now be, 
 still clung to the status of, a gentleman. He was ready to 
 interview the money-lender in his own den, but, let him 
 once recognize that Furzedon was numbered of the usurers, 
 and the Major would take good care that he never crossed 
 the threshold of Mrs. Kynaston’s drawing-room again. 
 
 Although Sam Prance was not aware, as yet, that 
 Furzedon had inherited and taken up his uncle’s business, 
 it stands to reason that his old connection with the pawn- 
 broking business might throw that knowledge in his way 
 at any moment. Should anything prompt him to inquire, 
 it would, of course, be as easy as possible for him to 
 ascertain who was really at the present moment Jordan 
 & Co. His former apprenticeship had taught him the 
 freemasonry of the trade ; and what that means we all 
 know, let the trade or profession be what it may. 
 
 Revenge upon Furzedon was interwoven into Sam 
 Prance’s very being. It might slumber for a time, but it 
 never died. He would brood, in his morbid way, over all 
 the misery that man had cost him till he wound himself up 
 to that state of mind in which men contemplate taking the 
 life of their fellows. But Prance had considerable regard 
 for his own neck, an apprehension more preservative of 
 life than it usually gets credit for. To say that he had 
 hardly the tigerish temperament of which murderers are 
 
I/S 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRBL 
 
 composed would be absurd. Murderers seem composed o£ 
 every possible fibre, from the ruffian who slays his fellow 
 from sheer brutality down to the cringing reptile who does 
 away with his foe simply from terror. No ; Mr. Prance in 
 his solitary musings had often muttered to himself with 
 passionate execrations, “ How I should like to kill him !” 
 But he had never seriously contemplated anything of the 
 kind. He would have liked to drag Furzedon down to his 
 own level, but of that he felt there was small prospect. 
 His foe was wealthy, and a man likely to keep a strong 
 hand on his gear, let it be well gotten or ill. There was 
 little likelihood of his being able to menace Furzedon’s 
 ruin in that wise. In one way only did Mr. Prance see an 
 opportunity of gratifying his hatred, and that was in 
 socially exposing him. He did not quite know as yet even 
 how that was to be brought about, but he was conscious 
 that he knew a good many shady transactions of Fur- 
 zedon’s, and he had little doubt that eventually others 
 would come to his knowledge if he only kept ceaseless 
 watch upon his quondam friend. Not such transactions 
 as v/ould place Mr. Furzedon within reach of the law — 
 Prance considered him too cunning for that ; but it might 
 be in his power to proclaim to the world things that would 
 cause Ralph Furzedon’s swell acquaintances to turn their 
 backs upon him. And Prance had somehow divined his 
 enemy’s weakness in this respect. 
 
 It was so. A desire to rub shoulders with the haul 
 monde was the aim of Ralph Furzedon’s life. With this 
 object he had gone to the University. The furtherance of 
 this design had a good deal to say to his going on the 
 Turf. It was something to know a Lord, if it was only on 
 a racecourse ; to pass the time-of-day to a real swell, even 
 if it was at Tattersall’s. Furzedon had tact, was pachy- 
 dermatous, and, though pushing, not obtrusively so. Hfe 
 did not force an acquaintance, but he wriggled into one 
 with all the sinuous twistings of an eel. Men found them- 
 selves gradually committed to a bowing recognition with 
 Ralph Furzedon, while at the same time they wondered 
 how the deuce they came to know him. Instinct had told 
 Prauoe how to strike bis enemy ; it wanted only that 
 
SAM PRANCE AT HOME. 
 
 179 
 
 fortune or his own exertions should give the weapons to his 
 hand. Furzedon too, and with some reason, flattered him- 
 self that he was making his way slowly but surely in the 
 path he had marked out, and should Mr. Prance ever 
 compass his projected expose he will have the satisfaction 
 of knowing that he could have dealt his adversary no 
 bitterer blow. 
 
 As for Ralph Furzedon he was very well contented with 
 the way things were going with him. Most especially was 
 he well pleased with his new allies the Kynastons. The 
 Major promised to prove profitable to him all round. It 
 was from him that the inspiration came concerning Beli- 
 sarius for the Two Thousand, and Furzedon had won a 
 very nice little stake over that race ; then, as for Mrs. 
 Kynaston, she looked like being of much value to him from 
 a social point of view. She had procured him invitations 
 in more than one direction that he coveted, and, cunning 
 and suspicious as he was by nature, he placed unlimited 
 reliance on Mrs. Kynaston’s advice concerning this un- 
 known country which he was now entering. It was at her 
 instigation that he had determined to woo Lettice Dev- 
 ereux, and he had resolved to be guided by her advice 
 in every stage of the matter. It must be observed in Kate 
 Kynaston’s defence that she knew nothing of Furzedon’s 
 antecedents, and believed him to be no more than a racing 
 confederate of her husband’s. In spite of that indescrib- 
 able something about him which, as beforesaid, was apt to 
 produce inquiry concerning his forbears — a point which 
 none of Furzedon’s acquaintance had as yet succeeded in 
 penetrating — Mrs. Kynaston regarded him as by no means 
 an ineligible match. He was young, tolerably good- 
 looking — those who admire the Semitic type in man would 
 say very — and undoubtedly well-off. If Lettie Devereux 
 could make up her mind to fancy him she might consider 
 herself well married. There was, of course, the possibility 
 that she might do better ; but it is safer to gather the apple 
 within our reach than to set our affections upon those on 
 the topmost bough. 
 
 And so Mrs. Kynaston went to work to bring aboist a 
 match betwe^ these two with a clear cons^eAe^ 
 
l8o 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRR 
 
 XXV. — Kate Kynaston Reconnoitres. 
 
 ^^TTTELL, Mr. Furzedon, when am I to congratulate 
 VV ? ’’ exclaimed Mrs. Kynaston, as she welcomed 
 that gentleman to her pretty little drawing-room. “ Am I 
 to do so tQ-day ? Am I to congratulate you on having 
 stormed the citadel, or to chide you for your want of enter- 
 prise in still delaying the final assault ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ It’s all very well,” replied Furzedon ; ‘‘ but it is possi- 
 ble to speak prematurely in these cases. I don’t feel quite 
 sure of my ground with Miss Devereux.” 
 
 “ Surely you made her understand that you’re paying 
 your addresses to her ? ” replied Mrs. Kynaston. 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; I don’t think there could be any possible 
 mistake about that, but I can’t say that I get much encour- 
 agement. She is polite enough, and all that, but you 
 know what I mean, she don’t encourage me to open my 
 heart.” 
 
 “ Dear me, what has that got to do with it in these days ? 
 Don’t you know that the basis of matrimonial arrange- 
 ments in these times is — are you able and willing to open 
 your pockets? Don’t be faint-hearted, a girl can’t say 
 you ‘ No ’ till you have asked her the question, and, if she 
 does, tell her you won’t take that for an answer ; a little 
 dash and resolution and you will be engaged to Lettie 
 Devereux before the season’s over, and a very sweet, pretty, 
 lady-like wife she will make you.” 
 
 “I wish I quite thought so,” rejoined Furzedon; ‘‘but 
 her manner rather gives me warning to go no further than 
 I have done.” 
 
 “ Never fear to put your fortune to the test,” rejoined 
 Mrs. Kynaston gaily, “ and don’t take thrice ‘ No ’ for an 
 answer. I have got a hint to give you : Charlie Devereux 
 is in grievous difficulties, and trusting to his Derby book to 
 pull him through them. It never does, you know. He is 
 sure, poor boy, to be in worse trouble than ever after the 
 race. Now, there’s an opening for you. A few hundreds 
 is not much object to you, if you are in earnest about this 
 thing. Save your friend from the results of his folly— you 
 
XLA.TE KYN ASTON RECONNOITRES. 
 
 enlist him at once on your side ; and as for Lettice, she 
 can hardly refuse to listen to her brother’s benefactor.” 
 “How did you learn all this?” exclaimed Furzedon, 
 eagerly. 
 
 “ From Charlie himself,” replied Kate Kynaston. “ He 
 was up in town for two or three days last week, and told 
 me if Belisarius didn’t get him out of the scrape there was 
 nothing for it but a full confession to his father.” 
 
 “ He told you this ? ” said Furzedon, as his quick brain 
 rapidly turned over the chances of the situation. 
 
 “ Yes,” he continued at length, “ that would give me an 
 opportunity. I am not given to throwing my money away 
 much, but you are quite right. I should have a quid pro 
 quo in this case, and I would willingly risk a few hundreds 
 to make Miss Devereux my wife. Is she likely to be in 
 town soon ? ” 
 
 “ That’s just what I can’t make out, but I mean knowing 
 this afternoon. She is dying to come, but that tiresome 
 old aunt of hers hasn’t written as yet ; however. I’m going 
 out to see her to-day, and if she has not sent that invita- 
 tion I fancy she will after I’ve had a talk with her.” 
 
 “ You won’t mention my hopes to Mrs. Connop ? ” said 
 Furzedon, a little anxiously. 
 
 “ No,” responded Mrs. Kynaston, with a somewhat queer 
 expression on her face, “ I shall not. I don’t think you 
 are quite the nephew that old woman would be disposed 
 to welcome ; she is a foolish, romantic old thing, and has, I 
 suspect, nursed the idea of marrying Lettie to Mr. Slade.” 
 “ Not quite so foolish, my dear Mrs. Kynaston, as you 
 think,” rejoined Furzedon, as he rose to take his departure ; 
 “ I’ve a strong idea that those two were very good friends 
 before they parted last year.” 
 
 “ That matters little,” replied the lady, coolly ; “ Mr. 
 Slade is in no position to marry, and any slight flirtation 
 there might have been between them is not a thing worth 
 your consideration. Good-bye ; don’t forget my advice ; 
 ask Lettie Devereux to be your wife the first time you 
 have an opportunity, and, should she say ‘No’ — which I 
 don’t believe she will, — well, ask her again when she has 
 had a few weeks to think about it.'^ 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 182 
 
 Mr. Furzedon said no more, but bade his hostess adieu, 
 and walked leisurely back to his own rooms, pondering 
 deeply on the advice that had been given him. 
 
 Interested though her motives might be, Mrs. Kynaston 
 could hardly be accused of not working energetically to 
 bring about the marriage she had planned. It had become 
 essential for her purpose that Miss Devereux should now 
 make her appearance in town, and she drove off that after- 
 noon to call upon Mrs. Connop, and ascertain when Lettie 
 might be expected. She found that lady at home and very 
 full of grievances ; to begin with, she was suffering from a 
 severe cold, and that as a rule may be pronounced quite 
 sufficient grievance without going into any others that 
 may possibly affect our friends ; moreover, she had been 
 compelled, from some cause or other, to have the workmen 
 into the house ; and what Londoner, that has had experi- 
 ence of him, does not know what a terrible old man of the 
 sea is the British workman when he once gets within your 
 gates ? 
 
 “ I hope,*' said Mrs. Connop, “ it has never been your 
 lot to know what having the work-people in means. The 
 British workman has been often abused and deserves every 
 bit of it. He breaks my rest with hideous regularity. He 
 dawdles about all day ; shows great capacity for beer ; is 
 profuse in assurances that he shall have finished the job by 
 the end of the week. He looks at it, I suppose thinks over 
 it, but he never works, and he never goes.'" 
 
 “ Ah 1 fortunately we have no experience of that sort of 
 thing. We haven’t a house of our own, but always rent 
 one, and Dick would take very good care that there was no 
 necessity for that during our tenancy, but I've always 
 heard that the work-people are very trying. Do you 
 expect Lettie to visit you this year ? She was rather look- 
 ing forward to it, I think, the last time I saw her.” 
 
 “And I am always very glad to have her with me,” 
 rejoined Mrs. Connop, “ but it’s impossible while the house 
 is in such a muddle as it is now. If I had had an idea 
 what it was going to be Fd have slipped down to Brighton 
 for a month, and got out of the way of it all. But they 
 assured me it would take less than a week, and I was 
 
KATE KYNASTON RECONNOITRES. 183 
 
 foolish enough to believe them. However, they vow that 
 it really is very nearly finished now, and, forsworn as they 
 have often proved themselves, I try to believe them this 
 time. I shall write for Lettie as soon as ever I am rid of 
 them. How was she looking when you saw her last ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! she was well enough when we left The Firs, but 
 she finds North Leach rather dull now the hunting is 
 over. She gets a glimpse of the world with you ; and, as 
 is only natural, she longs for the fun and gaiety of London 
 in preference to the monotony of her life in the Wolds ; 
 besides, she made rather a sensation last year — she had 
 quite a train of admirers.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Connop, “ she is pretty, and she 
 was no doubt popular, and got on well at all the dances 
 I took her to. But Mr. Slade was the only pronounced 
 admirer that I saw. He, I think, was a good deal struck 
 with her.” 
 
 “ Oh ! she had others besides him, and more profitable 
 ones to boot.” 
 
 “ I like Mr. Slade,” replied Mrs. Connop, sharply. 
 
 “ I think most people do,” said Kate ; “ he is very good- 
 looking and a most agreeable cavalier. I was only speak- 
 ing from a matrimonial point of view ; but, from what I 
 hear about him, Mr. Slade is in no position to take unto 
 him a wife at present.” 
 
 “ Lettie has plenty of time before her to think about 
 that.” 
 
 “ No doubt,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston. “ But it is a 
 thing that naturally crosses a girl’s mind as soon as she 
 is introduced. Mr. Furzedon, I should say, was quite as 
 much struck with Lettie as Mr. Slade, and only wanted a 
 little encouragement to declare himself.” 
 
 “ I don’t like him as well as the other,” said Mrs. 
 Connop, sententiously. 
 
 “ Perhaps not,” replied Kate Kynaston ; “ but, when it 
 comes to an eligible parti, Mr. Furzedon is preferable. 
 He is a man very well ofiF, and perfectly independent.” 
 
 “ Ah, well 1 as I said before, Lettie has no cause to 
 hurry herself as yet.” 
 
 “ No, indeed,” rqoined Mrs. Kynaston, rising. “ I ana 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 184 
 
 so very glad to have been fortunate enough to get in. I 
 trust your cold will soon be better, and that you will bring 
 Lettie round to see me before many days are over. Do 
 come, if it is only to show that you are delivered from 
 this incubus that besets you. Good-bye.” And as Mrs. 
 Kynaston descended to her carriage she murmured, Yes, 
 my dear friend, I want these workmen out of the house 
 quite as much as you do.” 
 
 Furzedon, after duly thinking over Mrs. Kynaston’s 
 advice, and what she had told him about Charlie’s diffi- 
 culties, had fully made up his mind as to the plan of his 
 campaign. Nobody knew the story of Charlie’s difficulties 
 better than he did; but it was news to him that young 
 Devereux contemplated a “ plunge ” on Belisarius as a 
 means of extrication from his embarrassments. He re- 
 solved he would boldly ask Lettice to marry him as soon 
 as she appeared in London. He had a very tolerable 
 share of self-esteem, but he hardly expected to be suc- 
 cessful upon this occasion ; if possible, he determined to 
 avoid positive rejection, but to withdraw his pretensions 
 discreetly as soon as he saw it imminent : then, only let 
 Belisarius be beaten for the Derby, and he would make 
 another attempt. Charlie would be then deeper in the 
 mire than ever. And he might urge upon Miss Devereux 
 that it lay with her to make it possible for him to pay his 
 brother-in-law’s debts. 
 
 Belisarius ! He hadn’t troubled his head much as yet 
 to think about that colt’s prospects for the Derby, but now 
 it dawned upon him that as far as he was concerned the 
 success of Belisarius would be inimical to his interests. 
 He must make inquiries ; the horse was not going very 
 well in the market ; he wondered whether there was any- 
 thing wrong with him, he had had no hint of such a thing 
 himself; perhaps Dick Kynaston might have heard some- 
 thing about it ; he must ask him. Now it so happened 
 that his visit to Mrs. Kynaston had been made the after- 
 noon before Prance related to the Major what Mr. Black 
 had told him ; and when Prance espied Furzedon knocking 
 at the Kynastons’ door that gentleman was calling there 
 expressly to learn what his Turf confederate thought of the 
 
KATE KYNASTON RECONNOITRES. 1S5 
 
 favourite’s chance at Epsom, and was speedily put in 
 possession of the Major’s newly-acquired information. 
 
 “ Wants inquiring into a bit, you know ; but that fellow 
 Black has the eye of a gled for the market and the nose of 
 a bloodhound for a dead ’un. I should be very sorry to 
 back a horse of which he held this opinion.” 
 
 “Then,” said Furzedon, “we had better lay against 
 Belisarius this time, instead of backing him. It’s safer as 
 a rule, and at his present price there is a good bit of money 
 to be made. Moreover, if Black is right, he will go back 
 in the betting before the race, and there will be no diffi- 
 culty about covering our money ; besides, it jumps with 
 my own inclinations; not that I’m such a fool as ever to 
 be swayed by them in matters of business ; but it’s pleasant 
 when they happen to run hand in hand. I’ve private 
 reasons of my own for hoping Belisarius will not win.” 
 “Would it be indiscreet,” rejoined Kynaston, “to ask 
 those reasons ? ” 
 
 “Very, Major,” said Furzedon, laughing; “say I don’t 
 know how to pronounce his confounded name, dislike his 
 colour, the cut of his tail — anything.” 
 
 “ That’s settled, then,” rejoined Kynaston ; “ if my 
 inquiries are satisfactory, we decide to ^pepper the 
 favourite,’ to what extent depends upon what I hear.” 
 
 “ All right,” replied the other, as he took his leave. 
 “ There’s no hurry, I think. I shall see you again in 
 the course of a day or two.” 
 
 Ralph Furzedon had not overlooked Prance in the street, 
 although he had taken no notice of him ; but he had not 
 seen that he came out of the Kynastons’ house, nor had 
 he the slightest idea that the Major even knew of such a 
 person in existence. 
 
 Suspicious by nature, had he known this he would have 
 been at once on his guard. He was thoroughly aware of 
 Prance’s enmity, and knew, that, though the man could do 
 him no positive harm, yet he could tell stories concerning 
 him which he, Furzedon, would just as soon were buried 
 in oblivion. He regarded Prance as inocuous simply 
 because any disclosures he choose to make could only be 
 made to that scum of the Turf with which he habitually 
 
i86 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 consorted. He was utterly unaware that in his character 
 as tout Sam Prance was acquainted with many men like 
 Kynaston who held a fair status in society. 
 
 To say that Gilbert Slade had been astonished at the 
 news young Devereux had brought back from London 
 would feebly express his feelings, He was thunderstruck, 
 he had never thought of that, he barely knew Furzedon, 
 had seen very little of him, and felt very indisposed to see 
 more. He knew that he was intimate with the Devereuxes, 
 had been at Cambridge with Charlie, had stayed at North 
 Leach, and all that, but he never pictured him as a possible 
 pretender to Lettice’s hand. It might be said that he 
 never pictured himself in that capacity ; he had admired 
 Miss Devereux very much, he thought her a very nice girl, 
 would be delighted to meet her again, and was quite in 
 earnest in accepting old Tom Devereux’s invitation to 
 North Leach. 
 
 It had been no fault of his the visit had not been paid. 
 His answer to Charlie, when the latter suggested it, had 
 been perfectly straightforward ; he did not think the colonel 
 was likely to look favourably upon an application for leave 
 from the new recruit at present, unless he could advance 
 some very serious cause for requiring it. He did not quite 
 see his way into going to North Leach by himself, and so 
 that visit had never been paid ; but now that he heard 
 Miss Devereux was engaged to be married to somebody 
 else he discovered that his feelings towards her were very 
 much stronger than admiration. 
 
 It was true that he had never thought of marrying her, 
 but then he had never thought of marrying anybody. 
 Marriage was a thing that had taken no definite shape in 
 his mind — a ceremony that he might or might not go 
 through in years to come. Even if he had ever contem- 
 plated it, he knew it was a thing that would be warmly 
 opposed by, at all events, one of his relations. It was only 
 the other day that his Uncle Bob, when joking him about 
 Miss Devereux, had reminded him that he would give no 
 consent to his marriage before he got his troop ; and, 
 although he was within very measurable distance of that 
 longed-for piece ol promotion, still there was no immediate 
 
FURZEDON PROPOSES. 
 
 187 
 
 prospect of its taking place, and two or three years might 
 elapse before he saw himself in the Gazette, He couldn’t 
 understand it ; wellj^ he supposed money was everything 
 now-a-days ; and yet he had thought Lettice not a girl of 
 that sort either. He was not likely ever to be a man of 
 more than moderate means himself; and, though he would 
 probably inherit his Uncle Braddock’s property eventu- 
 ally, yet, in the ordinary course of things, that was not 
 likely to take place for many years. Well, if the thing 
 was done, there was an end of it. Charlie was not likely 
 to be misinformed on such a subject as this. However, 
 they were both going up to London at the end of the 
 month to see Belisarius win ; Miss Devereux would, no 
 doubt, be in town about that time. He would see her 
 then, and judge for himself; he would, at all events, dis- 
 cover whether it was true that she was engaged to F urzedon. 
 
 XXVI. — Furzedon Proposes. 
 
 so hard but cometh to an end,** as the old 
 poet sings. 
 
 The workmen are out of the house at last, the long- 
 looked-for invitation has been despatched, and Lettie 
 Devereux responds to it, has made her curtsey in Onslow 
 Gardens — little knowing how anxiously her appearance m 
 town was looked forward to by well-nigh half-a-dozen 
 people. Her arrival was speedily notified to Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton, and through her — directly or indirectly — Furzedon, 
 Charlie, Slade, etc., were quickly aware that Miss Deve- 
 reux was once more residing under the shelter of her aunt’s 
 wing. Animated was the conversation between Mrs. Ky- 
 naston and Furzedon when, upon receipt of the news, the 
 latter called in to see the lady who was kind enough to 
 manage the tangled skein of his love-affair. 
 
 “ And you think Fm right, Mrs. Kynaston ? ” said Furze- 
 don, at the close of the conference of some half-hour’s 
 duration, You would strike at once ? ’* 
 
i88 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRBl 
 
 “ Decidedly,” rejoined the lady. Your plan of action is 
 admirable. Come to the point without loss of time. Back 
 out of it if you find it going against you ; say you will not 
 venture to press for an answer as yet ; that when Miss Deve- 
 reux knows you better she will be perhaps better able to 
 recognise your devotion. Pshaw ! Any man out of his teens 
 knows the whole gamut usually run up and down on these 
 occasions. And, remember, you must not be disheartened 
 by one rebuff. Lettice is country-bred, and the provincial 
 mind does not expand quite so early as that of a London 
 young lady. Still, I think she is rapidly awakening, and 
 already understands the insipidity of life at North Leach.” 
 
 “ Thanks, very much,” rejoined Furzedon. I shall do 
 precisely what you recommend ; and, acting further on 
 what you tell me, return to the charge should Belisarius 
 lose the Derby; pleading that the help Charlie could accept 
 from a brother-in-law he would feel compelled to decline 
 from a friend. Wish me good luck, Mrs. Kynaston, and I 
 will bid you good-day.” 
 
 ‘‘All success to you,” replied the lady; “don’t be too 
 abrupt this time; and should it not be successful — ah, well ! 
 I shall see you before it is judicious to deliver the second 
 assault. It may not be necessary ; but, should it be so, I 
 will advise you once more. May good fortune attend you ! ” 
 
 When a man’s feelings are deeply interested, the asking 
 a woman to marry him is doubtless, if not a mauvais quart 
 d'heure^ at least a very nervous one ; but in Furzedon’s 
 case it was not so. He admired Lettice Devereux, he 
 liked Lettice Devereux, and Mrs. Kynaston had persuaded 
 him that she would make him a good wife. He had made 
 up his mind to marry her, and was very resolute to attain 
 his end, but, as for saying he was in love with her, that 
 was quite another thing ; he would feel no despair in case 
 of rejection ; he would still sap steadily forward to attain 
 his object as he would to attain any other object that he 
 considered essential to his success in life ; but, let him once 
 be convinced that this thing was beyond his reach, and he 
 was not likely to either break his heart about it or to dis- 
 play any great animosity to those who should thwart his 
 purpose. At the present moment he would have sacrificed 
 
FURZEDON PROPOSES. 
 
 189 
 
 ruthlessly any one who stood in his way ; but, the game 
 once given against him, he would trouble his head no 
 further about his successful rival. A strong hater and 
 vindictive man, when he took it into his head to feel 
 aggrieved, but feeling no resentment towards those who 
 got the best of him on any point, the thing once over. 
 
 Proposing with the expectation of being refused is, to 
 borrow a phrase from the hunting-field, like “ riding for a 
 fall.” It requires nerve, and is not . exhilarating , but in 
 both cases there must remain a feeling of much satisfaction 
 when the thing is safely done with. Furzedon by no means 
 liked the business before him ; but he had made uphis mind 
 to do this thing, and do it he would. And in this frame of 
 mind he wended his way to Onslow Gardens as soon as 
 he heard of Miss Devereux’s arrival there. If he could 
 make the opportunity, he would ask the question without 
 further delay. The knotty question that puzzled him on 
 his way there was, how he was to get Mrs. Connop out of 
 the way ; and that at last he was fain to confess was beyond 
 him. He repented now that he had not besought his con- 
 fidante’s aid ; Mrs. Kynaston, he felt sure, could have 
 managed that matter for him had he but asked her. Now 
 he could only trust to the chapter of accidents. When he 
 arrived at Onslow Gardens, he found both ladies in the 
 drawing-room ; and the thoroughly unembarrassed manner 
 in which Lettie welcomed him would have convinced a far 
 less shrewd man than Furzedon that, whatever her answer 
 might be, her feelings would have very little to do with it. 
 At all events, guided by Mrs. Kynaston’s revelation and 
 her own observation, Mrs. Connop came to the conclusion 
 that Furzedon had no chance ; “ and,” mused the old lady, 
 if he is fool enough to think so, the sooner that bit of 
 nonsense is knocked out of his head the better.” So, after 
 a quarter of an hour’s desultory conversation, she rose, and, 
 under some frivolous pretext about finishing a letter, left 
 the room, and gave Ralph Furzedon the opportunity he 
 desired. 
 
 He had one point in his favour, and that was, that be 
 was oppressed by no nervousness. He had got his chance, 
 and determined to come to the point as quickly as possible» 
 
igo 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 “ I have been most anxious to see you, Miss Devereux,” 
 he commenced. 
 
 “ Very good of you to say so,’* replied Lettie. “ You 
 can’t have been more anxious to see me than I have been 
 to see London.” 
 
 “ I have got something to ask of you — a great favour to 
 beg of you.” 
 
 “ Stop, Mr. .Furzedon,” interrupted the girl. “ Remem- 
 ber, it is unwise to ask favours, unless you’ve good grounds 
 for supposing they will be granted.” 
 
 I have very fair grounds for supposing that my request 
 will be listened to, at all events. No man can lay claim 
 to more. I am a great friend of your brother’s; well known 
 to all your people ; well-to-do. I might go further, and say 
 wealthy.” 
 
 “ It is quite unnecessary, Mr. Furzedon, to go through 
 a catalogue of your social advantages,” replied Lettie, with 
 just a tinge of bitterness. She made no pretext of not 
 understanding what her companion was driving at, but 
 was a little nettled that he so peristently ignored the hint 
 that she had given him. “ To a friend of Charlie’s,” she 
 continued, I would grant any request that I had given 
 him reasonable grounds for supposing I would say ‘ Yes’ to.” 
 
 “ It is difficult for a man to interpret that phrase. We 
 are not as quick as you to read what are reasonable 
 grounds. Some of your sex — and they are those best 
 worth winning — will give a man scant encouragement until 
 he has put such request in formal words. It is natural. A 
 sensitive girl is afraid of committing herself before a man 
 has spoken.” 
 
 “ But if a girl has not only given the man no encourage- 
 ment to speak, but has done her best to warn him that he 
 is about to ask a foolish question — ^what then ? ” 
 
 He was clever to fence and fought his up-hill battle 
 doggedly and with tact. “ I think,” he replied, gravely, 
 “ it should deserve better than to be called a foolish ques- 
 tion. When a man lays his life and fortune at a woman’s 
 feet he is paying her the greatest compliment that lies 
 within his power, at all events.” 
 
 beg your pardon, Mr, Furzedon, rejoined Lettie, 
 
FURZEDON PROPOSES. 
 
 I91 
 
 quickly. ** I don’t pretend to misunderstand you, but you 
 must know this thing cannot be. I welcomed you as my 
 ^ brother’s friend ; I have given you no cause to suppose 
 'that I had any further feelings towards you. Let us 
 remain friends, and forget that this conversation has ever 
 taken place.” 
 
 “ I shall never forget it,” he replied, brusquely ; “ and I 
 refuse to take this for your final answer. I can wait, and 
 trust to time and my devotion to plead for me ; but as 
 long as no one else has won your hand I shall ever be a 
 pretender to it. I am answered for the present, and am 
 not likely to intrude the subject upon you again for some 
 time.” 
 
 “ I thank you for the compliment you have paid me,” 
 replied Lettie, with some little stateliness, and rising, “but, 
 believe me, my answer is irrevocable.” 
 
 Ralph Furzedon took the hint and his hat. “You will 
 make my adieux to Mrs. Connop,” he said, with a low bow ; 
 “ and you won’t object to say good-bye ; ” and as he spoke 
 he extended his hand. Their palms crossed for a moment, 
 and then Ralph Furzedon descended into the street, and 
 began to reflect on the result of the battle. 
 
 “ That’s the end of the first round,” he muttered, “ to 
 use the language of the prize-ring. Well ! I expected to 
 get the worst of it, and I did ; but I can hardly be said to 
 have been badly beaten. No ; I don’t think I threw a 
 chance away. I am now a declared pretender to her hand. 
 A rejected one, it is true. She can plead no ignorance of 
 the state of the case for the future. Moreover, I have had 
 resort to no subterfuges, but the very venial one of saying 
 that she will hear no more of my request for some time. 
 Should Belisarius be beaten at Epsom I shall most cer- 
 tainly have to urge the same request again, with the 
 additional argument that a wealthy brother-in-law would 
 represent the good genii that would assist Master Charlie 
 out of his scrape. I only trust that he may still further 
 complicate matters at Epsom. I'm not given to throwing 
 money away, but I should not grudge a good round sum n 
 it brought me Miss Devereux’s hand.” 
 
 It is characteristic of the contradictions of our oatiire 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 19s 
 
 that Ralph Furzedon had never felt such admiration for 
 Lattice as in the moment of his rejection'. He was struck 
 with her spirit, and at the same time the womanly way in 
 which she strove to soften her refusal. He had wanted 
 her for his wife ; that was nothing. He thought she would 
 further his ambition once placed in that position ; but now, 
 for the first time, the feeling of love was aroused within 
 his breast, and he resolved that he would not resign his 
 pretension to Lettie’s hand as long as, by fair means or 
 foul, he saw the slightest chance of winning it ; and Furze- 
 don was a man likely to put a very liberal construction on 
 the old adage, “ All’s fair in love or war.** 
 
 Mrs. Connop waited until she heard the front door close, 
 and then at once descended to the drawing-room. She 
 was not a little anxious to hear the result of the interview, 
 and, not being given to beating about the bush, went 
 straight to the point at once. 
 
 “Well, Lettie,** she exclaimed, “what did you say to 
 him ? Pooh ! child, there is no need to make any mystery 
 about it. I know very well that Mr. Furzedon came down 
 here to-day to ask you to marry him, and I went out of the 
 room to give him a chance of doing so.** 
 
 “ Surely, aunt, you don*t think that I ought to have 
 said ** 
 
 “ Ah ! you*ve said ‘ No,* then. I thought you would. 
 But, as I was told he was determined to ask the question, 
 I thought the sooner it was over the better. Quite right, 
 my dear. I like the other one best, ever so much.** 
 
 “ I don’t understand you,” rejoined Lettie, a little stiffly. 
 “ Oh I yes, you do, and agree with me, also,” retorted 
 Mrs. Connop, laughing. “ However, in the meantime, run 
 up-stairs, and get your bonnet on ; you will only have just 
 time for a cup of tea before the carriage comes round.” 
 Miss Devereux thought it wisest to close the discussion. 
 She did not want to explain that Gilbert Slade had made 
 no sign since last November, and that, though he had cer- 
 tainly given her cause to suppose he cared a good deal 
 about her, he had not quite gone the length that justified 
 the girl in calling him her lover. It was, indeed, rather a 
 1^1:^ subject with Miss PevereuiL at present, and any 
 
FURZEDON PROPOSES. I93 
 
 coupling of her name with Gilbert Slade she was sure to 
 resent sharply. 
 
 Up in the North, meanwhile, expectation ran high. All 
 Yorkshire was agog to see the big race of the South once 
 more carried off by a north-country horse. The land of 
 ham was on Belisarius to a man, and at the York Club the 
 latest bulletin concerning Bill Smith’s crack was eagerly 
 promulgated and discussed. Some of the old hands, who 
 had witnessed Bill Smith’s career from his first race as a 
 stable-boy to the triumphs of his zenith, and also been 
 present at the mistakes of his later days, shook their heads 
 and said, “Yes, the horse is doing splendidly no doubt — 
 how about the man ? You young gentlemen who back 
 Belisarius will do well to remember that the jockey is more 
 difficult to bring fit to the post than the horse.” 
 
 To which the partisans of Belisarius rejoined, “ Non- 
 sense, we know Bill Smith’s weakness, of course, but he’s 
 not a fool. He can take himself by the head when it is 
 worth his while. He was all right at Newmarket, and 
 you’ll see he will be all right at Epsom.” 
 
 Now, though this doubt was in the mouths of a good 
 many people in his own country, yet the way he had ridden 
 his horse in the Two Thousand had generally wiped out all 
 misgivings concerning Bill Smith’s sobriety in the South. 
 It was believed that he had turned over a new leaf, and 
 that the discovering himself to be the owner of such a flyer 
 as Belisarius had worked a complete reformation in his 
 character — at least for the present. This more sanguine 
 view of the case was undoubtedly prevalent among tlie 
 Turf circles in the metropolis, though shrewd observers, 
 like Mr. Black, noted that there was a small knot of specu- 
 lators who seemed unremitting in their hostility to Beli- 
 sarius. Clever 'men too, and by no means given to bet 
 foolishly; and, now that Dick Kynaston’s attention had 
 been called to it, he was speedily convinced of the truth of 
 what Prance had told him. Very cautious and wary were 
 these men, not to be beguiled into laying a longer price, 
 but always prepared to show their disbelief in the Two 
 Thousand winner whenever anybody offered to take half a 
 point less than the odds. What they were going on the 
 
194 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Major did not know, and that was a riddle he was very 
 anxious to arrive at. 
 
 Curiously, the first hint of the danger that threatened 
 Belisarius came to Kynaston from his wife. “ I got a letter 
 from Charlie Devereux this morning,’* she remarked, as 
 the Major looked into the drawing-room for a moment, 
 previous to marching off to lunch at his club, “ and he 
 says that some of the old racing-men at York are rather 
 incredulous about Bill Smith’s riding a Derby winner once 
 more. They say the horse is all right, but that the man 
 cannot be trusted to keep from drinking; rather a bore 
 should they prove right, for, as you know, I have backed 
 him what lor me is pretty stiffly ; however, I don’t suppose 
 these old fossils know much about it. I am very sorry for 
 Charlie,” continued Mrs. Kynaston, “ for as we know, 
 Dick, when it comes to Turf matters, the * old fossils * are 
 apt to know a good deal more than young people who are 
 just beginning to study them. Does this jockey. Smith, 
 drink so ?” 
 
 Yes,” rejoined the Major, I begin to understand it 
 now. That’s why those fellows are so keen to lay against 
 Belisarius. Bill Smith is one of the finest horsemen out, 
 but he can’t now-a-days be depended upon to keep sober,” 
 and with these words the Major left the room. 
 
 XXVII. — News from Bellaton Wold# 
 
 M ay crept on ; it wanted just one fortnight to the 
 Derby. The mails from the North conveyed a letter 
 that morning of much interest to most of the characters in 
 this narrative. It was addressed to Sir Ronald Radcliffe, 
 Bart., and ran as follows 
 
 ^ •• Dear Radcliffe, 
 
 “There is rarely smoke without fire, and the 
 rumours that reached us from the North were by no means 
 unfounded, although not so bad as reported. The horse 
 never was better ; but Bill, undoubtedly, has not altt^ 
 
NEWS FROM BELLATON WOLD. 
 
 195 
 
 gether stopped celebrating the Two Thousand victory. It 
 was high time somebody came to look after him ; and, as 
 you know, he’s not very tractable to deal with. Still, he 
 will stand more from either you or me than any one else. 
 I’ve got him well in hand now, and, though he is a good 
 bit off a teetotaller, yet he will do no harm if I can only 
 keep him where he is. I shall stay here for another week ; 
 and then, I am sorry to say, I am compelled to come back 
 to London. Could you take my place here for the last few 
 days ? If we can only bring both to the post, all will be 
 right ; they’ll take a deal of beating on Epsom Downs. 
 Belisarius will strip a few pounds better horse than he did 
 at Newmarket ; and I like him better every time I see him 
 gallop. If you possibly can come, do. It is a great coup 
 to land, and we ought to throw no chance away in order 
 to bring it about ; and, though I’ve got Bill pretty straight 
 at present, I don’t like leaving him alone. However, if you 
 can come, I’m sure you will. 
 
 “ Yours always, 
 
 “ Norman Slade.” 
 
 Sir Ronald knit his brows when he received this letter. 
 He saw clearly that, as a matter of common precaution, it 
 behoved him to relieve Norman Slade at his post , but 
 what was he to do ? He had just been summoned to what 
 promised to be the death-bed of an aunt from whom he 
 had considerable expectations; a whimsical old woman, 
 who indulged in periodical visitations of this nature ; upon 
 which occasions she was in the habit of summoning all her 
 nearest relatives to the ceremony, — “ a disappointing old 
 woman,” as her graceless nephew called her, “ who was 
 always going, but never gone.” “ If,” argued Sir Ronald, 
 still knitting his brows over Slade’s letter, “ she did make 
 a die of it this time, I dare say it would be all right ; but 
 if, after her manner, she comes round, she would cut me 
 out of her will for what she would term my heartless 
 ingratitude and want of affection for her. Hang it all ! 
 after humouring her tantrums all these years, it isn’t wise 
 to chance ofiending her now ; it is like paying the premium 
 on a life insurance and letting it drop just as it promised 
 
196 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 to recoup one. Hang me if I know what to do. I stand 
 to win a good stake on either event. In the case of Beli- 
 sarius, I know exactly how much ; in the case of my ven- 
 erated aunt, I don’t exactly. Which shall it be ? Which 
 is most risky : the will of a capricious old woman, or the 
 success of a racer ridden by a jockey whose sobriety 
 cannot be relied on ? I’ve long odds in both cases ; and, 
 by Jove, I ought to have ! for it would be hard to say 
 which is the greatest toss-up I am hard-up enough, 
 heaven knows ; and it is a case of which looks most lucra- 
 tive, watching over the infirmities of my elderly relative, 
 or watching over that peculiar weakness of Bill Smith’s. 
 It’s a nuisance, a great nuisance ; but I can’t be in both 
 places, and I think the Honourable Miss Shothouse has 
 it : and I must trust to Bill Smith’s eye to his own interest 
 to keep him straight till all is over. Norman won’t like it, 
 nor do I ; but it can’t be helped, and I must write and tell 
 him so.” 
 
 Norman Slade was much disappointed at Sir Ronald’s 
 answer to his note. He stayed his appointed time, and 
 saw Belisarius with the veteran jockey in the saddle do a 
 rattling good gallop on the very morning of his departure. 
 “ It should come off. Bill,” he exclaimed, as he said good- 
 bye, ‘‘ only take as much care of yourself as you do of the 
 colt, and I think you’ll beat ’em all at Epsom.” 
 
 The opponents of the favourite were apparently well 
 informed. Whether the knowledge that Norman Slade 
 had left Bellaton Moor, and that Bill Smith was left there 
 by himself, influenced their calculations it is impossible to 
 say, but certain it is that the last few days before the race 
 the horse became a slightly worse favourite in the market 
 than he had been. It was in vain that the British public 
 made him their champion, and put down their money. 
 The ranks of the opposition daily gathered strength, and 
 that most ominous sign of all to a veteran Turf-goer pre- 
 sented itself — to wit, that the more money Belisarius was 
 backed for the worse favourite he became. Norman Slade 
 noted this uneasily, and Sir Ronald, still dancing attend- 
 ance upon his revered aunt, was equally conscious of th« 
 unpleasant phenomenon, but he could not get away, and 
 
NEWS FROM BELLATON WOLD. 
 
 197 
 
 Miss Shothouse was displaying her accustomed vacillation 
 on the subject of her departure. She showed all the pro- 
 crastination of Charles II. without his politeness ; and, as 
 Sir Ronald said at the expiration of the second day, ‘‘ the 
 whole thing was a fraud,” and that the Honourable Miss 
 Shothouse would probably repeat this comedy a good half- 
 dozen times before making her final bow to the public. 
 
 It was not till the Saturday before Epsom that the old 
 lady would admit that the crisis was over, and that there 
 was a fair expectation of her recovery. Sir Ronald waited 
 no longer. He took an affectionate leave of his aunt, 
 expressed the warmest satisfaction that she was still spared 
 to them, and, with no little irritation simmering in his 
 breast, took his way back to town. One of the first per- 
 sons he sought on his arrival was Norman Slade. 
 
 Very unlucky you couldn’t go,” observed that gentle- 
 man ; “it would have been safer ; my bulletins from 
 Bellaton are excellent, that is to say, the horse is all right ; 
 but of course my information about the man is more hazy. 
 Old Bill has been out every morning himself, I hear, and 
 that’s something ; and of course there’s no one up there 
 whom I could trust to furnish me with the exact state of 
 the case. There is nothing to make one suspect there 
 is anything wrong except this disposition to lay against 
 the colt.” 
 
 “ Well, Bellaton is a pretty close borough. Old Bill is 
 not given to stand any prying into the secrets of his 
 training-ground. The chances are these people don’t 
 know anything certain, but are speculating on his past 
 unsteadiness. I’ll tell you what though, old man, there’ll 
 be no harm in having a second string.” 
 
 “ By gad you’re right,” replied Slade ; “ Til see about it 
 at once, and engage the best available jockey, in case Bill 
 is — well — too unwell to ride.” 
 
 “ Rather dull of us not to think of it before,” replied the 
 Baronet, “ it will be difficult to pick out a good man now, 
 all the best are engaged. A good jockey is always a gres.t 
 point, but over the Derby course it is an essential. That 
 race has been gftener won by riding than any other ia 
 England.” 
 
19 * 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ Quite right ! we must do the best we can ; and if Bill 
 is only himself Fd ask no better jockey ; but I’ll lose no 
 time in seeing about somebody to take his place.” 
 
 It may be perhaps because it is the greatest race in 
 England, because it is the greatest race in the world, that 
 whenever the finish of the Derby is a very close thing, 
 there is invariably much discussion as to whether with 
 another jockey the second horse ought not to have been 
 first. In ’52 it was said that Frank Butler, the victor, 
 could have won upon any one of the first four. In ’66, 
 when Lord Lyon defeated Savernake by a head, dissatis- 
 faction was expressed by the supporters of the latter at hia 
 rider’s performance. They change the jockey at Don- 
 caster, and the Epsom form was confirmed to an eye-lash. 
 Veteran Turfites still wrangle in club smoking-rooms as to 
 whether Macaroni did beat Lord Clifton, and whether 
 Pero Gomez or Pretender really won the Derby. These 
 are things to which we can only appeal to the judge’s 
 verdict. But there is probably no race more calculated to 
 demand all the resources of a fine horseman — nerve, head, 
 judgment of pace, etc. — than the great national contest on 
 Epsom Downs. 
 
 As the day drew near Charlie became feverishly anxious 
 on the subject ; he listened eagerly for every rumour he 
 could hear concerning it ; and, as may be supposed, in the 
 sporting neighbourhood in which he was quartered ‘‘ the 
 shaves” were numerous. Fresh horses cropped up in the 
 betting who were reported to have won trials, that, if true, 
 must have placed the race at their mercy. 
 
 Charlie was very anxious that Gilbert should write to 
 his uncle, and once more inquire what he thought of 
 Belisarius’s chance ; but the other was decided in his 
 rejoinder. 
 
 ‘‘You don’t know my uncle, or you would never suggest 
 such a thing. If I began to bother him about racing, he 
 not only would never tell me anything again, but fight 
 very shy of me to boot. No, when we get up to London 
 I’ll just ask him then, and have no doubt that he’ll tell me 
 what he knows. I vote we are off Saturday, and make a 
 good long week of it” 
 
NEWS FROM BELLATON WOLD. 
 
 199 
 
 ** All right ! replied young Devereux, “ I’m good to 
 staxt whenever you give the word.” And accordingly the 
 morning of that day the pair took their places in the 
 express for town, Charlie almost smothered in the sporting 
 papers that he had bought with which to beguile the way. 
 
 The vaticinations of the various writers on the coming 
 race afforded him considerable comfort, as most of the 
 prophets predicted the success of Belisarius — and with 
 Charlie the victory of that colt meant extrication from a 
 very unpleasant scrape. As for Bertie Slade, he was very 
 silent ; except for his companion’s sake, he felt rather 
 indifferent as to the result of the Derby. His mind was 
 absorbed in the one question. Could this thing be true ? 
 Was Lettice Devereux really engaged to that fellow Furze- 
 don ? He would know for certain this week — aye, know 
 from her own lips. And yet, when he thought of that, it 
 did not seem quite so easy as he had first pictured it. He 
 did not feel that he could ask her the question unless he 
 could plead his own love, and the hope that he had not 
 told his own tale too late. To offer her formal congratu- 
 lations, and so get at the truth that way, would, he felt, be 
 a mockery — almost an insult. Was it likely that either 
 Mrs. Kynaston or Charlie would be misinformed about a 
 thing like this ? No ; he had been a fool ; he might have 
 known that a girl like Lettice Devereux would not be left 
 to wait long for the gathering. He had flattered himself 
 he had a chance, and he thought he had stood high in her 
 good graces ; but then he had not declared himself. Still, 
 to be cut out by a fellow like Furzedon — a brute whose 
 only redeeming point was, apparently, that he had money. 
 He knew next to nothing of Furzedon, and had no know- 
 ledge whatever of the many objectionable points connected 
 with that gentleman’s career ; but a rejected suitor — and, 
 if this story of Charlie’s was true, he might regard himself 
 in that light — rarely forms a just estimate of his success- 
 ful rival. 
 
 How it would have stirred Bertie Slade’s pulses could 
 he but have known that his rival was deeply interested in 
 this race, that he had travelled all the way from York to 
 see , interested, but in just the contrary way. Chiefly as 
 
200 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 a means of wringing a reluctant consent from Miss Deve- 
 reux, Furzedon was awaiting with no little impatience the 
 defeat of Belisarius. He was prepared to go, indeed, no 
 little length to compass it, should he only see his way 
 without much risk of detection. He turned the thing over 
 again and again in his mind, and at last thought he saw his 
 way to assist at that conclusion. To attempt to bribe Bill 
 Smith would be useless, the horse was his own ; and, even 
 supposing he could be bought, it would probably require a 
 large sum to make it better worth his while to lose than to 
 win. Then, too, Bill Smith was a notoriously queer- 
 tempered man, difficult to approach on so delicate a subject, 
 and quite likely to denounce him at once to the stewards 
 of the meeting, an open scandal which Furzedon shuddered 
 to think of. But he might be got at through his besetting 
 weakness, and the emissaries he employed would leave no 
 tangible evidence behind them. Genial souls only too 
 pleased to fill the wine-cup, and hobnob with the famous 
 jockey, who could suspect them of ulterior motives ? 
 
 Pecuniarily also Furzedon desired the favourite’s defeat. 
 Dick Kynaston had wormed out that the shrewd speculators 
 who so persistently opposed Belisarius were acting upon 
 the belief that when it came to the point Bill Smith would 
 be in no condition to ride, and that at the eleventh hour, 
 the securing of even a decent jockey would be impossible. 
 Ralph Furzedon and the Major, acting on this inspiration, 
 had followed suit, and now stood numbered amongst the 
 pronounced opponents of Belisarius; in fact, that colt’s 
 victory would cost them both a considerable sum of money. 
 Furzedon had very little doubt that the two or three book- 
 makers who so persistently laid against the horse would 
 endeavour to assist their own forecast of Bill Smith’s 
 probable state on the Wednesday morning. Still he 
 thought that it would be quite as well if he also did what 
 little he could to contribute to the defeat of Belisarius. 
 There was no necessity for taking the Major into his con- 
 fidence ; on the contrary, it was far better he should know 
 nothing whatever about it. Furzedon knew very well 
 where to lay his hand amongst his myrmidons on a couple 
 of the sort he wanted ; rollicking men, who would go down, 
 
DIRE MISGIVINGS. 
 
 201 
 
 flatter the great northern jockey to the very top of his bent, 
 swear that there never was such a horseman as he, and 
 never such a colt as Belisarius ; that they had got their 
 very shirts on him. “ And now, Mr. Smith, wedl just have 
 a glass to drink luck on Wednesday.” If the colt’s other 
 enemies were only taking like steps to ensure his defeat, 
 then, thought Furzedon, with a grim smile, “wherever 
 Bill Smith may finish it won’t be first, unless the devil 
 takes care of his own.^ And then, Miss Lettie, we’ll see 
 whether you’re too proud to give me the right to help your 
 brother out of his scrape.” 
 
 XXVIII. — Dire Misgivings. 
 
 T he Derby week has come at last. The leading 
 competitors for the great race all got safely to 
 Epsom, and the papers teem with reports of the morn- 
 ing gallops, and comment freely on how the horses do 
 their respective work. All are unanimous in praising the 
 favourite, pronounced to have improved much since he 
 won the Two Thousand, and reported as having galloped 
 the whole course in rare style on the Monday morning. 
 Tattersall’s is in a great bustle that day. Not only was 
 there all the business of comparing to be got through ; and 
 this checking off of their various debts takes some little 
 time with extensive speculators ; but towards the finish 
 there was some rather smart wagering on the coming 
 event. There was plenty of money both for and against 
 Belisarius ; but, as Mr. Black had said, it did not seem to 
 matter how much money the public heaped upon the colt 
 there was still always plenty to be laid against him. The 
 stable commission had been long ago exhausted — it was a 
 small stable. Mr. William Smith was a poor man, and he 
 and his friends had very soon succeeded in getting all the 
 money they could afford on at highly remunerative prices. 
 The greater part of their commission had been negotiated 
 before the horse had made his successful debut at New- 
 market ; and, though they had not hesitated — notably Sir 
 
202 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Ronald — to put down a considerable portion of their win- 
 nings in support of the colt’s Epsom chance, yet that 
 soon came to an end, and it was the public now who were 
 backing Belisarius. 
 
 Outside the subscription-room, walking up and down in 
 earnest conference, were Furzedon and Dick Kynaston. 
 
 “ It’s true. Major. I can thoroughly depend upon my 
 man. Those fellows who got the hint were quite right to 
 never leave Belisarius, and we were quite right to follow 
 their lead. Old Bill Smith is located at the ‘ Red Lion ’ 
 at Epsom, and well upon the drink. If the secret leaks 
 out, the horse will be at double his present price before the 
 flag drops.” 
 
 “ They can’t get anybody else to ride,” rejoined the 
 Major, “ at this time of day. And, if Bill Smith gets up in 
 that state, it will be all the odds against his being in the 
 first three, much less winning. I suppose there is not 
 much chance of his pulling himself together between this 
 and then ? ” 
 
 “ No,” replied Furzedon, glancing sharply around, to be 
 sure that there was nobody within earshot. “ My infor- 
 mant says that he is surrounded by a little knot who 
 wouldn’t give him the chance, even if he were so minded.” 
 
 “ I can’t think what his friends are about,” replied Ky- 
 naston, moodily. Norman Slade and RadclifFe are his 
 two chief supporters, and there are no two keener hands 
 on the Turf. They know Bill Smith better than any of us, 
 and Radcliffe we know, at all events, is standing to win a 
 lot of money over it. Are you sure they have not a second 
 string ? ” 
 
 “ Such a thing has never been hinted at,” replied Furze- 
 don ; “ besides, my good fellow, the bill of the play is out 
 now. We know what every one rides — what all the lead- 
 ing jockeys are booked for. Of course, there is always the 
 stable-boy ; but we know what a muddle usually makes 
 of it.” 
 
 “ ril tell you what it is, Furzedon,” said the Major. 
 ** I’ve seen some queer dodges take place at the last moment. 
 There is such a thing, remember, as a friendly resignation 
 of claim upon a jockey’s services. I can’t help thinking 
 
DIRE MISGIVINGS. 
 
 203 
 
 men like Slade and Radcliffe would be prepared for such a 
 probable contingency as Bill Smith’s inebriety. If the 
 horse looks well, and I see anybody else upon it, I shall 
 take back the money I have laid against him at the last 
 moment.” 
 
 “ That you must do as you like about,” replied his com- 
 panion, but I’ve done here. Are you going westwards ? 
 
 “ Not yet,” replied Kynaston. 
 
 “ Then for the present adieu,” said Furzedon ; and as he 
 strolled homewards through the park he wondered whether 
 there was a chance of such a trap as the Major hinted at 
 having been set for the opponents of Belisarius. 
 
 Trap it could not be called. If Sir Ronald Radcliffe or 
 Slade had made some such arrangement with another 
 jockey, they were only doing their best for owner, trainer, 
 horse, and the public. 
 
 Charlie Devereux, incited by a lot of youthful acquaint- 
 ance at Limmer’s, to which hostelrie Bertie and himself 
 had betaken themselves on their arrival in the metropolis, 
 had backed the favourite for a good deal more money. He 
 had been further moved to do this by Norman Slade’s 
 laconic reply to Bertie’s inquiry as to how Belisarius was. 
 “ Never was better” had been his uncle’s rejoinder ; but 
 he was not disposed to be diffuse on the subject, and Bertie 
 knew him too well to ask further questions. 
 
 Charlie Devereux had persuaded himself that he might 
 as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and therefore it 
 would be his best policy to thoroughly clear himself ; he 
 would go for the gloves ; in fact, he ran through all the 
 gamut of such phrases applicable to the situation. If it 
 came off it would be all right ; if it did not, well then the 
 smash had come , and if his friends would not rescue him 
 there must be an end of his soldiering, and he would have 
 to strike out some other path in life. He had said nothing 
 of all this to Bertie, and determined that he should be left 
 in ignorance, at all events until the race was over ; and 
 Bertie, immersed in his own worries, took little heed of the 
 doings of his mercurial brother-officer. 
 
 The Derby morning broke clear and bright. The sun 
 was barely well above the horizon when the vast horde of 
 
204 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 pleasure-seekers began to pour out of London on their way 
 to the Downs. There were those who came to gamble; 
 those who came for an outing ; those who came because it 
 was the proper thing to do ; those who came because other 
 people were going ; those who came because they always 
 did ; and that vast crowd who yearly travelled down on the 
 chance of picking up a little money during the week in 
 ways of which even themselves have as yet but hazy con- 
 :eption. Could the racing public have looked that morn- 
 mg, about breakfast-time, into the private sitting-room of 
 the “ Red Lion ” at Epsom they would have been sore 
 bewildered. Seated at the table whereon still stood the 
 debris of breakfast was Sir Ronald Radcliffe ; whilst pacing 
 restlessly up and down the room was Norman Slade, with 
 that glint in his eyes and half snarl about his mouth which 
 ^hose who knew him well were aware presaged bitter 
 'umour on his part. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,*' he said, in evident pursuance of their conversa- 
 tion, “ he is just about his very worst humour this morning. 
 He can be, as you know, as obstinate as a pig ; and there 
 is a certain stage he arrives at when he is in this way when 
 he is neither to drive nor to lead, and that is just where 
 Bill has got to this morning. He is sulky drunk, and, 
 whatever we want him to do, that above all others is the 
 thing he has set his face against.” 
 
 What sort of state is he in at present ? ” inquired the 
 Baronet. ‘‘ I mean, could he ride now ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” rejoined Slade, “that is the provoking thing 
 about it. He could ; but you don’t suppose he’ll stay 
 where he is. Just insinuate to him that he had better 
 touch nothing till the race is over, and he’d ring for more 
 
 drink that minute. Leave him to himself ” 
 
 “ And he’ll drink all the same,” chimed in the Baronet. 
 “ Yes ; I know my friend Bill, and when he is fairly off on 
 the booze it would take chain-cables to hold him. Have 
 you ventured to suggest that Tom Shaddock should ride in 
 his place ? ” 
 
 “Not yet; I have succeeded in managing the whole 
 thing capitally. Abrahams, who owns Hobbyhorse, is 
 quite prepared to let us have Shaddock, providing we give 
 
DIRE MISGIVINGS. 
 
 205 
 
 him a thousand if Belisarius wins ; and Shaddock will be 
 quite content to, in like manner, stand five hundred to 
 nothing 
 
 “ Shaddock is as good as most of them,” replied the 
 Baronet. “ Can’t Bill be brought to accede to that ar- 
 rangement ? ” 
 
 “ We shall have to try,*’ said Slade, “ but in his present 
 temper I am afraid not ; besides, you know what he is. 
 He looks upon himself as seven pounds better than any one 
 else. They are all given to it ; but there never was a jockey 
 more conceited about his own riding than Bill Smith.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Sir Ronald, “ there is only one thing to be 
 done ; we shall have to tie him up to the bedpost, and lock 
 him in his room.” 
 
 Norman Slade gave vent to a grim laugh as he replied, 
 “ I wish we could ; and, by Jove, we would, if he was only 
 a trainer and jockey ; but unfortunately, you see, he owns 
 the horse, and there’s no gainsaying that he has a right to 
 do what he likes with his own. He’s just in that beastly 
 temper in which he would say that he only kept racers for 
 the sport of the thing ; and that if he couldn’t ride them 
 himself he didn’t care to start them. If his colt got beat 
 there’d be a pretty row. He and all the public with him 
 would say that it was all our fault — that if Bill himself had 
 been up he would have won easily.” 
 
 “You’re right,” said Sir Ronald, moodily; “ I suppose 
 there would be a royal row ; and yet, hang it. I’ve half a 
 mind to chance it — it’s not often one has the chance of 
 such a cowp as this.” 
 
 “ Yes,” retorted Slade, “ and I’m sorry for the fool him- 
 self ; he stands to win a rare nice stake, and he wants it ; 
 he is never likely to get much more riding. He is not 
 likely, in his small way, to pick up such another colt as 
 Belisarius. To fool away this chance will be the throwing 
 away, probably, of his last.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ve got the morning before us,” said Sir 
 Ronald, “ and I can only hope that he will listen to reason. 
 In the meantime, I shall stroll into the town and see what’s 
 doing. It was an awful bit of bad luck that I couldn’t take 
 your place at Bellaton Moor,” 
 
206 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Left to himself, Norman Slade pondered deeply over 
 the situation. He could see no way out of it. He knew 
 his man far too well to suppose Bill Smith’s sobriety would 
 improve as the day wore on, nor was there the slightest 
 chance of his getting quite hors de combat. He never did 
 that ; then again, the combined vanity and obstinacy ol 
 the jockey made it more improbable that he would ever 
 consent to Tom Shaddock’s taking his place. Norman 
 had considered himself extremely fortunate in having coru 
 eluded that negotiation successfully. Shaddock was a fine 
 horseman, and quite capable of doing the colt every justice: 
 but in his exultation he had quite overlooked the vanity o/ 
 human nature and the infirmity of human temper. The 
 jockey had not as yet left his room, and there was no use 
 as yet, as Slade well knew, in arguing further with him. 
 He strolled out into the town, and again saw Shaddock 
 and Shaddock’s employer. Both professed themselves 
 perfectly willing to stand to the agreement to the very last 
 available moment. 
 
 Let me know half-an-hour before the numbers go up, 
 and it will be all right, sir. My horse won’t start, and 
 Tom Jiere very much at your service.” 
 
 By this time the secret of Bill Smith’s indiscretions had 
 begun to leak out amongst those sporting men who had 
 elected Epsom for their headquarters. That the delin- 
 quent was a small, spare, wiry man, as they well knew, 
 made it probable that he would be able to ride the weight. 
 But a jockey who got up to ride in a big race rather the 
 worse for drink was no more to be relied on than in any 
 other calling in life ; and there was a manifest tendency 
 to bet against Belisarius in consequence. Slade strolled 
 up to the course ; and, though the day was still young, the 
 early contingents from London were already sprinkled 
 about the betting-lawn. A very enjoyable time this : you 
 have a chance of seeing old friends, of hearing the latest 
 movements in the betting-market. Later on the crowd 
 thickens, and the coming across any one becomes a mere 
 toss-up. If it is anybody you particularly want to see the 
 chances against that meeting taking place seem incalcula- 
 bly multiplied. In that stroll Norman encountered his 
 
DIRE MISGIVINGS. 
 
 ao7 
 
 nephew ; and to Bertie’s inquiry as to whether he fancied 
 Belisarius, replied curtly, “ No; the horse is all right, but 
 the man’s all wrong. Hedge, my boy, especially if you 
 stand to lose anything to make you feel uncomfortable ; ” 
 and then Norman jumped into his fly and drove back again 
 to Epsom, to look after the recreant jockey. 
 
 Bill Smith was having a nondescript meal, which con- 
 sisted of a sandwich and a tankard of bitter beer, and was 
 surrounded by three or four blatant flatterers, who had 
 apparently breakfasted more largely in similar fashion. 
 
 “ That’s what I say, Mr. Smith,” exclaimed one of these 
 worthies, “ when you come across a good horse, with a 
 good man on the top of him, back him. That’s where it is, 
 I say ; here's the best colt in England, and the best man 
 in England a-goin’ to ride him ; it’s good enough to go 
 your shirt on, that’s what it is ; and I’ve gone it.” 
 
 It was possible that he had ; at all events there was not 
 much appearance of his having it on. 
 
 Norman Slade pushed his way through the raffish crew, 
 and clutching the jockey by the arm, exclaimed sternly, 
 ‘‘ Come here. Bill, no nonsense, I want to speak to you.” 
 And without more ado he led Smith into his own bedroom. 
 “Now,” he continued, “you’ve just thrown the Derby 
 away. Sir Ronald and I, as well as yourself, have backed 
 Belisarius to win us a hatful of money. The colt is fit to run 
 for a kingdom, andyoz^ — do you call yourself fit to ride him ? ” 
 “Yes, I do, Mr. Slade,” replied Bill Smith, doggedly; 
 “ it’s all very well, living on tea and toast, and going long 
 walks muffled up in flannels when you’re a fleshy man — 
 ain’t. Don’t you be afraid. I’ll weigh in all right — don’t 
 you be afraid I’m over weight.” 
 
 “I’m not a bit afraid of that,” said Norman sharply; 
 “ what I fear is, that you won’t know where the winning- 
 post is. You’ve been drinking for the last three days, and 
 you’ve got the ‘ sun in your eyes ’ this morning.” 
 
 “ Don’t talk nonsense, Mr. Slade,” rejoined the jockey. 
 “ I’m just as fit to ride as I ever was? in my life.” 
 
 “ Well, never mind that,” replied Slade, “ Sir Ronald 
 and I don’t think you quite your old self. We want you 
 to hand youi mount over to — • 
 
20S 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ‘‘What ! not ride my own horse/’ interrupted Bill. “ It*s 
 
 like your d d cheek ; and who, pray, are you proposing 
 
 to put up in my place ? ” 
 
 “Well,” rejoined Slade, “I’ve been lucky enough to 
 secure Tom Shaddock.” 
 
 “ What, Shaddock ride alongside me,” cried the now 
 thoroughly exasperated jockey ; “ why, I could give him 
 seven pounds anywhere, and I should think about ten 
 here. No, Mr. Slade, you and your Shaddocks may go 
 
 to ,” and he named a place not usually mentioned in 
 
 polite circles, and strolled angrily out of the room. 
 
 “ That’s the upsetting of the cockboat — our last chance,” 
 muttered Slade. “ I have only made things a bit worse. 
 I know his beastly braggadocio temper ; he’ll think it 
 incumbent on him to take two or three strong drinks 
 between this and the saddling-bell, and, unless we can 
 persuade him when he has got well round Tattenham 
 Corner to come right away, he’s certain to make a muddle 
 of it at the finish. Hard luck ! ” concluded Norman, “ it’s 
 rarely men have a chance to stand to win so much money 
 as we do this time, and if that fool could only have kept 
 sober until it was over I verily believe it would have been 
 landed.” 
 
 XXIX. — The Great Epsom Race. 
 
 J UMPING once more into his fly, Slade ordered the man 
 to drive at once to the paddock, where, as arranged, 
 he was to meet Mr. Abrahams, Tom Shaddock, and 
 Sir Ronald. Dismissing his fly for the present, Norman 
 made his way into the inclosure. 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Slade ! ” exclaimed the Israelite, “ you have 
 come to say it’s all right, and that Tom, here, is to ride 
 Belisarius ; you don’t want anything more than the market 
 there,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the 
 betting-ring, “to tell you that Bill Smith’s got a pretty 
 bad headache this morning ; ” and Mr. Abrahams favoured 
 Norman with a most expressive wink “I’ve got a few 
 
THE GREAT EPSOM RACK 
 
 209 
 
 pounds on my own ; but, bless yer, I’d a deal rather stand 
 in with you.” 
 
 “ You must do the best you can with Reflector, I shan’t 
 want your services to-day, Tom,” said Norman, grimly. 
 
 “ But s’help me, Mr. Slade,” exclaimed Abrahams, 
 ‘‘ why it’s all over the ring ; they say Bill Smith has been 
 drunk ever since he’s been here, and that it will take him 
 about a month to get sober now.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, never mind what they say, Mr. Abrahams, Bill 
 Smith will ride Belisarius to-day, that’s enough for you to 
 know.” 
 
 “No go, I see,” said Sir Rt>nald, joining Slade as he 
 walked away ; “ can’t do anything with him, I suppose ? ” 
 “ No,” rejoined Norman, “ I always knew it would be a 
 delicate point. You see it is touching a man on the point 
 of his vanity ; and the suggestion that Tom Shaddock 
 could fill his place simply drove him wild.” 
 
 “ It’s an awful sell,” replied the Baronet, “ such a good 
 stake we stand on it, and, by Jove, old man, I really want 
 it.” And then the pair strolled off to have a look at 
 Belisarius. 
 
 The colt was pacing up and down at the bottom end of 
 the paddock, looking cool and collected, and quite prepared 
 to take his part in the struggle that lay before him. The 
 time was getting on, and already the saddling-bell for the 
 great race clanged out upon the ear. There were a crowd 
 of people gathered around Belisarius and scanning all his 
 points. Another ten minutes, and a little man in a light 
 overcoat pushes his way somewhat rudely through the 
 throng. They make way for him, for the silken cap in the 
 well-known colours tells them that it is the colt’s jockey 
 and owner, with a face flushed with drink. Bill Smith 
 sullenly superintended the saddling of his horse ; another 
 minute or two and he casts off his overcoat and is promptly 
 thrown into the saddle. As he moves off with his horse 
 Slade walks alongside of him and says : 
 
 “Trust to the condition you’ve got under you, Bill. 
 The colt can’t be fitter ; don’t wait too long, but come 
 right away, and stand no humbugging.” 
 
 “ All right, Mr, Slade,” growled the jockey, sulkily, “ I’lj 
 
210 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 come to you for a few riding-lessons when Tve got this 
 gallop over.” 
 
 “ Pig-headed brute 1 ” exclaimed Sir Ronald, “ neither 
 you nor any one else can do anything with him to-day. 
 He must ‘ gang his ain gait,* as they say the other side of 
 the Border.” 
 
 As Bill Smith walked his horse past the drinking-booth 
 that stood near the entrance to the paddock, a small lot of 
 well-dressed men issued from it. They had all glasses in 
 their hands, and two of them bore bottles. 
 
 “ Here’s your health, Bill ! ” exclaimed one of them. 
 ‘‘ Bill Smith and Belisarius ! ” chorused the others. “ The 
 best man on the best horse in England ; we’ll drink his 
 health, and good luck to him,” 
 
 “ Here you are, Bill,” exclaimed the first speaker, filling 
 a glass out of a champagne bottle, “just a glass of fizz for 
 luck, Bill,” and he handed a brimming goblet up to Smith, 
 who, bending over his saddle, took it, and sang out, “ All 
 right, lads, you’ll see what a mess I’ll make of ’em after we 
 get round Tattenham Corner ! ” and, tossing off the liquor, 
 he threw the glass back to the man who had handed it to 
 him. 
 
 If at first sight it seems odd that nobody interfered to 
 prevent this tampering with the jockey on his way to the 
 post, it must be borne in mind that Bill Smith stood in the 
 singular position of being owner, trainer, and jockey. How- 
 ever, even as it was, there was an attempt to stop it. 
 Norman Slade and Sir Ronald, following in the rear of the 
 horse, caught sight of this little crowd, and, at the last 
 moment, grasped their design. They both rushed forward 
 to interfere, but it was too late ; the cup was drained and 
 tossed back to its giver before Slade could intercept it. 
 Bui he turned quick as lightning upon the donor, and said, 
 “ I want your name, sir ; this looks to me very like an 
 attempt to hocus the jockey of the favourite.” 
 
 “ My name ! ” replied the other, “ what the deuce have 
 you got to do with my name, and who are you to dare to 
 find fault with my giving a glass of wine to a gentleman 
 riding his own horse ? ” 
 
 But Norman Slade had not lived all bis life about town 
 
THE GREAT EPSOM RACR 
 
 
 in the da 3 TS when pugilism was patronised by the greatest 
 in the land, without having learnt to use his hands. Ha 
 advanced determinedly on his foe, exclaiming as he did so, 
 “ Quick, Radcliffe, call the police ; 111 keep this gentleman 
 employed till they come.” 
 
 But these two things produced a decided change in the 
 blustering demeanour of the dark, florid-looking gentleman 
 who still held the bottle of champagne in his hand. He 
 knew Sir Ronald Radclifle was well-known amongst all 
 leading gentlemen of the turf. He knew also that the 
 , interference of the police would at once create a great 
 public scandal, and that was the last thing Ralph Furzedon 
 I desired. Suddenly changing his manner, he exclaimed — 
 I “You have thought proper to accuse me of hocussing a 
 'jockey. Will you have a glass of champagne? Get a 
 I couple of clean glasses there, one of you.” 
 
 I “ Yes,” said Norman, quickly, “ I will, and a full one. I 
 shall know then what it is you have put down Bill Smith’s 
 throat.” 
 
 “ Quite right,” replied the other, with a mocking smile ; 
 “ ah ! here come the glasses.” And from the self-same 
 bottle he proceeded to fill them to the very brim. Handing 
 one to Norman, he took the other himself, and said — 
 
 “Now, sir^ we will drink to the success of Belisarius,” 
 and with a low bow he drained his glass to the dregs, as 
 also did Slade. 
 
 “ Well, sir,” he continued, “ I hope you found the wine 
 to your liking ? ” 
 
 “ Far from it,” rejoined Slade, “ race-course champagne, 
 and bad at that, but I withdraw my accusation. Good- 
 day, sir.” “ Come and see it, Radcliffe,” he continued, 
 taking the Baronet’s arm, “ I can swear he never changed 
 the bottle, for I never took my eye off him. I believe it to 
 be only what I said ; but at all events,” he concluded, 
 laughing, “ I shall know in less than half an hour.” 
 
 They walked up the course until they arrived at the 
 Grand Stand, and, looking into the betting-lawn for a few 
 moments, found that a reaction had set in in favour of 
 Belisarius. The colt had gone badly in the market during 
 the nioirmng, but when he can;e out, looking fine as a star, 
 
212 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 and with the redoubtable Bill Smith on his back, there 
 was a rush to back him, both on the part of the public and 
 on those who, thinking that he would have a very inferior 
 jockey on his back, had laid against him. Drunk or sober. 
 Bill Smith was equally at home in the saddle, and, as he 
 gripped his horse and brought him rattling down the 
 course, sitting straight and square in his saddle, few would 
 have dreamt that the drink was already seething in that 
 resolute horseman’s brain. That canter past the Stand 
 done with, the lot proceed quietly across towards the 
 starting-post, and here at once Bill Smith’s irritable 
 temper begins to show itself. There is always some little 
 manoeuvring for places on these occasions — some of the 
 most eminent jockeys are notably whimsical upon this 
 point, and Bill Smith was one of these. It was an axiom 
 of his to have the inside from the beginning, if he could 
 compass it, and he would dodge and make unscrupulous 
 use of his well-garnished vocabulary to attain this end ; 
 and more than one of his fellow-jockeys would yield the 
 point sooner than encounter the lash of Bill Smith’s scur- 
 rilous tongue. He was worse than usual on this occasion, 
 and, inflamed by drink, ventured to favour the starter with 
 some of his choice observations. He was too preoccupied 
 in railing at those around him to attend strictly to the 
 business in hand, and, when that functionary, by no means 
 prepossessed in his. Bill Smith’s favour, suddenly dropped 
 his flag, instead of making the best use of his opportunity, 
 the be-mused jockey hesitated, not quite believing it was 
 an actual start. Even when he awoke to the fact he still 
 further complicated matters by waiting to hurl a torrent of 
 abuse at the starter before setting his horse going. 
 
 “ They’re off,” roared the crowd. “ Pooh ! nonsense ! 
 False start!” was the cry immediately afterwards, 
 succeeded quickly by the shout, “ It’s a go, by heaven I 
 and the favourite’s left at the post.” Yes, there, true 
 enough, were the horses sweeping up the hill in a cluster, 
 and the favourite at least a hundred yards in their rear. 
 
 ‘‘ It’s all over, Norman 1 ” exclaimed the Baronet, as he 
 wearily dropped his glasses; “ and the best thing we’ve been 
 ip for many a day is chucked away by a drunken fool*’* 
 
THE GREAT EPSOM RACE. 
 
 2ti 
 
 Norman Slade made no reply, he was busied straining 
 his eyes to catch sight of the horses, and even as they 
 went through “the furzes ” he fancied that Belisarius had 
 made up a little of his ground. Then the lot were all out 
 of sight, and when next he caught sight of them, the dark 
 bluejacket and scarlet cap of Bill Smith were still toiling 
 far in the rear. As they came down the hill it was evident 
 that the Bellaton horse had closed the portentous gap that 
 separated him from his field considerably. Then they 
 came round Tattenham Corner, and if ever a jockey shaved 
 the rails there it was Bill Smith upon this occasion. 
 Muddled though he was, he knew he was so far behind 
 them that he could not afford to throw away an inch of 
 ground, and a bit of his old skill was exhibited in the way 
 he crept up to his horses. But it was a long gap to make 
 up, and the old patience and coolness began to fail him. 
 Half way up the straight he began to get nervous at the 
 distance he was still behind ; if the race was to be won at 
 all it could only be done inch by inch, with one determined 
 rush on the very post. Bill Smith began to bustle his 
 horse, and Belisarius, who had been engaged in a weary 
 stern-chase from the commencement, soon showed signs 
 that the struggle had told upon him. The fierce excite- 
 ment of the gallop, the nervous anxiety to win such a 
 valuable stake for himself and friends, were too much for 
 Bill Smith, on the top of the drink that he had consumed 
 before starting ; he lost his head, and instead of waiting 
 till the last moment with that consummate coolness which 
 had often electrified the Southerners, and brought many a 
 roar from Yorkshire throats on Doncaster Moor, he sat 
 down just before reaching the Stand, and commenced 
 riding his horse in earnest. Gamely did Belisarius respond 
 to the call, and the colt’s final flash was brilliant in the 
 extreme. For one second he threatened to overhaul the 
 leaders, and a cry went up, “ The favourite wins ! The 
 favourite wins ! ” but in the next half-dozen strides his bolt 
 was shot, he died away to nothing; and when the numbers 
 went up Belisarius was not amongst the first three. 
 
 The race is over, and Harold by The Confessor, out of 
 Dauntless, is hailed the winner of the Derby of i8— . 
 
SADDLB AND SABRB. 
 
 St4 
 
 Norman Slade greeted the hoisting of the victor’s number 
 with a “ splendid groan,” like unto that with which Mr. 
 Disraeli tells us Lord George Bentinck received the news 
 of Surplice’s triumph. As for Sir Ronald he said nothing 
 aloud ; he was a ‘good loser, and it was seldom the way 
 the battle went could be traced in his calm, passionless 
 features ; but upon this occasion I think there was a 
 muttered imprecation against Bill Smith, and a resolution 
 to depend upon that unstable reed no more. As for that 
 worthy he was half mad with rage and disappointment ; 
 his language in the weighing-room was what Bret Harte 
 describes as — ‘‘ Frequent and painful and free.” 
 
 He poured forth a torrent of abuse on the starter, he 
 vowed it was no race, he objected to everything in the et 
 cetera, cetera race, he wanted to lodge an objection, he 
 wanted to appeal to the stewards, and it wasn’t until he 
 had received a peremptory intimation that, if he didn’t 
 quit the weighing-room without more words the authorities 
 would be compelled to have him removed, the discomfited 
 jockey could be induced to retire. As far as the general 
 public goes their sympathies were with Bill Smith ; they 
 did not know how it happened, but they did understand 
 that he had somehow been left behind, and were very 
 much inclined, like Bill Smith himself, to lay the blame 
 upon the starter. But the regular racing-men knew better ; 
 they knew very well whose fault it was, and that the 
 famous jockey of the North had no one to blame but 
 himself. 
 
 However, it is little use to argue upon how the milk was 
 spilt, upon how it all happened on this occasion. The fiat 
 of the judge has gone forth, and is irrevocable. Some 
 rumours there were of an ** objection ” in the first few 
 minutes after the race, the consequence these of Bill Smith’s 
 wild ravings. But such report met with but little credence 
 to begin with, and was speedily contradicted. On the top 
 of the drag opposite the Grand Stand, with some half-a- 
 dozen other men consoling themselves for their disappoint- 
 ment with a capital lunch, was Charlie Devereux. 
 
 “ Rather a facer, old man,” remarked one of his com- 
 panions. “ They’ve got me for four hundred. I thought 
 
RAISING THE WIND. 215 
 
 Belisarius couldn’t lose ; but he got such an awful bad 
 start.” 
 
 “ I don’t know how it happened,” replied Charlie. “ But 
 I feel quite sure that he had no business to be left behind 
 like that.” 
 
 “ The starter ought to be had up before the stewards,” 
 said another. If he had only got off he must have won. 
 Look at the ground he made up towards the finish.” 
 
 “ Struck me,” rejoined Charlie, that he was in rather 
 too great a hurry to get home. If he’d had a little more 
 patience he must have been very near winning. The 
 horse ran game as a bull-dog ; but I know what that follow- 
 my-leader game is. I was taught the lesson the first time 
 I rode in public, and just as I caught my horses found I 
 had come to the end of my own.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied one of his companions. “ It stands to 
 reason that after making up all that leeway there can be 
 but a very brief flash left in your horse when you call upon 
 him for his supreme effort.” 
 
 Charlie nodded assent ; but the discussion was idle ; the 
 one fact remained that he had lost a lot of money, and 
 that it had to be paid by the following Monday, 
 
 XXX. — Raising the Wind. 
 
 I N one of Disraeli’s earlier novels he tells us of a certain 
 marquis and his spouse, who, finding themselves incon- 
 venienced by the simple process of spending two years’ 
 income in one, determined to economise, and, abandoning 
 the delights of London, betake themselves to the country 
 with a view to that laudable sacrifice. But as they con- 
 sider that the mere fact of such retirement of itself consti- 
 tutes economy, and that the country is unendurable 
 without a fashionable mob to inhabit their country-seat, 
 which distinguished mob must be regaled upon all the best 
 there is to eat and drink in the land, they awake to the fact 
 that their scheme of retrenchment is a failure, and, as the 
 
2i6 
 
 saddle and SABRfi, 
 
 marchioness sweetly observes, “henceforth expense isnd 
 object.” In like manner men in their early gambling 
 scrapes are always apt to think that a little more makes no 
 difference. Charlie Devereux’s “ plunge ” upon Belisarjus 
 has been already rather upon the double or quits principle. 
 And that he should feel it incumbent to back Maritana for 
 the Oaks, with a view to recovering his Derby losses, was 
 strictly in accord with all race-going experience ; and that 
 Maritana should occupy the same ignoble position, namely, 
 that of unplaced, at the termination of that classic contest, 
 was only the customary result of such attempt to retrieve 
 his losses. Charlie felt a little sick when he saw Maritana 
 collapse hopelessly just before the real bitter finish began ; 
 and as he travelled back to town pondered gloomily as to 
 where he was to obtain the necessary funds with which to 
 settle his accounts on the Monday. 
 
 Now, to obtain a considerable sum of money at such 
 short notice as is given, from Friday night to Monday 
 afternoon, there is no reliance to be placed upon any but 
 the children of Israel. A large sum of money is, of course, 
 to be regarded with due respect as to your position and 
 securities ; but, given these both unimpeachable, it is » 
 usually to the money-lender that you must go to obtain it 
 in time. The terms naturally vary in accordance with the 
 risk to be run. To a man with undoubted tangible pro- 
 perty, who only requires a few weeks to raise the necessary 
 sum, his charges will be comparatively lenient ; but in the 
 case of a customer like Charlie he will undoubtedly demand 
 to be paid in proportion to the risk. Charlie’s experience 
 of London usurers was happily limited ; it would have 
 been better for him had it been still more limited ; but 
 with no little perturbation on Saturday morning he jumped 
 into a cab, and drove down to the offices of Messrs. Jor- 
 dan & Co., finance agents, whose business premises were 
 in Northumberland Street, Strand. There he saw the 
 representative of that shadowy firm, and who, knowing his 
 master’s views with regard to Mr. Charles Devereux’s 
 paper, informed him that he thought it was possible it 
 might be done ; that money was scarce, and he would 
 have to pay high for it ; but that he could say nothing 
 
RAISINCi THE WIND. 
 
 Positively until he had consulted his partnet from the city, 
 if Mr. Devereux would call upon him between eleven and 
 twelve on Monday morning he would be able to give him 
 a definite answer. And in the event of their being able to 
 accommodate him at all the money should be handed 
 over to him then and there. And with such comfort 
 Charlie betook himself back to Limmer’s, and bethought 
 himself what an egregious fool he was, and what a pre- 
 cious tale it was now ii^cumbent upon him to unfold to 
 his father. 
 
 He had seen but little of Bertie Slade since their arrival 
 in London ; they were both staying at Limmer’s, but, 
 whereas Charlie pretty well lived there, Gilbert only slept 
 there. Gilbert naturally lunched, dined, etc., at the Ther- 
 mopolium, but Charlie as yet had not obtained entrance to 
 one of those exclusionary palaces. It was, perhaps, this that 
 had lured him to his undoing. His associates at Limmer’s 
 were all young gentlemen similarly situated to himself, 
 whom he had known in the first place at the University, 
 and who had now joined Her Majesty’s service. It was a 
 fastish hotel in those days. I am talking of the old house, 
 5ind before carpets desecrated the sanded floor of the 
 famous coffee-room — scene of so many mad-cap revels, of 
 such wild betting, and in which so many prize-fights had 
 been arranged and eccentric matches concocted. Not a 
 very good academy for a young gentleman to commence 
 his studies of life in London. He had not as yet confided 
 the extent of his losses at Epsom to any one. Although 
 he had seen Mrs. Kynaston on the Thursday afternoon, 
 and she had condoled with him sweetly on his ill-luck, yet 
 he had not even confessed to her that things were still 
 worse than she knew of. He had telegraphed to his 
 colonel for a couple more days’ leave, to enable him to 
 confer with Jordan & Co. upon the Monday, and received 
 a favourable reply to his request. Very much astounded 
 was Bertie Slade when he discovered that afternoon that 
 Charlie was not to be his travelling companion. 
 
 “ No ; I wired to the chief for two days’ more leave, and 
 have got it. The fact is, old man, I’m in a deuce of a 
 scrape, much worse than you know of.” 
 
2i8 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ I see,** interrupted Bertie, hastily, you were fool 
 enough to pile a lot more money on Belisarius.** 
 
 “ Just so,” replied Devereux, “ and I’ve had to go where 
 I did before to find the money to settle with. There’s no 
 doubt about it now, I shall have to tell the story at North 
 Leach.” 
 
 “I am afraid so,** said Slade; “the sooner the better, 
 but it’s time I was off. I suppose we shall see you down 
 on Monday night,” and with a nod of adieu Bertie Slade 
 took his departure. He had had a most unsatisfactory 
 week. I don’t mean in the way of racing, for he had lost 
 but very little money, and cared less about it. His main 
 object in London had been to see Lettice, and in that he 
 had been grievously disappointed. He had called twice, 
 and upon both occasions found neither Miss Devereux nor 
 Mrs. Connop at home. He had been more fortunate with 
 Mrs. Kynaston, but had derived scant comfort from his 
 visit there. That lady, without actually committing her- 
 self to the unvarnished statement that Lettice and Mr. 
 Furzedon were engaged, sent him away quite under that 
 impression. 
 
 “ It’s not announced, you know, but nobody has the 
 slightest doubt that it is so. Mr. Furzedon has for months 
 made no secret of his admiration for Miss Devereux. I 
 am sure, Mr. Slade, he has bored me to death with it. 
 She has only had to hold up her finger any time the last 
 six months to bring him to his knees, and — well — I sup- 
 pose at last she has done it.” 
 
 “ And I suppose there’s nothing more to be said now 
 but to offer our congratulations,” replied Bertie. “ Furze- 
 don is a man I don’t much fancy myself — he is not quite 
 my sort.” 
 
 “ You are quite right, Mr. Slade,** said the lady, with a 
 slight curl of her lip. “ I should not think he was ; but he 
 is an excellent match, and that is more to the purpose to 
 a young lady on promotion. I hope you were more for- 
 tunate than Mr. Devereux, who told me he had a very bad 
 race. My husband was in luck. He heard — I don’t know 
 how — that there was something wrong about Belisarius ; 
 that his jockey couldn’t be trusted, or sonlething of that 
 
RAISING THE WIND. 219 
 
 sort ; and both he and Mr. Furzedon won a nice little 
 stake over it.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” exclaimed Bertie, with some interest. Then 
 there may be something in a wild report that there is flying 
 about. It’s rumoured that Smith, the jockey who rode 
 Belisarius, was hocussed as he was leaving the paddock. 
 The man is given to drink, and was induced to have a glass 
 of wine for luck.” 
 
 “ Really,” said Mrs. Kynaston, ** this is the first I have 
 heard of it. Dick says there’s generally a canard of that 
 sort when the favourite for a big race gets beaten.” 
 
 “ I dare say he is right,” replied Slade, “ and that this 
 report is perfectly unfounded,” and then Bertie rose and 
 wished Mrs. Kynaston “ Good-bye,’* receiving strict injunc- 
 tions from that lady to be sure to come and see her again 
 when he was next in town. 
 
 A very clever woman was Mrs. Kynaston, but, in such 
 delicate scheming as she was at present perpetrating, the 
 dropping of one stitch, the slightest mistake, suffices to 
 destroy the entire web. From her lips had just fallen 
 words the import of which it was impossible she could 
 forsee. In the idlest way she had told Bertie Slade that 
 Furzedon had profited by the defeat of Belisarius. Now, 
 Bertie’s Uncle Norman was not only a considerable suf- 
 ferer from that result, but he had also seen who it was that 
 handed the wine to Bill Smith. He did not know who 
 Furzedon was, but was not likely now to forget his faoe. 
 A hard, resolute man, no one was more likely to persever- 
 ingly unmask a robbery than Norman Slade. And, if he 
 should happen to hear from his nephew that the giver of 
 that glass of wine had a direct interest in Bill Smith’s not 
 winning the race, he was likely to investigate the matter 
 thoroughly; and, as we know Furzedon had by no means 
 clean hands in the whole business, such a charge as that 
 substantiated against him would mean social bankruptcy 
 as far as Mr. Furzedon was concerned. 
 
 The weak place in the web that Mrs. Kynaston had 
 taken such pains to weave — and she was painfully aware 
 of it — was the fact that her fib about Lattice’s engage- 
 ment was in hourly danger of exposure. It was hardly 
 
SADDLE AND SAME. 
 
 possible, she thought, that Charlie Devereux could see his 
 sister without congratulating her upon her engagement. 
 He had not seen her yet, but she knew that he was bound 
 to call in Onslow Gardens before he went back to York. 
 It is true she had sworn him to secresy, that she had told 
 him it was not yet announced, vowed that she ought never 
 to have told him, pointed out that he would get her into a 
 most awful scrape if he divulged it. “ You’ll promise me,’* 
 she had said, “ not to open your mouth about it ; Lettie 
 would never forgive me if you didn’t hear it first from her 
 own lips.” And Charlie had sworn to keep silence on the 
 subject. But Mrs. Kynaston doubted whether he would 
 find it possible. Then again Lettice herself might allude 
 to it as an absurd rumour which she requested him to con- 
 tradict. She did not think she would do so ; still it was a 
 thing quite likely to happen. Mrs. Kynaston knew that 
 Mr. Slade had called at Onslow Gardens, but she had 
 also ascertained unsuccessfully, and that had been a great 
 piece of luck, as far as she was concerned, and she now 
 hoped that both he and Charlie were well on their way 
 back to York. 
 
 That, as far as the latter was concerned, we know was 
 not the case. But he proved loyal to his trust. He went 
 down to Onslow Gardens on the Sunday, and saw both his 
 aunt and his sister. They thought him rather absent and 
 distrait^ and, taking advantage of their being left alone for 
 a few minutes, Lettie pressed him pretty closely as to what 
 was the matter, and then Charlie disburdened his soul. He 
 told her he had lost a terrible lot of money on racing, and 
 that there was nothing for it but to go to his father. 
 
 If he won’t see me through it my military career must 
 come to an abrupt termination. I’ve been an awful fool 
 I know, and if the governor don’t stand to me I’m likely to 
 be sharply punished for my folly. I like my profession, 
 and it will be bitter grief to me to have to give it up.” 
 
 “ Is it very big, Charlie ? How much money do you 
 suppose would clear you ? ” 
 
 “ I hardly know, but it would take a lot.” 
 
 “ Father will scold,” rejoined Lettie, “ and you can’t be 
 much surprised at that. I think it is possible that Aunt 
 
RAISING THE WIND. 
 
 221 
 
 Sarah might help a little. Five hundred would see you 
 through, I suppose ? ’* 
 
 “ Wouldn’t be a bit of good,” he rejoined. “ It would 
 take three times the amount.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Charlie,” exclaimed the girl, “ this is a bad busi- 
 ness. Must you have all this money immediately ? ” 
 
 “ No,” he replied ; “ but I must find it in a few weeks at 
 the outside. At all events it has got to be found, sooner 
 or later.” 
 
 “ And when do you intend to speak to father about it ? ” 
 “ Well, I shall get a few days’ leave, and come down to 
 North Leach. How long shall you be in town ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know exactly, but to the end of the season, I 
 hope. But I’ll come home, Charlie, if you think that I 
 can be of any use.” 
 
 “ You always were a brick, Lettie ! ” he rejoined, kissing 
 her; but, hush ! here comes Aunt Sarah. Not a word 
 to any one, mind, till I tell you to speak.” 
 
 Mrs. Connop was extremely pleased with her nephew, 
 and full of questions concerning his military life. She 
 expressed her intention of giving Harrogate a turn when 
 the real hot weather set in. Then,” she continued, 
 “ we’ll come over to York, and review the regiment, or 
 whatever you call it.” And after a little desultory badinage 
 of this description, Charlie took his departure. 
 
 The next morning young Devereux made his way to 
 Jordan & Co.’s. He found the representative of that firm 
 quite ready to receive him. 
 
 “ I have conferred with my partners, Mr. Devereux,” he 
 observed ; “ and they wish me to point out that we are 
 holding a good deal of paper of yours. I’ll admit that 
 your getting into the army renders us a little more secure 
 than we were, but we don’t very much care about advancing 
 any further money. Still, we don’t wish to leave an old 
 customer in the lurch ; and, therefore, if you will write 
 your name across this bill, we are prepared to let you have 
 it at once ; but you will observe that this bill is at thirty 
 days’ sight ; in short, our advance is only meant to enable 
 you to look round and procure the money elsewhere.” 
 Charlie thought for a moment ; “ I must go to the goy- 
 
222 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ernor,** he muttered, “ and the sooner the better. My 
 racing account must be settled to-day, but a month will be 
 ample time in which to come to an explanation at home.” 
 All right 1 ” he said ; ‘‘*1 shall not want it for longer. 
 Fm paying dear enough for it, as it is, and have no wish to 
 pay still further for accommodation.” 
 
 ‘‘ Quite right, Mr. Devereux,” replied the usurer, as he 
 counted out a bundle of notes. “ The dearest thing you 
 can buy in the world is money, with the exception of 
 experience ; and when you’ve got the latter, you will never 
 buy the former.” 
 
 “ Come, I say,” replied Charlie, “I don’t see what you’ve 
 got to complain about.” 
 
 “ I don’t complain,” rejoined the money-lender, laugh- 
 ing. “ It’s my trade, and though it’s by no means so good 
 as it looks — as we have to run great risks, and at times 
 incur frightful losses, — still, I often wonder we have so 
 many customers as we do. I think you’ll find that right, 
 sir ; ” and as he concluded he pushed the notes across to 
 Charlie. 
 
 Quite right, I thank you,” rejoined Devereux, and, 
 blithely nodding a good morning to Jordan & Co., he shot 
 out of the dingy office. 
 
 XXXI. — Furzedon Returns to the Charge. 
 
 HE exultation of Furzedon at the results of the Derby 
 
 week was unbounded. It was not merely that he 
 
 won a good bit of money, but that Charlie Devereux 
 should unknowingly have come to him for assistance in 
 his difficulties was a piece of rare good fortune. Find 
 the wherewithal for Devereux to settle with, of course 
 he would ; he would have found double the amount. 
 It was forging the very weapon he wanted and placing 
 it in his hands; the worst of those bills he held was 
 that no proceedings could be taken upon them for some 
 time, but had purposely instructed his agent that 
 
FURZEDON RETURNS TO THE CHARGE. 
 
 223 
 
 this time the loan should be for only a month ; he knew 
 very well how quickly a month slipped away under 
 ^ those circumstances ; he knew very well that Charlie 
 ' would have the greatest disinclination to apply to his 
 father, and he felt pretty sure that he would not until the 
 last extremity ; that he would do so at last Furzedon never 
 doubted, any more than he did that Tom Devereux in the 
 end would pay the money ; he was running no risk if he 
 could use this as an engine with which to induce Lettie 
 Devereux to marry him. Well and good, he would be 
 only too glad to wipe off Charlie’s debts as the price of her 
 hand. If, on the contrary, she declined to make this sacri- 
 fice in her brother’s interest, well he, at all events, was not 
 likely to be any loser by what he had done. Sacrifice, 
 forsooth ! There was not much sacrifice about it ; there 
 were plenty of girls in Lettie’s position who would only be 
 too glad to share the comfortable home and income he could 
 offer them. But the difficulties in his way had only increased 
 his desire to make Lettice his wife. 
 
 He was one of those obstinate dispositions that opposi- 
 tion merely stimulates ; how he had come to wish for this 
 marriage he would have been somewhat puzzled to explain, 
 so dexterously had the idea been poured into his mind by 
 Mrs. Kynaston, that he was hardly conscious of that lady 
 being the originator of it. She was his confidant, she 
 approved of it and encouraged it ; he knew all that, but he 
 still failed to recognise that, but for Mrs. Kynaston, it 
 would probably never have entered his head to seek Lettice 
 Devereux in marriage. Now he was committed to it, and 
 was resolved to leave no stone unturned to bring it about. 
 The overthrow of Belisarius, and Charlie's consequent 
 necessities, would enable him to exercise pressure at 
 once, and he determined before June was over that Miss 
 Devereux should be strongly urged, for her brother’s sake, 
 to reconsider her late decision. That any harm could 
 possibly accrue to him from the small part he had taken in 
 the Belisarius Derby, Ralph Furzedon v/ould have laughed 
 to scorn. Poisoning a horse or poisoning a man are 
 ofifences that come clearly within the grasp of the law, but 
 tp simply encourage a drunkard in his inebriety, ah ! well, 
 
224 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 there is no penalty against that. But, though a man may 
 escape all legal consequences of his acts, there sometimes 
 follows a social crucifixion, which, with Furzedon’s aims 
 and ambitions, is pretty well as bitter , and, little as he 
 thinks of it, just such a storm is slowly gathering round 
 Ralph Furzedon’s head. 
 
 Miss Devereux was not a little put out at missing Mr. 
 Slade. It was most provoking ; his calling twice showed 
 that he was undoubtedly anxious to see her, and if they 
 could but have met she thought that at all events that one 
 question would have been solved, which she was so anxious 
 to determine — whether he was in earnest in his intentions 
 to herself or not. Mrs. Kynaston had warned her against 
 giving much credence to the soft speeches of those Dra- 
 goons.” She had dwelt upon the fact that he had never 
 thought it worth while to come down to North Leach for 
 that week’s hunting ; she had ridiculed the idea that 
 Charlie could not get leave, though Charlie protested him- 
 self such was the case ; but let Mrs. Kynaston laugh as 
 she pleased, there was no getting over the fact that during 
 a week like the last, a week in which men’s hands are 
 generally full of engagements, Mr. Slade had twice endea- 
 voured to see her. She talked matters over a little with 
 her aunt, and that lady, who in her quiet undemonstrative 
 way would have been as much pleased with the girl’s 
 engagement to Bertie Slade as she had been the reverse at 
 the idea of her marrying Ralph Furzedon, laughed merrily, 
 and said : 
 
 It will be time enough to think what you will do with 
 him when he is an avowed pretender to your hand. In 
 the meantime, nothing will persuade me that he is not 
 thoroughly honest in his admiration. It may be that he 
 don’t quite see the ways and means. I think, for the present, 
 it is a case for suspending judgment, my dear. It is very 
 unlucky our being out upon each occasion that he called.” 
 
 So Miss Devereux took much comfort from her aunt’s 
 counsel. Gilbert Slade would no doubt contrive to see her 
 before the season was over. York was no distance from 
 London, and he would find little difficulty in obtaining 
 leave, if he wished fov it, 
 
FURZEDON RETURNS TO THE CHARGE. 225 
 
 But there was another thing which, just now, oeca^ioned 
 Lettie considerable annoyance. Thanks to Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton’s malicious tongue, the report of her engagement had 
 been spread pretty widely amongst her friends and ac- 
 quaintance. She was constantly exposed to most embar- 
 rassing remarks from her friends. One of these, for 
 instance, would whisper into her ear no end of congratula- 
 tions. ** I am so glad, dear.” And when Miss Devereux 
 retorted, “ Congratulations — what about ? I am sure I 
 don’t understand you,” the other would reply, “ I beg par- 
 don ; I’m sure I’ve no wish to be premature, but I thought 
 it was quite an open secret 1 ” 
 
 In vain did Lettie try to combat all such felicitations ; 
 it was useless ; the rumour was too strong for her. It had 
 spread about that she was engaged to be married to Mr. 
 Furzedon, and the world refused to believe anything else. 
 On the contrary, it scolded Lettie behind her back for 
 denying it. “ Such nonsense 1 ” remarked her friends. 
 ‘‘ Why cannot she openly announce it ? What on earth 
 can she want to make a secret and a mystery of it for ? ’* 
 Mr. Furzedon, too, contributed not a little to this belief. 
 He contrived to obtain most accurate information of Miss 
 Devereux’s movements, and wherever Lettice went, there, 
 if he could manage it, was Mr. Furzedon. He played his 
 rSle, too, perfectly on such occasions ; he was not so 
 obtrusive in his attentions as to give the girl any oppor- 
 tunity of sharply declining tfiem. He was scrupulously 
 polite — rather too formally so, people said, for an afi&anced 
 lover ; but he was always there en evidence^ and giving the 
 idea that he was in attendance on Miss Devereux. Lettie 
 chafed terribly under what she considered this persecution, 
 but she was powerless to put an end to it, unless she gave 
 up society altogether. Mr. Furzedon was far too cunning 
 to allow her to come to an explanation, and bore the rebuffs 
 he occasionally encountered with imperturbable serenity. 
 
 In the meantime Miss Devereux was also much troubled 
 in her mind at not hearing from Charlie. As the month of 
 June slipped by and brought no letter, she begun to fear 
 that he had committed some stiU greater folly than before ; 
 debts don’t pay themselves, and Charlie had no one to go 
 
226 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 to except his father or Mrs. Connop, and in either case 
 Lattice felt sure that she would have heard of it. What 
 was he doing ? He had told her himself that the settle- 
 ment of his liabilities admitted of little delay, and still, 
 oddly enough, she had heard nothing whatever of him. 
 He had promised to write ; and, bad correspondent though 
 he was, yet, upon this occasion, she did think he would 
 have kept his word. She had no idea that Charlie or Mr. 
 Slade had heard anything of this silly report about her 
 engagement. It had never crossed her mind that this 
 rumour had reached York. Charlie never mentioned that 
 he corresponded with Mrs. Kynaston ; nor had he seen fit 
 to tell her of that visit to town some few weeks back. 
 Lettie’s friendship with Mrs. Kynaston had rather cooled 
 of late, and, indeed, would have cooled considerably more 
 still if that lady would have allowed it to do so, but Mrs. 
 Kynaston had no idea of that. It did not suit her at all to 
 have any breach with the Devereuxes ; and when accused 
 of the mischief she had done by her foolish speaking — for 
 Lettie indignantly taxed her with having originated this 
 report concerning herself and Mr. Furzedon — she was full 
 of apologies for the mischief she had unwittingly done. 
 She denied emphatically that she was the founder of the 
 story ; she had heard it — well, she really could not say 
 where, how, or from whom ; and she admitted that she 
 had been indiscreet enough to mention it to two or three 
 people. Lettie knew that she had always told her that 
 she might be Mrs. Furzedon if she willed; she really 
 thought it would come about ; and that, though not an- 
 nounced, it was quite an open secret. She was sorry if 
 she had done wrong ; but she honestly believed that a 
 more harmless bit of news she had never passed on in soci- 
 ety ; and, more than that, she was only sorry to hear it 
 was not true. In short, Mrs. Kynaston would not quarrel, 
 
 ^ and therefore Lettie 'was compelled to some extent to con- 
 tinue the old friendship. 
 
 ' Mr. Furzedon had never made his appearance in Onslow 
 Gardens since his failure ; but one morning towards the 
 end of May Lettie received a note from him to say that 
 ke would call about three in the afternoon, and most 
 
FURZEDON RETURNS TO THE CHARGE. 22/ ‘ 
 
 earnestly entreating her to see him alone, if not otherwise 
 engaged. When Miss Devereux showed this letter to her 
 aunt, Mrs. Connop’s bristles were all on end. 
 
 “ It’s ridiculous, Lettie,” she said ; “ no wonder this 
 report still continues about you both. No wonder he still, 
 dangles about you as far as he dare. I never asked you 
 particulars ; but I certainly understand that you had said 
 ‘No’ to him decisively. Of course the man is coming 
 down here to ask you the same question over again. 
 Now do be resolute this time, and send him about his 
 business.” 
 
 The afternoon came. The drawing-room was duly given 
 up to Miss Devereux, and a very few minutes after three 
 Mr. Furzedon was announced. 
 
 “ I would not have intruded upon you,” he observed, 
 
 “ except in the interests of your family. Your brother 
 Charlie is a very dear friend of mine ; are you aware that 
 he is in most serious money difficulties ? ” 
 
 “ He told me as much,” replied Lettice, but won’t 
 you sit down ? ” 
 
 Furzedon took advantage of her invitation. ** You are 
 hardly aware,” he continued, “ I dare say, of what a very 
 serious business this really is. I have learnt it, quite 
 lately, and by accident : it seems he was not only heavily 
 embarrassed at Cambridge, but he has further lost a great 
 deal of money on this last Derby. He has borrowed the 
 money at short notice to pay his Derby losses, and this 
 money he will have to find almost immediately. He 
 further has the Cambridge liabilities hanging over his 
 head, and the whole thing. Miss Devereux, unless satis- 
 torily settled by somebody, involves the complete ruin of 
 his career. May I ask if he has confessed the state of 
 things to his father ? ” 
 
 “ Allow me to ask, Mr. Furzedon, if you are in my 
 brother’s confidence ? ” 
 
 “No; it would be better for him if I were; but of 
 course, as he has not thought proper to confide his 
 troubles to me, it is impossible for me to speak to him 
 about them.” 
 
 “ Still, Mr. Furzedon, I do not as yet see the object of 
 
‘ 228 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 this interview. You are not in my brother’s confidence, 
 and acknowledge you have no claim to interfere, why then 
 come down to discuss the subject with me ? ” 
 
 “ Because, as you know very well, it only rests with you 
 to give me the best of all possible rights to interfere ; I am 
 very fond of Charlie, and could wish nothing better than 
 to save him in this crisis. As his brother-in-law, I could 
 step in at once ; before a week was out he should be free 
 from all his embarrassments ; only give me the authority I 
 humbly sued for the other day ; be my wife. Miss Deve- 
 reux. You may not feel towards me now as I would wish, 
 but my devotion must conquer, and I am content to v/ait 
 for the love of which I shall be so proud.” 
 
 “ No, no ! ” she cried. “ I told you before that I cannot 
 do this thing. Thank you, Mr. Furzedon, for the compli- 
 ment you have paid me, but I cannot marry you.” 
 
 “ Then you refuse to save your brother from ruin at the 
 outset of his career,” rejoined Furzedon, slowly. 
 
 “You have no right to say so!” she exclaimed, vehe- 
 mently. “ It is himself has wrought his own undoing. 
 He can hardly expect me to save him from the conse- 
 quences of his own folly.” 
 
 “ That is exactly what I appeal to you to do, to save 
 him from the consequences of his own madness.” 
 
 Furzedon had indirectly been the original cause of 
 Charles Devereux’s difficulties : he it was who first per- 
 suaded him — Charlie — to go to Newmarket; and his ex- 
 ample, however unintentionally, it was that had led him 
 into betting so much more heavily than he could afford. 
 
 “ You have had your answer, sir,” replied Lettie, after 
 a pause. “ It is unfair, ungenerous, to press me further 
 on the subject.” 
 
 “I can do no more,” replied Furzedon, rising ; “but, 
 believe me, unless your father comes to the rescue, Charlie’s 
 soldiering days are numbered. He would have to fly the 
 country, for his commission money will not suffice to satisfy 
 his creditors.” 
 
 “ And no doubt his father will pay his debts for him,” 
 said Lettie, proudly, and with a confidence which she was 
 far from feeling; and then Miss Devereux made him a 
 
IN THE USURER'S FANGS. 229 
 
 rather ceremonious bend, as an intimation that their inte- 
 view was over. 
 
 “ I’m sorry you can’t think better of me. I would have 
 saved Charlie if I could, for his own sake, I should have 
 been doubly pleased to have done so for yours. Good-bye, 
 Miss Devereux. You have twice said ‘ No ’ to an honest 
 love ; I can only say now. May all happiness await 30U 1 ” 
 Very pretty words, but Lettice thought she detected a 
 malicious sneer in the tone. It might have been merely 
 her own fancy ; still it stung her pride, and made her feel 
 that this man had, after all, been merely bargaining for 
 her hand. 
 
 “Thank you,” she replied, bitterly; “whatever your 
 regard for Charlie may be I strongly advise you not to 
 let my brother know that you considered his sister’s hand 
 a fair equivalent for the liquidation of his debts.” 
 
 Furzedon muttered something in reply, to the effect that 
 she was not doing him justice, and then retired, rebuffed, 
 but by no means disheartened. He had not been unduly 
 sanguine, and, though there could be no doubt that he had 
 met this time with a most unqualified refusal, yet he had 
 no intention of abandoning his suit. 
 
 XXXII. — In the Usurer’s Fangs. 
 
 B ertie SLADE is back in York, and is strongly 
 impressed with that feeling which comes to all of us 
 when the world is not running quite to our liking — that ail 
 is vanity. He has no doubt now of Miss Devereux’s 
 engagement ; and yet, as a matter of fact, he has no more, 
 grounds to go upon than when he went up to London.^ 
 Mrs. Kynaston had told Charlie that it was so then, Mrs. 
 Kynaston has told him that it is so now ; analysed, the 
 whole story rests, as it has done from the first, on Mrs. Ky- 
 naston’s word. Bertie Slade is by nature a cool, resolute, 
 clear-headed man ; but it is seldom that those points stand 
 to one in a case of this kind ; and it was not until he found 
 
SADDLE AND SABRB. 
 
 himself forestalled, and that another had stolen his love, 
 that he became the least aware of how deeply his feelings 
 were involved. He took it as men of his type do ; he was, 
 perhaps, a little quieter, a little graver in manner, but 
 otherwise no one would have guessed that a great trouble 
 was upon him, and that he had lost, as he believed, a bigger 
 stake than any of the wild gamblers on Epsom Downs. 
 
 There are men who make plaint of their misfortunes on 
 love’s tangled pathways, who carry their hearts on their 
 sleeves, and call upon all those they come across to con- 
 dole with them upon Chloe’s fickleness ; men who carry 
 their tale of woe in their faces, but whose wounds are only 
 skin-deep ; a man who would weep in response to the 
 question of the American humourist — “ Has calico proved 
 deceitful ? ” But Bertie Slade was not of this kind ; he 
 might not show it, but, nevertheless, he felt the loss of 
 Lettice Devereux very bitterly. Then he wondered what 
 on earth Charlie meant to do ; he had got to like the boy 
 very much, and knew that he must be hovering on the 
 very brink of ruin. Young Devereux had said nothing to 
 him since that brief conversation at Dimmer’s. What did 
 he mean to do ? Surely it must be getting high time that 
 he consulted with his father about how his difficulties were 
 to be got over ; but no, he pointedly avoided all conversa- 
 tion with Slade on the subject, and to any inquiries about 
 whe» he was going to North Leach rejoined carelessly, 
 “ It didn’t matter for two or three weeks yet,” and Bertie 
 did not care to force his confidence. How or upon what 
 terms Charlie had raised money to settle his Epsom debts 
 Slade did not know ; but he felt convinced that if he did not 
 take counsel with his father there would be an explosion 
 before many weeks were over his head. 
 
 The fact was, that, with all his gay, careless, insouciant^ 
 manner, Charlie Devereux was by no means on a bed of 
 roses. He too knew the explosion must come, and he 
 knew further how very near it was at hand, but, like npany 
 men of his type, he shrank from all unpleasantness ; physi- 
 cal danger be would have faced without a moment’s hesi- 
 tation, but he shirked that mauvais quart d'heure with his 
 father, like the veriest craner does the brook in a stiff 
 
fN THE USURER^S FANGS. 
 
 231 
 
 country. He knew that it must be ; but that, he argued, 
 was no reason that it should be before it was imperative. 
 He rocked himself to sleep with the idea that he could not 
 well ask for leave again so soon, and that it would be time 
 enough for him to go to North Leach and make full coii' 
 fession when it was notified to him that his acceptances 
 had become due. 
 
 But if Charlie Devereux took things easy and dallied 
 with the golden moments it was far otherwise with Mr. 
 Furzedon. He anxiously counted every hour that lay 
 between him and the next step in his strange wooing, and 
 no time was lost when the moment arrived for setting in 
 motion the machinery of the law. Legal proceedings 
 against Charlie Devereux followed promptly on the curt 
 intimation that his bill was protested, followed indeed with 
 a promptitude that Charlie little dreamed of. He had 
 written in reply to the notice he had received to say that 
 he would make all arrangements to settle the affair in the 
 course of a few days, but Jordan & Co. paid scant atten- 
 tion to this epistle, but loosed the bloodhounds of the law 
 without more ado. 
 
 Devereux was lazily sauntering out of the ante-room 
 one afternoon, when he was encountered by one of his 
 special cronies, a precocious young gentleman, always 
 keenly awake to what was going on around him. 
 
 “Hold on, Charlie,” he exclaimed, “there are two as 
 suspicious-looking gents as ever I set eyes on anxiously 
 inquiring for you — they are hovering about your quarters, 
 and have got sheriff’s officers written in every line of their 
 ugly faces. Stay where you are, old man, if you’ve any 
 cause to be afraid of such cattle. Just fill your pocket 
 with cigars, and wait till I come back. I’ll have my pony 
 round at the back door in ten minutes. If you bucket him 
 into York, you’ll catch the evening train easy. Bertie 
 Slade will make it all right for you with the chief, and you 
 can just keep out of the way for a few days while matters 
 are arranged.” 
 
 He had often pictured to himself something of the kind 
 happening, but all the same the blow came rather like a 
 thunderclap at last. He had thought there would be yaore 
 
232 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 notice ; he had never dreamed of its being all so sudden ; 
 still, Charlie could think of nothing better than what his 
 young counsellor suggested ; he turned back into the ante- 
 room, rang the bell, refilled his cigar-case, sent down to 
 the messman for five pounds’ worth of change, and then 
 quietly awaited the upshot of events. 
 
 Young Sparshot was back within the time he mentioned. 
 
 There’s no mistake about it, Charlie,” he cried ; “ these 
 fellows are thirsting for blood. The pony will be round in 
 two minutes, and don’t spare him. You can leave him at 
 the Station Hotel. They’ll take care of him there for me. 
 Ah ! here he is ; now, old fellow, slip quietly round the 
 right wing of the barracks. Your quarters, which they 
 are watching, are on the left. If you’ve luck you’ll be 
 through the gate before they know you’ve gone. At all 
 events, it will be quite your own fault if they catch you. 
 I’ll see a portmanteau is sent after you to Limmer’s.” 
 
 Charlie made no reply, but wrung his friend’s hand and 
 jumped into the saddle. Five minutes more and a tri- 
 umphant ‘‘ Yoicks, gone away,” from Sparshot startled 
 the bailiff’s on their post, but Devereux was in a hand 
 gallop, and half-way to York before they realised that their 
 prey had escaped them. Arrived there, he found that he 
 had just ten minutes to spare, and, having taken his ticket, 
 thought it prudent to lurk as far as possible in the back- 
 ground ; but he need have been under no apprehension, 
 for nobody appeared likely to interfere with him. And at 
 the appointed time he steps into a first-class carriage, and is 
 whirled away to the metropolis to “ make arrangements.” 
 
 “ Making arrangements ” is a vague and comprehensive 
 phrase ever on the lips of gentlemen in difficulties ; it seems 
 very easy at the first blush to make arrangements, though 
 when it is sought to put such in practice it is disgusting to 
 find that these brilliant schemes are by no means so easy to 
 carry out. Charlie was in for it now, and at once showed 
 plenty of decision ; he only waited in London till the 
 arrival of his portmanteau, and then at once, retracing his 
 steps, went down to North Leach, to make full confession 
 to his father. 
 
 He was aware that his father could lose his temper ; he 
 
IN THE usurer's FANGS. 
 
 233 
 
 had seen him more than once give way to his wrath, but to 
 Charlie he had ever been a kind and indulgent father ; even 
 when the lad got into his first money scrape at Cambridge, 
 old Tom Devereux had made comparatively little fuss about 
 it. He had called him a “ domned young fule” — Tom’s 
 Lincolnshire dialect was apt to get of the broadest when 
 he was excited — but he supposed the young ’uns must have 
 their fling, and that they would kick over the traces a bit. 
 But this time, the old gentleman was very angry ; he vowed 
 he would put down no such sum as that to pay for a son’s 
 extravagance ; he had paid his debts at the University ; he 
 had only the other day found a lot of money for his outfit ; 
 and, if he had been idiot enough to get sixteen hundred 
 pounds in debt, well, he m«st just face the consequences. 
 Did the lad think that the brass was so easy to come by as 
 all that ? If it had been to start him in any business, well, 
 he- might have thought about it, but to pay for his reckless 
 extravagance, not if he knew it 1 Charlie had got himseli 
 into the scrape, and he must get himself out ashe best might. 
 
 To stay longer at North Leach Charlie felt was dan- 
 gerous. When his persecutors discovered that he had fled 
 from York his own home was one of the places they would 
 naturally expect him to head for. His father was obdurate ; 
 time might soften him, but that was exactly what Charlie 
 had not to spare. A line from Bertie Slade had told him 
 that the Colonel would be as liberal as he could to him in 
 the matter of leave. ‘‘ But remember, Charlie, that after 
 all only means two or three weeks * at the end of that time 
 you will have to give him a definite answer about what you 
 propose to do. I’m sure he will forward your views in 
 every respect, but I own I see nothing for you but to 
 exchange to India, and even that must depend on your 
 being able to make some sort of terms with Jordan & Co. 
 If you think I can be of any use, say so, and I will run up 
 to town and do all I can for you. I should think Jordan 
 & Co., when they find your father won’t pay, will meet you 
 in the matter of allowing you to exchange. You see they 
 have always some sort of hold upon you while you are in 
 the army, and if they take that view of the case, well, my 
 uncle, Bob Braddock, can be once more of use to you/’ 
 
m 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Charlie, who had betaken himself once more to town, 
 was only too delighted to accept Bertie’s offer ; he was 
 indeed mooning about in a state of the utmost dejection, 
 afraid to show in his usual haunts, and without the slightest 
 idea of what steps he had best take. He had been very 
 loath to appeal to his father, but for all that it had never 
 occurred to him that his father would not eventually come 
 to his assistance. Blown up, pitched into, and abused he 
 had expected to be, but he had fancied that three tem- 
 pestuous days at North Leach would have brought matters 
 to a satisfactory conclusion. It might perhaps have been 
 better had Lettice been there to plead for him ; but she 
 was still in London, and at the end of forty-eight hours, 
 despairing of making any impression on his father’s ob- 
 duracy, he had wended his way back to the metropolis. 
 
 Bertie Slade made his appearance in rapid response to 
 Charlie’s appeal, and a long conference took place between 
 the pair forthwith. 
 
 “ It’s a deuce of a mess, Charlie, and I’m afraid you’ll 
 have to tumble down to infantry,” remarked his mentor ; 
 “ in fact, to get on your feet again you will have to go on 
 your feet. I suppose there’s not a chance of the governor 
 melting ?” 
 
 “ Not the slightest,*^ replied young Devereux ; on the 
 contrary, just at present I think he’d be rather pleased to 
 hear I was arrested.” 
 
 “ Well,” said his more knowing comrade, I’m not quite 
 certain that would not be the very best way out of youi 
 difficulties ; the sternest of parents are wont to relent a 
 bit under such circumstances, and, if they are not in too 
 great a hurry, the most grasping of usurers will get a little 
 anxious to come to terms. The only thing is, that I’m 
 afraid we shouldn’t save the commission, and you don’t 
 want to cut soldiering, Charlie ?” 
 
 “ No,” returned young Devereux, warmly, “ I’m not one 
 of those fellows who can turn their hand to anything ; I 
 shall never do any good at anything else.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ve no time to lose,” said Bertie. “ I’ll just 
 walk down and have a talk with my uncle about it, and 
 hear what he has got to say ; and then we’ll trot down to 
 
IN THE USURER'S FANGS. 
 
 *ss 
 
 the agents, and tell them to look us out an exchange. It 
 will have to be to infantry, though, if we’re to make any 
 money out of it. There’s deuced little difference between 
 cavalry in India and cavalry at home, just now.” 
 
 “ Anything, so long as I have not to give up the service,” 
 rejoined Charlie; “ I leave all to you.” 
 
 So Bertie Slade walked down to the Thermopolium ; 
 and, after a little, contrived to come across his uncle. 
 
 “ Come to grief, already,” exclaimed Major Braddock, 
 w^hen he heard the story. “ Hang it ! I don’t like protegh 
 of mine going off the rails quite so quick as that. How- 
 ever, it seems, from what you tell me, the boy has done no 
 worse than make a born fool of himself ; and the greater 
 part of his folly was committed before he joined. I’m 
 sorry for him, Bertie ; for he struck me as a nice young 
 fellow. But you’re quite right ; there’s only one thing for 
 him, and that is, to exchange. He’ll get a bit of money to 
 go into a line regiment, and we must turn the screw on his 
 father, and induce him to pay up a bit for him. As for 
 the exchange part of it, you’ll probably not want my help. 
 If there is any hitch about it. I’ll do what I can. I’ll tell 
 you what more I’ll do. I’ll not only write myself, but I’ll 
 write to your chief, and get him also to pen a letter to old 
 Mr. Devereux, urging him to do what he can to save a 
 promising young fellow’ from having to give up a profession 
 he was made for. Tell the young one to keep up his 
 spirits, and let me know what you’ve done about the 
 exchange as soon as possible. In the meantime, take my 
 advice, get young Devereux across the water as soon as 
 may be. Let him wait at Boulogne while we arrange 
 matters for him.’' 
 
 As Bertie Slade said, when he got back, ‘‘ It was worth 
 goingto have a talk with Uncle Bob, Charlie. That last 
 tip of his was well worth having; we shall make much 
 better terms with Jordan & Co. when they find that you 
 are beyond their reach.” 
 
2^6 
 
 SADDLB AND SABRR 
 
 XXXIIL — Shere Ali the Dacoit. 
 
 I 
 
 A WIDE sandy plain, out of which huge boulder-rocks! 
 
 crop in various places, with a torrid afternoon sunj 
 still blazing fiercely down upon it — traversed, nevertheless,' 
 by a broad but well-used highway, not far from the side of 
 which a tope of palm-trees marks the presence of a spring. 
 In this little oasis of the sandy desert was a small encamp- 
 ment, some half-dozen tents in all. From a marquee, 
 standing a little apart from the others, emerges a thick-set, 
 powerful man, clothed in the gray kharkee uniform worn 
 by Her Majesty’s troops in India when they mean busi- 
 ness — that is to say, it is the dress more especially set 
 aside for campaigning — a pith helmet, around which a 
 puggaree of many folds is twisted, crowned the man’s head. 
 For a minute or two he gazed listlessly around, then 
 exclaimed, apparently for the edification of somebody 
 inside the tent — 
 
 ‘‘ Phew ! how stifling hot it is — here, get up, you lazy 
 young beggar, the sun is beginning to drop, and in another 
 hour the heat will become endurable. We may as well get 
 the horses and ride on to the edge of this plain. Thank 
 heavens ! we shall be across it to-morrow.” 
 
 By this time the other denizen of the marquee had made 
 his appearance. Like the first, he is also clothed in gray 
 kharkee, and as he joined his companion remarks, “ All 
 right, Hobson, I am good for a ride whenever you like ; 
 but I am bound to say this guerilla-hunting is the dullest 
 sport that I ever embarked in. The beggars have no idea 
 of fighting, and they have walked us pretty well off our 
 legs in our endeavours to bring them to book.” 
 
 “ You are quite right,” rejoined the other, a veteran cap- 
 tain of infantry, who had been marching and fighting all 
 over India for the last twenty years. “It is all nonsense 
 sending foot-soldiers after these chaps ; cavalry or mounted 
 infantry are the only people to tackle them ; but you make 
 a mistake in one thing, Devereux : you will find these 
 fellows will fight like the very devil if ever we do get 
 them into a comer; but, like all robbers that I hare 
 
SHERE ALI THE DACOIT. 237 
 
 ever heard of, they naturally don’t want to fight if they 
 can help it.” 
 
 “I suppose,” rejoined Charlie Devereux, “this is the 
 chronic state of India, and that our principal employment 
 is the suppression of dacoits, guerillas, or by whatever fancy 
 name these highway robbers think fit to honour them- 
 selves.” 
 
 “ Well,” rejoined Hobson, laughing, “ I won’t say but 
 what there is a little of it always going on, but generally 
 not more than the police are able to cope with. What 
 makes them very bad in these parts is this : It is some 
 few years now since the Mutiny, but these fellows are the 
 dregs of that revolt. You see, these are sepoys who were 
 forced to the jungle at that time ; their leaders are men 
 we should undoubtedly have hung if we could have laid 
 hands on them at the time,* and they no doubt believe we 
 shall do so still ; but you need never be afraid in India that 
 you won’t see fighting — we have always a little row going 
 on somewhere.” 
 
 “Oh! I’m not grumbling,” rejoined Charlie; “I only 
 regret that our friends in front are so confoundedly long in 
 the leg.” 
 
 “ Well,” rejoined Hobson, “ I have got one bit of good 
 news for you : In consequence of my strong representation 
 that we were marching our men to death, and are still 
 unable to come up with these fellows, we have made an 
 application to mount a company. If it is only granted, 
 I am to have the command and organizing of it ; and, on 
 the strength of your having been through the riding-school, 
 I will take you as one of my subalterns if you like.” 
 
 “ Only too much obliged to you,” rejoined Charlie. “ By 
 Jove 1 if we only get leave, we will deuced soon bring 
 these beggars to book then.” 
 
 “Yes,” rejoined Hobson, “it would take a very little 
 while to organise them; we have only got to pick out the fel- 
 lows who can ride a bit, and they would be fit to go any- 
 where in a month. We don’t want them drilled up to 
 Dragoon pattern. Ah I here come the ponies ; and now 
 for our afternoon canter.” 
 
 Some months have elapsed since Charlie Devereux 
 
SADDLE AND SABRl. 
 
 238 
 
 escaped from his native country. The term ‘‘escape” is 
 used advisedly, for escape it was in the most rigid sense of 
 the word. When Major Braddock took a thing in hand 
 he was wont to go into it very thoroughly. He had inter- 
 ested himself about young Devereux in the first instance 
 at Bertie’s request, but he took to the boy kindly on his 
 own account : a young gentleman who thus early displayed 
 such delicate perception of the art of dining was sure to 
 win his way to the Major’s heart. Major Braddock not only 
 interested himself very much about Charlie’s exchange, 
 but he also interposed with some sound advice regarding 
 his affairs. The Major was a man of the world, and had 
 more than once, in his soldiering days, intervened between 
 the usurer and his prey. 
 
 “You are very good, I dare say, Bertie; anybody, of 
 course, can manage the young idiot’s affairs better than 
 himself ; but I understand all this sort of thing better than 
 you do. The first thing is to get him out of the country ; 
 when he is safe in India, Jordan & Co. will be very glad to 
 come to terms ; of course they must have back the money 
 he actually borrowed, but we will cut down the percentage 
 pretty extensively. Where is he now ? ” 
 
 “ In hiding, out at Hampstead,” replied Bertie^ 
 
 “ Well, impress on his mind that he must keep very 
 close, and the sooner he is off the better. He ought to 
 be well on to his way to India before he appears in the 
 Gazette, The minute they see that, Jordan & Co. will 
 understand our little game, and they are safe to ferret him 
 out if he remains in this country.” 
 
 In good truth the pursuit of Charlie waxed very hot. 
 Furzedon was ceaseless in urging on his emissaries to effect 
 his arrest. He thought that, armed with this engine, he 
 might be able to carry his point with Lettie. She knew 
 that her brother was in sore trouble, but it would come 
 much more home to her if she learnt that he was actually 
 arrested. Surely, then, she would not hesitate to rescue 
 her favourite brother from the toils of his creditors. Half 
 her world at this minute believed that she was going to 
 marry him, Furzedon. Let her only promise to do so, and 
 he would tear up all these liabilities of Charlie’s at once. 
 
SHERE ALI THE DACOIT. 
 
 239 
 
 Surely, when she heard that he was actually imprisoned, 
 that his future as a soldier would be ruined unless he was 
 speedily released, she would not hesitate. But to put 
 extreme pressure upon her it was absolutely necessary that 
 he should lay Charlie Devereux by the heels, and so far 
 his emissaries had failed to trace him ever since his escape 
 from the barracks at York. Still Furzedon looked upon it 
 as a mere matter of time. Devereux’s friends apparently 
 had no intention of coming to his assistance. Not the 
 slightest overture had been made to Jordan & Co. on his 
 behalf from any one, and this was a thing which caused 
 Ralph Furzedon no little satisfaction. People, he knew, 
 did not much care about paying fifteen hundred pounds to 
 rescue a young scapegrace from the results of his own 
 imprudence. Still, if they chose, Furzedon knew very well 
 that either old Tom Devereux or Mrs. Connop could dis- 
 charge Charlie’s liabilities. But one thing Mr. Furzedon 
 had e-ever thought of, and that was his victim exchanging 
 to a regiment on foreign service. He was a man having 
 no knowledge of military matters, and that Charlie Deve- 
 reux might seek that way of extricating himself from his 
 difficulties never occurred to him, so that when he read 
 in the papers “ — th Rifles. Cornet Charles Devereux, 
 from the — th Hussars, to be Ensign, vice Rawlins, who 
 exchanges,” came upon him like a revelation. Like the 
 American philosopher, he was inclined to exclaim, “Can 
 such things be ? ” Like Shylock, he was tempted to cry, 
 “ Is this law ? ” but, pulling himself together, he remarked, 
 “ My dear Devereux, I am afraid your joining your new 
 regiment will depend upon what answer your charming 
 sister makes to my suit.” He had yet to discover, that, 
 when he read Charlie’s name in the Gazette, that young 
 gentleman was on board a P. and O. steamer, within a 
 very few hours’ sail of Malta. 
 
 , But when Furzedon realised that Devereux had escaped 
 his disappointment was very great. It was not that he 
 bore the slightest animosity to his old college chum — far 
 from it ; if he had been working ill to Charlie it was all in 
 furtherance of his cherished design upon Lettice Devereux. 
 He was a man of great tenacity of purpose^ not easily to 
 
240 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 be turned from the pursuit of any object he had set himself 
 to attain, and unscrupulous as to the means by which he 
 compassed his desire. If he had behaved to Charlie after 
 Ihe manner of his kind, it was solely with the view of bend- 
 ing Lettice to his will. He was not fond of losing money, 
 &ut it was not that. The disappointment was in the fact 
 that he found himself suddenly deprived of what he con- 
 sidered the strongest card in his hand — and he felt assured 
 that except under pressure of some kind Miss Devereux 
 would never consent to be his bride. It was curious that 
 when he first sought her hand he admired her, but was not 
 at all in love with her, and now, despite the knowledge 
 that he had not found favour in her sight, he was wild to 
 marry her. Such was the man’s indomitable will that he 
 did not even yet despair of bringing that about, but he wasi 
 conscious that a very powerful inducement was now witi^ 
 drawn from his grasp. 
 
 As for Charlie Devereux, it had been with a sad heart 
 that he had steamed out of Southampton Waters. He knew 
 that he ought to consider himself very fortunate to have 
 get out of his scrape so far as well as he had — to have 
 saved the commission was of course a great thing, and as 
 Bertie said to him at parting, ‘‘ When your affairs have 
 got square, well, you must manage to exchange back to 
 us,” and this comforted Charlie not a little, although he 
 knew that it might be by no means easy to accomplish. 
 But he was very sad for all that at leaving his old com- 
 rades and the regiment whose gay jacket he had donned 
 so proudly but a few months back. Well, he was young, 
 India was all new to him — and he must just make the best 
 of things. He found his new comrades a right good lot of 
 fellows, and frankly admitted thut they were so ; but still 
 his sympathies were all with the regiment he had left. A 
 soldier should always believe his own corps to be the very 
 best in the service, and however he may wander about the 
 Army List he usually retains a strong feeling for the regi- 
 ment in which he first bore the colours. 
 
 Then again, there was no doubt that Charlie found his 
 new corps engaged in a most monotonous and depressing 
 4uty ; for the suppression of these dacoits the corps was 
 
SHERE ALI THE BAGOIT. 
 
 241 
 
 broken up into small divisions. It was really arduous 
 police duty, from which there was no honour to be gained, 
 but of which there was a good deal of roughing it and weary 
 marching, and nothing is more irksome than the pursuit of 
 such light-footed marauders, as the troops engaged in 
 stamping out the embers of the great Mutiny found to their 
 sorrow. Charlie’s soldiering at home had been of the sun- 
 niest description. Quartered in one of the pleasantest 
 cities in England, with excellent hunting close by, and the 
 metropolis within an easy distance, his experiences had 
 been very different from the monotonous life he was now 
 living ; not that he cared about the hard work, but there 
 was a want of excitement about it all that he felt so terribly. 
 
 “ Never mind, young ’un,” said Hobson, when his sub- 
 altern indulged in a hearty growl at the dulness of their 
 present existence, “ it won’t last for ever ; these fellows 
 are either getting used up or dispersed, though our detach- 
 ment has never had the good fortune to come up with 
 them ; still, you know, we hunt them into other people’s 
 hands, and if you have any luck you will throw in for a 
 very pretty scrimmage yet before it is all over. From what 
 my scouts tell me, we have got a stag royal in front of us — 
 a fellow who was a man of mark in the Mutiny times — one 
 of Tantia Topee’s ablest lieutenants, and what is more, he 
 is at the head of a pretty strong band ; now that fellow 
 don’t want to fight, but you may depend upon it that who- 
 ever does come up with him will find him a stiff nut to 
 crack.” 
 
 “ By Jove, this is getting rather exciting,” said the other ; 
 “ of course we shall beat him.” 
 
 “ Oh yes,” rejoined Hobson, “ we always do, odds or no 
 odds ; all I mean is it won’t be a walk over.” 
 
 So much the better,” rejoined Charlie, who like all 
 young soldiers was just a little bloodthirsty ; “ I am keen 
 to see a little bit of fighting in earnest.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, if we chance to come up with Shere Ali he is 
 safe to indulge you ; he is fighting with a rope round his 
 neck ; for, though his sins of the Mutiny time might be 
 condoned, yet he has been guilty of too many outrages ia 
 the dacoit way since, to hope for pardon,” 
 
242 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 They rode on now for some time in silence, each im- 
 mersed in his own thoughts ; Hobson gravely considering 
 how he is to get the best of this ubiquitous robber, Shere 
 Ali, upon whose trail you had no sooner got than he 
 speedily vanished, to be heard of only again in some other 
 part of the district. Government had decreed that this 
 man should be stamped out like any other vermin, and the 
 ex-soubahdar most richly deserved it. Since he had proved 
 false to his salt he had shown all that tiger ferocity charac- 
 teristic of the Asiatic when he gets the upper hand. He 
 had been one of the most ruthless lieutenants of Tantia 
 Topee, and since he had become a leader of dacoits had 
 distinguished himself by the most unrelenting hostility to 
 the Feringee ; such Englishmen, and it was whispered 
 even Englishwomen, who had the misfortune to fall into 
 his hands had met with scant mercy. This man's hands, 
 it was known, were as deeply imbued in blood as Nana 
 Sahib’s, or any of the other savage chiefs who sprang to 
 the front at the time of the great Mutiny, He was quite 
 aware that there was small hope for him should he fall 
 into the hands of the English, and had vowed to wage a 
 war of implacable hostility against the v/hite men. 
 
 Charlie’s thoughts, on the contrary, reverted to the old 
 country, and the life he had left behind him. What a fool 
 he had been ! What a pleasant career was opened before 
 him but for those miserable gambling debts of his old 
 Cambridge days. He had not heard so often from home 
 as he had expected ; and, strangest thing of all, Lettie had 
 never said a word of her approaching marriage. Still, he 
 had also heard from Mrs. Kynaston, and that lady, though 
 alluding to it somewhat vaguely, still quite conveyed the 
 idea that the engagement yet existed ; and Charlie, who, 
 bear in mind, was wholly ignorant of the seamy side of 
 Ralph Furzedon’s life, saw no reason why, if Lettie fancied 
 him, it should not be. From Bertie Slade he had also 
 heard but briefly, though satisfactorily : ‘‘ In the end, 
 Charlie,” said Bertie, “ your affairs, I have no doubt, will 
 be thoroughly arranged ; but your father places implicit 
 reliance on my Uncle Bob. Now the Major, you know, is 
 g bit of a martineti and contends that a decent dose of 
 
SHERE ALI THE DACOIT. 
 
 243 
 
 purgatory should precede the killing of the fatted calf for 
 the prodigal, ‘ There is nothing like giving these young 
 sinners a tolerable spell of discomfort before you re-estab- 
 lish them ; leave the boy out there for a bit, Mr. Devereux, 
 to enjoy the sport of dacoit-hunting, out of which there is 
 not a laurel to be gathered, but which involves plenty of 
 work and hard knocks. Besides, it will make it all the 
 easier to arrange matters with Jordan & Co. If they think 
 you are ready to settle all your son’s liabilities right off 
 they will insist on a settlement in full. If, on the contrary, 
 they see we are in no hurry, they will abate their terms 
 considerably. The longer we wait the less they will take. 
 Let him stay out in India until he gets his lieutenancy, a 
 matter, probably, of two or three years ; and then, I think, 
 we shall find Jordan & Co. likely to listen to reason.’ It 
 is good sound advice, Charlie , and, though the chiveying 
 of robbers all over the country is not quite our idea of 
 active service, still I can fancy with what a will you’ll go 
 for them when you do catch them ” 
 
 By this time they had reached the edge of the plain, and 
 were now apparently entering a wooded country, at the 
 back of which lay the regular jungle. They were about to 
 dismount from their horses, when ‘‘ crack ” went three or 
 four rifles, and as many bullets whistled past their ears. 
 Instantly Hobson, wheeling his horse about with a cry, 
 “ Ride for it, Charlie,’^ set spurs to his horse. Young 
 Devereux followed his example ; though, as he did so, he 
 felt something like a hot iron just graze his arm. When 
 he had gone three or four hundred yards Hobson pulled 
 up his horse, and, turning round, deliberately surveyed the 
 spot from whence the fire had come. “ By Jove, Charlie,” 
 he exclaimed, “ we rode right into the wasps’ nest, and it 
 is deuced lucky for us, I fancy, that we rather surprised 
 them ; if they had only exercised their usual cunning, we 
 should have been either dead or prisoners by this.” “ See,” 
 replied Charlie, “there are about a dozen of the beggars 
 on the edge of the wood looking at us.” “ Yes,” replied 
 Hobson, “it is confoundedly unlucky that we should have 
 come upon them as we did ; they will know, of course, that 
 we have soldiers with us, and before we can get back to 
 
244 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRR. 
 
 camp, or even start, that fellow Shere Ali will have had up 
 sticks and decamped in some other direction. It is thun- 
 dering unlucky. We really had a chance to come up with 
 him to-night , but, hullo ! young man, they have barked 
 you.” “Just a graze,’ replied Charlie, “but nothing of 
 any consequence , but what will you do now ? ” “ Oh ! we 
 
 must just get back to camp as quick as we can, and then 
 start in pursuit of our friends ; my only hope is that, by 
 perpetually harrying them, we shall drive Shere Ali straight 
 into the hands of one of the other parties out in pursuit of 
 him and with that, Hobson put his horse into a gallop, 
 and the pair made their way back to camp as speedily as 
 might be. 
 
 XXXIV. — Doings on the Knavesmire. 
 
 W E must now go back a little bit in this history to see 
 how events have fared v/ith people in England. 
 Gilbert Slade had been very little in London since that 
 famous Derby, which had utterly broke Devereux. He 
 had run up for a week to help Charlie with his advice in 
 the arrangement of his affairs, and he had also come up 
 for a few days to see him off and bid him God-speed on 
 his departure for India, which had taken place about the 
 end of July; otherwise Gilbert Slade had seen nothing of 
 London that }^ear. He had called upon nobody during 
 those brief visits. He was up strictly on business, and 
 had no wish to advertise his presence in the metropolis. 
 He had never made his appearance in Onslow Gardens, 
 nor, sorely to the disappointment of Mrs. Kynaston, had 
 she ever set eyes upon him since that brief visit he paid 
 her in May. With every reason to believe in Miss Deve- 
 reux’s engagement with Furzedon, Bertie had thought it 
 useless to call on Mrs. Connop. Twice he had done so 
 during that Derby week, and upon each occasion had been 
 met with a “ not at home.” He had come to the conclu- 
 sion that this was a distinct intimation that they wished 
 to see no more pf him. While he was making up his mind| 
 

 DOINGS ON THE KNAVESMIRR 24S 
 
 another had stepped in and carried off the prize. If it had 
 only been any other than Furzedon he could have borne it 
 better, but that, even with all his money, Miss Devereux 
 could marry such a man as that was incomprehensible in 
 Bertie’s eyes ; but it was all over now, and for the pre- 
 sent, as men do under such circumstances, Gilbert Slade 
 thoroughly realised the hollowness of London society. 
 One morning in September, shortly before the Doncaster 
 races, Bertie received a letter from his uncle Norman, in 
 which he said, “ 1 shall be at Ycrk this week for a couple 
 of nights I shall stay at the ‘ Black Swan,’ and shall 
 throw myself upon your hospitality for dinner ; your regi- 
 ment has the reputation of doing that sort of thing rather 
 well, and I have no doubt you can make up a rubber for 
 me afterwards. An hotel coffee-room is rather a dull place 
 to put in on an evening alone.” 
 
 “Give Uncle Norman a dinner ! I should rather think 
 so,” muttered Bertie to himself on reading this note, “ I 
 would put him up for a whole week, and be only too glad 
 to do so ; but I am puzzled as to what brings him to York 
 just now. Uncle Norman at York during the races is 
 natural enough, but Uncle Norman at York the second 
 week in September is a mystery.” However, whatever 
 might be Norman Slade’s object in turning up in the great 
 city of the north, his nephew took care that there should 
 be a note for him at the “ Black Swan,” saying that he 
 should be only too glad to see him every day during his 
 stay ; and that if it would be the slightest convenience he 
 could put him up very comfortably to boot. In due course 
 Norman Slade turned up at the mess of the — th Hus- 
 sars, and was regarded with due reverence by the younger 
 members of that sporting regiment as a sort of incarnation 
 of all Turf knowledge, and a man who, if he chose, could 
 make wondrous revelations on the subject of races past, 
 present, and to come. When he chose, as we know, 
 Norman could make himself extremely pleasant, and upon 
 this occasion he won golden opinions. The Colonel, in 
 particular, was enchanted with his guest, who manifested 
 the greatest possible interest in the regiment. One thing 
 especially was he curious in, and that was, would he have 
 
SADBLE AND SABRB. 
 
 246 
 
 an opportunity of seeing the regiment out ? Did they nol 
 exercise on the Knavesmire in the early mornings at times ? 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” replied the Colonel, “but we are out so very 
 early — during this hot weather we begin at seven, and so 
 get our drill over before the heat of the day.” 
 
 Then,” rejoined Norman, “ if I am on the Knavesmire 
 sharp seven, I shall be in time to see your fellows exercise.” 
 In plenty of time, Mr Slade,” said the Colonel; 
 “ indeed, a quarter past will be quite time enough. If you 
 will allow me I will have a horse there all ready for you.” 
 
 “ You are very good,” rejoined Norman, “ but I have no 
 doubt Bertie can manage all that for me ” — to which 
 speech Bertie returned a somewhat bewildered assent. 
 
 “ Very good, then,” replied the Colonel; “and now, Mr. 
 Slade, if you won’t take any more wine, what do you say 
 to a rubber and a cigar ? ” 
 
 “ I should like it of all things,” replied the other, rising. 
 Norman Slade, indeed, had astonished Her Majesty’s — ^th 
 Hussars not a little. Although Bertie had given a hint to 
 the chief and some of his own immediate chums that his 
 uncle was not given to racing talk, they could not believe 
 that a man occupied in such a leading position of the Turf 
 should absolutely abstain from the slightest allusion to 
 that sport, either in the past or in the present ; while 
 Bertie on his part was just as much astonished at the 
 extraordinary interest his uncle had suddenly developed 
 in military matters. “ I can understand,” said Bertie, to 
 one of his chums, “ his not talking Turf — he never does — 
 I can understand his preferring a dinner with us and a 
 rubber afterwards to the solitude of the * Black Swan,’ but 
 his wanting to see the regiment out beats me altogether. 
 I never knew my uncle before take the faintest interest in 
 soldiering, and should have just as soon thought of asking 
 him to the regimental ball as to a regimental field-day.” 
 However, after a couple of partis at whist, Norman Slade 
 rose to take his departure, simply remarking, “ These 
 early hours in the morning. Colonel, require several earlier 
 hours at night,” and then, thanking his host for a very 
 pleasant evening, Norman Slade stepped into his fly and 
 we^ driven back to his hoteh 
 
DOINGS ON THE KNAVESMIRE. 
 
 247 
 
 The morning came, and seven o’clock saw the — th 
 Hussars filing through the gate that led on to the Knaves- 
 mire; that passed, they formed up, and at once commenced 
 the morning’s drill. Bertie’s servant with a horse was 
 left at the gate, with instructions to await the arrival of 
 Mr. Slade, who was to drive out from York in a fly. Soon 
 the Hussars were skirmishing, charging, and going through 
 all manner of evolutions, and more than once both the 
 Colonel’s and Bertie’s eyes wandered about in search of 
 their pleasant guest of the night before. But there was 
 not a sign of Norman Slade, and as they once more filed 
 through the gate — their morning’s work over — on their way 
 back to barracks, Bertie’s servant assured them that the 
 gentleman had never put in an appearance. It was incom- 
 prehensible. It seemed impossible that there could have 
 been any mistake — and yet what could have become of 
 Norman Slade ? He was, apparently, most anxious last 
 night to see the regiment out in the morning, and yet, 
 although a horse had been brought there expressly for 
 him, although he had been told the exact time and every- 
 thing else, he had never put in an appearance; neither the 
 Colonel nor Bertie could perceive how it was possible that 
 a mistake could have occurred. In the course of the 
 morning a note was brought to Bertie in which his uncle 
 said that he was unfortunately prevented coming out to 
 the Knavesmire that morning, and, more unlucky still, that 
 business required him to leave York that morning for the 
 north by the eleven train. “ Make my apologies to the 
 Colonel for not turning up this morning, and, if you can, 
 meet me at the station a little before the train starts.” It 
 was all very mysterious ; however, Bertie at once deter- 
 mined that there was only one thing to be done, and that 
 was to meet his uncle as suggested, and say good-bye to 
 him. 
 
 At a quarter before eleven Bertie Slade made his 
 appearance at the York station, where he found his uncle 
 already pacing up and down the platform. “ Why, what 
 on earth became of you. Uncle Norman, this morning ? we 
 were all on the look-out for you on the Knavesmire, and 
 never saw you,” Norman s eyes twinkled at his nephew’s 
 
BABBLE AN® SABllE. 
 
 248 
 
 Speech. No,” he said^ “ you were a little late for me. 1 
 had gone home before you came.** 
 
 What on earth do you mean ? ** ejaculated the other 
 speaker. “ I mean this,** said Norman. “ I had ascer- 
 tained that you fellows were given to early drills on the 
 Knavesmire, and I had the best of all possible reasons for 
 wishing to know exactly when you would be there.** 
 
 “ I don’t understand,** said Bertie. 
 
 “ Well, my dear boy, I tried Belisarim for the Leger this 
 mornings and I didn’t want the whole of Her Majesty’s 
 — th Hussars to be present at the trial — do you understand 
 BOW, Bertie ? ” Bertie’s answer was simply a roar of 
 laughter, and then he exclaimed, “Sold us all, by Jove ! I 
 hope it was satisfactory ? ” 
 
 “ I will say no more, but it is good enough for you to 
 start in a pony with me — they got at the man last time, 
 but I will take deuced good care that they don’t this.” 
 “Yes, I heard something about this in London, and, 
 what is more, happened to get at the names of two of the 
 principal winners over the defeat of Belisarius.*' 
 
 “ What are their names ? ” inquired Slade sharply. 
 “Major Kynaston and a Mr. Furzedon — both men I 
 have met and don’t think much of. Didn’t you hear a 
 rumour that Bill Smith was given a drugged glass of wine 
 in the Paddock after he got up ? ” 
 
 “ Hear the rumour !” exclaimed Norman Slade excitedly. 
 “ I saw it done, and, though I don’t know him, could swear 
 to the man that gave it. I know all about Kynaston ; he 
 is rather a shy card, but I don’t think that he will go the 
 length of hocussing a jockey ; besides, I will swear he was 
 not the man who handed the glass to Bill. As for Fur- 
 zedon, I never saw him — but here is my train — we must 
 have some more talk about this — mind you come to 
 Doncaster.” 
 
 “ All right, uncle, I will come up to see Belisarius have 
 another shy. Furzedon will most likely be there, and, if 
 so, I will point him out to you.” 
 
 “ Do,” said Norman, “ and if I can work the thing out I 
 wfl.1 bring the whole case before the Jockey Club. Once 
 more, good-bye/* and the two cordially shook hands. 
 
DOINGS ON THE KNAVESMIRE. 
 
 
 Norman Slade as he sped rapidly back to Bellaton Wold 
 pondered a good over what Bertie had just told him. True, 
 he had seen that fatal glass given to Bill Smith in the Pad- 
 dock at Epsom ; had he not interfered and insisted upon 
 drinking a glass out of the same bottle ? That wine 
 was not drugged, or he also must have felt the effects of it, 
 and, if Smith in accordance with his besetting weakness 
 had been unable to withstand the temptation of a glass too 
 much, then there would be no call for the interference of 
 the Jockey Club in the matter. An intemperate man had 
 failed to keep sober in order to ride his own horse in the 
 great race of the year, and there was no more to be said. 
 It was of more moment to him, Bill Smith, than any one, 
 and as for the misguided public who chose to pin their 
 faith on a drunken jockey trainer they had only themselves 
 to blame for their exceeding folly. 
 
 This time Norman Slade and Sir Ronald had determined 
 not to let the bibulous Bill out of their guardianship. They 
 knew from bitter experience that when once he had broken 
 out and given way to drink he got beyond all control, but 
 that if carefully watched over from the first it was possible 
 to restrain him. It was during that unlucky week when 
 neither Norman Slade nor Sir Ronald had been able to 
 keep guard over him that Bill Smith got so completely out 
 of hand before Epsom, but this time there had been no 
 relaxation of vigilance. Norman Slade had taken up his 
 abode at Bellaton immediately after Goodwood, and Sir 
 Ronald had also been a frequent visitor. Bill Smith had 
 never been left by himself for some weeks past, and, though 
 there was no such golden harvest to be reaped at Don- 
 caster as might have been gathered at Epsom, still both 
 Slade and the baronet had managed to back Belisarius for 
 the St. Leger to win themselves a nice stake, although the 
 racing fraternity knew, that, as far as Smith’s horse went, 
 the Derby running was not to be relied on, yet the general 
 public only knew that Belisarius had been well beaten in 
 the big race. Rumours of course there were that his rider 
 had been drunk, but then excuses were always made for a 
 prominent favourite when he failed to realise his expecta- 
 and so, though the bookmakers would ofier so 
 
SADDLE ANL SABRE, 
 
 250 
 
 price against the north-country horse, still, in consequence 
 of the public not fancying him, the odds against him were 
 larger than might have been expected. 
 
 Another thing too that still further expanded the price 
 at which Belisarius stood for the great Doncaster race was 
 due in part to accident, and in part to a piece of Turf 
 strategy suggested by Norman Slade. Fearing that the 
 horse-watchers who infested Bellaton Wold should get 
 knowledge of their proceedings, Slade had suggested that 
 the trial of Belisarius just previous to the St. Leger should 
 take place at York, and this manoeuvre had been attended 
 with complete success. Belisarius had been tried over the 
 Knavesmire, and acquitted himself to the entire satisfac- 
 tion of all connected with him, and, what is more, without 
 any of the few spectators being a bit the wiser, they indeed 
 being unaware of what horses they were ; whilst there 
 occurred another thing which Slade had not foreseen, 
 namely, that the horse-watchers of Bellaton Wold tele- 
 graphed to their employers that Belisarius had not left his 
 stable, which to the racing world meant that there was 
 something amiss with him. When a horse is stopped in 
 his work a week before a big engagement it is usually the 
 presage of his defeat, and consequently it was not surpris- 
 ing that the bookmakers extended their offers against Beli- 
 sarius. Flushed by the successful issue of the trial, Slade 
 and Sir Ronald took this opportunity of again backing the 
 horse on more favourable terms, the Baronet in particular 
 laying out a considerable sum of money to — as he said — 
 recoup him for his Epsom disappointment ; and a few 
 days later saw the little coterie on the Doncaster Town 
 Moor, trusting to see Belisarius redeem his laurels. 
 
 The Wednesday dedicated to the great race of the North 
 came at last — saw Bertie Slade and several of his brother 
 officers all bound for Doncaster. “ If you fellows want to 
 bet,” said Bertie, “ you had better wait till I have seen my 
 uncle, and, if he says Belisarius and his jockey are all 
 right, I think you will find him good enough to have a flutter 
 on!” and it was accordingly settled amongst that little 
 band of Hussars, that, if Norman Slade spoke favourably, 
 they should all indulge in a joint plunge upon that noble 
 
DOINGS ON THE KNAVESMIRB. 
 
 251 
 
 animal. Bertie, indeed, had been unable during the rail- 
 way journey to resist explaining the cause of his uncle Nor- 
 man’s sudden interest in cavalry manoeuvres. “ Couldn’t 
 make it out at all,” said Bertie ; “ his military knowledge 
 goes no further than just knowing a horse-soldier from an 
 infantry man ” — and then Bertie told his story — which 
 elicited roars of laughter. Arrived at the course, Bertie 
 made his way straight to the Paddock, where, as he rightly 
 conjectured, he found his uncle. 
 
 “ You will have a good run for your money to-day,” said 
 Norman, as they shook hands; “both horse and man are 
 thoroughly fit, and I think you will see that the Two 
 Thousand form was right, and not the Derby.” 
 
 “All right 1 Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute, but I 
 promised to let some of our fellows know if you fancied 
 Belisarius.” 
 
 “Tell them I do,” rejoined Norman curtly. 
 
 Bertie hurried across the Paddock, and told that little 
 syndicate that had been formed in the train that they 
 might commence operations at once ; that his uncle 
 thought Belisarius would about win ; that it was the 
 jockey not the horse who lost the race at Epsom, and that 
 this time Bill Smith was sober as the traditional judge. 
 As Bertie made his way back again he met Furzedon, who 
 would have fain stopped and spoken, but Bertie passed 
 him with a nonchalant nod, and rejoined his uncle. 
 
 “ I told you Furzedon would be at Doncaster. I have 
 just met him. I will point him out to you presently.” 
 
 “ Ah, do,” replied Norman Slade. “ I should like to 
 see him. Bill Smith still sticks to it that last glass of wine 
 he had was drugged. He admits he was the worse for 
 liquor, but declares that he was hocussed to boot. Now, I 
 know he was drunk and that the wine in that bottle was 
 not doctored, for I drank a glass of it. Of course it does 
 not follow that there was not something dropped into 
 Smith’s glass, but I cannot prove it.” 
 
 “ Surely some of the gang with the giver of that last 
 glass were privy to it if it was so ? ” 
 
 No doubt,” said Norman ; “ but I don’t know how to 
 get at them.” 
 
2$2 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Whenever a lot of scoundrels have been engaged in a 
 transaction of this sort one of them is safe to turn Queen’s 
 evidence,” said Bertie. ‘‘ The story is safe to come to 
 your ears before long * but here comes our man. That’s 
 Furzedon, Uncle Norman.” 
 
 ‘‘By Heavens, the very fellow; that’s the man who 
 handed Bill Smith the glass of wine in the Epsom pad- 
 dock ” 
 
 “ And was one of tbs largest winners over the defeat of 
 Belisarius,” commented Bertie. 
 
 XXXV.— The St. Leger. 
 
 S PURRED on by his hatred of Furzedon, Mr. Prance 
 has been untiring in his endeavours to unravel the 
 whole history of Belisarius’s defeat at Epsom ; or, to speak 
 more properly, of the drugging of Bill Smith, which led to 
 it. The story was current enough amongst the lower 
 order of professional racing-men ; and Prance had, with 
 some little trouble, got at the names of the very men who 
 had been employed to ply the reckless jockey with liquor. 
 It was not difficult to scrape an acquaintance with them, 
 and Prance speedily ascertained that they conceived them- 
 selves to have been by no means liberally dealt with by 
 Furzedon, and were quite willing to tell all they knew to 
 any one who would make it worth their while. This ques- 
 tion of money, however, put an insurmountable bar to 
 further investigation for the present, although Mr. Prance 
 anticipated no difficulty about procuring the requisite funds 
 when he should deem it expedient to launch his thunder- 
 bolt against the object of his detestation. He was quite 
 aware that he must get hold of somebody of standing and 
 position to bring forward such a charge as this. No one 
 would even listen to such a story from the lips of a name- 
 less vagrant like himself ; and he thought that whoever he 
 induced to take up the case would make no demur to find- 
 
THE ST. LEGER. 
 
 
 ing the necesfrary funds to unloose the tongues of his 
 witnesses. He had, in the first instance, fixed .upon Sir 
 Ronald Radcliffe as the instrument of his vengeance. He 
 knew that the Baronet had lost a considerable sum by the 
 overthrow of Belisarius ; and his status as a racing-man 
 made him a very fit person to take up the case. He had 
 found no difficulty in obtaining access to Sir Ronald ; for, 
 like Major Kynaston, that sporting gentleman was accus- 
 tomed to receive strange visitors ; but the interview had 
 proved by no means satisfactory. 
 
 “ I don’t believe your story,” rejoined the philosophical 
 and somewhat cynical Baronet. “You say you have 
 witnesses who demand to be paid before they will testify. 
 As Shakespeare hath it, ‘that makes against you;’ but, 
 secondly, we’ll suppose it all true, what the devil does it 
 all matter to me ? The race was lost, and our money has 
 been paid. Whether Bill Smith was drunk, or drugged, 
 or both, makes but little difference. Pooh ! my good 
 fellow. I’m not going to trouble myself with unearthing a 
 dead scandal like this. Your best chance is to try and 
 drive a bargain with a sporting newspaper ; it might suit 
 them to buy it all up as copy for the dead season, now fast 
 approaching. That will do, my good fellow I Your nar- 
 rative has no interest for me.” Mr. Prance walked down 
 the staircase of Sir Ronald’s house considerably depressed 
 in spirits. He had counted confidently on the Baronet at 
 once taking up the case hotly. He forgot that Sir Ronald 
 had no personal vengeance to gratify, and that the race 
 was, as he says, a thing of the irrevocable past, the which 
 there was no undoing; and now Mr. Prance was non- 
 plussed to whom to apply. He knew Norman Slade by 
 name; but Norman was a man who was seldom a pro- 
 minent figure on a racecourse. He passed most of his 
 time in the Paddock, and was given to looking on at a raco 
 from the trainers’ stand — inner precincts which impecunh 
 ous vagabonds like Prance are not privileged to enter. He 
 had had a tolerably successful year, and, in consequence, 
 was in possession of more money than usual ; still it was a 
 firm part of his scheme that his vengeance should be 
 parried out at some one eise’s expense ; and when Mr* 
 
254 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Prance arrived at Doncaster he by no means saw his way 
 {owards this. 
 
 He was wandering vaguely down the course, trying to 
 inake up his mind as to whether he should invest his stake 
 on Belisarius, whom two or three of his fraternity had 
 informed him would be sure to reverse the Epsom running. 
 More prudent, he thought to wait till he saw Bill Smith 
 iu the saddle and could assure himself that the jockey was 
 fit to ride, when suddenly his eye fell on a cardboard 
 ticket close to his feet. Mr. Prance at once pounced on 
 it — it was probably, he thought, an admission to the 
 Stand ; he was not far wrong, but instead of the Stand it 
 was a ticket for the Paddock. Most racing-men are more 
 or less superstitious, and Prance hailed this bit of luck as 
 a good augury, and without more ado made his way to 
 that privileged enclosure which of late years he had never 
 penetrated. It was the very thing he wanted. He would 
 doubtless see Bill Smith inside, as well as the horse, and 
 be able to judge for himself of their condition. Once in- 
 side the Paddock Prance had no difficulty in finding what 
 he wanted. Belisarius was walking up and down, and 
 round him were gathered a little knot, two of whom Prance 
 at once recognised. One was the famous north-country 
 jockey, and upon this occasion there could be no doubt 
 that he was in a very different state from that in which he 
 had appeared at Epsom ; the other was Sir Ronald Rad- 
 cliffe ; the remainder of the group were unknown to 
 Prance, though the keen, dark, saturnine features of Nor- 
 man Slade were not easy to forget by any one who had 
 once seen them. Mr. Prance’s mind was at once made up 
 upon one point, to wit, that Belisarius was worth backing 
 to-day ; but, as the saddling-bell had not yet rung, there 
 was plenty of time for that, and Mr. Prance took advan- 
 tage of his good fortune to inquire the names of such nota- 
 bilities as were unknown to him by sight ; most especially 
 anxious, for example, to know all those in that group of 
 which Bill Smith was the centre. There were plenty of 
 people there who could tell him who Norman Slade was, 
 and Prance became at once deeply interested in that 
 gentleman. Could this be the man he was looking for ? 
 
THE ST. LEGER. 
 
 2SS 
 
 “It is 2 stern, unforgiving face,’* thought Prance ; a man 
 little likely to forgive those who had done aught to his 
 detriment.” He never recollected having seen him before, 
 
 ' but he had heard him spoken of ; he knew that he was a 
 great supporter of Bill Smith, and he further knew that he 
 was a loser over the Derby. Perhaps he could induce 
 this Mr. Slade to take up the case against Furzedon. At 
 all events he must try, for he could think of no one else 
 now that Sir Ronald had failed him. However, it would 
 be time enough to think of all this after the race. If there 
 should be no opportunity, as was most likely, of telling 
 Mr. Slade the whole story at Doncaster, he would doubt- 
 less be enabled to obtain access to him in London. At 
 all events, he would find out where he lived, and whether 
 he was willing to help him wreak his vengeance on Furze- 
 don. Mr. Prance was a man of decision ; he dashed out 
 of the Paddock, and, making his way to the outer ring, at 
 once made his investment on Belisarius, and then sought 
 some coign of vantage from which to see the race. The 
 St. Leger of that year only proved to the backers of Beli- 
 sarius how their money had been thrown away at Epsom, 
 and the story of the race may be told in very few words. 
 Bill Smith on his favourite battle-ground, and upon this 
 occasion strictly sober, occupied a prominent position all 
 the way up to the Red House turn, and no sooner was he 
 round that than he took his horse to the front, was never 
 again reached, and landed Belisarius a winner by good 
 three lengths. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” exclaimed Mr. Prance, as he jumped off the 
 rough stand, for the occupation of a foot-hold on which he 
 had been mulcted of the sum of one shilling, “ If that 
 don’t make Sir Ronald and Mr. Slade feel heavenly, I 
 don’t know what will. When they think of all the money 
 that ought to have gone into their pockets last May, and 
 remember that it went out instead, they must surely feel 
 rather wolfish about it, and be hungry to punish the man 
 who hocussed their jockey. Mr. Slade, at all events, don’t 
 look one of the forgiving sort.” 
 
 No sooner had he been paid his winnings than Prance 
 wee more repaired to the Paddock with the object ^ 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 256 
 
 getting speech with Norman Slade, which he thought, the 
 big race being satisfactorily got through with, would be 
 now easy to accomplish. The racecourse, as Mr. Punch 
 once observed of the hunting field, “ brings people together 
 who would not otherwise meety'" and certainly affords op- 
 portunity to such men as Prance to address their betters 
 if they can only come across them, aud this the fortunate 
 finding of the Paddock ticket had placed within that 
 worthy’s power. Bill Smith’s triumph had been received 
 wUk very moderate cheering, and not with that “ York, 
 shire roar ” with which the big county was won’t to pro- 
 claim the victory of the North over the South country 
 horses. Too many of the Tykes had suffered over the 
 Epsom business to feel much enthusiasm about the success 
 of Belisarius on the Town Moor, and Bill Smith was not 
 a little nettled at missing the ovation which usually greeted 
 his winning the St. Leger. Even the impassive Sir Ronald 
 could not suppress a groan as he thought of that lost 
 opportunity on Epsom Downs. 
 
 The baronet, however, having congratulated Bill Smith 
 on his victory, speedily returned to the Grand Stand to 
 chat over the race with his friends, and speculate on the 
 following events, and this gave Prance the opening he 
 wanted. He did not wish to speak before Sir Ronald, 
 but no sooner was the baronet’s back turned than he 
 walked up to Norman, and touching his hat said, “ Can I 
 have a word with you, Mr. Slade ? ” 
 
 Accustomed to be addressed on a racecourse not unfre- 
 quently by persons of whom he had no knowledge, Nor- 
 man replied curtly, “ All right, what is it ? ” 
 
 “ You saw what won to-day, sir. You know what ought 
 to have won at Epsom.” 
 
 ‘‘ If you have merely to tell me that Belisarius ought to 
 have won the Derby, but didn’t, because his jockey was 
 drunk, you are a little behind-hand with a well-knowti 
 story. All the world’s known that for some time.” 
 
 “Bill Smith was more than drunk, sir ; he was drugged. 
 You know the man that did it, for I’m told you saw it 
 done.” 
 
 I give that last glass of wine in the Padd^oek 
 
THE ST. LEGER. 
 
 257 
 
 — if you mean that. I suspected it might be so, and I 
 insisted on having a glass out of the same bottle. I know 
 it was not changed, for I never took my eye off it — that 
 wine was not drugged ! 
 
 “ Not the wine you drank, sir, but the wine Bill Smith 
 drank was ! They didn’t change the bottle, but they did 
 the glass,” 
 
 ‘‘ You know that ? You can prove what you assert ? ” 
 
 “ 1 can prove it, sir,” replied Prance. “ This Furzedon 
 was one of the heaviest layers against Belisarius for the 
 Derby. I can bring you th^ men he employed to make 
 Smith drunk, but at the last moment his nerve failed him, 
 and he was afraid that would not be sufficient to prevent 
 the horse winning. He ordered them to drug him besides, 
 but they were afraid to do that, and so at the last moment 
 he was compelled to do the hocussing himself. Of course 
 they were with him, and helped him, and saw the phial 
 emptied into the glass. Surely, sir, such a robbery as this 
 ought to be exposed ! ” 
 
 A queer smile flitted around Slade’s mouth as he replied, 
 “ And these friends of yours would be willing to give evi- 
 dence confirmatory of all this, I presume ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly they would, if they thought there was any 
 probability of the case being taken up ; but they are poor 
 men, Mr. Slade.” 
 
 “ Ah ! and don’t speak unless they are paid for it,” inter- 
 rupted Norman, sharply. “ Now, sir! first of all, what’s 
 your name ? and secondly, why do you come to me at this 
 time of day ? ” 
 
 To begin with, my name is Prance, and secondly, it 
 took me a long time to collect the proofs of what I only 
 suspected.” 
 
 “ Good 1 ” rejoined Slade, “ it looks a little to me as if 
 you and your confederates, having made all that you pos- 
 sibly could out of a successful conspiracy, are now exceed- 
 ingly anxious to put the coping-stone on your villany by 
 selling your employer.” 
 
 “ I give you my word, Mr. Slade, that I had nothing to 
 do with it, and knew nothing about what was being done 
 till after the race,” rejoined Prance, earnestly. 
 
2$S 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ‘‘Then what the deuce is your object in coming to me ? ” 
 said Norman, sharply. 
 
 For a second Prance hesitated, then, as an almost 
 demoniacal expression spread across his countenance, he 
 hissed between his teeth : 
 
 “ I hate Furzedon ! 
 
 Slade looked at him for a moment, and then exclaimed, 
 almost involuntarily, “ By heaven, he is speaking the truth 
 now.” 
 
 “ Yes 1 ” continued Prance, in a voice hoarse with pas- 
 sion, “ you gentlemen think that we poor devils care for 
 nothing but money ; but there’s one thing that comes far 
 before money to most men — revenge ! Furzedon has 
 ruined me 1 struck me ! desolated my home ! and for years 
 I have lived only to be revenged upon him ! ” 
 
 “That will do for the present,” replied Slade, quietly; 
 “ if you can prove what you say, and I take this case up, 
 I think, socially speaking, you will about attain your end.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Prance, “ and I have a good deal more 
 to tell you about him than that. He passes in the world 
 as a wealthy, well-to-do gentleman ; in reality he is only a 
 money-lender.” 
 
 “ Give me your address,” rejoined Slade, and as he 
 spoke, Norman took his betting-book from his pocket, and 
 carefully noted down Mr. Prance’s town residence. “ I 
 have no time to go into the matter here, but I will write to 
 you in London, and if I am satisfied with the proofs you 
 produce, and that your story is bona fide, I think I can at 
 all events promise you that Mr. Furzedon will be warned 
 off the Turf, and be no longer received in decent society.” 
 
 “ Thank you, sir,” and touching his hat, Mr. Prance 
 accepted his dismissal, and with an exultant heart vanished 
 into the crowd. 
 
 As for Norman Slade he paced up and down in the Pad- 
 dock, revolving the whole story in his mind for some 
 minutes. He had vowed if he could get proof of this thing 
 to follow up the matter to its bitter end, and here was 
 proof ready to his hand, if Prance’s tale was to be trusted. 
 This scoundrel Furzedon, moreover, was figuring in society, 
 and had actually forced an acquaintar^ce upon Bertie 
 
SINISTER RUMOURS. 
 
 259 
 
 Slade, his — Norman’s — nephew. Now it was high time 
 the disguise was torn off this impostor. This fraudulent 
 money-lender should be shown up in his true colours, and, 
 if he was beyond the reach of the ordinary law, he was still 
 Dpen to the judgment of the Turf Senate, and if when the 
 facts were brought before them they should think fit to 
 pass sentence, Mr. Furzedon would find that there were 
 malpractices in racing that could not be committed with 
 mpunity. 
 
 HARLIE’S exile is a source of sore trouble to Lettie 
 
 Devereux, and of infinite mortification to her aunt. 
 
 They both, perhaps, unduly exulted at that young scape- 
 grace’s appointment to the — th Hussars. They had been 
 so proud of their young Dragoon I and now that was all 
 over I He was in a far country, engaged in what was 
 apparently little better than police-work. Mrs. Connop, 
 indeed, had been so melted by what she called the misfor- 
 tunes of her favourite nephew that she had been ready to 
 contribute very handsomely towards extricating him from 
 his difficulties ; if her brother would furnish two-thirds of 
 the requisite money, she would find the remainder ; but old 
 Tom Devereux, taking counsel from shrewd and worldly 
 Major Braddock, was obstinate. Charlie had made his 
 own bed, and must lie on it. Major Braddock was by 
 no means averse to welcoming a return of the prodigal in 
 due season ; but what he did object to was a premature 
 mincing of veal in his behalf. 
 
 “ No such schoolmaster as experience ! ” quoth the 
 Major. Let him feel thoroughly for a time the change 
 of position his folly has cost him. Let him discover what 
 slow work chevying dacoits is compared to a gallop with 
 the York and Ainsty ! and, by the Lord I sir, let him know 
 <he difference of living on his rations and dinner at the 
 |mess of his old regiment.” 
 
 So Lettie had to make up her mind that a long time 
 
 XXXVI. — Sinister Rumours. 
 
SADDLB AND SABR& 
 
 tea 
 
 would pass before she should see her favourite brothei 
 again. That he was dissatisfied with his lot she felt certain, 
 although there was not the slightest complaint in any one 
 of his letters ; but there was a want of “ go ** in his corre- 
 spondence very different from the bright, cheery epistles of 
 yore ; very different from the letters he had written from 
 the University, or those he penned when he first joined his 
 regiment at York. Once only had he been betrayed into 
 impatience of his present life, and that was when he said 
 that he only wished that he had better work to do than 
 that he had been employed in.” Another thing, too, which 
 considerably discomposed Miss Devereux was that Gilbert 
 Slade seemed to have totally disappeared from her ken. 
 She not only never met him, she never even heard of him 
 now. She was back again at North Leach, and, indeed, had 
 been for some time ; but how different it all was from the 
 winter before 1 when Charlie was looking forward to join- 
 ing his regiment at York, and bringing back Bertie Slade 
 with him to wind up the season by a last fortnight with 
 the Brocklesby ; and then Lettie thought the world was 
 getting very dull, as we all do when things don’t run 
 quite in accordance with our desires, and finally resolved 
 that she wo«ld ride across and see Kate Kynaston, for the 
 Kynastons had once more taken The Firs for the hunting 
 season ; and, though there had been a relaxing of that great 
 friendship which had suddenly sprung up between that 
 lady and herself, still, strange to say, a common trouble 
 had once more drawn them together. Mrs. Kynaston had 
 schemed and plotted successfully — she had succeeded in 
 detaching Gilbert Slade altogether from Miss Devereux 
 but she had also unluckily lost touch of him herself. She 
 had failed to realise that both she and Lettie owed in great 
 measure their intimacy with Bertie Slade chiefly to his 
 being a brother officer of Charlie’s, and that now that 
 youthful cornet had disappeared from the scene they heard 
 no more of Gilbert’s movements. B^h ladies thought — 
 and Lettie with good reason — that for her own sake 
 
 would have proved sufficiently attractive to ensure seeing 
 and hearing a good deal of him, while Kate Kynaston’s 
 vanity enabled her to take a similar view of the situation. 
 
SINISTER RUMOURS. 
 
 261 
 
 Miss Devereux wondered whether the rumour that she wa? 
 engaged to be married to Mr. Furzedon had anything to 
 say to Gilbert Slade’s persistent avoidance of her — avoid- 
 ance was perhaps hardly the right term,- for he had 
 certainly tried twice to see her during the Derby week. 
 Still, he could have managed to meet her easily enough had 
 he wished it ; he could have found plenty of excuses for 
 writing to her ; but no, from the week he had paid those 
 two bootless visits to Onslow Gardens Gilbert Slade had 
 given no sign of his very existence. She knew how per- 
 sistently the story of her engagement had been circulated ; 
 of the shameful persecution — for it amounted to that — she 
 had been subjected to by Mr. Furzedon. Was it not 
 possible this infamous falsehood had been brought design- 
 edly to Gilbert Slade’s ears, and would not that account 
 for his never coming near her ? 
 
 She might have been more disposed to accept this theory 
 but for Mrs. Kynaston, who was continually impressing 
 upon her that in affairs of the heart soldiers were not to be 
 put faith in. A great propounder of the doctrine that “ he 
 loves and rides away” was Mrs. Kynaston, but then, just 
 now, she had a purpose to serve, and she was relentless in 
 her determination to crush out any feeling for Gilbert 
 Slade that might be lurking in Miss Devereux’s bosom. 
 True, Mrs. Kynaston was not forwarding her own flirta- 
 tion in any way. And, what was more, although that lady 
 had not in the least abated her caprice for Gilbert Slade, 
 she was utterly nonplussed as regards further pursuit of it. 
 It was not likely that the fiction of Lettie’s engagement to 
 Mr. Furzedon could be much longer kept up; and Mrs. 
 Kynaston had only the other day been compelled to write 
 that gentleman a stinging rebuke for what she denominated 
 his ill-advised audacity. Persistent in his determination 
 to marry Miss Devereux, Furzedon had actually written 
 to her father, and volunteered a visit to North Leach ; but, 
 upon hearing this, Lettie blazed out indignantly — 
 
 “ It can’t be, father ! it mustn't be 1 He has asked me to 
 marry him, and he won’t take ‘ No ’ for an answer. Already 
 he has spread abroad the report that I am engaged to him. 
 His proposing this visit is all a part of his It 
 
262 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 would give an air of truth to the rumour. If he were a 
 gentleman he would cease from persecuting me. My ‘ No I * 
 was not only said clearly and distinctly to start with, but 
 has been quite as decisively repeated.” 
 
 ‘‘ Say no more, Lettie ! If he is distasteful to you, my 
 girl, he sha’n’t come to North Leach. But as he is an old 
 friend of Charlie we must make some civil excuse.” 
 
 Although in the first instance Mrs. Kynaston had been 
 the suggester and promoter of Furzedon’s suit, yet now 
 that she had attained her end she had become a very half- 
 hearted ally. She began to see now that nothing was 
 likely to shake Lettie’s determination ; and, though such 
 a marriage would have suited her very well, she was 
 getting very doubtful of its ever being brought about. Mrs. 
 Kynaston had always a shrewd eye to the future. She 
 liked wealthy friends, and Mr. and Mrs. Furzedon would 
 have been always sure to have a pleasant house where &he 
 could claim a welcome. She had seen so many young 
 women say ‘‘ No ” in the first instance to wealthy wooers, 
 and afterwards change their minds, that she thought it 
 might be so with Miss Devereux ; but she thought so no 
 longer, and considered that any such decided step on Mr. 
 Furzedon’s part — as volunteering himself to North Leach 
 — might rend aside that flimsy fiction of his engagement, 
 which it, for the present, suited Mrs. Kynaston to maintain. 
 
 She had told Mr. Furzedon that perseverance is all very 
 well, but that it must be accompanied by tact. Given 
 that, as long as a woman is unwed no man need despair of 
 winning her for a wife; and then Mrs. K}maston, her 
 platitudes got done with, relieved her own disappointment 
 by administering as many pm-pricks to the rather pachy- 
 dermatous Furzedon as she could compass. 
 
 In pursuance of her resolution Miss Devereux cantered 
 over to The Firs, and found Kate Kynaston both at home 
 and a prey to that unmitigated boredom which is apt 
 to steal over sparsely-populated country neighbourhoods 
 with the last days of the hunting season ; when the hot 
 sun and bleak nor’-easter have so dried up the ground that 
 there is no scent ; when those on one side the cover are 
 shivering while those on the other are mopping the per* 
 
SINISTER RUMOURS. 
 
 203 
 
 spiration from their brows, and a general feeling obtains 
 that sylvan scenes and amusements are played out for the 
 present. Mrs. Kynaston welcomed her visitor warmly. 
 She was in that state of ennui and depression that makes 
 even the appearance of one’s pet antipathy a subject of 
 rejoicing, so that she was most unfeignedly glad to see 
 Lettie. 
 
 “ How good of you to come I ” she exclaimed. “ I was 
 just wondering what I shauld do with myself. The coun- 
 try has grown so tristCt and I am positively pining for 
 London.” 
 
 “ I don’t think you have much cause for complaint,” 
 rejoined Miss Devereux, “ not but what I quite agree with 
 you that it is a dull time with us ; still, two or three weeks 
 will see you out of it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes ; and I believe it’s nothing but sheer perversity on 
 Dick’s part that makes us stay even that long. He insists 
 upon staying for Lincoln races ; declares he’s going to 
 win a hunters’ flat race there. What a jolly party we were 
 there two years ago. 
 
 “Yes,” said Lettie; “poor Charlie, how mortified he 
 was at being — as he said — gammoned out of the race by 
 the Walkers. It was a bitter pill for him having to leave 
 the — th Hussars ; but I verily believe having to part with 
 Pole Star caused him as much grief as anything.” 
 
 “ Yes, I dare say. It’s sad to think of, my dear, but I 
 fancy the laureate knew what he was writing about. It is 
 rather humiliating — 
 
 ‘ Something nearer than his dog, 
 
 Not so <Uar, quite, as his horse,’ 
 
 But the noble animal does come first, I’m afraid, with these 
 hard riders. When Mrs. Morrison got such a nasty fall 
 last year they say her husband’s first anxious inquiry was, 
 ‘ Is the mare much hurt ? ’ ” 
 
 “ I won’t have Charlie compared to a brute like Mr. 
 Morrison,” said Lettie, laughing ; “ besides, that couple 
 are very well matched. If he had come to grief I can quite 
 fancy her making the like inquiry. Shall you go to Lin- 
 coln with the Major ? ” 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 264 
 
 ‘No; it’s no fun by myself in that way. I wish you 
 
 would come.'* 
 
 “ WeVe none of us any heart for it this year," replied 
 Lettie. “ Mother is quite convinced that she will never 
 see Charlie again, and he was her favourite, you know ; 
 and even father, I believe, is sorry now that he didn’t pay 
 all that money, sooner than Charlie should have had to 
 exchange,” 
 
 “ The old story,” said Mrs. Kynaston, meditatively. 
 “ Fathers are so fond of playing the relentless parent to 
 start with, forgetting they are usually unfitted for the role ; 
 besides, ‘the cutting off with a shilling’ is quite out of 
 fashion now-a-days. Do you ever hear anything of Mr. 
 Slade, or any of Charlie’s old friends ? ” 
 
 “ I know nothing of Mr. Slade, and haven’t seen him for 
 more than a year. Of Mr. Furzedon — who, I suppose, 
 must be included in that list — I have seen a good deal too 
 much, though not lately. I have come to detest that man.” 
 “ Which is hard,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, “ considering 
 how he has striven to produce an opposite result. No,” 
 she continued, as Miss Devereux made an impatient ges- 
 ture of dissent, “ I am going to advocate his cause no 
 longer; but what you call his persecution many women 
 would regard as a proof of the sincerity of his love. 
 There’s much truth in the old adage, and ‘faint heart never 
 did win fair lady.’ I suppose there are women who from 
 very weariness yield at last to man’s pertinacity.” 
 
 “ Poor weak creatures I But I am made of sterner stuff. 
 I don’t like Mr. Furzedon, and I never shall. And you 
 may call it what you like, but his still pursuing me with 
 his addresses I regard as persecution.” 
 
 “ Well it's a persecution that most girls look upon with 
 a lenient eye,” retorted Mrs. Kynaston, who, although 
 declaring that she could no longer advocate Furzedon ’s 
 cause, and who in her heart was quite convinced that it 
 was hopeless, still never could resist giving him such sup- 
 port as came to her hand. 
 
 “ Do you know,” said Lettie, “ that there has rather a 
 curious thing happened about Mr. Furzedon lately.” 
 
 replied her companion, “ and if anything of im- 
 
SINISTER RUMOURS, 26 $ 
 
 portance had happened to him, I fancy Dick would have 
 heard of it.” 
 
 “ I had a letter the other day from my aunt, Mrs. Con- 
 nop, which has mystified me a good deal. She says she 
 had a few lines from Mr Slade, who tells her that Mr. 
 Furzedon has got involved in a very serious scrape; 
 whether he has told her of what nature or not I don’t 
 know, she at all events does not tell me, but as far as I can 
 make out, the gist of Mr. Slade’s letter appears to be that 
 the less we see of Mr. Furzedon the better.” 
 
 “You mean to say, Lettie,” said Mrs. Kynaston, eagerly, 
 “ that he has done something which would oblige his 
 acquaintance dropping him, because Mr. Slade’s letter 
 means that or nothing.” 
 
 “ It is putting things rather strongly perhaps, but that 
 is pretty much what I make out of Aunt Sarah’s letter. 
 Mr. Slade no doubt imagines that Mr. Furzedon is a con- 
 stant visitor in Onslow Gardens.” 
 
 “ Instead of being merely anxious to be one,” interrupted 
 Mrs, Kynaston. “ Well, never mind. I’ll not allude to all 
 that, but you do surprise me. Mr. Furzedon is such a 
 shrewd self-possessed person I should have thought him 
 the last man likely to get into an awkward scrape. By the 
 way, Mr. Slade might have vouchsafed me a hint as well 
 as Mrs. Connop. Mr. Furzedon is always at our house 
 when we’re in town. He and Dick are partners in racing 
 matters. It can’t be anything of that sort, surely,” con- 
 tinued Mrs. Kynaston, thoughtfully. 
 
 “ I know no more than I have told you,” replied Lettie, 
 “ but I don’t quite share your opinion of Mr. Furzedon, 
 I’ll quite admit that he is too shrewd and sensible to get 
 into what’s called a scrape, but I can quite imagine him 
 capable in pursuit of his own schemes of what the world 
 would call a crime,” and Lettie thought bitterly of how 
 Furzedon had proposed to purchase her hand by the pay- 
 ment of her brother’s debts. 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston eyed her visitor keenly. The same 
 thought had once or twice occurred to herself; she was too 
 shrewd a judge of human nature not to have detected long 
 ago that Furzedon was a very unscrupulous man ; she had 
 
265 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to her with 
 the reflection that after all this was an acquaintance of her 
 husband. She had been told to be civil to him, and that 
 Dick Kynaston was quite competent to take care of himself ; 
 she felt very curious to know what this cloud was that was 
 hanging over Furzedon ; but it was quite evident that 
 Lettie knew no more whatever Mrs. Connop might do. 
 In the meantime it was possible that the Major would be 
 able to solve the mystery when she should ask him about it. 
 
 “ I will ring for my horse now, if you will allow me,** said 
 Miss Devereux, “ and I will let you know whenever the 
 Furzedon mystery clears up; for the present, good-bye! 
 and remember, you have only two or three weeks* dulness 
 before you, while, as for poor me, I am planted here till it 
 pleases Aunt Sarah to send for me I ** and with a shrug of 
 her shoulders, indicative of much disgust, Lettie Devereux 
 took her departure. 
 
 XXXVII. — Major Kynaston’s Visitor. 
 
 HEN Major Kynaston came home that evening, his 
 
 wife at once informed him of what Miss Devereux 
 
 had told her ; but the Major was even more astonished 
 than his wife, and professed himself perfectly unable to 
 guess what scrape Furzedon had possibly got into. He 
 quite agreed with his wife that Furzedon was about the last 
 man he should have expected to come to grief in any way. 
 
 “ He is as sharp as a needle, Kate, has plenty of money, 
 and knows how to take care of it. He don*t overrate his 
 game at anything, and there is no man in London better 
 able to take care of himself on the racecourse or at the 
 card-table ; he's not likely to come to harm ; and, though 
 it’s going rather far to say that a man of his age is proof 
 against the fascination of your sex, I can only think Furze- 
 don’s a fish that would take a deal of catching.” 
 
 But think, Dick, is there no Turf transaction in which 
 he was engaged this year, in which his conduct might be 
 called — wSl, shady ? ” 
 
MAJOR KYNASTON’S VISITOR. 
 
 26; 
 
 “ None that I know of,” rejoined the Major. “ He’s no 
 fo©l ; but I don’t think he would do anything^— to put it 
 broadly — that could be laid hold of.” 
 
 “ Stop, Dick 1 What was the biggest coup you and he 
 made last year ? The Derby, wasn’t it ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; but Furzedon won a good deal more money than 
 I did over it. He laid against the favourite to an extent 
 I didn’t dare, and got rather nervous about it.” 
 
 “Just so ; and wasn’t there some story about the jockey 
 who rode Belisarius being drugged ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; there always are all sorts of canards about when 
 a favourite is beaten for a big race. Drugged,” continued 
 Dick Kynaston ; “ well, as far as taking about a bottle of 
 brandy before he got up, I suppose Bill Smith was. He 
 had been on the drink ever since he won the ‘ Two Thou- 
 sand,’ and it was the knowledge of that led us to bet against 
 him. Furzedon, who, as I said before, went deeper into 
 it than I did, had a tout down at Epsom to watch him, 
 just as you would watch a horse ; and it was liis reporting 
 that Bill Smith was never sober induced ium to lay so 
 heavily against the horse.” 
 
 “Then, you don’t believe the story of this drugged glass 
 that was handed him in the Paddock?” remarked Mrs. 
 Kynaston. 
 
 “ Certainly not,” rejoined the Major. “ Don’t think Bill 
 Smith required anything of that sort , he rendered himsel/ 
 incapable in a legitimate way. There are plenty of othei 
 ways a man may come to grief, Kate.” 
 
 “ Quite so,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston ; “ and, I suppose, 
 if it’s true that Mr. Furzedon is in trouble, it is from a 
 cause we should never dream of.” 
 
 “ If there really is anything in the rumour, you may de- 
 pend on it we shall soon hear — rather a bore if it’s a big 
 scandal,” continued Dick, “ because we have been rathei 
 intimate with him of late ; and I have been mixed up in a 
 good many business matters with him.” 
 
 “ Yes ; as you say, it would be a little awkward ; it 
 always is when one’s intimates turn out disreputable or 
 adventurers. However, we shall doubtless soon know all 
 about it, if there is anything to know.” 
 
268 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Dick Kynaston upon this occasion went to Lincoln 
 unaccompanied by his wife, and returned in high spirits, 
 his speculations having proved eminently successful. As 
 had been arranged, the races over, the Kynastons at once 
 took their departure for London, and Miss Devereux was 
 left in the seclusion of North Leach, to make the best of 
 eastern county spring time, and anxiously await her aunt’s 
 invitation to visit her in Onslow Gardens. “ Surely,” 
 thought Lettie, Mr. Slade will feel himself bound to call, 
 after writing that line of warning to Aunt Sarah.” And then 
 she wondered whether that warning had not been intended 
 for her. It was very possible Gilbert had heard that she was 
 engaged to Mr. Furzedon, and was desirous of giving her 
 a hint of that gentleman’s character before it was too late. 
 From what she knew of Gilbert Slade, he was not at all 
 the man to indulge in reckless gossip about his fellows. 
 She felt sure he would never have written to Mrs. Connop 
 in this wise without very substantial ground to go on. 
 And then Lettie, as she turned the subject once more in her 
 mind, whispered to herself ‘‘he surely must care a little 
 about me, or he would never have interfered for, by this 
 time, Miss Devereux had quite convinced herself that it 
 was in her special behoof that Gilbert had written to her 
 aunt. How she did wish that she could see that letter ! 
 Not that she supposed there was any mention of her in if; 
 but she was very curious to see exactly what Mr. Slade 
 had said. At present she eould not be sure whether this 
 guarded reticence was Mrs. Connop’s or his. She was 
 destined to read that letter some little time later with 
 mingled feelings of pleasure and annoyance. In the mean- 
 time the Kynastons had duly settled in Mayfair for the 
 season, and the Major had also received a letter which 
 puzzled him pretty nearly as much as Gilbert Slade’s did 
 Miss Devereux. Dick Kynaston’s note was from the uncle, 
 and the fact of Norman Slade writing to him at all aston- 
 ished the Major not a little. When they had met, racing, 
 Kynaston had more than once endeavoured to improve the 
 slight acquaintance he had had with him ; but Norman 
 was a very different man to know, unless you happened to 
 suit his fancy — the last man upon whom it was possible to 
 
MAJOR KYNASTON'S VISITOR. 
 
 2O9 
 
 force an acquaintance ; and, as we know, he had conceived 
 a dislike to the Major the very first time he met him. The 
 note was very formal and very short ; it commenced, 
 ‘‘ Dear sir,” and briefly inquired when it would suit Major 
 Kynaston to see the writer on a matter of business. Dick, 
 of course, replied naming a day upon which he would be 
 at home, and then consulted his wife as to what business 
 it was possible Norman Slade could want to see him about. 
 Mrs. Kynaston read the letter attentively, and then ex- 
 claimed — “I am right, Dick; it’s some Turf scrape that 
 Mr. Furzedon has got into. Mr. Norman Slade is a great 
 racing-man, is he not ? ” 
 
 The Major nodded assent. 
 
 ** You are known to be Furzedon’s Turf partner, and you 
 may depend upon it he went a good deal further than you 
 know of about that Derby. There’s a storm brewing, 
 Dick, and I am afraid some of the mud likely to be stirred 
 up will come our way.” 
 
 “ Rather rough if it should, but the Derby business took 
 place as I told you the other day, and I don’t believe Nor- 
 man Slade wants to see me about anything connected with 
 racing. More likely some young fellow has got into a mess 
 about bills, and he wants my advice about it — his nephew 
 the Hussar, I shouldn’t wonder.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston’s heart gave a jump as she thought of 
 Bertie Slade in trouble and coming to them for advice and 
 assistance. That would afford many delightful opportuni- 
 ties of prosecuting the flirtation for the forwarding of 
 which she had so patiently schemed, and enable her to 
 complete the subjugation of that errant Dragoon ; for that, 
 given sufficient opportunity, any man could resist her 
 fascinations was an idea that never crossed Kate Kynas- 
 ton’s mind. She had a wild caprice to install Bertie Slade 
 as chief cavalier-in-waiting, and had allowed her feelings 
 to run riot as far as he was concerned. What had been 
 caprice was now dangerously near a mad infatuation, and 
 Mrs. Kynaston had neither love for her husband nor much 
 principle to stand to her should the hour of need come. A 
 dajr or two lAtPTi and Norman Sbde was duly ush«red into 
 
270 
 
 SADDI.E AND SABRE. 
 
 Kynaston’s sanctum SluA welcomed with great cordiality by 
 the Major. 
 
 “ Don’t know what brings you here, Slade, but Tm very 
 glad to see you ; and now you have found us, I hope, 
 although it is your first, it will be by no means your last 
 visit.” 
 
 ‘‘ I have called, Major Kynaston,” replied Norman, with 
 a slight inflection on the ‘‘ Major,” “ to acquaint you with a 
 very unpleasant circumstance, which, as it indirectly con- 
 cerns you, ought to be made known to you. Mr. Furzedon 
 is your racing partner, I believe.” 
 
 “ He is,” replied the Major shortly. 
 
 Are you aware what his business is ?” asked Slade. 
 
 I never heard he had one,” replied Kynaston with 
 unfeigned surprise. 
 
 “And yet you are credited with knowing the ins and 
 outs of London life pretty well.” 
 
 “ What has that got to do with it ? ” replied the Major 
 testily. 
 
 “ Mr. Furzedon is a money lender on an extended scale,” 
 said Norman with an amused smile. “ He does business 
 under the name of Jordan & Co.” 
 
 “ What ! ” exclaimed the Major, “ do you mean to tell 
 me that Ralph Furzedon is Jordan & Co., the swell pawn- 
 brokers ? ” 
 
 “Just so,” replied Slade. 
 
 “Well,” said the Major, “ it takes a good deal to aston- 
 ish Dick Kynaston, but he’s fairly gravelled this time,” and 
 then, to Norman Slade’s astonishment, the Major burst 
 into a peal of laughter. 
 
 What could the man mean ? for Slade felt sure that 
 Kynaston spoke the truth when he declared his ignorance 
 of Furzedon’s carrying on business as Jordan & Co. Nor- 
 man had experience in his Turf life of many shady charac- 
 ters, but he would have considered the discovery that one 
 of his intimate friends was a professional money-lender by 
 no means a thing to laugh at. But Dick Kynaston was 
 struck with the cool cynicism of Furzedon, as the man about 
 town, recommending his spendthrift associates to apply for 
 relief to Jordan & Co., alias Furzedon, and how that he 
 
MAJOR KYN ASTON'S VISITOR. 2^t 
 
 (the Major) had been unconsciously made to serve that 
 gentleman’s interests. However, a revulsion speedily took 
 place, and Kynaston grasped the fact that his astute young 
 partner had been making a fool of him. No man arrived 
 at this situation but feels angry with the originator of it, 
 and it was not with a little hauteur the Major replied : 
 
 ‘‘ I have been unable, Mr. Slade, to help laughing at 
 Furzedon’s amazing impudence, but you can’t suppose he 
 would have ever crossed my threshold as a friend, nor been 
 received by my wife, if I had had the slightest knowledge 
 of his occupation. On a racecourse, as you know, we mix 
 with strange acquaintances.” 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” said Norman; “but I think you will admit his 
 acquaintance, even there, is highly detrimental. I am about 
 to bring a very grave charge against Mr. Furzedon before 
 the Jockey Club; against him remember, not you, though, 
 as his racing partner, it is right you should have early 
 notice of it.” 
 
 The Major was listening with the greatest attention. 
 
 “ I shall charge Mr. Furzedon with hocussing the jockey 
 of Belisarius in the Derby just before the race.” 
 
 “Absurd! ’ interrupted the Major. “Bill Smith re- 
 quired no hocussing, he was drunk, as all the world 
 knows ” 
 
 “ I have nothing to do with whether he required it,” 
 sneered Norman ; “ if he did not there was the less cause 
 for Mr. Furzedon to commit unnecessary crime. That he 
 did I can and shall prove. I suspected it at the time, and 
 learnt it as a fact last year at Doncaster.” 
 
 “And why was the charge not brought forward then ?” 
 said Kynaston. 
 
 “ Simply because I was unable to collect the evidence 
 before the racing season terminated, and there has been no 
 quorum of the Jockey Club to bring the case before since.” 
 , “ I know there was some rumour of this kind current 
 
 last May, but I never heard Furzedon’s name connected 
 with it. I always regarded it as an idle canard You 
 know very well, if a favourite does not run up to his form 
 in a big race, there’s generally a whisper of foul play of 
 som^ kind — usually quite unwarranted. I can only say, 
 
272 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Mr. Slade, should you prove your case, my connection with 
 Mr. Furzedon is of course terminated — indeed I think I 
 might say that under any circumstances ; in the meantime 
 I can only thank you for giving me this notice of your 
 intentions.” 
 
 “ It was only right you should have it,” rejoined Norman, 
 rising ; “ you know the world, and especially the racing 
 world, too well, not to know that some odium will probably 
 apply to yourself, in consequence of your partner’s ne- 
 faricnis proceedings. What steps you will think best to take 
 are, of course, no business of mine ; I have only to warn 
 you that the case is very clear against Furzedon. Good 
 morning, Major Kynastonl” And with a somewhat stiff 
 bow Norman Slade left the room. 
 
 “Pleasant this, by Jove I” muttered the Major as the 
 street door closed behind his visitor. “ Slade is just the 
 man to work out this thing relentlessly, and, what’s more, 
 the Jockey Club will listen to him. That young scoundrel ! 
 I have not the slightest doubt he’s guilty. Slade would 
 never have spoken so confidently as he did if he had not 
 got chapter and verse for it ; he is quite right, some of the 
 mud of this transaction is sure to stick to my skirts! 
 Nobody will ever believe that I wasn’t in the swim ; they 
 will probably suggest that it was all my plannings only that 
 I was too cunning to risk doing it myself! Quite likely 
 the world will take that view of it, and will probably say 
 that Furzedon has to bear all the punishment of it, while 
 the chief offender has gone scatheless. Think of that 
 young vagabond turning out to be Jordan & Co. ! ” 
 
 The Major’s very high tone about money-lenders may 
 seem somewhat preposterous, considering that he was but 
 a money-lender’s jackal himself ; but he regarded all that 
 as a strictly business transaction, and upon the rare occa- 
 sions any of the fraternity were permitted to pass his 
 door they got no further than into his own immediate den. 
 
 As he walked away Norman Slade came to the con- 
 clusion that Major Kynaston had been guilty of no conniv- 
 ance with his partner" in the matter of the Epsom robbery. 
 It had evidently been done without his knowledge, and it 
 was quite evident to Slade that he was in considerable 
 
SHERE ALI VANISHES. 
 
 *73 
 
 ignorance of Mr. Furzedon’s character and pursuits. ‘‘To 
 think,” he muttered with a smile, “ of such a sly old fox as 
 Kynaston thinks himself being bamboozled by such a young 
 blackguard as Furzedon. However, one must get up pretty 
 early to hold one’s own with a pawmbroker’s nephew, I 
 suppose, and this one certainly seems exceptionally gifted.” 
 
 XXXVIII. — Shere Ali Vanishes. 
 
 H obson and Charlie Devereux rode back to camp at 
 a hand gallop. Sharp and decisive were the former’s 
 orders to strike the tents and fall in as quickly as possible. 
 In less than a couple of hours the soldiers had abandoned 
 the shade of the grateful tope of palms and were tramping 
 across the sandy plain that separated them from the wooded 
 country. The soldiers all knew that their officers had come 
 upon the enemy, and stepped out with a will, in the hope 
 that at last they were about to come up with their wily 
 fleet-footed foe, and settle with him for the many long 
 wearisome marches he had caused them. Charlie Deve- 
 reux, especially, is very sanguine on this score, but the 
 tough veteran who leads them is by no means hopeful 
 about it. 
 
 “ I trust you may prove right, Devereux,” said Hobson, 
 in reply to the gleeful prognostications of his subaltern ; 
 
 “ but they are cunning as jackals, these Pandies. They 
 know where we halted, and Shere Ali would make a very 
 good guess at how long we should be before we reached 
 lum, and I do not believe he will wait for us.” 
 
 Hobson proved a true prophet, for when they arrived at - 
 the edge of the jungle the skirmishers speedily announced 
 that the enemy’s camp was deserted. His cooking fires 
 were still smouldering, and it was evident, from other 
 signs, that he had been encamped there for some days, 
 but Shere Ali had now vanished, and there was nothing to 
 show in what direction. It might have been by the road, 
 but lipb^n was well aware that there were numerous trails 
 
274 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRK 
 
 through the jungle perfectly well known and not infre- 
 quently used by the natives, and it was more probable that 
 the famous dacoit chief would sooner trust to the track- 
 less forest to baffle the pursuit of the Feringee than rely 
 upon the legs of his followers on the main road. This was 
 rather a tangled knot to unravel, and Charlie chafed and 
 fretted a good deal, because his captain halted instead 
 of pushing along the main road rapidly in pursuit of the 
 fugitives. 
 
 “ Surely we are losing time,** he remarked at length, no 
 longer able to control his impatience. 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t cackle about what you don’t understand, young 
 *un,” rejoined Hobson, good-humouredly. “ If I knew 
 Shere Ali had gone that road ; if I really had some grounds 
 for supposing he had taken it, I would push on at once. 
 As it is, I am not going to march my men off their legs in 
 pursuit of a Will-o’-the-Wisp. You, no doubt, think Eng- 
 lishmen can beat these Pandies at anything. When it 
 comes to running away, I tell you they’re not in it with 
 these fellows.” 
 
 Charlie thought there was a lamentable want of dash 
 about his leader ; but Hobson had not hunted down the 
 broken sepoy army in the great Mutiny time without 
 learning how very hard they were to come up with when 
 they did not deem it expedient to fight, and how they were 
 served by their intimate knowledge of the by-ways of the 
 country. 
 
 “ It’s weary work,” continued Hobson, “ but there is 
 nothing for it but to make such inquiries as one can, and if 
 we can make out nothing about Shere Ali and his band 
 patrol the main road.” 
 
 ‘‘ Like policemen on their beats,” said Charlie, with a 
 face of extreme disgust. 
 
 “Just so,” rejoined Hobson. “However, you needn’t 
 be down on your luck. I don’t know why, but I have an 
 idea that you are destined to be face to face with Shere 
 Ali one of these days.” 
 
 “ What makes you think that ? ” asked Charlie. 
 
 “ I tell you I don’t know. Pshaw ! that’s not quite true. 
 I’m not much given to dreaming, but I bad a confused 
 
SHERE ALI VANISHES. 275 
 
 dream the other nighty in which you and a tall Pandie 
 figured prominently.** 
 
 “ And what were we doing ? *’ 
 
 “ Well, your best to kill each other,’* replied Hobson. 
 
 “ And how did it finish ? ** 
 
 “ That is just what I can*t tell you. It was most annoy* 
 ing. I awoke in the middle of it, and I was most anxious 
 to see the finish of that fight.** ^ 
 
 “ But who was getting the best of it ? ” said Charlie, 
 with great interest. ^ 
 
 “ It was anybody*s battle,** replied Hobson, laughing. 
 “ Don*t think me bloodthirsty, but I did want to see it 
 fought out.** 
 
 “ Well,** returned Charlie, “ I need scarcely say I should 
 have preferred your being able to say it was six to four on 
 me when you left. Sorry, too, he is so big. Have you 
 ever seen him ? *’ 
 
 “ No ; but I*ve seen lots of his sort. They run tall, 
 these Bengalee sepoys. I had our old bugbear Shere Ali 
 and you in my head, which, with that remarkably tough 
 mutton we dined on yesterday, would quite account for 
 my vision.” 
 
 “ And where were you ? ** asked Charlie. 
 
 “ Oh, you seldom see yourself. Don*t you recollect that 
 when you do, according to Scott’s * Legend,* you sleep in a 
 ‘ bluidy plaid * ere long ? But, holloa ! what*s this ? It 
 looks like a runner from headquarters.** And as Hobson 
 spoke a peon was seen coming along the road at the sling 
 trot with which the native usually accomplishes the task of 
 letter-bearing. 
 
 When he reached Hobson he stopped, made a low 
 salaam, and handed him a letter. The Captain tore it open, 
 and, as he glanced hastily over it, exclaimed, “My dream is 
 about to come true. Hurrah! No more of this tiresome 
 game of ‘ catch who catch can.* We are re-called, and 
 are to be mounted. The chief says the fiat has gone forth 
 that Shere Ali is to be suppressed at any price. It seems 
 he has been throat-cutting on a somewhat extensive scale 
 of late, and the Government are determined to t^e him 
 dead or alive*” 
 
2J6 
 
 SADDLE AND SABREl 
 
 Only give us horses, and we will soon account for him,” 
 cried Charlie, who, as an ex-Dragoon, believed implicitly 
 in mounted men, and held that a regiment of Hussars 
 could go anywhere and do anything. “ But it will take a 
 long while to make them.” 
 
 “ Put your cavalry ideas on one side, young ’un. Re- 
 member we are mnly mounted infantry, and our horses are 
 hacks, not chargers.” 
 
 Charlie made no reply. He comprehended but one idea 
 of a soldier on horseback, and that was evidently not Hob- 
 son’s. Still, if they only did get at Shere Ali, it wouldn’t, 
 he thought, much matter how. Charlie was burning for 
 that fight of which Hobson had dreamt. “ When shall we 
 march ? ” he said at length. 
 
 “A little before daybreak to-morrow; and we will get 
 back to headquarters as quickly as possible.” 
 
 On their arrival at the cantonment, Charlie and Hobson 
 found their work cut out for them, and for the next month 
 were busily engaged in organizing the mounted infantry. 
 The regiment was picked for men who could ride; and they 
 found no lack of volunteers. The only difficulty lay in 
 the selection, for the British soldier, in his anxiety to vary 
 the monotony of his life, in some cases over-estimated his 
 equestrian capabilities. The authorities were urgent for 
 the departure of Hobson’s command as soon as possible ; 
 and there was therefore no time to teach those to ride who 
 had not some knowledge of it. Shere Ali was increasing 
 in audacity week by week, and seemed ubiquitous in the 
 Deccan. He had of late taken means to ensure there being 
 no evidence against him by the wholesale murder of those 
 he had robbed, after the manner of the Thugs ; and there 
 was, consequently, no actual proof of his being the author 
 of some of the atrocities laid to his charge. He was said 
 to be at the head of a numerous band of desperadoes, and 
 to boast openly that he would not be taken alive, and 
 neither asked nor gave quarter. The question of Shere 
 All had become that of the apprehension of a great mar- 
 auder ; the laying hold of a Rob Roy or SchinderhanneSi 
 and the interest increased in intensity with the constantly^ 
 recurring stories of the dacoit’s temerity and ferocity. 
 
SHERE ALI VANISHES. 
 
 m 
 
 But a Nemesis attends these human tigers, and they 
 mostly die violent deaths. The buccaneer chiefs, who 
 made their victims walk the plank, chiefly “ found a rope 
 bn it before their course was run. Sooner or later some 
 one revolts at the doings of these blood-stained monsters, 
 and either betrays them to the powers or rids the world of 
 them ; and it is the aonviction that this awaits them, and 
 can only be averted by the terror they inspire, that makes 
 them, once launched on their career, insatiable in their lust 
 of blood. Shere Ali knew that his life was forfeit, and 
 said grimly that when his time came his spirit would de- 
 part well attended. 
 
 Hobson’s men at last satisfy the Coloners critical eye ; 
 and, with young Devereux as his subaltern, the Captain is 
 once more despatched in pursuit of his wily foe. There 
 has grown up in the breasts of Hobson, and such of his 
 men as were with him on his former expedition, a feverish 
 thirst to settle accounts with Shere Ali, such as a keen 
 shekarri might feel to come face to face with a “ man- 
 eater,” such as some years previously pervaded the Central 
 Indian Field Force on the subject of Tantia Topee. That 
 sagacious chieftain was always dodging backwards and 
 forwards across the Nerbudda, in a perfectly maddening 
 manner, determined to fight only on his own terms, which, 
 as a good strategist, meant when the chances were much 
 in his favour. Again and again did one or other of the 
 English leaders think themselves certain of his capture, 
 only after two or three forced marches to find the wily 
 Asiatic had once more slipped across the river. Shere Ali 
 was enacting the great drama over again on a small scale, 
 but with no abatement of the murder and outrage that 
 characterised the great rebellion. 
 
 There, Hobson,” said the Colonel, as he bade the 
 detachment farewell, “ I hope you will have the luck to 
 capture the scoundrel ; there are so many parties out on 
 the same errand that it is impossible he can evade you all. 
 Depend upon it, Shere Ali’s career is about run.” 
 
 “ My fellows are keen enough, sir. He’s cost us too 
 many long tramps not to make us eager to bring him ta 
 book, and this time he won’t beat us for speedL” 
 
SADDLE AND SABREL 
 
 278 
 
 But Shere Ali proved more irritating to his enemies than 
 ever upon this occasion. Detachments of cavalry and 
 mounted infantry were, as they thought, closing in upon 
 him on all sides, when suddenly the famous dacoit van- 
 ished ; no intelligence of his whereabouts possible to be 
 arrived at. Where he had gone or what had become of 
 him nobody knew. Vague rumours there were that he 
 had broken up his band and fled into Bengal. Weeks 
 went by, and, all efforts to learn anything concerning him 
 proving useless, his pursuers were reluctantly recalled, 
 but not before the leaders of the various parties had con- 
 fessed to being unable to discover any trace of him. 
 
 “ Fairly beat, sir,” said Hobson, when he reported him- 
 self to his chief on his return. “ I learnt for certain that I 
 was within forty miles of Shere Ali. Did it in fifteen 
 hours, only to find him fled — where to it is impossible to 
 conjecture. If the earth had swallowed him and his fol- 
 lowers they could not have more utterly vanished^* 
 
 “ We shall hear of that fellow again before long,” said 
 the Colonel grimly, ‘‘ and I hope hang him before we’ve 
 done with him.” 
 
 The chief proved a true prophet ; ere a month had 
 elapsed an outrage was perpetrated between Jubbulpore 
 and Nagpore, which eclipsed all previous exploits of the 
 kind. A treasure-chest under escort of an English officer 
 and twenty sepoys was lured into an ambuscade and 
 slaughtered to a man. Except during the great Mutiny, 
 it was rarely that the native had dared to raise his hand 
 against the life of the white man, and it was regarded as a 
 striking instance of Shere Ali’s audacity that he should 
 have ventured to slay a Feringee. For that he was the 
 author of this crime none doubted, although none of the 
 luckless escort lived to tell the tale of their disaster. Even 
 in the worst days of Thuggee, the votaries of Bohwanee 
 had never ventured to cast the dastardly rummel around 
 the throat of the white man. Nor had the dacoits pre- 
 viously ever ventured to attack the dominant race. It had 
 been the proud boast before the terrible outbreak of Fifty- 
 Seven, that an English lady could travel all through the 
 Indian Peninsula with no further escort than her native 
 
SIIERE ALI VANISHES. 
 
 279 
 
 servants in perfect safety. No wonder that a cry for 
 vengeance went forth against this wholesale murderer, and 
 the press, both English and native, was unanimous in 
 demanding the life of Shere Ali. For once the blood- 
 thirsty dacoit had committed not only an atrocious crime 
 but a grave blunder. The massacred sepoys were recruited 
 from the Presidency, and had friends and relatives scat- 
 tered far and wide through the country which Shere Ali 
 had chosen for the scene of his operations — none quicker 
 to see this than the Colonel of the Rifles. 
 
 “ The beggar has overreached himself this time, Hobson. 
 Some of the dead men’s relatives are sure to betray him 
 sooner or later. As for there being no witness to his last 
 crime, that doesn’t matter — we’ve enough against Shere 
 Ali to hang him three times over.” And so the fiat went 
 forth that Shere Ali was to be hunted down, and once 
 more patrols of mounted infantry and cavalry were de- 
 spatched to scour the country. 
 
 “ Remember,” thundered the fiery old Commander-in- 
 Chief at Madras, “ I will have that man dead or alive, and 
 you will march to and fro through the land like so many 
 wandering Jews till you get him.” 
 
 “ Gad, Charlie,” said Hobson, when that speech reached 
 his ears, “ it is devoutly to be hoped that some of us will 
 lay hold of him before long, for Sir Timothy is a man of 
 his word, and that means dacoit-hunting for life.” So 
 once more the roads were scoured in all directions, villages 
 searched, and heavy rewards offered for any intelligence 
 that might lead to the arrest of Shere Ali, but again that 
 mysterious personage had disappeared. One thing only 
 was to be ascertained concerning him, namely, that he 
 had dismissed the main body of his followers for the 
 present, and retired with only a few of the most trusted 
 to his stronghold ; but where that stronghold was no man 
 apparently could tell ; it was rumoured that the secret of 
 its whereabouts was jealously guarded and utterly unknown 
 to the bulk of his band, only a few well-tried retainers being 
 aware of its locality — ruffians for the most part as deeply 
 blood-stained as himself. 
 
 But the patrolling and vigilant search for Shere 
 
2§0 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRR 
 
 ceased nowhere upon that account. “ Sooner or later his 
 necessities will compel the tiger to leave his lair/* argued 
 the Commander-in-Chief of the Presidency, ‘‘ and th^ will 
 come the hunter’s opportunity.” 
 
 ■ ■ I - .1 , , 
 
 XXXIX. — An Enemy Hath Done this Thing. 
 
 D ick KYNASTON was not the .man to await the tide 
 of events upon finding himself involved in an awk- 
 ward scandal. Innocent though he was, he saw at once 
 that it would be difficult to make the world believe that he 
 had no knowledge of his partner’s practices. One thing 
 however was quite clear to him, that there was no time to 
 be lost in publicly repudiating all partnership with Fur- 
 zedon in racing matters. No one would believe that he 
 was not implicated in the affair unless he broke off all rela- 
 tions with Furzedon. Indeed, as the Major pondered over 
 Norman Slade’s story, the more indignant he became that 
 he should have been such a mere puppet in the hands of 
 his clever young friend. What, he, the knowing Dick 
 Kynaston, the shrewd man about town, who knew the 
 ropes, who was up to every move on the board — he to be 
 hoodwinked by this young pawnbroker, and find himself 
 mixed up in one of the most shameful Turf robberies he 
 had ever heard of! He would ask Mr. Furzedon to call 
 upon him for the last time, give him a piece of his mind, 
 and tell him that in future they would be strangers to each 
 other. 
 
 The Major gradually churned himself up to a very pretty 
 state of indignation. Although by no means particular, he 
 was honestly angry that he should have unwittingly become 
 involved in such an ugly scrape as this promised to become. 
 He was quite aware that his own racing career had not 
 been of that blameless chivalric nature at which no stone 
 can be thrown. He was reputed a sharp practitioner, and 
 the world cannot pretend to decide where such gentlemen 
 draw the Une. Straight-going humdrum folks fail to see, 
 
AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS THING, 
 
 281 
 
 much difference between what is termed ‘‘ picking people 
 up,” by which is meant taking advantage of them, and 
 picking pockets, and the Major, although his code of 
 morality was otherwise, recognised this feeling. But, per- 
 haps, what moved his wrath more than anything was the 
 blow to his self-love, the idea that he should have been so 
 completely overreached by a young gentleman whom he 
 certainly deemed astute, but no sort of match for knowing 
 Dick Kynaston, and yet he had been bamboozled into 
 playing jackal to this young money-lender. He could not 
 help showing his indignation in his letter, although when 
 he sat down to pen his note to Furzedon, asking him to 
 call the next morning, as he wanted to see him on a matter 
 of business, nothing was further from his intention. 
 
 These temperate epistles we pen in our hot wrath are not 
 read quite in the same light by their recipients, and if we 
 only keep them till the next morning we should usually 
 modify them considerably. I recollect submitting a studi- 
 ously worded missive of this description to a friend, and 
 exclaiming triumphantly with reference to the offender, ‘‘ he 
 can’t say anything about that.” My friend’s eye twinkled 
 as he replied, “ Only that there’s a good deal of east wind 
 in it.” 
 
 Now this was exactly what struck Furzedon when he 
 read the Major’s note. Dick Kynaston was wont to write 
 in an ofif-hand jovial fashion, but this time Ralph saw at 
 a glance that the language was iced. “ I wonder what the 
 deuce is up,” he muttered, ‘‘ there is a screw loose some- 
 where, and Kynaston evidently thinks I am to blame for it. 
 I don’t want to break with the Kynastons, more especially 
 with the lady. She has been of some service to me already 
 in a social way. She has given me several useful intro- 
 ductions, to say nothing of hints. She understands the 
 game of society so thoroughly, I would sooner trust to her 
 advice than that of any one in England. She fyrst made 
 me understand that to a man with money, tact, and a 
 pretty wife, all society is attainable. What can have gone 
 wrong ; for that the Major thinks I’ve ‘ upset the coach ’ is 
 evident in every line of his letter ?” Ralph Furzedon made 
 bis way to the Major’s house next day, and was promptly 
 
282 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 shown into Kynaston's sanctum. He was a little surprised at 
 the Major’s curt “ good morning,” and saw at a glance that 
 gentleman was seriously disturbed, and meant coming to 
 the point with scant preamble ; so, like the astute young 
 man he was, Furzedon asked no questions, but left his 
 companion to open the ball. 
 
 “ I have sent for you, Mr. Furzedon ” commenced 
 
 Kynaston, with considerable hauteur. 
 
 Sent for me. Major Kynaston ? What the devil do you 
 mean ?” interposed Ralph sharpJy. 
 
 If you will be good enough not to interrupt me you 
 will know in five minutes,” was the equally sharp rejoinder. 
 
 In the first place I am credibly informed that, instead of 
 being an idle man-about-town living on your own means, 
 you are in reality a money-lender.” 
 
 “ Even if that were so, which I don’t admit, I should 
 fancy there was nothing in the position to shock Major 
 Kynaston,” replied Furzedon sarcastically. 
 
 I am not in the least shocked. I know half the money- 
 lenders in London, but I don’t associate with them. Do 
 you understand ?” 
 
 “ Perfectly ; though I do not see how your remark 
 applies to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t you ?” returned Kynaston. ‘‘ Then I will put it 
 a little plainer to you. I no longer intend to be on visiting 
 terms with Mr. Furzedon, alias Jordan & Co.” 
 
 Furzedon winced, but his hardihood did not as yet fail 
 him. “ And who dares to say that I am Jordan & Co. ?” 
 One who seems to have a good deal more than that to 
 allege against you — Norman Slade.” 
 
 “ Norman Slade !” ejaculated Furzedon, as the scene in 
 the Paddock at Epsom shot athwart his brain. What the 
 deuce does Norman Slade know about me ?” 
 
 He knows who you are, and what you are,” replied 
 Kynaston sternly. He knows that you hocussed Bill 
 Smith at Epsom, and means that all the world shall know 
 it too.” 
 
 “ If he dares to bring such a charge against me,” 
 blustered Furzedon, starting to his feet, “ I’ll prosecute him 
 ior libel” 
 
AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS THING. 283 
 
 “ Then you’ll precious soon have the opportunity. He 
 intends to bring your case before the Jockey Club at once, 
 and has vowed not to rest till you’re warned oflf the Heath.” 
 “ Let him. Giving a jockey a glass of wine is not 
 hocussing him. A fig for Norman Slade and his threats; 
 he will find that charge rather difficult to substantiate.” 
 
 “ He says not,” rejoined Kynaston, “ and he is not the 
 man to say so unless he has full proof of it. I have given 
 you due warning of what is in store for you — henceforth 
 remember we are strangers to each other.” 
 
 “As you like,” sneered Furzedon ; “but you seem to 
 forget that you made as good a thing out of Bill Smith’s 
 drunkenness as I did.” 
 
 “ I bet against a jockey who is unfit to ride as I do 
 against a horse who is unfit to run, but I don’t take part in 
 bringing about that state of things ! ” 
 
 “ And you mean to say that I do ?” exclaimed Furzedon 
 angrily. 
 
 “ I say nothing about it, one way or another, and have 
 nothing further to add but — good morning ;” and as he 
 spoke Kynaston rang the bell, and made his visitor a formal 
 bow of dismissal. 
 
 For an instant the blood surged in Furzedoo’s temples, 
 and he felt a fierce inclination to spring upon Kynaston ; 
 but mastering his passion by a violent effort, he turned on 
 his heel, and abruptly left the room without recognising his 
 host’s salutation. 
 
 When Furzedon reached the street, he began to think 
 seriously over this disaster that had befallen him. He 
 had blustered and denied everything to Dick Kynaston ; 
 but, for all that, the charges were true, and he could see 
 that the Major believed them to be so. The mere fact of 
 being proclaimed a money-lender would, he knew, damn 
 him socially ; nor was he at all certain that Norman Slade 
 would fail in proving the charge he intended to bring 
 against him : he had employed men to lead the great 
 jockey to his destruction. Ralph Furzedon had seen a 
 good deal of the dirty side of life ; it was not the first time 
 he had used men as tools to effect his purposes ; and he 
 knew what such confederates were worth. Paid to do the 
 
284 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 work with which their employer fears to soil his own fingers, 
 they are prompt to sell him afterwards to any one who will 
 buy their information. Ah ! why had his nerve failed him 
 at the last moment ? These men had done their work well 
 and sufficiently, but he was afraid, he stood so much money 
 against Belisarius that his heart failed him ; he determined 
 to make assurance doubly sure. Just those few drops in 
 the last glass would effectually madden the man’s already 
 heated brain, and destroy all judgment ; but it put him — 
 Furzedon — terribly in the hands of his myrmidons, who, 
 dexterously as it was done, could not fail to see it. How 
 had this all come against him at once ? It was so many 
 months back, that he had thought all danger of discovery 
 was over. Then, again, how did Norman Slade learn 
 that he traded in money under the name of Jordan & Co.? 
 That was a secret he had jealously guarded. He had 
 thought that known only to the confidential clerk who 
 acted as his representative ; and, as far as he could feel 
 certain about any one, he was of that man’s fidelity and 
 discretion. 
 
 Where had Slade acquired this information? Those 
 myrmidons of his might have been bribed to betray the 
 story of the great Epsom race ; but of his money-dealing 
 they had no knowledge. How had that closely kept secret 
 come to light ? And, for the present, Ralph Furzedon was 
 utterly at a loss to even suspect who it was that had 
 divulged the mystery of his occupation. But he was at no 
 loss to recognise the danger of his position, and his brain 
 was already busily scheming as to how it was best, how it 
 was possible, to meet these unpleasant revelations. He ran 
 no risk of being entrapped by the meshes of the law, but 
 his social ostracism was imminent. As a pawnbroker, and 
 perpetrator of an infamous Turf robbery, that world he so 
 coveted to mix with would have none of him, and this to 
 Furzedon meant the loss of all he deemed life worth living 
 for — the end of his ambition ; to figure in that world, and 
 at the same time to in some wise pull the strings of it, to 
 know of the skeletons in the cupboard and look cynically 
 on the raree show — and what men know more of these last 
 than usurers and solicitors ? — all that would have delighted 
 
AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS THING. 2S$ 
 
 Furzedon. Well, there was no necessity for it as yet, for he 
 supposed the best way out of the embroglio would be to go 
 abroad for a time ; stories of this sort speedily blew over ; 
 and, unless the affair was kept constantly before it, in a week 
 or two the world would cease to talk about it. Norman 
 Slade, too, would be checkmated about that Epsom busi- 
 ness ; it would be little use bringing such a charge against 
 a man who had crossed the Channel, and Furzedon felt 
 that he should get out of the scrape cheaply at the expense 
 of a few months’ absence from London. Better for him 
 that the charge should be dropped than brought, even if 
 not substantiated. 
 
 One thing, however, puzzled Furzedon much ; he could 
 not conceive how it was that his identity with Jordan & 
 Co. had leaked out ; there was no one whom he could 
 suspect, for, strange to say, that Prance might have be- 
 trayed him never entered his head. His relations with 
 that worthy had been so long dropped, and he so rarely 
 encountered him, that he had forgotten that Prance knew 
 all the history of his past life ; but he swore a great oath 
 of vengeance against the man who had proclaimed the fact 
 that he was a pawnbroker and a usurer should he ever 
 discover it. And, though in his first surprise at finding 
 Norman Slade so accurately informed as to his antecedents. 
 Prance had not occurred to him as the informant ; still, 
 sooner or later, it was pretty certain to flash across him, 
 and then it was likely that vow would be kept with ruthless 
 exactitude. 
 
 He had regained his chambers, and was still pondering 
 over all these things, when his servant brought in a pen- 
 cilled note, which he handed to him with the intimation 
 that the gentleman was waiting. Furzedon glanced hastily 
 at the note, and muttered to himself, “ Sturgeon ! now 
 what on earth can bring him here ? ” He might well ask, 
 for Mr. Jacob Sturgeon was the confidential and personal 
 representative of Jordan & Co., and his visiting Furzedon’s 
 rooms was strictly interdicted. As the latter knew, it 
 must be something of considerable importance that led 
 him to disregard his instructions on that point. 
 
 ^ Show him up,” said Furzedon ; and in another minute 
 
286 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Mr. Sturgeon entered the room — a plump, quietly-dressed, 
 prosperous man of business. 
 
 “ I am sorry to intrude, sir ; but, as you can easily guess, 
 it is a matter of importance that has made me disobey 
 orders — a circumstance I thought you should be made 
 acquainted with without loss of time.*’ 
 
 “Yes, yes!” said Furzedon, impatiently. “Get on; 
 what is it ? ” 
 
 “ Well, sir,” replied Mr. Sturgeon, “ we’ve had rather an 
 awkward scene up at the office. A Major Braddock called 
 in about those bills of young Devereux’s. He pointed out 
 that Mr. Devereux was in India, and therefore, for the 
 present, quite out of our reach ; but that his friends were 
 anxious to come to terms with us, and that he was em- 
 powered to agree to any reasonable composition.” 
 
 “Ha!” exclaimed Furzedon; “I thought they would 
 be glad to come to terms before long. And you, what did 
 you say ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! sir,” replied Sturgeon, smiling, “ I told them the 
 old story — that for money lent upon next to no security, as 
 Mr. Devereux’s was, we claimed, and expected to get, 
 heavy interest ; that there were also legal expenses ; that 
 I would submit what he said to my principals ; but that I 
 could hold forth no hope of their foregoing their claims ; 
 that we could afford to wait ; that, though Mr. Devereux had 
 been unfortunate, we knew him to be a gentleman, and felt 
 perfect confidence in his eventually meeting his liabilities.” 
 
 “ Quite right,” replied Furzedon ; “ and what did Major 
 Braddock say to that ? ” 
 
 “ Well, he astonished me not a little, sir. As a matter 
 of course, I looked upon it as only delicate fencing for the 
 best terms on either side ; but Major Braddock suddenly 
 interrupted me with ‘ Stop all the clap-trap of youj class ; 
 we happen to know who your principal is ; we know who 
 it is that trades in usury under the name of Jordan & Co. ; 
 we know all about the pawnbroker’s shop in the next street, 
 and are quite prepared to go into court if you don’t make 
 fair terms with us.’ I rejoined that, if compelled to it, I 
 didn’t suppose that my principals would object to that way 
 of coming by their owi^” 
 
A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDlNa sSf 
 
 Ah! and what did he say to that ? ” inquired Fuixe- 
 don, eagerly. 
 
 ^ “ Ma^r Braddock,” replied Sturgeon, took me up, 
 
 sharp. ‘ You mistake,’ he said, ‘ your principal — ^for you' 
 have only one — would be very unwilling to go into tbe^^ 
 witness-box ; he is a good young man, and loth that hi^ 
 left should know what his right hand is doing. No, nofc 
 Ralph Furzedon don’t wish to figure before his friends and 
 acquaintances in his real character. No ; the sooner you. 
 let him know that we are aware of who we are dealing mth 
 the better.’ ” 
 
 “ And that was all that passed between you ? ” asked 
 Furzedon. 
 
 “ Pretty well, sir,” rejoined Sturgeon ; ‘‘ I told him 
 politely he was mistaken, but he only rejoined, more 
 briefly than civilly, ‘ Not much,’ threw his card on the 
 table, and left the place.” 
 
 ‘‘Quite right to come and tell me,” said Furzedon. 
 “You have, of course, no idea how he came by his 
 knowledge ? ” 
 
 “ No, sir ; I could have sworn that nobody either at the 
 shop or the offices had any idea who Jordan & Co. were, 
 except myself, and the secret has never passed my lips.** 
 
 “Thank you; that will do,” replied Fur 25 edon. 
 
 Major Braddock calls again, stick to it that he is mistaken*. 
 Don’t come here again unless you think it absolutely 
 necessary,” and, with a careless nod, Furzedon intimated 
 to Mr. Sturgeon that his interview was at an end. 
 
 XL. — Mutual Uin>SRSTA»i>iNa« 
 
 O ALLOA, Bertie I where have you been all the mom- 
 ing; under what pretence have you been evading 
 your military duties ? Allow me to congratulate you,” 
 exclaimed young Sparshot. 
 
 “ I’ve been on a board on forage ; but I don’t see that 
 that’s a particular subject for congratulation,” 
 
288 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Slade, as he took a chair in the mess-room, and prepared 
 to assuage the hunger that his morning’s work had created. 
 
 “ Then you’ve heard nothing about Tom Henderson’s 
 letter, although it specially concerns you ? *’ 
 
 “ Not a word,” replied Bertie ; “ what has Tom got to 
 say ? ” 
 
 “ First of all,” rejoined young Sparshot, ** Tom has met 
 his Fate ; and, as his Fate happens to be possessed of 
 more dollars than a Hussar ever dreamt of, he is going to 
 sell out, and that gives you your troop. Captain Slade.” 
 
 “ We shall all be sorry to lose Henderson,” said Bertie, 
 ^ but promotion is promotion, and in this case we have 
 only to congratulate him on his retirement ; but what is 
 this other news ? ” 
 
 “ Well, for some inscrutable reason, it seems the authori- 
 ties have decided to send us out to India at once, instead 
 of in the autumn.” 
 
 You don’t mean that ! ” exclaimed Slade ; unless 
 they’ve good grounds, it is rather rough upon us all. It’i 
 always a bad business having to dispose of horses in a 
 hurry.” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Sparshot ; “ the end of the hunting 
 season, and all the officers of Her Majesty’s — th Hussars 
 are likely, I am afraid, to have a bad sale.” 
 
 Bertie Slade was not a little taken aback by the news of 
 the sudden order for India. He knew very well what this 
 meant. That for the few weeks left to them there would 
 be plenty of work to be done; that every officer’s hands 
 would be full, and leave of absence difficult to obtain ; and 
 yet he felt that it was absolutely necessary for him to pay 
 a short visit to London. He had written, as we know, to 
 Mrs. Connop, and in his letter had vaguely told her that a 
 very serious charge was likely to be advanced against 
 Ralph Furzedon, and delicately hinted that she would do 
 well to suspend further intimacy with him until she heard 
 the result. He did not like to speak more plainly ; but his 
 meaning was that Miss Devereux, to whom he firmly 
 believed Furzedon to be engaged, should pause before 
 uniting herself to a man whom a few weeks might see 
 gogially blasted. lie bad not liked to particularise the 
 
A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. 
 
 28g 
 
 offence of which Furzedon had been guilty, and to attempt 
 interference in the slightest degree with Miss Devereux’s 
 matrimonial intentions was, he felt, quite out of his pro- 
 vince ; and yet, knowing as he did from his Uncle Norman 
 the story of Furzedon’s life, he felt it was impossible that 
 he could look on and see the girl he passionately loved 
 married to such a scoundrel. Lettie Devereux need never 
 fear about him ; he might be destined never to win her for 
 his wife, but for all that, surely he ought not to let her con- 
 tract this marriage in ignorance ; surely no money could 
 compensate for the utter Joss of position which awaited 
 Ralph Furzedon. He had not intended to speak more 
 plainly. A very little, and the accusation would be publicly 
 proclaimed in the press ; but, now he was going to 
 India, it might not be brought forward till after his depar- 
 ture. There was delay sometimes about these things ; 
 and it was possible that the knowledge might come to 
 Miss Devereux too late. 
 
 Bertie’s serious face was the cause of not a little chaff 
 from his gay companions ; as young Sparshot said, Slade 
 was the only man who apparently appreciated the gravity 
 of the situation. “ He’ll chill the very marrow in our 
 bones directly. I can see he is just about to begin, with 
 mocking laughter : 
 
 * Ah 1 know ye the land of the sepoy and tiger, 
 
 And the terrible pranks that they play in that clime.* ** 
 
 Bertie laughed as he rose. “ One would have thought, 
 Spar,” he said, “ that the * terrible pranks * were thrashed 
 out of the sepoy during the Mutiny times ; but, according 
 6o Charlie Devereux, there are some of them still untamed. 
 No, I’ve got a few things I want to settle before I start, 
 and I’m rather bothered about how to do it.” And so 
 saying Bertie left the room. 
 
 “ Yes,” he thought, when he reached his own quarters, 
 “there is no help for it ; I must run up to town, see Mrs. 
 Connop, and tell her the whole story ; if she thinks fit to 
 let her niece marry a man with such a chaige hanging over 
 him, I can do no more. It is impossible for me to speak 
 to Lettie herself ; though how, in spite of his money, she 
 
290 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 could accept such a cad as Furzedon I** And here Bertie 
 Slade wound up his train of thought by discharging a 
 volley of maledictions against that gentleman, 
 
 Bertie Slade easily obtained the short leave he ventured 
 to ask for. He had a good many things to do in town 
 besides his interview with Mrs. Connop. He was anxious 
 to see his Uncle Norman, to ascertain when this business 
 of Furzedon’s would be brought forward. And Major 
 Braddock he also wanted to talk ivith, partly on his own 
 account and partly concerning Charlie Devereux’s. Major 
 Braddock, howevc/, he felt certain of seeing before he 
 sailed. The Major retained the greatest possible interest 
 in his old regiment, and was little likely to let them sail 
 for the East without coming down to Portsmouth to 
 witness their embarkation. The settlement of Charlie’s 
 debts had been left to the discretion of Bob Braddock ; 
 and Bertie was in ignorance of what steps the Major had 
 lately taken about their settlement. The last time he had 
 heard from his Ujicle Bob that gentleman had assured him 
 there was no liurry, that the less they troubled about it the 
 more likely an advantageous offer was to come from the 
 other side. But the Major was now acquainted with the 
 identity of Jordan & Co., and Bertie thought that would 
 probably change his tactics. 
 
 However, the day after his arrival in town, at the earliest 
 canonical hour permissible for calling, Gilbert Slade made 
 his way into Onslow Gardens. “ Mrs. Connop was at 
 home,” he was told, in answer to his inquiry. And with- 
 out more ado he was ushered up into the drawing-room, 
 where, to his great astonishment, he found himself face to 
 face with Lettie Devereux. The situation was awkward. 
 What he had to say he could neither say to Miss Devereux 
 nor before her. And yet that say it he would he was 
 doggedly determined. Lettie rose to receive him ; and, 
 ^Hhough taken by surprise as well as himself, yet she masked 
 her feelings well. Her heart beat quickly, but her chance 
 = had come ; and come what might it should go hard if 
 before he left she had not disabused Mr. Slade’s mind of 
 any idea that she was engaged to Mr. Furzedon. Mrs. 
 Connop had not destroyed Bertie's note, and Miss Deve** 
 
A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. 
 
 291 
 
 reux had had little difficulty in persuading her aunt to 
 allow her to see it. She read between the lines easily 
 enough, and laughed as she said, “ I think. Auntie dear, 
 this letter was meant more for me than for you, and has 
 been written, I have no doubt, under a very mistaken idea.’* 
 And Mrs. Connop was far too shrewd a woman not to 
 think her niece was taking a correct view of the subject. 
 
 “ Charmed to see you, Mr. Slade,” said Lettie, as she 
 rose to receive her visitor. “Since poor Charlie’s ‘grief’ 
 we have never set eyes upon you. My aunt will be down 
 in a few minutes ” — Miss Devereux devoutly hoped she 
 would not— “ and I am sure is dying, as we all are, to 
 thank you for your kindness to him in his trouble.” 
 
 “ Pray don’t mention it,” rejoined Bertie, “ it’s one of 
 the canons of the service that we must stick to each other ; 
 we all did the best we could for Charlie, but you know 
 there was nothing for it but India.” 
 
 “ I know,” replied Lettie, “ but I am afraid he finds 
 the life out there very dull.” 
 
 “Not a bit of it, Miss Devereux,” rejoined Slade. 
 “ Charlie is engaged in quite a lively pursuit out there ; he 
 and half the soldiers in the Madras Presidency apparently 
 are engaged in hunting down the craftiest and most mur- 
 derous old robber that ever took to the roads. This Shere 
 Ali keeps them tramping continually up and down the 
 Presidency, and seems as difficult to lay hands upon as a 
 Will-o’-the-Wisp. We shall perhaps get there in time to 
 get a turn at him too.” 
 
 “ You, Mr. Slade ! Why, what do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ Ah ! I forgot I hadn’t told you we’ve got our orders 
 for India ; and, as luck has it, are going to the same Pre- 
 sidency that Charlie is in. We are off in about three or 
 four weeks.” 
 
 Then the conversation rather languished. These were 
 two young people very desirous of saying something to 
 each other, and neither of them knowing exactly how to 
 begin. Of course, it was all remarkably simple. Bertie 
 Slade wished to impress upon Miss Devereux that she 
 really ought not to marry Furzedon ; while the lady on 
 her side was equally anxious to impress upon him that she 
 
292 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 had not the slightest intention of doing so. It is all very 
 well to smile as a bystander, and say, Absurd ! These 
 people could not fail to come to an explanation at once.” 
 But have you no experience of these comparatively 
 easy explanations not come to ? Have you never thought, 
 as you gained the street, of the thing you wished you had 
 said in the drawing-room ? And do not all of us know that 
 the explanation so easy at first becomes more difficult day 
 by day? Now, Lettie Devereux had good grounds for 
 thinking that Bertie Slade was rather smitten with herself, 
 and this seemed to make it rather difficult for her to volun- 
 teer the information that she was not engaged to Mr. 
 Furzedon. If Bertie would only afford her the slightest 
 opening it would be so easy ; but then, Bertie, on his side, 
 felt that he could not congratulate her. And that was 
 the only way he could see of alluding to what he supposed 
 to be a settled thing. 
 
 “ You will probably see Charlie, then ? ” said Miss Deve- 
 reux, at length, with that usual disregard of the size of the 
 country apt to characterise people who have never been 
 there. 
 
 “ Probably,*' replied Bertie, “ though it may be some 
 time first ; and I have come to say ‘ good-bye,’ Miss Deve- 
 reux ; and I have one favour to ask you before I go. I 
 wrote a note a short time ago to Mrs. Connop. I don’t 
 know whether she showed it to you, but, at all events I 
 hope she will.” 
 
 “ I have seen it,” interrupted Lettie. Still, what have 
 I to do with it ? ” 
 
 “ I only want you to believe that I am quite certain of 
 what I say in it, and that I am not merely detailing idle 
 gossip.” 
 
 “ As I said before, I really don’t see anything in it that 
 concerns me.” 
 
 Gilbert Slade was troubled. It was evident that he 
 could depend upon no help from Miss Devereux. It was 
 possible that she might indignantly refuse to listen to any 
 imputation on her lover. But Bertie was resolute to 
 speak out. 
 
 “ I should have thought,” he remarked, ** that you could 
 
A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. 
 
 m 
 
 not be indifferent to hearing that any one you had lived 
 upon friendly terms with ran the risk of being brought to 
 shame, I have no wish to discuss it, but I thought that 
 as he had stayed at North Leach, and was intimate with 
 you all, you ought to know it/' 
 
 “ Why ought I to know it ? " exclaimed Miss Devereux, 
 indignantly. “ Why will you keep insisting that this 
 specially concerns me ? If Mr. Furzedon has done any- 
 thing disgraceful, surely my father or my brothers are the 
 people you ought to communicate with.” 
 
 It is very rarely that loss of temper conduces to promote 
 a good understanding between people who are at cross 
 purposes. But Miss Devereux’s natural exasperation 
 somewhat cleared the air, and dispersed the fog in which 
 they were both rapidly losing themselves. Bertie, like 
 herself, was now not a little nettled, and it was somewhat 
 sharply that he retorted, “ I can only say that, according 
 to rumour, anything affecting Mr. Furzedon is likely to be 
 more severely felt by Miss Devereux than by any other of 
 her family. I suppose I was wrong to touch upon the sub- 
 ject, but Charlie and I were staunch friends.” 
 
 “ I know that,” rejoined Lettie, gently. “And you are 
 only saying to me what you would have said to him, had 
 he been in England. But you’re under a misapprehen- 
 sion, Mr. Slade. You have heard an absurd and rather 
 annoying rumour that got about last season, and for which, 
 believe me, there never has been the slightest foundation.” 
 “ Do you mean to say,” said Bertie, eagerly, “that there 
 is no engagement between you and Mr. Furzedon ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not ; I hardly understand myself how the 
 rumour got about.” 
 
 “ As far as I am concerned, I had it from your own 
 brother.” 
 
 “ What, from Charlie ? when ? ” 
 
 “ Last spring, and that is why I have regarded it as a 
 fact. When a young lady’s brother tells you the thing is 
 so, you must admit your knowledge is derived from good 
 authority.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed,” replied Miss Devereux; “but who cm 
 earth could have put that into Charlie’s head ? I am per* 
 
294 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 fectly sure \t never occurred to himself;” but here their 
 conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Con- 
 nop, who was unfeignedly glad to see her old favourite 
 again, and gave Gilbert Slade a most cordial welcome. 
 
 ‘‘ How long are you up in town for ? ” she asked, as she 
 settled herself in her chair, 
 
 “ Mr. Slade has come to say good-bye, Auntie,” inter- 
 posed Miss Devereux. 
 
 ‘‘ Good-bye, child ! why, he has hardly said how d’y® 
 do, and we haven’t seen him for months. I’ve got lots to say 
 to you, Mr. Slade. I am dying for a long gossip with you. 
 What day will it suit you to come out and dine with us ? ” 
 
 “ I am very sorry, but I hardly think that is possible. 
 I have only to-night and to-morrow night in town, and 
 shall be so busy all day that dinner will have to be a very 
 movable feast with me. There is, of course, a great deal 
 to do, and we really are oflf at once, and at very short 
 notice.” 
 
 Then the conversation became general, and Mrs. Con- 
 nop was deeply interested in the fact that the — th Hussars 
 were going to the same Presidency that Charlie was in, 
 and that there was a possibility of that young scapegrace 
 coming across his old comrades once more. Then Mrs. 
 Connop, ever sanguine, began to speculate on the chances 
 of Charlie getting back to his old corps, which she thought 
 might be effected soon after the — th Hussars got out there, 
 and Gilbert Slade had to explain to her that the War 
 Office people wouldn’t stand quite such a rapid shuffling 
 of the cards as that ; then Charlie’s affairs were discussed, 
 and Mrs. Connop was very anxious to know if any progress 
 had been made in their settlement, and was loud in her 
 expressions of gratitude to Major Braddock for all he had 
 done for him. 
 
 It really is very good of him to trouble himself about 
 Charlie’s business at all,” remarked the good lady; ‘‘in 
 fact he don’t deserve help or pity from any one.” 
 
 “ Uncle Bob is a real good sort,” interposed Slade. 
 “ He took a fancy to your brother, you see, Miss Devereux, 
 at first start, and although I own he was awfully disgusted 
 
 at his having tQ teave the regunent, yet he is always staunch 
 
CHARLIE'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 29S 
 
 and true to those he has once befriended. I don’t know wha^ 
 he has done about Charlie’s business, but I shall see him 
 to-night, and will come down to-morrow, and let you know 
 all about it, and now I must be going.” 
 
 “Why, I’ve seen nothing of you,” cried Mrs. Connop : 
 “ I’ve not had time to ask you about this business of Mr. 
 Furzedon.” 
 
 “ I don’t think there is any necessity for me to say any 
 more than I have done,” replied Slade, with a meaning 
 glance at Lettice ; “ the papers will tell you all about it 
 before a few weeks are over. Good-bye, Mrs. Connop, 
 good-bye. Miss Devereux,” and as he bent over her hand, 
 he said in a low tone, “You can’t think how happy you 
 have made me,” and then, with a hearty invitation from 
 Mrs. Connop to come to luncheon to-morrow, Gilbert Slade 
 took his departure. Not half a score of words, and yet 
 Lettice Devereux seemed quite as content as if she had 
 received a more explicit declaration. 
 
 XLI. — Charlie’s Baptism of Fire. 
 
 HARLIE DEVEREUX was once upon the war-path ; 
 
 and he and his comrades, like baffled hounds, grew 
 
 thoroughly savage in the pursuit of that perplexing mar- 
 auder Shere Ali. That the famous dacoit chief can assemble 
 some hundreds at his back should he so will was now well 
 known to the authorities ; but that his influence through 
 the Deccan is a thing that can be no longer borne with is 
 a fact thoroughly recognised. It is true he rarely gathers 
 together his followers in such numbers as he can command ; 
 but that he can put himself at the head of a most formid- 
 able band at two or three days’ notice is now perfectly 
 understood. His tactics are those of the old Highland 
 veterans in our own country, who sallied forth upon their 
 roving expeditions, sped homeward with their plunder, 
 and then rapidly dispersed. 
 
 Shere Ali makes similar outbursts in unexpected locali- 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 296 
 
 ties, and then, in like manner, disappears with his booty, 
 and is apparently swallowed up in adjacent jungles. The 
 marauder, too, has acquired a strange notoriety through 
 all that country. Information given detrimental to him- 
 self and his followers has several times been punished with 
 swift and singular barbarity. The villagers are shy of any 
 allusion to his whereabouts or proceedings ; and his bri- 
 gandage has attained such an extensive scale as to augur 
 pitiful weakness on the part of any government that fails 
 speedily to repress it. Even the veteran Hobson shook 
 his head over it, and said, in the course of his varied 
 experience, that Shere Ali was the most aggravating cus- 
 tomer he had ever had to deal with. 
 
 “ We have come across him once, Charlie,” he said, as 
 they jogged along one morning at the head of their now 
 mounted men, “ or else, upon my word, I should begin to 
 think this was quite a legendary chieftain ; but he and his 
 rapparees did shoot at us once ; and we were very close 
 upon their track a few hours afterwards.” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Charlie Devereux, “ and the massacre 
 of poor young Blades and his escort was a startling proof 
 of Shere Ali being very much alive and on the move ; but 
 the dream will come true, Hobson, I know it will. We shall 
 come up with him at last ; and then, if I know anything of 
 the temper of our fellows, they will be rather hard to hold. 
 They have hunted him for many weary miles, and heard so 
 many tales of the atrocities of himself and his followers, 
 that I don’t think there will be much quarter given when 
 the day of reckoning does come.” 
 
 ‘‘No; nor asked^'' said Hobson. “You will see these 
 fellows will die grimly as a fox in a trap, and with a like 
 snarl upon their lips. But, halloa ! what the deuce is 
 up ? this looks like business of some sort.” And, as he 
 spoke, Hobson pointed to one of the advance guard, 
 who was riding back to them as fast as his horse could 
 carry him. 
 
 “ Now, Wilson, what is it ?” 
 
 “ Sergeant Rivers sent me back, sir,” replied the soldier, 
 as he saluted, “ to say that he thought we were pretty close 
 upon these dacoit chaps, this time. There’s a pretty sight 
 
CHARLIE'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 297 
 
 when you get round the bend, sir and the soldier pointed 
 to the turn in the road, 
 
 ‘‘ Pass the word to close up, and sound the attention, 
 bugler,” said Hobson. “ Now, what’s round the bend, 
 Wilson?” 
 
 “ Well, sir, we must have pretty near caught these 
 scoundrels at their hellish work ; there’s a tolerably strong 
 travelling party, some of ’em well-armed, too, who have 
 been massacred to a man. The sergeant bid me tell you 
 that he thought the dacoits must be in considerable force.” 
 “ Bring them on at a trot, Devereux, as . soon as they 
 have closed up ; I’m going to gallop forward and see what 
 has taken place yonder.” 
 
 Accompanied by a soldier, Hobson galloped forward, 
 and the minute he rounded the turn in the road the tragedy 
 of the morning lay exposed to his view. About a score of 
 men lay stretched upon the road, weltering in their blood ; 
 and the whole scene was easy of interpretation, as the 
 sergeant in charge of the advance guard at once pointed 
 out to Hobson. “ These two men here by the side of the 
 road were evidently the leaders of the party.” 
 
 ‘‘ Evidently Parsee traders,” remarked Hobson, as he 
 dismounted from his horse, “ and the others, their servants 
 and an escort of soldiers, whom they had hired to protect 
 them. They have apparently been surprised and butchered 
 to a man, without offering much resistance.” 
 
 “Just so,” replied the sergeant, “ there is a stream just 
 away to the right here, and Shere Ali’s people must have 
 come upon them while they were cooking their mid-day 
 meal under the trees there.” 
 
 “ I see ; and these fellows fled into the open, and were 
 all cut down before they could make any stand at all.” 
 
 “ They weren’t all killed quite in that way, sir,” replied 
 the sergeant drily. “ This Baboo here was murdered in 
 cold blood, and tortured first ; look at his fingers, sir.” 
 
 “ I see,” said Hobson, “ it’s an old trick of theirs, burnt 
 nearly ofi* ; they’ve bound them in tow soaked with oil and 
 then set fire to them ; whether they’ve done it from sheer 
 devilry, because they didn’t get so much money as they 
 expected, or quite a^ likely to wring information from him 
 
298 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 about his property, I don’t know. Ha ! the other fared 
 very little better ; you can see the mark of the cord round 
 his neck; they half throttled him before they killed him.” 
 “ We can’t have been very far from catching them in the 
 very act, sir,” said the sergeant. 
 
 “ You’re right. Rivers, these bodies are not yet cold. 1 
 don’t believe these villains can be above three or four 
 hours ahead of us, perhaps not even so much.” 
 
 The robbers had done their work cleanly. All the ani- 
 mals belonging to the murdered party they had carried off 
 with them, and the dead had been stripped of everything 
 valuable about ^ their persons. Nothing was left but the 
 corpses of the two traders, their servants and escort, to tell 
 the story of that day’s cruel work. By this time the re- 
 mainder of the troop had come up, and were surveying the 
 scene with critical eyes. Old soldiers, most of them, who 
 had been through the fell fighting of the Mutiny, and to 
 whom the sight of a field strewn with dead was no novelty. 
 
 “ Not a wounded man amongst them,” growled one of 
 these. These devils give no quarter, and, if ever we do 
 
 come up with them, by ” 
 
 “ They can’t expect to get it. Look at that, too,” and 
 the speaker and several of his comrades gazed curiously at 
 the charred stumps of the hapless trader’s fingers. 
 
 “ Now, Rivers,” exclaimed Hobson, “ I’m going to push 
 forward at once. On you go, with your advance guard ; 
 keep your eyes skinned, and of course fall back the minute 
 you get touch of the enemy. I suspect Shere Ali is at the 
 head of a strong band this time.” 
 
 So little trouble had the robbers taken to mask their 
 movements that the way they had taken was pretty evi- 
 dent. Some of the soldiers, too, by this time had become 
 clever at scouting, and the best of these were put into the 
 advance guard, a bare half-mile from the scene of the 
 massacre, and it was evident that the marauders had left 
 the main road and struck across one of the jungle-trails to 
 the right. 
 
 It was further pretty apparent, from the horse-prints, 
 that they were in considerable numbers. Hobson had no 
 doubt that, according to his wont, Shere Ali, having placed 
 
CHARLIE'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 
 
 299 
 
 a hundred miles or so between himself and the scene of his 
 crime, would disband his followers, with the exception of 
 a trusted few, and then betake himself to his secret lurking- 
 place, the whereabouts of which so completely baffled his 
 pursuers; but its secret was well kept, and, so far, the 
 Feringees had got no hint of it. Hobson knew fhat so 
 long as he was close upon the trail of his foe, and that 
 Shere Ali kept at the head of a numerous band, he would 
 not be difficult to follow ; but so soon as he dispersed his 
 rapscallions there would be great danger of losing trace 
 of him. It had happened so near half a dozen times to 
 patrols who deemed him within their grasp, and Hobson 
 had no doubt that upon the one occasion he and Charlie 
 Devereux had stumbled upon the dacoit chief, vShere Ali 
 had but a mere handful of men with him, and thence the 
 ease with which the wily Indian had evaded him. 
 
 Keeping his men well in hand, Hobson plunged into the 
 jungle and followed fast in the footprints of his flying foe. 
 The men were all on the qiii vive, with both eyes and ears 
 alert for the slightest indication of the robbers. Every 
 man of them knew that their ride must be both fast and 
 far to give them any hope of coming up with the dacoit 
 chief. The immunity he had so far enjoyed from the 
 penalties of his crimes had been so far in great measure 
 due to the celerity of his movements. He and his followers 
 invariably fled from the scene of their murderous exploits 
 by forced marches, and Hobson and his troop had been 
 too long scouring the country in pursuit of him not to know 
 that to capture Shere Ali involved beating him at his own 
 tactics. 
 
 Silently they went on in the same monotonous jog-trot, 
 for Hobson had sternly ordered that there should be no 
 talking in the ranks, and impressed upon his men that 
 their march must be conducted with as little noise as pos- 
 sible. Mile after mile was thrown behind them, and still 
 the advance guard reported “ no glimpse of the enemy.” 
 Still the footprints of a large body of horses were ever in 
 their front. Hobson’s face wore an anxious expression, 
 while young Devereux chafed inwardly at what he irrever- 
 ently termed ‘‘ the slowness of his captain," 
 
300 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 If it had been left to him, he would have advanced at a 
 hand gallop, the result of which would have been, that if 
 he failed to come up with the foe in less than two hours 
 the horses would have been about ridden to a standstill ; 
 while if he did succeed in overtaking them his men would 
 have laboured under the disadvantage of being upon half- 
 blown cattle. 
 
 However, Hobson had too much experience to fall into 
 any such error. If his face wore a thoughtful expression 
 it was because he was calculating how much longer he 
 could jog along at the moderate pace he was going without 
 pulling up to give men and horses a temporary rest. Ex- 
 perience had taught him that the dacoits managed to do 
 with very short halts; and he and his men would be, 
 therefore, constrained to do the like. It was likely to be a 
 severe strain upon both men and horses for six-and-thirty 
 hours or more ; for perhaps two days and nights, he cal- 
 culated, the whole party would have to do with very little 
 rest. “ As for the men,” thought Hobson, “ they must 
 contrive to eat and sleep in the saddle, but pull up to bait 
 the horses we must.” Water, too, was becoming a very 
 serious consideration. The men’s water-bottles, he knew, 
 must be pretty well emptied ; and then, again, what was to 
 be done about the horses ? — they had no idea where or when 
 they would come upon it. However, Hobson comforted 
 himself with the reflection that water was as necessary to 
 Shere Ali as to himself, and that the dacoits must know of 
 a stream on their road. His mind was destined to be 
 speedily set at rest on the one point. Suddenly shots were 
 heard in the front, and the advance guard were seen fall- 
 ing rapidly back. Sergeant Rivers hurriedly reported that 
 they had come upon the rear of the dacoits, apparently 
 unexpected by the latter. The marauders were marching 
 in rather irregular and desultory fashion, but closed up and 
 faced about the minute they discovered their pursuers. 
 
 ‘‘ They mean fighting, sir, never fear,” said the sergeant, 
 as he finished his report. 
 
 “ Is there a large body of them ? ” asked Hobson. 
 
 “ Rather difficult to say, sir,” replied the sergeant ; but 
 they’ve fcwrmed across the roa^” 
 
CHARLIE'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 301 
 
 “ Mr. Devereux/' said Hobson, “ take ten files, creep 
 round the jungle to the right, so as to take ’em in flank. 
 I’m going to attack in front at once ; but nothing demoral- 
 ises these black fellows like finding their assailants have 
 got round their flank. You had better go with him, Rivers. 
 One moment, Devereux, get well round, remember, almost 
 towards their rear, before you attack ; never fear but what 
 you’ll get plenty of fighting.” 
 
 Charlie touched his hat ; moved rapidly to the rear , 
 told off his score of men ; and then, accompanied by 
 Rivers, plunged into the jungle. Hobson, without further 
 delay, at once dashed at his enemy in front ; but the 
 dacoits stood their ground, and evidently meant to offer a 
 stubborn resistance. 
 
 The English soldiers had dismounted, and, in skirmish- 
 ing order, had advanced rapidly along the road, and had 
 spread through the jungle on either side of it. But the 
 robbers were much too cunning to keep on the road ; they 
 quickly resorted to the cover on either side of it, and the 
 rattle of the musketry became now continuous. Taking 
 advantage of every tree, the soldiers closed rapidly in on 
 their foes, but the latter apparently had no intention of 
 meeting the Feringees at close quarters. They retreated 
 sullenly before them, at the same time yielding ground 
 slowly and disputing it yard by yard. 
 
 Charlie Devereux meanwhile was doing his best to carry 
 out his instructions, and, though the rattle of the musketry 
 made both himself and his men impatient to take part in 
 the fray, yet he resolved, in his own parlance, to “ ride 
 strictly to orders,” which, however, were made the more 
 difficult to carry out from the fact of the robbers falling 
 back, and which were destined to end most unfortunately 
 for Charlie. Shere Ali, flushed with the successes which 
 had attended his late exploits, and finding himself — much 
 against his will — brought to bay, determined, as he said, 
 to read the Feringees a lesson. His force very much 
 outnumbered that of Hobson, and it had occurred to him 
 to put in force the same manoeuvre that his antagonists • 
 had employed. He had detached quite a third of his force, 
 under one of his ablest lieutenants, with similar orders to 
 
302 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 those of Devereux. The result was obvious : these two 
 parties, each stealing round to fall upon their adversary’s 
 flank, must come into contact. And Devereux and his 
 party, instead of surprising the robbers, suddenly found 
 themselves surrounded by the enemy in numbers of four- 
 fold their own strength. 
 
 With a shout of “ Follow me ! ” Devereux dashed straight 
 at the dacoits with the intention of cutting his way through, 
 and then falling on the flank of the main body in compli- 
 ance with his instructions. But weight of numbers brought 
 the English soldiers back, and the result of a few minutes’ 
 sharp fighting saw Charlie stretched senseless from a sabre 
 cut dealt by the grim old sowar who led the enemy’s flank- 
 ing party. Sergeant Rivers, who was now left in com- 
 mand, made two desperate charges in the hopes of at least 
 carrying Devereux off with him ; but it was in vain, the 
 robbers were too numerous for him ; and he was eventu- 
 ally driven back on the main body, with the loss of half 
 his men. 
 
 But Hobson understood his business, and, as soon as 
 he had become aware of the fact that his flank was turned, 
 he fell back and rapidly showed a front in the direction of 
 his fresh assailants; in short, the English formation speedily 
 became that of a somewhat irregular square, and their leader 
 confined himself at present to the defences. Hobson and 
 his men had not fought the Bandies for nothing ; he had 
 miscalculated the strength of his antagonists, and had 
 not calculated upon Shere Ali’s crafty manoeuvre, but he 
 laughed at the idea of the dacoits, however numerous, 
 breaking his formation. In vain did Shere Ali urge on 
 his men, and exhort them not to spare the infidel dogs, 
 nor to leave a Feringee alive to see the sun go down. 
 After one or two half-hearted attempts the marauders 
 recognised that the Feringees were a very tough nut 
 to crack ; the deadly Enfields scattered havoc in their 
 ranks, and they eventually recoiled, cowed and discomfited. 
 Shere Ali gnashed his teeth with rage ; but he, too, was 
 quick to understand that the massacre of a troop of English 
 soldiers was a very different thing from that of a couple of 
 sgubradors and their native escort. He drew off suddenly 
 
CHARLIE’S BAPTISM OF FIRE, 
 
 303 
 
 like a wounded tiger baulked of his prey. And Hobson 
 took advantage of the lull to reckon up his casualties. It 
 had been a sharp brush, and, though the dacoits were 
 strewn pretty thickly on the ground, yet his own loss was 
 considerable for an affair of this nature. He was much 
 concerned to hear that Charlie Devereux had fallen, and 
 no sooner were the robbers fairly in retreat than Sergeant 
 Rivers and a party were sent out to bring in their officer. 
 It was possible he might not have been killed ; and, at all 
 events, it was their duty to see they left no wounded 
 beliind them. But the dacoits had made sure work of the 
 fallen, the wounded had been butchered where they lay. 
 One thing only was extraordinary^- Charlie Devereux, 
 whether dead or alive, had disappeared. 
 
 Hobson looked very grave when it was reported to him 
 that Mr. Devereux was missing. Anything was better 
 than this. Shere Ali’s ferocious character was well known ; 
 and even the men felt that their comrades who lay cold 
 and stark in the jungle had met with a more merciful fate 
 than was probably reserved for the officer who had led 
 them That he had been carried off by the dacoits there 
 could be no doubt. It was hardly likely that they would 
 have done this unless he had been alive. And the toughest 
 veterans among them shook their heads ruefully over the 
 sort of mercy that Shere Ali was likely to mete out to a 
 captive in the hour of his defeat. Hobson’s resolve was 
 soon made ; in half an hour, he was once more pressing on 
 the footsteps of his retreating foe ; he was resolved to stick 
 to Shere Ali’s skirts till men or horses gave out. He would 
 track this human tiger to his stronghold, or prevent his 
 ever reaching it. In face of a very hot pursuit it was 
 possible that Shere Ali would think it best not to betray 
 the secret of his citadel ; he was far too shrewd not to 
 understand that once known his capture became a simple 
 . matter of a few days. The English could bring up force 
 to overwhelm him in a marvellously short time. Hobson 
 knew, moreover, that his own party was only one of a 
 perfect chain of patrols, sent forth for the capture of the 
 dacoit chief. “ It was odd,” he thought, if he could not 
 capture Shere Ali himself, he would succeed in hunting 
 
304 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 him into the hands of some other patrol of the cordon/' 
 And therefore he continued to hang upon the trail of the 
 dacoits with untiring pertinacity. 
 
 XLII. — Mrs. Kynaston’s Disappointment. 
 
 B ertie SLADE walked away in a very different state 
 of mind from Onslow Gardens to that in which he 
 had arrived there. What a fool he had been ! ingenuously 
 tormenting himself about Lettie’s betrothal, when all the 
 while no such engagement ever existed. Well, it was all 
 right now, and he cared little what became of Furzedon, 
 though he felt pretty certain that Norman Slade would 
 take good care that righteous retribution was dealt out to 
 him. Then he thought of how he had fallen into this 
 mistake. He was quite certain that it was from Charlie 
 he first heard of it ; but he remembered what Lettie had 
 said, ‘‘ that somebody must have put it into his head, for 
 that her brother was the last man to arrive at such a con- 
 clusion from his own observations.” And then it flashed 
 across him that he also had heard it from other lips. Mrs. 
 Kynaston had told him the same story. Was it not pos- 
 sible that Charlie’s knowledge of his sister’s engagement 
 had been derived from the same source ? He turned this 
 over in his mind as he walked along. Charlie was very 
 thick with Mrs. Kynaston , and Bertie remembered well 
 it was just after that flying visit of young Devereux’s to 
 town that he told this bit of news, “And, by heaven!” 
 muttered Bertie to himself, “ I recollect now. He said he 
 heard it from Mrs. Kynaston ; and remarked how odd it 
 was that he should have the first tidings of his sister’s 
 intended marriage from any other but herself.” 
 
 Bertie Slade looked at his watch. It was early yet, he 
 thought ; he had still plenty of time before dinner ; some- 
 how he didn’t seem to have half so much to do as he 
 thought he had that morning. The fact was the important 
 part of his business in town was already brought to a 
 
MRS. KYNASTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 305 
 
 satisfactory conclusion. He ought to call and wish Mrs. 
 Kynaston good-bye before he sailed. “ Td make any bet 
 that this rumour was a bit of her handiwork ; but why ? 
 What object could she have in setting such a report afloat ? 
 I shouldn’t fancy her a mischievous woman either.” And 
 still puzzling over Mrs. Kynaston’s motives Gilbert Slade 
 arrived at the little house in Mayfair, and was forthwith 
 ushered into Mrs. Kynaston’s drawing-room. 
 
 “ Mr. Slade,” exclaimed that lady, her eyes sparkling 
 with genuine pleasure, ‘Gt is ages since I’ve seen or even 
 heard of you. Sit down, do, and give an account of 
 yourself.” 
 
 “ There is not much to be told,” he replied ; ‘‘ we got 
 through the winter at York pretty much as they always do. 
 We hunted all day and danced all night ; rode as hard as 
 we dared, and valsed as long as we could last.” 
 
 “ Well, you are not very much to be pitied. We had 
 the hunting, of course, but as for our dances, they were as 
 thinly spread as the butter of our childhood. And now I 
 suppose you are up for some time ? ” 
 
 On the contrary, I have but three days’ leave ; and, 
 s'ad to say, have come to wish you good-bye ; we sail for 
 India in about three weeks.” 
 
 The colour faded out of Kate Kynaston’s cheeks as, in 
 a low voice, she faltered out, “ What is the meaning of 
 this freak ? ” 
 
 We don’t know,” replied Slade; ‘‘but it is a freak of 
 the War Office, not of mine.” 
 
 “ What, the regiment is ordered out ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, at monstrous short notice ; and, as far as we can 
 see, for no particular reason. Pray don’t suppose I am 
 very enthusiastic about it.” 
 
 “ Nor, I am sure, are your many friends,” rejoined the 
 lady. 
 
 “ Amongst whom I trust I may reckon Mrs. Kynaston,” 
 said Slade. 
 
 “ None truer, you know it,” exclaimed Kate, extending 
 her hand, and flashing a coquettish look at him from under 
 her dark eyelashes, that might have provoked most men to 
 philandering, if not to more passionate love-making. But 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 306 
 
 Gilbert Slade’s heart was steeled. Not only was he wholly 
 devoted to another woman, but he held that Mrs. Kynaston 
 was the originator of the report of Lettie’s engagement, 
 and had so caused him months of unhappiness. 
 
 It is very kind of you to say so,” he replied, as he took 
 her hand and raised it to his lips ; “ we all like to think 
 there is some one who will miss us when we are gone.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes ; and I for one shall miss you very much. I have 
 missed you so much during the long and dreary winter,” 
 and again it was impossible for any man to mistake the 
 challenge held forth to him. 
 
 “ I am sorry,” he replied, “ that I was unable to make 
 my way into North Lincolnshire, but Charlie Devereux’s 
 smash knocked that little scheme on the head. By the 
 way, I had hoped to have seen his sister married before I 
 sailed ; I suppose the wedding will take place before long, 
 now.” 
 
 I should imagine so,” replied Mrs. Kynaston, a little 
 shortly. Was this man adamant, that he should reply to 
 such an opening that she had vouchsafed him by talking of 
 another woman’s marriage ? ** However, I have not seen 
 
 Miss Devereux since the winter, and don’t think she has 
 arrived in town as yet ; but never mind Lettie, tell me all 
 about yourself. When do you go, and where are you 
 going ? ” 
 
 “ I have told you already all I know about it ; further 
 than that, the Madras Presidency is our destination.” 
 
 “ It’s always the same,” replied Kate, pettishly. ‘‘ It 
 is never any use making friends with a soldier ; all my 
 favourites invariably get sent on foreign service.” 
 
 Strictly speaking, Mrs. Kynaston’s charms, aided by her 
 husband’s weakness for play, had made foreign service a 
 necessary change for more than one of her military 
 admirers. Still, in this case no such sin could be laid 
 against her. Gilbert Slade’s acquaintance with Dick 
 Kynaston was of the slightest ; the Major had never invited 
 him to touch either card or cue ; and as we know, too, even 
 in Charlie’s case, Kate had told her husband outright that 
 be must be allowed to pass scatheless. 
 
 ‘‘ Jt’s very good of you to class me in that category,” he 
 
MRS. KYNASTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 30;^ 
 
 said slowly at length. “ It is odd, though, as an intimate 
 friend of Miss Devereux’s, that you should have fallen into 
 the mistake of believing her to be engaged to Furzedon.” 
 She felt that her lie was detected ; but it was little likely 
 that a woman like Mrs. Kynaston would be put out of 
 countenance by a trifle like that. “ Oh dear !” she said 
 pettishly, “ what have I to do with Miss Devereux’s engage- 
 ments ? I know she was ; it’s quite likely she isn’t now. 
 Girls of her age are quite capable of changing their mind.” 
 “ I don’t think she has changed her mind,” replied Bertie. 
 ** I don’t think a girl like Miss Devereux would be long 
 making up her mind about a man like Furzedon.” 
 
 And pray what do you know against Mr. Furzedon ? ” 
 “ I know,” replied Bertie, sternly, “ what I presume you 
 know also, at all events you do if you are in your husband’s 
 confidence ; you know his history, and you know the expose 
 that threatens him, and yet, knowing all this, you have 
 never warned your intimate friend of the character of the 
 man whom you supposed to be her fianck.'' 
 
 I don’t understand to what you allude, Mr. Slade,” 
 replied the lady, now thoroughly angry. “ If you are 
 desirous of discussing Miss Devereux’s affairs you had much 
 better talk them over with her. I am very likely misin- 
 formed about them.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so,” said Gilbert ; “ at all events I am quite 
 sure you have been very much misinformed about Mr. 
 Furzedon., If your husband has not enlightened you, I can 
 only apologise for what I have said. The matter will be 
 a public scandal shortly, and then you will understand 
 what I mean. Good-bye.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston swept him a stately bow, and resolutely 
 ignored the hand he held out to her. Another minute and 
 Gilbert was gone — not quite the parting this that Mrs. 
 Kynaston had pictured to herself ; and as she paced the 
 room in her passion once again did Kate Kynaston vow 
 that Bertie Slade should never wed Lettice Devereux if 
 she could prevent it. 
 
 It was in a very happy frame of mind that Bertie sat 
 down to dinner with his uncle at the Thermopolium ; but 
 §till it cannot be said that he was overflowing with kindU- 
 
SADDLE AND SABRB. 
 
 308 
 
 ness to all humanity. For once the attractive Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton had most thoroughly missed her mark, and far from 
 subduing Gilbert had simply aroused a feeling of angry 
 vindictiveness in his nature. It was not that he would 
 have said a word, or stirred a finger towards her woe, but 
 he most assuredly would have felt little sympathy at any 
 social discomfiture that might await her. He was not of a 
 very soft or impressionable nature, and he did consider, as 
 we know rightly, that she had occasioned him much un- 
 happiness by the rumour of which she was the originator. 
 
 “ Well, Bertie,*’ said Major Braddock, as, having finished 
 his soup, he raised a glass of sherry to his lips, “ so the old 
 regiment is going * to take a turn in the East. Good 
 heavens ! ” he continued, putting his glass hastily down, 
 “ look here, waiter, send the wine butler here at once. 
 How dare you bring that sherry to me, Stephens ? ” he 
 exclaimed, as that functionary made his appearance. “ It 
 might have done for some of the very young gentlemen, 
 but not for me ; it’s corked ; smell it.” 
 
 “ I’m sure I’m very sorry, sir,” replied Stephens ; “ I 
 decantered it myself, and I detected nothing wrong with it.” 
 “ Then you’re not fit for your situation,” retorted the 
 Major sternly. “ Change it at once.” 
 
 “Certainly, sir;” and murmuring “I am always very 
 particular about your wine, Major Braddock,” Stephens 
 retreated meekly. 
 
 “ It’s very, very slightly touched,” said Bertie. 
 
 “ I know that,” rejoined the Major, “ and there are 
 plenty of men in the club who wouldn’t have detected it 
 was touched at all, but Stephens ought to know better than 
 to try it on me.” 
 
 Gilbert thought that he himself would probably have 
 been one of those who would have not detected it had he 
 been dining by himself, but he knew better than to interfere 
 with his gourmet uncle until he had been pacified by a 
 glass of sherry to which even he could take no exception. 
 
 “ Well,” said the Major, “ India is a place to see, and 
 your getting your troop just before going out makes it 
 worth your while. A captain really draws a decent income 
 put there; after two or three years, if you don’t like it, 
 

 ‘‘GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE.” 300 
 
 we shall no doubt be able to manage an exchange home 
 for you.'* 
 
 “ Thanks,” replied Gilbert, “ but I shall be home before 
 that, I think. Tm as good as engaged to be married.” 
 
 “ The deuce you are,” replied Major Braddock ; ‘Vand 
 who to, pray ? ” 
 
 “ To Miss Devereux, Charlie’s only sister.” 
 
 “ Ah ! a very pretty girl, I’ve heard your Uncle Norman 
 say ; but I say, Bertie, I trust she hasn’t got her brother’s 
 talent for getting through money, or you will be clean 
 broke before a couple of years are out.” 
 
 ‘‘ I think there is no fear of that,” replied Gilbert, laugh- 
 ing. “ I must go out, you see, but as, for a wonder, we 
 don’t happen to have any war upon our hands, there will 
 be no trouble about getting home again.” 
 
 “Well, I always think soldiers are better unmarried,” 
 rejoined the Major ; “ still, when you’ve got your troop, I 
 always said you had a right to please yourself. I can only 
 sincerely trust you will be happy. I know a little about 
 old Devereux’s affairs from looking after his son’s. That 
 girl will come into a comfortable little bit of mone}^ some 
 day.” And then the conversation turned into other chan- 
 nels chiefly bearing on the regiment, and which have no 
 bearing on this history. Once only did Gilbert revert to 
 the Devereux family, and then it was to ask if any steps 
 had been taken about Charlie’s difficulties. The Major 
 briefly gave him an account of his interview with Jordan & 
 Co. “ The knowledge of who Jordan & Co. actually are is 
 a trump card in our hands, for, sooner than face a court of 
 law, I have not the slightest doubt Mr. Furzedon will 
 abandon all claims to usurious interest.” 
 
 kLIII. — “ Good-bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye.” 
 ILBERT SLADE made his appearance in Onslow 
 
 Gardens a good half-hour before the luncheon hour ; 
 
 and Mrs. Connop, who hardly needed the hint that her 
 niece vouchsafed her, had discreetly left the drawing-room 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 3^0 
 
 to Miss Devereux’s sole occupation. If Gilbert had been 
 somewhat vacillating yesterday, he came very directly to 
 the point to-day. 
 
 “You know what I have come for, Lettice. I have come 
 to say plainly what I virtually said yesterday, and can only 
 trust that, in my joy at finding you free, I did not read 
 your feelings wrongly. Will you marry me? I love you 
 very dearly, and have done, I believe, ever since I first 
 knew you ; but it wasn’t until I heard that lying rumour 
 that I discovered how very much you were to me. Can 
 you like me well enough to say ‘ Yes ? ’ ” 
 
 Miss Devereux hesitated only for a moment, then frankly 
 stretched out her hand, and said simply, “ Yes, I will be 
 your wife.” An answer to which the victor at once replied 
 by seizing the spoils of war, and pressing his lips to hers. 
 
 Then Miss Devereux sat demurely down, and motioned 
 him to a seat by her side ; and the conversation became, 
 although extremely interesting to themselves, one that 
 would read insufferably dull upon paper. There are some 
 things best left to the imagination ; and it is a question 
 whether our own experiences don’t suggest more to us than 
 all books can tell. I don’t think, beyond the fact that their 
 marriage could not take place for some little time, they 
 gave much heed to future arrangements, which was, 
 perhaps, as well, as it is difficult to say what changes a 
 few months may make in one’s plans. 
 
 When Mrs. Connop came into the room, Gilbert lost no 
 time in telling her of Lettie’s promise to be his wife. Of 
 course,” he said, diplomatically, “ there are yourself and 
 her father and mother to be consulted. As far as I am 
 concerned, I am my own master. My parents are both 
 dead, but I told my uncle. Major Braddock, about it last 
 night ” 
 
 “ How could you,” interrupted Lettice, laughing ; “ what 
 dreadful audacity! You couldn’t be sure I should say 
 ‘ Yes.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ Pray don’t think you were compromised,” rejoined 
 Gilbert, gaily. “ I only told him what I intended to do ; 
 that I had almost as good as asked you, and that I had 
 hopes of a favourable answer. Well, Mrs. Connop, you 
 
•COOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE.'^ 3H 
 
 knoTv Uncle Bob is a good sort ; you know how he stood 
 to Charlie. Well, he wished me joy, and I feel quite sure 
 my Uncle Norman — he has seen you, remember, Lettice — 
 will say the same in his own way. I only trust, Mrs. 
 Connop, you can say the same on your side.” 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Slade,” replied that lady, in quite a little 
 fluster of pleasure and excitement, ** you have both my 
 most hearty good wishes, and I shall be only too charmed 
 to welcome you as a nephew. I cannot, of course, answer 
 for my brother ; but I don’t think it is likely that he will 
 not be equally pleased to receive you into the family.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” replied Bertie, quietly, ** I always felt 
 I could rely upon you, and I hope I have a satisfactory 
 story to tell to Mr. Devereux.” 
 
 I have not the slightest doubt of it ; but now, young 
 people, do come to lunch, you may not have time to be 
 hungry, but I both have and am.” 
 
 A very merry party was that in the dining-room that 
 afternoon. Mrs. Connop insisted that the occasion re- 
 quired a bottle of champagne ; and, let devotees of the 
 Blue Ribbon League rave as they will, that does impart a 
 liveliness to conversation. 
 
 Things were discussed in a much more business-like way 
 under the auspices of Mrs. Connop than they had been by 
 the young couple in the drawing-room. And that Gilbert 
 should go out to India and return within a year for the 
 wedding was definitely settled. 
 
 “ Stop, I tell you what, Mrs. Connop,’ suddenly ex- 
 claimed Bertie, “ I’ve got an idea. I must go back to 
 York, because there’s such a deuce of a lot to do, and, 
 though the chief is as good as gold about leave, it stands 
 to reason the work must be done. Now I shall see awfully 
 little of Lettice before I sail ; if you wouldn’t mind it you 
 would be real good-natured, and if Mr. Devereux says it’s 
 all right, you might run down to Portsmouth and see 
 us off.” 
 
 “ My goodness, Mr. Slade, that is rather a startling pro- 
 posal. I don’t think I quite see my way to that.” 
 
 “ It’s quite easy, I assure you ; Major Braddock is 
 Mre to come down, and I am sura would be only too 
 
312 
 
 SADDLE AKD SABRS. 
 
 pleased to take charge of you. Fll take very good care 
 that you get a line from him volunteering his services ; 
 and don’t be afraid, Lettice, you’ll be awfully well taken 
 care of, as far as eating and drinking goes, while you’re 
 under his charge.” 
 
 Miss Deyereux and her aunt were both too well aware 
 of the Major’s pet weakness not to smile at this recom- 
 mendation, and Mrs. Connop at length was induced to say 
 “ she would think it over, and, if possible, run down to see 
 the last of him.” 
 
 ** Amuse you, I am sure, Mrs. Connop,” said Gilbert ; 
 
 a rather strange mixture are the good-byes on those 
 occasions. If some of them are made with laughter and 
 toast-drinking there are others made with tears and broken 
 words. However, our good-bye is not likely to be of that 
 sort ; we are not going campaigning, and there is nothing 
 to prevent our friends giving us a real cheery God-speed.” 
 
 By the time this was satisfactorily arranged Gilbert dis- 
 covered that it was time for him to go. He had two or 
 three things yet to arrange before leaving town, so he bade 
 his fiancee a hasty adieu, shook hands heartily with Mrs. 
 Connop, dashed down stairs, and jumped into the first 
 hansom he came across. 
 
 Her very unsatisfactory interview with Gilbert Slade 
 had aroused all Mrs. Kynaston’s energies. It was possible 
 that Miss Devereux was in town, although she had not as 
 yet heard it, but Mrs. Kynaston determined that that was 
 a point she would lose no time in clearing up, and with 
 this object the next day she drove down to Onslow Gar- 
 dens to call upon Mrs. Connop, and arrived there a bare 
 half-hour after Gilbert had left the house. She was not 
 surprised to find in answer to her inquiries that Miss De- 
 vereux was in town. Thinking the whole thing over, she 
 had felt pretty certain, not only that she must be, but that 
 Gilbert had seen her, and an understanding of some sort 
 had been arrived at between the pair. Both ladies she was 
 informed were at home, and she accordingly followed the 
 servant upstairs. 
 
 Persistent believer as she had always affected to be in 
 Miss Devereux’s engagement to Furzedon, yet it had never 
 
•good-bye, sweetheart, good-byb.®® 
 
 3*3 
 
 occurred to Lettie to sucpect Kate of having industriously 
 set about the rumour, and therefore she was received with 
 great cordiality. Mrs. Connop had never quite liked Mrs. 
 Kynaslon, but she was so elated by the event of the morn- 
 ing that she would have welcomed any one warmly ; 
 while, as for Lettie, she was only too pleased to feel that 
 it was now in her power to convince her friend of the 
 absurdity of the idea of her ever marrying Mr. Furzedon. 
 
 “ I have been barely in town a week,’’ said Lettie, in 
 answer to Mrs. Kynaston’s reproaches of not acquainting 
 her with her own arrival. “ I should have been round to 
 see you in a day or two, but it was very nice of you to call 
 to-day. You are always speculating on my marriage. 
 Well, I have a bit of news for you. I am really engaged.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston paused for a moment before she replied. 
 Although expecting something of the sort, she was not 
 prepared for an open avowal of the engagement. It was 
 with difficulty she preserved her composure, as she replied, 
 “ Pray accept my congratulations, and don’t be surprised 
 at my not asking the name of the happy man. He came 
 down to take a sentimental leave of me yesterday after- 
 noon, and I have no doubt was engaged in paying a round 
 of such v*isits. I pretty well gathered how his leave-taking 
 here had terminated.” 
 
 Lettice started as if she had been stung ; she had had 
 her tiffs with Kate Kynaston, no doubt, but she did regard 
 her as her most intimate friend, and had expected her con- 
 gratulations would be both honest and thorough, but there 
 was no mistaking the half-sneer in Mrs. Kynaston’s speech, 
 nor could any one fail to notice the cold half-mocking tones 
 in which the conventional words were spoken. Mrs. Kyn- 
 aston was a good actress, but for once in her life the blow 
 had been too severe, and for the moment she had involun- 
 tarily dropped the mask. She repented almost as soon 
 as the words had passed her lips, but for the minute 
 she could not for the life of her have said otherwise. 
 
 I don’t think Mr. Slade had time to pay quite as many 
 calls as yon suggest, nor even if he did say good-bye to a 
 few of his friends do I suppose his partings were quite of 
 the character you describe*” 
 
3H 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRl. 
 
 
 ‘‘ Yes/* chimed in Mrs. Connop, sharply, ** Lettie is a 
 very lucky girl. Mr. Slade will get his troop almost imme- 
 diately, and it will all do very nicely; at all events, we are 
 very pleased with it, are we not, Lettie ? ’* 
 
 “ And with good reason,” cried Mrs. Kynaston, who had 
 by this time quite recovered herself. “ I congratulate you 
 with all my heart, Lettie ; though,” she continued, with a 
 comical little grimace and a shrug of her shoulders, “ it is 
 rather hard to have one of one's pet admirers taken from 
 one in this fashion.” 
 
 I can't call to mind ever figuring quite in that way as 
 regards you,” replied Miss Devereux. 
 
 “ Now, don't be touchy, Lettie,” said Mrs. Kynaston, 
 laughing. “ It's only my way, you know ; besides, he is 
 formally declared your property now, though I am afraid 
 you will see but little of him before he sails.” 
 
 “We are to go down to Portsmouth and see the last of 
 him,” said Mrs. Connop. “ He was always a great favour- 
 ite of mine, and as he says, ‘ this is only saying good-bye 
 for a few months,' and there is no fighting going on, so 
 we’ve no cause to feel anxious about him.” 
 
 “ All very nice,” rejoined Mrs. Kynaston, “ but i must 
 be going now Good-bye, Lettie , I am sure I wish you 
 every happiness, and you mustn't begrudge Mr Slade 
 having come to say good-bye to me. I am an old friend 
 of his, you know. Good-bye, Mrs. Connop, early days for 
 her to be jealous, isn’t it ? ” and with a gay laugh Mrs. 
 Kynaston sailed out of the room. 
 
 “ And I thought that woman my friend 1 ’ exclaimed 
 Lettie. “ Did you ever hear anything like her, aunt ? her 
 congratulations were a mere mockery. Jealous I no. I’m 
 not that ; but Kate was doing, and would do, her very best 
 to make me so, if she only had the opportunity.” 
 
 “ I never did like her,” replied Mrs. Connop, “ but as for 
 the jealousy, my dear, it was all on her side. She is very 
 much put out at your engagement, depend upon it.” 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston had been unable to avoid betraying her- 
 self, though she would fain have done otherwise. She was 
 too angry with the affianced pair to listen to the announce- 
 ment ^ thek happiness with patience. The rejection of 
 
GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE.^ 3IS 
 
 her precious spikenard is a sore trial for any woman’s 
 temper, but the full measure of her wrath is sure to be 
 reserved for that one of her sisters who brought such dis- 
 comfiture about. 
 
 The brief interval soon slips away, and the gallant — th 
 are in all the turmoil that the order for foreign service 
 invariably evolves. The sale of their horses was, as is 
 always the case, the worst ever known. Who cares to 
 buy hunters at the end of the hunting season ? As young 
 Sparshot pithily remarked, They would not have lost much 
 more, and it would have been far more graceful to have 
 shot the lot in the barrack-yard, and sent them over to the 
 kennels to feed the hounds they had followed so well.” 
 Unsatisfied creditors thronged the barrack-yard, exces- 
 sively anxious for the s^Ulement of their little accounts, or 
 at least some security hit tliern, occasioning much care and 
 anxiety to those gay soldiers who had lived up to the tra- 
 ditional maxim, and “ spent half a crown out of sixpence a 
 day.” It is ever so ; and, when great military authorities 
 tell you that the army is ready for active service to the last 
 buckle and gaiter-strap, I fear the officer’s private affairs 
 are rarely taken into consideration. However, all these 
 little difficulties are over at last, the sickly men have been 
 cast by the doctors, the depot has been formed, and, 
 having this latter behind them, the service strength of the 
 regiment was duly trained down to Portsmouth. 
 
 That there should be no particular enthusiasm about 
 their embarkation was but natural. They were not going 
 out to take part in a big fight, nor were bands ringing out 
 the spirit-stirring melodies which such occasions invariably 
 give rise to ; but for all that there are always plenty of 
 people who flock to see one of our British regiments embark, 
 and start them on their voyage with a ringing cheer. 
 
 Upon arrival at Portsmouth the — th marched to the 
 dockyard, where the Semiramis was lying alongside the 
 quay. The gigantic steamship speedily engulfed them 
 between her capacious decks, and then Gilbert had time 
 to look round for those who had come to see him off. He 
 had waved his hand to Lettie and her escort as he marched 
 bis troop on boardi but as soon as the men had settled 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 316 
 
 down he and several of his brother officers rushed a^ore 
 to welcome the friends who had come to see them off. 
 
 “ Ah ! Bertie, my boy,’* exclaimed the Major, “ glad to 
 see they are sending you out like a gentleman. None of 
 your beastly little tubs, but a slashing big ship. They tell 
 me you sail at day-break ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, that is so,” replied Gilbert ; ** but come on board 
 now, Mrs. Connop, ladies always like looking round a ship, 
 and there is a sort of nondescript meal will take place in 
 the saloon within an hour.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Miss Devereux, “ I should like to do that. 
 Do you know the other day you quite forgot to tell me how 
 Cliarlie’s business was getting on.” 
 
 “ So I did,” replied Gilbert ; but you at all events must 
 allow it was excusable.” 
 
 “ Well, never mind now. I asked Major Braddock 
 about them as we came down, and he says they will be 
 arranged before very long. Father will have to pay a good 
 bit of money for him ; but it’s a great thing that he hadn’t 
 to leave the army.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Gilbert ; but here the conversation was 
 interrupted by Major Braddock, who exclaimed, I am 
 sorry to say we shall have to cut our leave-taking very 
 short. The captain has just told me, Bertie, that, though 
 you don’t what is called sail till daybreak, he is going 
 to get his ship out of harbour at once, and anchor for 
 the night in the jpen water.” And here the warning 
 cry of “ All scrangers for shore, please,” smote upon 
 their ears. 
 
 There is always a shade of sadness in saying good-bye 
 on such occasions, and I for one hold that the sweet 
 agony of parting” should never be unduly prolonged. 
 Gilbert shook hands with Mrs. Connop and his uncle, 
 clasped Lettie in his arms, kissed her warmly, and 
 whispered into her ear, ‘‘ Don’t forget to write con- 
 stantly, dearest,” and then handed her over to the Major’s 
 charge. She stole her hand once more into his as she 
 murmured, ‘‘ God for ever bless you, dearest,” and leaving 
 a small parcel in his palm tripped hurriedly across the 
 gangway. 
 
EOBSON RECOVERS THE TRAIL. 
 
 317 
 
 When Gilbert unfolded his prize a little later it contained 
 a gold locket with the monogram of “ L. D.’' upon one 
 side, while within was coiled a lock of Lettie’s chestnut 
 tresses. 
 
 XLIV. — Hobson Recovers the Trail. 
 
 W HEN Charlie Devereux came to himself, he found 
 himself being borne along in a rude palanquin, the 
 property of the grim old Rohilla who had cut him down. 
 He was dizzy, confused, and his head still swam a good 
 deal from the sabre-stroke, the force of which, luckily for 
 him, had been considerably broken by his helmet. He had 
 lost a good deal of blood, but his head had been bound up 
 for him roughly in a damp cloth. As soon as he could col- 
 lect his faculties sufficiently he began to wonder what he 
 had been spared for, and with the remembrance of that 
 scene by the roadside he could not but fear that it would 
 have been better for him had he been slain outright. Soon 
 he perceived that there was an animated discussion going 
 on between two men, who were mounted on very good 
 horses, and evidently men of note amongst the robbers. 
 One he recognised at once ; it was the dacoit chief to whom 
 he had been opposed, against whom he had stood foot to 
 foot and sabre to sabre, with what dire results we have 
 seen. The other was a little wiry man of middle height, 
 and a countenance somewhat striking. You were puzzled 
 at first to know what it was repelled you in it ; the man 
 was well-favoured enough, but his fellows seldom saw him 
 for the first time without his producing an uneasy feeling 
 in their minds ; but at last it dawned upon you, it was the 
 cruel, restless eyes. That his companion paid him con- 
 siderable deference was apparent, but that it was Shere 
 Ali himself Charlie was not aware until somewhat later. 
 Could he but have overheard the tenor of their conversa- 
 tion it would not have done much to comfort him as 
 regarded his present position. 
 
 <‘You were wrong, Hassam, to spare this dog of a 
 
3i8 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Feringee. Do you suppose this one life would save our 
 necks if we fell into their hands ? No ! depend upon it, 
 our lives are forfeited if ever they trap us.” 
 
 “ But I don't counsel that his life should be spared alto- 
 gether. For the present, yes, because we want some infor- 
 mation from him. The pursuit of us has thickened, and 
 there are now many more parties of the Feringees scour- 
 ing the country than there used to be.” 
 
 “ True, and this lot behind us, in spite of the warm 
 reception we gave them, are by no means done with. We 
 ought to have eaten them up this morning.” 
 
 “ True,” replied the Rohilla, “ but these children of 
 Sheitan are obstinate as pigs, and moreover love fighting.” 
 ‘‘ You are right, Hassam, we will make the sahib tell us 
 all we want to know as soon as he has a little recovered 
 himself.” 
 
 “ And if he refuses to speak ? ” said the Rohilla inter- 
 rogatively. 
 
 “ It will be the worse for him,” retorted Shere Ali. “ We 
 have ways to make men open their mouths he little 
 wots of.” 
 
 Hobson’s determined pursuit, however, left Shere Ali 
 small leisure for indulging his peculiar methods of ques- 
 tioning a prisoner. If the dacoits halted for long, Hobson 
 was sure to disturb them, and though, in consequence of 
 their great superiority of numbers, he was cautious in his 
 attacks, still he never failed to attack, and after a sharp 
 skirmish Shere Ali and his followers were always again 
 rapidly retreating. It was in vain the dacoit chief endea- 
 voured to urge on his band to overwhelm their relentless 
 foe. It was useless. The robbers, although they behaved 
 well enough in a skirmish, could not be brought to face the 
 Feringees in real earnest. The pursuit had now endured 
 something like forty-eight hours, and, as Hobson recog- 
 nised, could not much longer be maintained. Both men 
 and horses were getting utterly used up, and the one ray of 
 hope he had of ultimately capturing Shere Ali lay in the 
 fact that the dacoits he knew must be getting nearly as 
 beat as his own people. 
 
 Suddenly he began to suspect bis prognostications were 
 
HOBSON RECOVERS THE TRAIL. 
 
 319 
 
 realised. They came to a place where from the main road 
 two smaller tracks diverged through the jungle, and, as the 
 ^ scouts pointed out, from the footprints of the horses it was 
 evident that the robbers here had broken into three parties. 
 It was just what Hobson feared. Despairing of shaking 
 off his persistent pursuit, Shere Ali had commenced to dis- 
 band his followers. The hunted dacoit was evidently 
 afraid to divulge the secret of his lair, and had probably 
 after disbanding his men sought its shelter with but a few 
 of the most trusted. Could he but come up with them 
 now, Hobson thought, his capture would be easier, as he 
 had little doubt his own party far outnumbered that of the 
 robber chief; but which of these three tracks to take ? they 
 had no peculiar mark by which to recognise the footprints 
 of his horse from that of any other ; it was a sheer toss-up, 
 and after a brief delay Hobson decided to follow on hap- 
 hazard. Two or three hours more steady riding : the men 
 are nodding in their saddles, the tired horses biundering 
 in their steady jog-trot, when suddenly they emerged from 
 the jungle, on a broad highway which was instantly recog- 
 nised as the main road from Secunderabad to Nagpore, 
 and which way the party they had followed had taken, 
 whether they had gone up the road towards Nagpore, or 
 down the road towards Secunderabad, there was nothing 
 to show. It was hopeless to carry on the pursuit further ; 
 a village could be descried not a mile away, and where 
 there was a village there was sure to be water. Hobson 
 marched his troop as far as the outskirts, and then gave the 
 order to his worn-out men to bivouac for the night. 
 
 At daybreak the next morning Hobson was awakened 
 with the news that there were horsemen coming up the 
 road. He received the announcement with but little 
 interest ; it was not likely that the da«oits would move for 
 any length of time in any numbers along that road, and he 
 guessed at once that it was only another patrol similar to 
 his own. A glance through his field-glasses at once con- 
 firmed this, with the trifling exception that the new-comers 
 were evidently regular cavalry, and not mounted infantry. 
 When they had arrived within a very short distance the 
 g£^cer commanding them rode forward, and, addressing 
 
320 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Hobson, said: ** I don’t know who I have the pleasure of 
 speaking to, but I presume you are in command of one of 
 the patrols in pursuit of this scoundrel Shere Ali. We 
 are only just out from England, and have been packed off 
 to join in the hunt.” 
 
 “Ah!” replied the other, wearily. “I’ve been hunting 
 him for months and months ; if I had but come across you 
 twenty-four hours ago.” 
 
 “ Why — did you get news of him ? ” inquired the new- 
 comer, with interest. 
 
 “ News of him 1 ” replied Hobson. “ I’ve been at his 
 heels and fighting with him these two days. Four times 
 I’ve brought him to bay, but his numbers just saved him 
 from destruction, and after a short skirmish he always 
 bolted again.” 
 
 “ Both your men and cattle lookt^as if they had had a 
 gruelling,” said the new-comer, as he compared the travel- 
 stained, way-worn appearance of Hobson’s band with his 
 own trim-looking troopers. 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Hobson. “ I drove both my horses and 
 men pretty well to a standstill yesterday. The worst is 
 that crafty devil Shere Ali played his old trick on us tc 
 finish up with. He broke up his band into three divisions, 
 each of which followed a different route, and it has ended 
 by our losing all trace of him.” 
 
 “By Jove, what bad luck!” exclaimed the Dragoon. 
 “ I wish to heavens I had come across you a bit sooner. 
 By the way, do you know anything of a great friend of 
 mine, who, like yourself, has been at this game for some 
 months, one Charlie Devereux ? ” 
 
 “ Devereux — my God ! Yes ; he is my subaltern,” and 
 Hobson’s face became very grave and stern. 
 
 “ Then I fancy you and I know each other perfectly well 
 by name. I am Gilbert Slade, and, if I mistake not, you 
 are John Hobson ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I’ye heard plenty about you; poor Charlie never 
 tired of talking ” 
 
 “Why' do you S3,y poor Charlie?” interrupted Slade, 
 anxiously ; “ he has not been killed, has he ? ” 
 
 “ No, Slade, worse than that has happened to him. 1 
 
HOBSON RECOVERS THE TRAIL. 32 1 
 
 believe him to be a prisoner of Shere Ali’s ; and you've 
 probably heard enough of that monster's brutalities to 
 know what that means." 
 
 Gilbert’s face fell. All that side the country was alive 
 with stories of Shere Ali’s sanguinary doings. 
 
 “ I am of course under your orders," he said at length. 
 “I was told to patrol towards Nagpore, on my own account, 
 until I fell in with some other patrol, and then to take my 
 instructions from the officer commanding." 
 
 “ Well, you can’t do better than halt your men here, and 
 breakfast. I must try and get some information out of 
 these villagers before I move on. The worst of it is this 
 scoundrel has created such a reign of terror that it is diffi- 
 cult to induce the villagers to disclose what they know. 
 Generally, a lavish offer of rupees would suffice to make 
 them betray any dacoit chief, but this Shere Ali has taken 
 such ferocious vengeance on those whom he has detected 
 giving any information about his proceedings that they 
 tremMe at the very sound of his name ; however, I have 
 sent a sergeant to bring out the khotwal and any other of 
 the leading villagers he thinks might possibly have infor- 
 mation,, and I must try if threats and bribery will do any- 
 thing with them." 
 
 Gilbert Slade looked very grave wh^n he heard that 
 Charlie was in the hands of Shere Ali. It would have been 
 a terrible thing to have to write to Lettie, and tell her that 
 her brother had fallen in a skirmish with a gang of dacoits, 
 but it would be too terrible if his death was preceded by 
 the infernal cruelties practised by Asiatic robbers. No, he 
 thought, if their worst anticipations were realised, his 
 family should be at all events spared such knowledge. 
 
 It was not long before Sergeant Rivers returned, bring- 
 ing with him some half-dozen of the leading men of the 
 village, including its khotwal or headman. 
 
 “ They all swear they know nothing, sir," said the ser- 
 geant ; “ but," he continued, dropping his voice, so that 
 only Hobson and Slade, who was sitting by, could hear 
 him, ‘‘here is a huckster among them who, I think, knows 
 something, and might be brought to tell it if you see him 
 alone," 
 
322 
 
 SADDLE AND SABHa 
 
 “What maksi you think that, Riyers?*' inquired his 
 captain. 
 
 “ Why, when the interpreter had got them all together, 
 and was cross-questioning them, this fellow’s little eyes 
 twinkled when he heard that many rupees would be given 
 for any information leading to the capture of Shere Ali. 
 Like the rest of them he swore he knew nothing about 
 him, but he hung about the doorway, and as I came out of 
 the khotwal’s house he said in a low tone, ‘ What would 
 the sahib give to catch the dacoit chief? * I answered at 
 once, one thousand rupees; but he shook his head and 
 muttered, ‘ Not enough, it is too dangerous,’ so I said to 
 myself. I’ll just bring you along with me, my man.” 
 
 “ Quite right,” rejoined Hobson, “ I’ll see him in two or 
 three minutes.” 
 
 “ Smart fellow that sergeant ! ” remarked Slade. “ Do 
 you think he is right in his conjecture ? ” 
 
 “ Quite likely, he is a shrewd fellow ; he has been for 
 many years in this country and understands the natives 
 thoroughly — he speaks their tongue too a bit.” 
 
 The villagers were now brought one by one before Hob- 
 son, beginning with their headman, who was sternly in- 
 formed that Shere Ali had been traced to their immediate 
 vicinity, that there were a thousand rupees for the man 
 whose information led to his capture, that it was useless to 
 pretend that they had no knowledge of him, that the 
 Government had resolved to make a severe example of the 
 first village found sheltering or assisting him, and that he 
 had little doubt they had at all events been guilty of this 
 latter. 
 
 One by one they protested by all their gods that they 
 had no knowledge of this Shere Ali, that they loathed his 
 very name, that he spread desolation on all the country 
 round, and that they only hoped his Excellency would 
 ^speedily deliver them from this wild beast who devoured 
 them. One by one they were dismissed with a recommend- 
 ^ ation to make their way back to their own village, and a 
 menace that they would live to pay the penalty of their 
 obstinate silence. 
 
 “ Dogs ye are, and dogs* deaths ye shall die,” thundered 
 
HOBSON RECOVERS THE TRAIL. 
 
 323 
 
 Hobson in eastern h5rperbole. “ Your tongues hare defiled 
 the truth, and you know that you have lied in your beards. 
 Away, back to your village, and pray that I burn it not 
 over your heads ere the week be past.'* 
 
 “ I say,” said Gilbert, as the discomfited villagers, having 
 now permission to depart, slunk down the hill, “ you are 
 giving full play to your imagination, aren’t you ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” rejoined Hobson, laughing, “it’s the only way 
 to talk to these beggars. I have no doubt they know per- 
 fectly well where Shere Ali has betaken himself, but they 
 are afraid to tell. Their own rulers will not only threaten 
 all I have done, but thoroughly mean it. And I fancy in 
 the early days of the century our own people would have 
 done the same.” 
 
 “ Still,” said Gilbert Slade, ** you haven’t got a bit of 
 information out of them yet. What are you going to do 
 with this last man ? ” 
 
 “ Why, to tell you the truth,” replied Hobson, “ a good 
 deal of all this bombast has been for his special benefit. 
 You see he has been almost within earshot all the time, and 
 has been purposely given the opportunity of speaking to 
 his fellows after I have talked to them. We’ll have him up 
 now, and if I don’t wring something out of him I must 
 fairly own I’m beat, and the following of Shere Ali will 
 become a mere matter of chance; and yet,” he continued, 
 lowering his voice, “ there never was such reason that we 
 should follow fast upon his track.” 
 
 The bunnea or petty trader was now brought before 
 Hobson, and replied to the latter’s exordium by the same 
 protestations of ignorance as his fellows, except that he 
 was, if possible, even more profuse in such asseverations. 
 Hobson listened unmoved until he had finished, and then 
 said “Your lies are useless. You have asked what will I 
 give to know where I can lay hands on Shere Ali. Men 
 don’t ask what you will give unless they have something to 
 sell. You haggled at the price, and say it is too dangerous.” 
 “ My lord has been misinformed,” exclaimed the bunnea, 
 trembhngwith terror. 
 
 “ I think not : unlucky for you if it is so. You had 
 better listen attentively to what I say. 1 shall take you 
 
324 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE, 
 
 into the jungle with me. If I find Shere Ali you shall 
 have two thousand rupees, and I can safely promise you 
 need never dread his vengeance. If I don’t,*' said Hobson 
 sternly, “ I’ll leave you in the jungle for the crows to feed 
 upon.” 
 
 In vain the wretched bunnea prostrated himself at Hob- 
 son’s feet, while the sweat streamed down his brow from 
 absolute terror, 
 
 “ Take him away,” said the latter sternly, “ and let him 
 be closely guarded. We'll march in an hour.” 
 
 XLV.— Fur^edon Leaves England. 
 
 N orman SLADE was by no means the man to let the 
 grass grow under his feet in any matter of business, 
 more especially when it came to bringing a criminal to 
 justice, and that criminal one who had cost him a consid- 
 erable sum of money. No sooner had he got a case against 
 Furzedon complete than he exerted all the interest he 
 possessed amongst the leading men of the Turf to induce 
 them to make the Jockey Club take the matter up, and, 
 averse though that august body were to taking cognisance 
 of an affair that had happened so many months ago, and 
 about which their verdict — whatever it might be — could in 
 reality make now no difference. The thing was done, 
 stakes and bets had all been paid, and nothing they could 
 possibly do could undo the transaction. Let it be never 
 so great a fraud, let it be never so shameful a robbery, 
 nevertheless it was a thing accomplished, it was a fact of 
 the past ; and those who had profited by it must keep the 
 gains, and those that had lost must abide by their losses. 
 
 Quite true, argued those who had taken up the case, but 
 on the same principle what criminal would ever be brought 
 to justice? The murder is done, the felony committed; 
 the life cannot be restored, nor in most cases the goods 
 recovered I but that is accounted no reason why the per- 
 petrators of either should go scatheless. Then, again, the 
 
FURZEDON LEAVES ENGLAND. 
 
 325 
 
 Jockey Club sympathies were not much in favour of Mr. 
 William Smith. That gentleman, with his coarse braggart 
 tongue and inebriate habits, was constantly giving great 
 offence and using the grossest language to their officials ; 
 except to those pecuniarily interested, his defeat at Epsom 
 was matter of much gratulation. But the persistency of 
 Norman Slade’s friends prevailed, and it was at last de- 
 cided that the case should be duly brought before the 
 Jockey Club at the second Spring Meeting. 
 
 But when Slade marshalled his facts, had assembled his 
 witnesses, and due notice was given to Ralph Furzedon of 
 the charges intended to be preferred against him, and an 
 intimation that if he did not disprove them the Jockey 
 Club would have no other course to pursue but to punish 
 such misdeeds to the extent of their power, an answer 
 came back from his solicitor to the effect “ that Mr. Furze- 
 don had been suddenly ordered abroad for his health ; that 
 there was no chance of his return for some months ; and 
 that he must request that all proceedings should be stayed 
 until his client’s return ; that he felt no doubt of Mr. 
 Furzedon’s ability to rebut them, but in the present state 
 of his health it would be impossible to return to England.” 
 This was conclusive ; in a case of this kind it was useless 
 to proceed against a criminal who not only refused to 
 plead, but was besides beyond the bounds of jurisdiction. 
 Even Norman Slade — though a fierce malediction broke 
 from his lips as he did so — admitted that it was useless to 
 proceed against a man to whom the sentence of the court 
 must be a mere form. 
 
 Furzedon calculated on this ; if he kept well out of the 
 way, the prosecution against him — so to speak — would be 
 dropped. Even Norman Slade would throw up his brief 
 when he found there was no criminal to place in the dock. 
 Another year and the whole thing would be thoroughly 
 forgotten ; he might return to England. And though he 
 felt for a time he must eschew the racecourse, much as he 
 loved it, yet there would be no public scandal. It might 
 have been a little talked about in society, but probably 
 only to a limited extent. Things of that sort were but a 
 few days* wonder, but on his return people would be much 
 
325 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 more curious to know where he had been, and what he had 
 been doing, than to recall that unsavoury story concerning 
 him which was current about the time he left. 
 
 But, if Norman Slade was bitterly disappointed at 
 Furzedon having slipped through his fingers, there was 
 another upon whom it exercised a perfectly morbid effect. 
 The hatred of years was concentrated in Prance’s mind. 
 That thirst for vengeance against the man who rightly or 
 wrongly he accused of the ruin of his home and his life he 
 had looked upon as about to be satiated, and now once 
 again, after all his patience, toil, and trouble, had his 
 enemy proved too clever for him. He quite pestered Nor- 
 man Slade with his entreaties that he should persevere 
 with the case ; it was in vain. Slade told him it was 
 hopeless to think that the Jockey Club would go into such 
 a bygone matter, unless the delinquent could be brought 
 before them. Prance was wild at the idea of being baulked 
 of his vengeance, and Norman could not but wonder what 
 wrongs he had received at Furzedon’s hands that had pro- 
 voked such undying enmity. He remembered the man’s 
 fierce outburst in the Paddock at Doncaster when he had 
 questioned him about what he expected to get for the 
 information he proffered, and at the last interview he had 
 with the half frenzied man could not but think that he 
 should not count his own life very safe were there a man 
 walking about bearing such deadly enmity towards him. 
 
 One point Mr. Furzedon was considerably out in his 
 calculations. The history of his antecedents and misdo- 
 ings was known to far too many people not to be pretty 
 widely bruited abroad. Through club smoking-rooms and 
 West End drawing-rooms the story of how last year’s 
 Derby had been lost was freely canvassed, and that the 
 chief actor in that audacious robbery should have been one 
 who had actually contrived to appear on the outskirts of 
 society tickled society not a little. Young men who found 
 themselves lifted into a temporary importance from the fact 
 that they happened to know Furzedon were cross-examined 
 as to his personal appearance, and as to whether they really 
 did not detect from his manner that he kept a shop. “ So 
 shocking you know, and a pawnbroker’s ^lop too 1 ” that 
 
rURZEDON LEAVES ENGLAND. 
 
 327 
 
 iseful but retiring business being regarded in a sinistei 
 .ight by the fashionable world, who believe its dealings to 
 consist chiefly of the receiving and disposing of stolen 
 property. 
 
 Mrs. Kynaston, with her usual astuteness, at once made 
 the most of such cards as Fortune put into her hand. She 
 went about posing as a perfect martyr, a sorely-tried wo- 
 man, whose burden was almost greater than she could 
 bear. “ It’s terrible, my dear,” she would exclaim plain- 
 tively to her intimates, “ to think that we knew Mr. 
 Furzedon at all, but I am ashamed to say we knew him 
 very well ; that’s the worst of racing. Dick is so fond of 
 it, and he does pick up such queer acquaintances on the 
 Turf. The first intimation we had of it all was from Mr. 
 Slade ; we didn’t know him, but he knew that Dick and 
 this dreadful man were mixed up in some racing transac- 
 tions together, and so he called and told him what he had 
 discovered. I need scarcely say Dick at once told Mr. 
 Furzedon he need never expect to set foot in our house 
 again ; but if it is terrible for me, what must it be for poor 
 Miss Devereux ? My heart quite bleeds for her, poor girl ; 
 she was engaged to him, you know. I suppose it is all off 
 now ? Poor Lettie, it is very sad for her.” 
 
 The result of Mrs. Kynaston’s wailings was that the 
 report of Lettie's engagement to Furzedon, which had 
 somewhat died away, was again revived, and it really ran 
 2. chance of having the effect that lady designed. No two 
 men could be more thoroughly up in the talk of the town 
 than Gilbert’s two uncles. They mixed in very different 
 sets, and neither of them very much affected ladies’ society ; 
 but there is not much that goes in the London world that 
 is not freely discussed in the club smoking-rooms ; and 
 amongst these Major Braddock passed a great deal of his 
 time, while at the chief rendezvous of the magnates of the 
 Turf it was well-known that the latest scandal is invariably 
 served up red-hot. In the ordinary course of events, 
 neither Slade nor Major Braddock would have heard this 
 rumour — the actors in it were not of sufficient importance 
 in society to attract attention to it out of their own imme- 
 diate circle ; but, thanks to the threatened charge against 
 
SADDLE AND SABRB. 
 
 328 
 
 Furzedon, anything connected with him became of greatei 
 interest when, in due time, it came to their ears. Had 
 they not both had some knowledge of Miss Devereux it 
 was very probable that they would have written to Gilbert 
 to urge him to pause before taking to wife a damsel who 
 had transferred her affections with such wondrous facility ; 
 but, as it was, they saw no call for interference ; and so 
 far Mrs. Kynaston’s tattling resulted in nothing more than 
 considerable annoyance to Mrs. Connop, who was con- 
 stantly goaded to madness by the commiseration expressed 
 by her friends about her niece’s disappointment. 
 
 Prance, ever brooding over his wrongs, ever hating, ever 
 thinking of this man, who had been his undoing, deter- 
 mined that he must see him, that he must leer at him, flout 
 him with his social downfall. Cunning and astute, he had, 
 known that if his vengeance could be carried no further, 
 the utter demolition of Ralph Furzedon’s social pedestal 
 would be very bitter to that gentleman, and a thing over 
 which he ccmld gloat with much satisfaction. For years 
 he had hugged the idea to his heart of ruthlessly exposing 
 Furzedon, of letting the world know generally who and 
 what this young gentleman was that it was so cordially 
 receiving to its bosom, to pitilessly expose the family from 
 which he sprang, the way in which he and his progenitors 
 had earned their wealth ; but all this was small satisfaction 
 unless he was there to exult over his victim in his downfall. 
 He had waited patiently because he feared that nobody 
 would pay heed to his allegations ; and it was not till he 
 had tracked out Furzedon in a great Turf fraud that he 
 deemed he could command a hearing. Well ! he had 
 obtained it, and now in the hour of his victory Ralph 
 Furzedon had fled from the consequences of his crime. 
 Still, Prance was aware that if he had not altogether suc- 
 ceeded in publicly exposing Furzedon, yet he had done so 
 quite sufficiently to ruin him socially. There had been 
 plenty of paragraphs in the sporting papers with allusions 
 to the grave charges impending against a young gentleman 
 well known in racing circles. Later paragraphs contained 
 the news that the accused had left the country sooner than 
 face the inquiry ; and further paragraphs said it would bo 
 
rURZEDON LEAVES ENGLAND. 
 
 329 
 
 absurd to conceal the name of the delinquent, and there- 
 fore published it boldly. But Prance wanted to see this 
 man in his downfall, and exult over him in the hour of his 
 defeat. 
 
 A lucky Ascot had put Mr, Prance in funds, and he 
 determined to follow Furzedon abroad, and look at him, as 
 he said to Norman Slade at Doncaster ; money was to him 
 as nothing to the luxury of revenge, and it was so ; it had 
 become a mania with him ; he was quite prepared to exist 
 on the bare necessaries of life if he could only feast his eyes 
 on Furzedon thrust out of all decent society, and driven to 
 associate with a class of Continental adventurers little 
 superior in position to him, Prance. Ha ! to see that ; to 
 force his way into such a set, and to occasionally indulge 
 in a gibe at the man who had struck him to the ground 
 that night in the Haymarket ; ha ! ha ! that would be worth 
 living for ; to keep perpetually wondering how such a well- 
 known Turfite as Mr. Furzedon could be lingering abroad 
 while Doncaster and Newmarket were going on. Ho! 
 ho I what fun that would be. The man was really half 
 crazy on the point of his inveterate animosity to Ralph 
 Furzedon. 
 
 But to gratify these amiable instincts it was of course 
 necessary that Mr. Prance should know whither Furzedon 
 had betaken himself, and this was by no means so easy. 
 Furzedon’s dependents of all sorts were far too well trained 
 to babble ; and again, he was a gentleman who made no 
 more confidants than were absolutely necessary. His valet 
 he had taken with him ; the old woman in charge of his 
 chambers doubtless had no knowledge of his address ; and, 
 though both at his office in Northumberland Street and at 
 the shop a few streets higher up the Strand, they were sure 
 to be aware of it, yet Prance knew better than to suppose 
 that he should obtain the information he wanted from them. 
 How was he to get at what he wanted ? and about this 
 Prance was fairly beat ; but he was a man accustomed to 
 burrowing, to tracking and tracing things through dirty by- 
 paths, to obtaining information — ofttimes of very dubious 
 value — in manifold queer ways, and though at fault for the 
 present it was not likely that he would remain so long. A 
 
330 
 
 SADDLB AND SABRB. 
 
 good hater, like a vengeful Indian, may be baffled for 
 thet ime, but it is difficult to throw him altogether off 
 the trail. 
 
 Mr. Prance cogitated over this for some time, and for 
 the life of him could hit upon no solution to the problem. 
 At last an idea struck him. Furzedon’s letters were proba- 
 bly addressed in the first instance to the office in North- 
 umberland Street, and from thence sent on to him by his 
 confidential clerk. No sooner had he settled this in his 
 own mind than Prance slipped down to Northumberland 
 Street about the time he knew the office would be closing. 
 
 He loitered outside until he saw Mr. , the head clerk, 
 
 whom he knew perfectly well by sight, come out and walk 
 away. Then he rung at the bell, and the door was opened, 
 as he expected, by the charwoman, who was about to sweep 
 out the office. His covenant with her w'as short and sim- 
 ple. For a trifling consideration the contents of the waste- 
 paper basket were to be carefully preserved and delivered 
 to him daily. 
 
 For some days, carefully though Prance studied the torn 
 papers that the charwoman handed over to him, it was 
 with no result, but the clue was found at last. One morn- 
 ing, as he went carefully through them, he suddenly espied 
 
 an envelope torn in two addressed to Mr. , in Furzedon’s 
 
 well-known hand. The postmark on the envelope told him 
 partly what he wanted to know. Furzedon, then, was at 
 Brussels ; but it was, of course, possible that he might not 
 be staying there under his own name. If the envelope was 
 torn up it was likely that the letter inside it had been torn 
 up too. He continued his search, and soon discovered that 
 this was the case. What the contents of the letter might 
 be he cared very little about ; but, for all that, he put the 
 pieces together, and, as he anticipated, arrived at Furze- 
 don’s address. That gentleman’s letters were to be for- 
 warded to Henry Jackson, Poste Restante^ Brussels. This 
 was quite sufficient for Prance ; with that clue to go upon 
 he felt quite certain of speedily tracing his man to his har- 
 bour of refuge — and without delay the monomaniac started 
 for the Belgian capital. 
 
•LET HIM BE GIVEN TO THE FLIES.^ 
 
 331 
 
 XLVI. — “Let Him be given to the Flies/* 
 
 C HARLIE DEVEREUX, meanwhile, who is hurried 
 along by his captors in a manner that taxes his ex- 
 hausted strength severely, cannot as yet complain of any- 
 thing worse than being rather roughly treated. He could 
 hardly expect much courtesy from men like his captors, 
 more especially while they were being much harassed in 
 their retreat by his comrades. It was quite clear to him 
 that his life hung upon a thread — not on account of the 
 Rohilla’s sabre-stroke, he felt pretty confident he should 
 get over that — but the scowling brows and menacing ges- 
 tures directed towards him by the dacoits after each of 
 these little skirmishes between themselves and Hobson’s 
 troops showed too plainly that his hour might come any 
 minute. In fact it was nothing but the influence of Has- 
 sam that had saved his life so far, and to what caprice he 
 owed his intervention Charlie could not possibly conjec- 
 ture. Jealously guarded, he could see but little of what 
 went on, but the firing told him whenever Hobson and his 
 men came up with their fleet-footed foe. 
 
 At last came a hurried halt, and Charlie made out that 
 the robbers had broken up into three parties, that the one 
 with which he remained was apparently under the com- 
 mand of the Rohilla, and what had become of Shere Ali 
 Charlie was unable to ascertain. From this out Devereux 
 heard no more of his own people. They might be still 
 following the robbers for all he knew ; but, at all events, 
 their rifles w’ere silent. Their road, as far as he could 
 make out, seemed to grow deeper and deeper into the 
 jungle. Another thing that struck him was, that they 
 were diminishing in numbers, and certainly soon after 
 they broke into three parties they materially relaxed the 
 speed at which they travelled. 
 
 His captors showed no disposition to converse with him, 
 and, indeed, as far as he knew, were unable to do so. 
 Charlie had picked up but very little Hindostanee, and 
 except from Hassam he had heard no word of English 
 escape their lips. As for the Rohilla, Devereux suspected 
 
33 ^ 
 
 SADDLB AND SABRa 
 
 that he could speak English fairly well if he chose : so far 
 he had confined himself to brief inquiries as to whether he 
 suffered much from his wound, and to occasionally ren- 
 dering some rough assistance in readjusting the bandages. 
 At length they indulged in a halt of much greater duration 
 than ordinary, and from various signs Charlie came to the 
 conclusion that the robbers had now no fear of pursuit, 
 and were besides nearing their destination. Hassam’s 
 band had dwindled down now to little over a score — how 
 or when the others had disappeared Devereux did not 
 know, but they had been melting like a snowball ever 
 since the dacoits had broken into three bodies, the fact 
 being that the marauders were dispersing to their own 
 homes, leaving behind them only the faithful few privileged 
 to accompany Shere Ali to his stronghold. 
 
 Of all Shere Ali’s subordinates there was none he placed 
 more dependence upon than Hassam, and it is doubtful 
 whether any other could have stood between young Deve- 
 reux and his end but him. Even Hassam knew that he 
 had purchased but a temporary respite for his prisoner, 
 and it was open to question whether that grisly old ma- 
 rauder desired more ; though by no means so cruel, he 
 was quite as ruthless as his chief, and held strongly to the 
 creed that the dead tell no tales. He thought that a good 
 deal of the information they wanted ought to be wrung 
 from the young English officer, and that once got, well, it 
 was as easy to give him his passport for another world as 
 not. The difference between the robber-chief and his lieu- 
 tenant was this, the Rohilla would not hesitate to torture 
 a captive to gain his object, but Shere Ali would torture 
 his victims from sheer cruelty. 
 
 Devereux had by this time abandoned his palanquin, 
 and been placed astride on a rough country pony, one of 
 those clever, wiry little ‘‘ tats,” who do a wondrous lot 
 of work upon a minimum of corn. He noticed that they 
 seemed to have plunged deeper into the jungle than ever, 
 the very semblance of a road seemed to have been l®st, 
 and their path could only be described now as a mere 
 track. Suddenly they emerged from the jungle upon a 
 species of oasis, upon the far side of which was a singular 
 
LET HIM BE GIVEN TO THE FLIES. 
 
 333 
 
 group of rocks, and around their base flowed a small water- 
 course, tranquil enough just now, but probably a torrent 
 in the rainy season ; beyond the rocks was more jungle. 
 Before crossing this grassy oasis Devereux had time to 
 study this caprice of nature ; it looked like a natural 
 citadel, of which the huge rock in the centre might be the 
 key, and its smaller surrounding brethren the outworks. 
 This was the stronghold of Shere Ali. Halting his men 
 for a few minutes just within the verge of the jungle Has- 
 sam rode forward and discharged 'two pistol-shots into the 
 air. Devereux looked on with much curiosity to see the 
 result of the signal, for such it evidently was. Another 
 minute and a single shot was discharged from the group 
 of huge limestone boulders, and then Hassam and his 
 party rode gaily forward. 
 
 The stream running in front of the rocks was easily 
 fordable, and, having crossed it, they turned between two 
 of the smaller boulders and ascended the rocky path which 
 led up to the king-stone of this singular group. Devereux 
 noticed that the smaller rocks were honeycombed with 
 caves, partly natural, but many of them had evidently 
 been enlarged by the hand of man. At last they turned 
 through a fissure in the side of the chief rock, which, to 
 Devereux’s great astonishment, instead of being solid, was 
 in the centre hollow, after the manner of a tooth. Around 
 this curious platform in the middle were the entrances to 
 several caverns, all of which, though natural to begin with, 
 had evidently been considerably enlarged artificially; in 
 short, the place had been, in years long gone by, a species 
 of Buddhist monastery, now it was the home of the dacoit, 
 and before then, perchance, of the tiger ; where his priest 
 had formerly invoked Buddha, now the victims of Shere 
 Ali shrieked their lives out under the tortures this mis- 
 creant inflicted under pretext of extorting confessions of 
 hidden hoards which they did not possess. 
 
 This natural fortress had evidently been the retreat of 
 the robbers for some time ; many of the caves had been 
 turned into store-houses, and some of the larger ones into 
 stables, and it was quite evident to Devereux that, if they 
 had only command of water, a small body of men might 
 
334 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 hold out for a considerable time against much superior 
 numbers. Still, that would avail Shere Ali little, let his 
 stronghold be only once discovered ; and then Charlie 
 reflected sadly how well its secret had been kept, and how 
 long the dacoit chief had baffled his pursuers. He was 
 thrust into a small cell with a stern intimation from Has- 
 sam that if he crossed its threshold without permission he 
 did so at his peril. As far as he could make out, the place 
 at present was occupied only by Hassam’s party, and what 
 had become of Shere Ali he was unable to conjecture; but 
 he felt pretty certain that he was not within the citadel. 
 He could see that the robbers maintained in their way a 
 severe discipline, the Rohilla’s word was obeyed without 
 question by his strange medley of followers. The ruffianly 
 crew seemed to have been gathered from men of all races 
 common to the Peninsula. There were some whose sol- 
 dierly bearing gave good grounds for supposing they were 
 among those who, like their leader, had been false to their 
 salt during the past Mutiny, but many of them had pro- 
 bably taken to the road from their youth upwards. Food 
 and water were furnished him with a liberal hand, and, 
 though he was apparently but slightly guarded, Devereux 
 knew that he was jealously watched ; moreover, so far as 
 he knew, the only way out of this singular amphitheatre 
 was the narrow path by which they had entered, and two 
 or three of the dacoits armed to the teeth lingered night 
 and day about that. Still, Charlie thought that if any 
 feasible chance of escape presented itself he was bound 
 to attempt it. He could but be killed, and that that would 
 be his fate a little later he had no reason to doubt ; in fact 
 it puzzled Charlie why it was that his life was spared 
 so long. 
 
 Their first day in the rocks the dacoits seemed deter- 
 mined to compensate themselves for the fatigues of their 
 late rapid march. They gave themselves up, after the 
 manner of their kind, to eating and drinking, sleep and 
 tobacco — usually the sole pleasures left to those who elect 
 to live by preying on their fellows : and the second day 
 they were more on the alert, and Hassam more than once 
 ascended a rough staircase which led to the top of th^ 
 
•let him be given to the flies.' 
 
 335 
 
 great honeycombed rock which formed their shelter. 
 Devereux had gathered, partly from the few words he 
 caught and partly from their gestures, that they were 
 expecting the arrival of their leader ; and when the after- 
 noon sun sank low in the heavens the tramp of horses on 
 the narrow path became plainly audible : a few minutes 
 more and Shere Ali, with about a dozen followers, made 
 their appearance on the rocky platform. Devereux was 
 struck with what a very small number of the dacoits had 
 gained their stronghold ; he felt sure that they were in much 
 greater force than when he and his comrades first came up 
 with them. It was of course difficult to estimate their 
 numbers in the jungle, but Charlie had believed that there 
 were quite three hundred of them when their first attack 
 was made, which had terminated so disastrously for him- 
 self. He did not believe that Hobson’s incessant attacks 
 had occasioned such loss as the disproportion between 
 their present and then numbers might have been supposed 
 to indicate. Then he began to speculate upon how Shere 
 All’s return would affect himself — little doubt, he thought, 
 but what his fate would be speedily determined now ; then 
 he wondered whether his comrades were still upon the 
 track of the marauders. He reckoned that Hobson could 
 only have about fifty men with him now, for several he 
 knew fell in that first skirmish ; and it was not likely that 
 others had not shared the same fate in the succeeding ones. 
 Shere Ali had between thirty and forty with him, and the 
 natural defences of the place were such, that, even if 
 tracked to his lair, the struggle between him and his assail- 
 ants would probably be both bloody and protracted. 
 
 Devereux was kept but little time in suspense ; half an 
 hour after the dacoit chief’s arrival in his citadel his cave 
 was entered by some half dozen of the robbers, and he was 
 roughly escorted into the presence of Shere Ali. The ban- 
 , dit’s face wore its most savage expression. Hobson’s 
 stubborn pursuit had irritated him not a little, and his fury 
 had been thoroughly roused by finding it hopeless to 
 induce his followers to fairly face the hated Fering|ees 
 He had led them on himself twice in the most reso uto 
 fashion; for, merciless though he was, he possessed the 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 336 
 
 one attribute of animal courage. But, as it had been in 
 the Mutiny, so it was now ; and, in spite of preponderance 
 of numbers, the Asiatic could rarely be induced to face the 
 Englishman hand to hand. 
 
 He was sitting at the door of the cave which he retained 
 as his own private residence, surrounded by Hassam and 
 four or five more of his principal lieutenants. A gleam of 
 ferocious exultation flashed across his face, and the savage 
 dark eyes lit up with devilish cruelty as he fixed his gaze 
 upon Devereux. 
 
 “ Ha 1 ha ! he laughed at last ; “ so this is the dog of 
 a Feringee you persuaded me to spare, Hassam. Your 
 arm grows feeble, old friend ; your sword was wont to do 
 its work cleaner. Answer me this, Englishman : not as 
 you hope to live, but as you hope to escape agonies that 
 will make you welcome death as a boon and a blessing. 
 How many parties of your hated race are there out in pur- 
 suit of me ? ” 
 
 Devereux made no reply. 
 
 “ Dog, do you hear what I say ? ” 
 
 “ A soldier answers no questions put to him by the 
 enemy ; and an Englishman knows how to die.” 
 
 “ And an Asiatic knows how to kill. Fool ! before the 
 morrow’s sun has set you shall pray to your gods for death. 
 Away with him, and let him be given to the flies.” 
 
 Charlie Devereux was in merciful ignorance of the hor- 
 rible death to which Shere Ali’s ruthless words consigned 
 him ; in a trice he was seized, conducted down the narrow 
 pathway, carried some two hundred yards out into the 
 little oasis, on the edge of which the rocky citadel stood. 
 There he was stripped ; and then, his captors having 
 driven some short stakes into the ground, they proceeded 
 to bind him hand and foot to the said stakes, the result of 
 their labours being that Devereux was left stretched flat 
 on his back on the ground,- with his arms extended after 
 the manner of a man crucified, unable to move hand or 
 foot, and with only the power of slightly turning his head. 
 That done, with a brut^ laugh the robbers retreated into 
 their own stronghold. 
 
 Devereux speedily began to realise the horrible death to 
 
THE ROCKS OF RUGGERBUND. 
 
 335 
 
 which the dacoits had consigned him ; the sun was almost 
 down, so for the present he was spared the tortures of the 
 fierce glare that must to-morrow shine down upon his up- 
 turned face ; but Charlie quickly became aware that the 
 jungle was alive with creeping things, for which his 
 defenceless form had become a playground. The stings, 
 the bites, and the irritation caused by this army of flies, 
 mosquitoes, centipedes, etc., gradually became maddening, 
 and as the night wore on, the fever occasioned by it natur- 
 ally excited a terrible thirst, a frightful craving for water, 
 than which there is no infliction more hard to bear. With 
 the hours of darkness came the bark of the jackal ; and 
 soon Devereux became conscious that several of these 
 creatures were not only at hand, but were stealing cau- 
 tiously up to him as a subject well worthy of investigation. 
 He could have cried aloud almost in his agony, but he 
 grimly swore the dacoits should not have that satisfaction ; 
 and then he realised Shere Ali’s threat. He felt that he 
 was strong yet, and that he could look forward to hours of 
 thirst and this frightful irritation before death released him. 
 Every bone in his body seemed to be one prolonged ache, 
 from the enforced inability to shift his position. He felt 
 that the jackals were coming nearer and nearer ; they were 
 smelling at his feet; every moment he expected their sharp 
 teeth would meet in his flesh. Suddenly came a sharp yap 
 from one of their number, who was still some l^tle way off. 
 Another second, and they were scuttling away in all direc- 
 tions. What had alarmed them he could not guess, but at 
 all events he was relieved for the present from one of the 
 \iorrors of his position. 
 
 XLVII. — The Rocks of Ruggerbund. 
 
 A t the expiration of the hour bugle and trumpet rang 
 out “ boot and saddle ; ” the mounted infantry and 
 dragoons at once, under Hobson’s orders, turning upon the 
 former’s previous tracks, once more plunged into the 
 jungle, carrying with them the unhappy bunnea as a 
 captive* 
 
338 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 “ I am going back,” said Hobson, “ to the spot where I 
 ivas beat and lost all trace of Shere Ali. The road there 
 splits into three paths, the one of these three paths that we 
 followed brought us on to the main road ; I am convinced 
 that Shere Ali was not with that party. That band, I 
 should imagine, dispersed as soon as it touched the high- 
 way. It is little likely that they would have dared travel 
 in the force they were along the main road to Nagpore. 
 Had they turned the Secunderabad way you must have 
 met them.” 
 
 “ Quite true,” said Slade, ** and I am perfectly sure no 
 such body as half a score has passed us on the road.” 
 
 Hobson smiled ; he had not passed years in hunting 
 Pandies, Rohillas, dacoits, and all such riff-raff for nothing. 
 He had not much faith in these newly-arrived English 
 dragoons when their wits came to be pitted against the 
 subtlety of the Asiatic. 
 
 “ This leaves us,” he continues, “ a choice of two roads ; 
 which of those two I am to follow depends upon that 
 bunnea’s decision. Charlie Devereux’s life hangs upon a 
 thread, and by the living God if I arrive too late I’ll keep 
 my word with that miserable huckster.” 
 
 ‘‘You surely don’t mean that you’ll put in force what 
 you threatened ? ” said Gilbert. 
 
 “ You are new to these people, Slade. You can’t quite 
 understand what we went through during the Mutiny 
 times. And your eyes are hardly open yet to what may be 
 poor Devereux’s fate unless our help comes speedily. You 
 don’t know, perhaps, so much of this Shere Ali and his 
 doings as we who have been hunting him for months. If 
 I was sure that wretched huckster was withholding from 
 me the information that I require, I would flay him alive. 
 As it is, if he tampers with me in any way he shall never 
 leave that jungle alive, for I’ll shoot him with my own 
 hand.” 
 
 Gilbert said nothing, but he was tortured with the idea 
 of what poor Charlie’s fate might be, and recognised at 
 once that his leader was one of those stern determined 
 natures that thoroughly understood his savage foe, and 
 was perfectly competent to cope with him* 
 
THE ROCKS OF RUGGERBUND- 
 
 339 
 
 The bunnea in the meantime, arrant knave and coward 
 as he was at the bottom, was not quite plunged in that 
 abyss of despair and terror that he pretended. Frightened 
 he was, no doubt. He was of a timid and a cautious 
 nature. Nothing but the greed of gold had led him to open 
 his lips to the extent that he did before Sergeant Rivers. 
 He could not resist asking what was the reward of treach- 
 ery. He could not help, with all his trading instincts upon 
 him, seeking to know whether what he had got to sell 
 would not fetch a still higher price. He had got his 
 answer ; he had found that it would fetch double. It may 
 be still questioned whether he would have had the courage 
 to be tempted even by so high a bait ; but the white sahib 
 had peremptorily taken the whole thing out of his hands ; 
 he was a prisoner, and threatened with all sorts of pains 
 and penalties if he did not divulge what he knew. On the 
 one hand was the terrible vengeance of Shere Ali, on the 
 other immediate punishment by the white sahib should he 
 refuse to do his bidding. Cunning, though cowardly, the 
 more the bunnea turned the thing over in his own mind, 
 the more convinced he was that the betrayal of Shere Ali 
 tended most to his safety and profit. If he guided the 
 Feringees to the stronghold of the robbers, the result 
 would probably be the capture of the great dacoit chief, 
 and then he thought the band might be so effectually 
 broken up that he would have little to fear from their ven- 
 geance. . Then again, was he not offered two thousand 
 rupees to point out the way ? His mouth watered at the 
 bare idea ; yes, decidedly he would speak. 
 
 When, upon arrival at the place where the three roads 
 met, Hobson ordered his prisoner: to be once more brought 
 before him, and sternly demanded which of those roads 
 led to Shere Ali’s place of refuge. 
 
 Prostrating himself at Hobson’s feet, the bunnea ex- 
 claimed, “ If my lord will hold to his promise, give me the 
 two thousand rupees he has promised me, and then let me 
 go free, I will tell him all I know.” 
 
 “ You shall have the reward and go free the minute you 
 have led me to Shere Ali’s fortress, and I have convinced 
 myself that he is still there ; where is he ? " 
 
340 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRa 
 
 “ My lord, the dacoits are concealed in the Rocks of 
 Ruggerbund, and the path to the right will lead you to 
 them/' 
 
 “ The Rocks of Ruggerbund,” exclaimed Hobson ; “ it is 
 odd I never heard of them, and yet I thought I knew all 
 this country well, too.” 
 
 “ They were famous many hundreds of years ago, and it 
 was said many holy men lived in them, but they are little 
 known now.” 
 
 “ Do you think that fellow is speaking the truth ? ” said 
 Slade. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes. At all events it will be the worst day’s work he 
 ever did if he is not ; take him to the” front, Rivers, and 
 now let us push forward as quick as we can.” 
 
 After some hours' riding the party arrived at the open 
 plain on the further side of which rose the curious Rocks of 
 Ruggerbund. Hobson instantly ordered a halt under 
 cover of the trees, and then, after surveying the brigand’s 
 stronghold through his field-glasses for some minutes, gave 
 orders that men and horses should keep themselves care- 
 fully concealed, and above all that there must be no noise. 
 
 “ That’s a very tough nut to crack, Slade,” he said, 
 pointing to the rocks, “ and Heaven knows how many of 
 his rapscallions that scoundrel Shere Ali has got with him, 
 but we must have it at any cost.” 
 
 “ My fellows are downright wolfish to get a chance,” 
 replied Gilbert ; “ they know that their old officer is in the 
 dacoits' hands, and your men have been enlightening them 
 a little upon the way Shere Ali treats his prisoners.” 
 
 “ Yes,” rejoined Hobson, “ there's no fear but what 
 they’ll come on fast enough when they're wanted. The first 
 question is what is the best chance of saving Devereux’s 
 life ; the second, how to carry that place with as little loss 
 of life as possible.” 
 
 “ To save Charlie’s life is the main thing. I suppose 
 your fear is that they’ll murder him the minute they catch 
 sight of us.” 
 
 ** Just so; the sun is all but down, and I think our best 
 chance will be to steal across the open in the dark, and 
 then to rush the rocks at the first glimmer of daybreak,” 
 
tHE ROCKS OF RUGGERBUND. 
 
 34i 
 
 Anxiously did Slade and Hobson sweep the half-mile of 
 open that separated them from the rocks. They could see 
 the robber sentinel on the summit of the king rock as 
 clearly as possible. Their men were silent, watchful and 
 observant as themselves. They knew that Mr. Devereux’s 
 life depended on the rapidity and dexterity of their attack. 
 He had been popular with both corps, and the mounted 
 rifles had in addition a long score of weary marching and 
 counter-marching to reckon up with the human tigers whom 
 they had at last tracked to their lair. The sun dipped 
 below the horizon with that plunge that characterises his , 
 setting in the East, and it was night ; lit up as yet only by 
 the fireflies, and sung only by the trumpeting of the mos- 
 quito and the chirruping of the innumerable insect tribe. 
 The stars twinkled slowly forth, but there was no moon ; 
 moreover, a declivity of the ground sheltered the doings of 
 the robbers as they emerged from the base of their citadel ; 
 the consequence was that, keenly as the eyes of his friends 
 had scanned the intervening space between them and the 
 Ruggerbund Rocks, they could see nothing of Devereux’s 
 so-to-speak crucifixion. There he lay staked to the ground 
 literally within their sight, had it not been for the darkness, 
 Then came the rising of the moon, the bark of the jackal, 
 and the melancholy wail of more than one of the denizens 
 of the jungle, to break the silence of an eastern night. 
 
 “ We must wait till that confounded moon is down,” 
 said Hobson, and as soon as it is I shall creep across 
 with my men, in skirmishing order, and be as much round 
 this side of those rocks as I can before daybreak. We 
 must both leave a few men behind to take care of the 
 horses ; you’ll then bring the main body of your fellows, 
 massed just in rear of my centre. At daybreak you and 
 your men must carry the entrance to the main rock. I 
 shall immediately collect my men together, and follow on 
 to the fort.” 
 
 “ All right 1 ” said Gilbert, quietly. “ We shall get in, 
 never fear ; at all events, if my fellows are beaten back you 
 may look upon it I’m past praying for.” 
 
 A single hand-grip was exchanged between the two men, 
 and then came that tedious business of watching for the 
 
34 ^ 
 
 SADDLtC AND SABINE 
 
 disappearance of the moon, as they had watched for the 
 setting of the sun. 
 
 All orders were given, and every man amongst the little 
 command knew exactly what was expected of him. At 
 last the moon waned, and gradually died out. The thick 
 darkness which precedes daybreak covered the plain as 
 Hobson and his men, emerging from the jungle in skir- 
 mishing order, crept stealthily across it. Some fifty yards 
 behind their centre came Slade at the head of his dis- 
 mounted troopers. Slowl)" they stole forward, and there 
 was no sign that the robbers had any conception of their 
 presence. Suddenly the word was passed in muffled tones 
 up the line that the Captain was wanted. 
 
 ‘‘ What is it, Rivers ? ” inquired Hobson, in a low tone, 
 as that active non-commissioned officer, who had been 
 leading the skirmishers on the extreme right, at last gained 
 the centre. 
 
 “ We’ve found Mr. Devereux, sir,’’ exclaimed Rivers, in 
 an awe-struck whisper. 
 
 “ Alive ? ” asked Hobson, anxiously. 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; the devils seem to have treated him shame- 
 fully. He’s a bit off his head, and a case for the doctors ; 
 but ” 
 
 ‘‘ That’ll do,” interposed Hobson, sharply ; “pass the 
 word to halt along the line ; now take me to him.” 
 
 When Hobson came to where his men had discovered 
 Charlie he found his luckless subaltern in a high fever, and 
 wandering in his talk. The soldiers had, of course, at once 
 severed his shameful bonds ; but, weak from his previous 
 wound, the misery and tortures of his horrible position had 
 proved too much for him. Fever had come on, and he 
 was now talking wildly and at random. A fierce maledic- 
 tion broke from under Hobson’s moustache as he learned 
 in what state Charlie Devereux had been found. “ Carry 
 him back at once,” he said, “ to the shelter of the jungle ; 
 and — ha ! surely that is the first streak of light. Before 
 the sun is well up we will settle with those hell-hounds 
 inside.” 
 
 Once more the word was given to advance, when sud- 
 denly a shot from the rocks told that they were discovered. 
 
 Forward the stormers I ” rang; out Hobson’s voice, in 
 
THE ROCKS OF RUGGERBUND. 
 
 343 
 
 reply. Keep your men well in hand, Captain Slade, till 
 you are close up to the rock ; and then, good luck to you ! 
 Sound the fire bugle,” and in another instant a score of 
 rifles rang out that the half-dozen dacoits were visible 
 against the sky-line in the dim gray of the morning, 
 
 Slade and his men in the meantime marched rapidly 
 across the short space that intervened between themselves 
 and the fissure in the rock, now plainly visible. They 
 suffered but slightly, for the hot fire kept up by Hobson’s 
 sharpshooters prevented the dacoits from effectively using 
 their muskets on the advancing foe. 
 
 “ Now, lads, follow me ! ” exclaimed Slade, as, waving 
 his sabre, he dashed up the pathway followed by his troop- 
 ers, but the wasps’ nest was by this time thoroughly aroused, 
 and at the first bend of the road where the path enlarged a 
 little they were confronted by Hassam. Quick as thought 
 Gilbert dashed at the Rohilla, and a fierce and furious 
 melee at once occurred between the dacoits and the troop- 
 ers, sabres flashed and revolvers cracked for a few minutes. 
 At the end of that time Hassam found that he had encoun- 
 tered a more formidable foeman than Charlie Devereux. 
 Young, powerful, and a good swordsman, with the advan- 
 tages of height and reach, the contest between Slade and 
 the Rohilla was short, and Gilbert passed his sword through 
 the latter’s body, just as he felt something like the sear of 
 a hot iron about his own ribs. 
 
 At the fall of Hassam the robbers gave way, and Gilbert 
 and his troopers followed close upon them, so as to give 
 them no chance of re-forming, but they soon rallied under 
 the command of another chief, who now suddenly appeared 
 upon the scene. Gilbert, who was under the impression 
 that he had slain Shere Ali when he ran Hassam through 
 the body, was somewhat puzzled at this new apparition, 
 but the English slowly won their way upwards despite the 
 desperate resistance of the dacoits, now led by Shere Ali in 
 person. By this time Slade and his men had fought their 
 way into the little amphitheatre which formed the interior 
 of the king rock, and there a terrible struggle took place 
 between the soldiers and the bandits ; looking upon it as 
 hopeless to ask for quarter, they died like rats in a trap, 
 showing their teeth to the last. Shere Ali and some six of 
 
344 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE 
 
 eight of the men were all that were left. Once more Gil- 
 bert, his sabre red with carnage, rallies his men for a last 
 charge. As he dashes in at their head a bullet from the 
 robber chief’s pistol smashes his sword-arm, which drops 
 useless by his side. Shifting his sabre to his left hand, 
 Gilbert still cheers his men on — suddenly Shere Ali springs 
 back into the mouth of a cave to which he has been driven, 
 and disappears ; another minute or two and Slade and his 
 troopers pour into the cave in pursuit of the daring chief 
 whom they now have no doubt is Shere Ali himself. It is 
 difficult at first to penetrate the obscurity of the cave, but 
 when they do it is empty. In vain do they peer and poke their 
 way into the darkest recesses of the cabin, their prey has 
 escaped them, it seems as if the earth has swallowed Shere Ali. 
 
 Suddenly a wild English hurrah, followed by a shot or 
 two, breaks upon the morning air. The sounds come from 
 the outside of the rock, and, though not exactly knowing 
 what they mean, Slade trusts that it heralds the capture of 
 the dacoit chief. He had seen nothing of Hobson since he 
 gave him orders to storm the rocks. That sagacious 
 veteran, having much experience of the wiliness of dacoits, 
 had suspected that they had probably an exit from their 
 citadel on the far side. ' Detaching half his men to Gil- 
 bert’s support he had at once crept round with the other 
 half to watch the narrow strip of open that lay between the 
 rocks and the jungle on that side ; his craftiness was 
 rewarded, for some few minutes after the firing had ceased 
 inside the rock which proclaimed that Slade had overcome 
 the garrison, some bushes parted, and from a fissure which 
 they concealed appeared the robber chief. Discharging 
 his pistols in the face of his foes, the robber made a deter- 
 mined dash for the jungle, but a rifle bullet in the leg 
 stretched him on the ground, and the notorious Shere Ali 
 was at last in the hands of his pursuers. 
 
 XLVHI. — Prance’s Vengeancb. 
 
 S AM PRANCE, on his arrival in Brussels, had but a 
 vague idea of what form his vengeance was to take. 
 He wanted to find Furzedon ; he wanted to taunt him ovor 
 
FRANCE'S VENGEANCE 
 
 34S 
 
 his social discomfiture ; to jeer at him, and to gloat over 
 his humiliation ; to proclaim it as far as possible before 
 those who for the present might be Furzedon’s associates; 
 but further than that he had as yet conceived no plan. 
 Brooding over his wrongs had, no doubt, warped the man’s 
 mind ; he had set his heart upon seeing his enemy thrust 
 off the Turf. His failing to accomplish that end, to which 
 he had striven so hard, had turned his very soul to verjuice. 
 There remained for him now but one thing to do, to avenge 
 himself on the man who had ruined his life, and to taunt 
 him ere consummating that vengeance, as the Indian 
 squaws do the brave that is tied to the stake. The first 
 thing to do was to discover where Furzedon had taken up 
 his abode ; and that to a man of Prance’s researches was 
 not difficult. It was but to watch the poste restante daily. 
 He had a very fair knowledge of Furzedon’s habits, and 
 could make a rough guess as to within what hour he would 
 be likely to call for his letters. Two — three days elapsed ; 
 but on the third the patient watcher was rewarded : Ralph 
 Furzedon entered the post-office, and after a few minutes 
 emerged again, thrusting his letters into his coat-pocket as 
 he did so. It was easy from thence to follow Furzedon to 
 his own lodgings over a shop in the Montargis dc Cour ; 
 and that point once ascertained Prance felt that he was 
 master of the situation. It was easy for him now to keep 
 watch and ward over Furzedon’s outgoings and incomings: 
 to follow him to his favourite restaurant, to trace him to 
 his accustomed haunts, and to choose his own terms for 
 publicly denouncing him as a Turf outlaw, who dare not 
 show his face in England; and from that out — utterly 
 unknown to himself — Furzedon’s steps were perpetually 
 dogged by this pale-faced monomaniac. Prance, as such 
 men do, was simply nursing his opportunity ; he chuckled 
 to himself at the power he possessed, at the knowledge that 
 he could bring the object of his hatred to shame at any 
 moment ; as an epicure dallies with a dainty dish, so did 
 Prance linger over his revenge. The great cxposk could 
 come but once ; he so gloated over the idea that he could 
 not make up his mind to precipitate it. Habited in decent 
 garments, and knowing so well that the truth of what ha 
 
SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 346 
 
 had to allege was a thoroughly recognised fact by the 
 majority of the racing world, even if not proven, it never 
 occurred to Prance that it was possible that the word of a 
 nobody like himself might be poohpoohed when put against 
 that of a wealthy man like Furzedon. Nursing his revenge, 
 still chuckling in his heart at the moment when he was to 
 expose the plausible author of his ruin, day by day Prance 
 dogged the heels of his quarry He had found out the 
 restaurant that Furzedon chiefly affected, and in which 
 he seemed to have established himself as the head of a little 
 clique, and a great authority on all matters connected with 
 Sport'*; and there he decided that he would snatch 
 the mask off the impostor, and let these gentlemen know 
 that the man they bowed down to dared not show his face 
 on Newmarket Heath. Mr. Prance had money in his 
 pocket, and the Restaurant des Trois Aigles knew no dis- 
 tinction of persons. As long as you were decently dressed 
 and had napoleons in your pocket, any vacant table was 
 at your disposal. The evening came at last which Mr. 
 Prance had marked out for the discomfiture of his enemy. 
 Strolling in a little before the time at which Furzedon 
 usually dined, he took a table in his immediate vicinity ; 
 and then, taking a chair in front of the restaurant, awaited 
 the course of events. He had not to wait long. As he 
 expected, Ralph Furzedon and three or four of his inti- 
 mates shortly made their appearance ; and, entering the 
 restaurant, took their places at the somewhat elaborate 
 table prepared for them. The party were apparently 
 English. At all events their conversation was conducted 
 in that language; and it was quite evident that Furzedon 
 was some one in authority amongst them. Prance averted 
 his face as they moved up the room, and was now sitting 
 with his back to them, so that he had altogether escaped 
 Furzedon’s notice. 
 
 It was curious how his intense longing to avenge himself 
 on his enemy had mastered his better judgment. He had 
 always felt that for him to denounce Furzedon would 
 be useless ; that gentleman would simply laugh at him as 
 the pariah of the betting-ring he was ; but the disappoint- 
 ment he had experience when Furzedon left the country 
 
PRANCE'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 347 
 
 had churned his hatred up to very madness. He with diffi- 
 culty contained himself until the convives were in the midst 
 of their dinner : he sat trembling with passion, and nerv- 
 ously emptying glass after glass of wine in his excitement. 
 At last he could bear it no longer, and, springing to his 
 feet, exclaimed, ‘‘ Gentlemen, you don’t know the sort of 
 blackguard you’ve allowed to sit at table with you. That 
 scoundrel,” he cried, pointing to Furzedon, “ is a horse- 
 poisoner, a man-poisoner, a fellow that, if he had not fled 
 from England, would have been kicked off the Turf. 
 
 Gentlemen in England don’t speak ” but here the flood 
 
 of ]\Ir. Prance’s eloquence was interrupted by a wine-glass, 
 which was shivered at his forehead ; and in another second 
 Furzedon, springing to his feet, peremptorily called upon 
 the waiters to “ put that drunken thief out of the room.” 
 
 By this time the commotion had attracted the attention 
 of the whole room. That the landlord and his servitors 
 should at once take part against the stranger was only 
 natural. Furzedon and his friends were well-known custom- 
 ers, who spent their money lavishly. Bleeding, struggling, 
 asseverating, Mr. Prance speedily found himself thrust into 
 the street, with a strong intimation that any further dis- 
 turbance on his part would result in his being handed over 
 to the police. Furzedon turned round with an easy smile 
 to his companions, who were all more or less of racing 
 tendencies, and said, “ A broken-down welsher, with whom 
 I have a long-standing quarrel. I’ve had him put out of 
 the Ring on two or three occasions. I don’t know what he 
 is doing here ; but if he has come over for the races, I can 
 only advise you,” he concluded, laughing, “ not to bet with 
 him.” It need scarcely be said that this incident, if it were 
 possible, still further intensified Prance’s animosity : he 
 brooded day and night over his imaginary wrongs, and 
 speedily arrived at the conclusion that his injuries must be 
 avenged by his own right hand. From that out he dogged 
 Furzedon like a shadow ; wherever he went Prance, shrink- 
 ing discreetly from notice, was watching him ; he dogged 
 him to his lodgings at night ; prowled on his footsteps, 
 whether he went to the opera or to the dinner-table, ever 
 watching his foe with fierce, malignant eyes, waiting pati« 
 
348 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 ently within convenient view of the door, when Furzedon 
 disappeared into buildings into which he deemed it inex- 
 pedient for him to follow. Norman Slade might well say 
 he shouldn’t care to have so vindictive a foe at large were 
 he in Furzedon’s place. He was right, for since he had 
 been flung out of the restaurant Prance was always armed. 
 
 He had quite made up his mind, he was determined to 
 kill Furzedon as soon as a favourable opportunity was 
 vouchsafed him. When a man resolves to slay his fellow, 
 and is utterly reckless of his own life, nothing short of 
 marvellous good fortune can save the doomed victim. He 
 is, perhaps, more at the murderer’s mercy in the very 
 centres of civilisation than in the wild plains of Western 
 America, in the desert, or in South Africa. In these latter 
 cases he is ever on his guard against enemies ; but in the 
 capitals of Europe one hardly expects to carry one’s life in 
 one’s hand. But Furzedon was a man of gregarious habits ; 
 he was seldom alone, and for some days he unwittingly 
 avoided attack from this circumstance. At length he re- 
 ceived a letter from Mr. Sturgeon, desiring instructions 
 about some rather intricate business matters that had just 
 cropped up ; and, with a view to thinking them well over, 
 Furzedon lit his cigar, and started for a walk on the outer 
 boulevards. 
 
 The pale gray shadow of Thanatos stalks behind us from 
 our cradle, but at what distance it is mercifully not given 
 us to know. Sometimes, when being near at hand, years 
 may elapse before he claims his own. At others when 
 exulting in the full pride of our strength he is at our very 
 heels with upraised hands. Little dreamt Furzedon as he 
 crossed the threshold of his lodgings that bright summer 
 morning that the Destroyer had marked him for his prey, 
 and was rapidly closing in upon him. Prance was as usual 
 on his ceaseless watch, and had followed after his wont on 
 the steps of his foe, more doggedly resolved than ever to 
 make an end of this man at the earliest opportunity, and 
 utterly careless of what the consequences might be to him- 
 self. One thing only he hesitated about, he knew that 
 physically Furzedon was the more powerful of the two, 
 and whether really courageous or no he further knew that 
 
PRANCE’S VENGEANCE. 
 
 349 
 
 Jit all events Furzedon was not afraid of him. Prance’s 
 sole fear was a fiasco. The bare idea that an attempt to 
 kill his enemy might result in such discomfiture as we have 
 seen twice befell him at Furzedon’s hands made him wince 
 again. No ; there must be no mistake about it this time — 
 a life for a life he was willing to give, but Furzedon must 
 die. Stealthily he kept his victim in view, as he had done 
 scores of times in the last two or three weeks, and for the 
 first time saw him with savage exultation betake his way 
 to the comparative solitude of the boulevards. Furzedon 
 walked moodily along, puffing at his cigar, with his hands 
 behind him, absorbed in thought. He had come out to 
 think, and he was busy at it — no thought of Prance had 
 crossed his mind since the scene at the restaurant ; he had 
 never caught sight of him since, and would have scoffed at 
 the idea of such an outcast being able to work him harm. 
 
 This opportunity had come at last, and, though not 
 flinching for one moment from his purpose, it seemed to 
 Prance not quite so easy of accomplishment after all. The 
 boulevards, although thinly peopled, were of course not 
 deserted ; it was easy to keep Furzedon in view, but at the 
 same time to approach him closely was to run the chance 
 of immediate recognition. He slunk along about fifty paces 
 in the rear, but, tightly as he clutched the pistol within his 
 breast, he never dreamt of risking a shot at that distance. 
 
 “ Pshaw ! ” he muttered to himself, “ have I not waited 
 days for this chance ? have I turned coward ? is my nerve 
 failing me ? It is time to make an end of this,” and, quick- 
 ening his pace. Prance rapidly though stealthily drew near 
 his unconscious victim. 
 
 Not above a dozen steps behind him now, he drew the 
 pistol from his breast, stopped, and was about to shoot his 
 enemy down from behind, when from sheer accident Furze- 
 don turned suddenly in his walk, and confronted him face 
 to face. For a second Prance hesitated, but Ralph Furze- 
 don, whatever else he might be, was a man of courage and 
 decision. He recognised Prance ; he saw the pistol, and 
 took in the situation at a glance. This man meant to kill 
 him. Quick as lightning he dashed in at his foe, deter- 
 mined to close with him, and neutralise if possible the 
 
350 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 power of that pistol. Prance hurriedly fired at him, and 
 Furzedon felt that he was hit ; the second bullet whistled 
 past him at such close quarters that it was a miracle it 
 only went through his hat instead of his head ; and then 
 Furzedon closed with his assailant. He was but slightly 
 wounded, and was far the more powerful man of the two. 
 The struggle between them, if brief, was desperate. The 
 one was battling for his life, the other mad with the lust of 
 revenge ; but Prance’s pistol-hand was powerless now. 
 Once more, indeed, the revolver cracked harmlessly in the 
 air; and then Furzedon succeeded in wrenching it from 
 his antagonist’s hand and throwing it away ; but he stuck 
 to his man with the pertinacity of a bull-dog, and in 
 another two or three minutes had borne him backwards, 
 and the pair fell to the ground together — Prance under- 
 most. All the brutal passions of Furzedon’s instincts were 
 aroused, and with his clenched fists he rained a shower of 
 blows on the unhappy wretch’s countenance, and speedily 
 made it hardly recognisable. 
 
 I’ve a great mind to kill you, you cowardly hound,” he 
 growled, between his set teeth. “ I’ve a right to do it ; you 
 did your best to murder me. Don’t dare to get up till I 
 tell you.” And as he spoke Furzedon rose from the body 
 of his prostrate foe, and, stepping two or three paces back, 
 began to take stock of what, damages he had received in 
 the encounter. 
 
 Already a small crowd, attracted by the shots, were 
 hurrying to the scene of the conflict. Deeming his foe dis- 
 armed, and a little distracted by the ejaculations and 
 questions rapidly addressed to him by the new-comers, 
 Furzedon took his eyes off his assailant, who had by this 
 raised himself to a sitting posture. Suddenly Prance 
 sprang to his feet, and, drawing a knife from his breast, 
 hrew himself upon Furzedon, exclaiming with almost a 
 ihriek, as he buried his knife twice in Furzedon’s chest, 
 “ Done my best to kill you ; not yet, but I will now.” And 
 as Furzedon fell lifeless to the ground, flourished his blood- 
 stained weapon in the face of the horrified spectators, and 
 then, with a burst of maniacal laughter, buried it in bis 
 pwn throat. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 351 
 
 Conclusion. 
 
 T he fray was over, there was nothing now but to reckon 
 up the cost and fruits of victory. The dacoits had 
 died hard, and fought like wild cats in their rocky den, 
 and the state in which Charlie Devereux had been found 
 had not inclined the hearts of the soldiers to mercy. 
 There were marvellously few prisoners, and amongst 
 Slade’s troopers the casualties also had been heavy. It 
 had required all Hobson’s authority to save Shere Ali’s 
 life, and the robber chieftain had good reason to feel little 
 grateful for his preservation ; he knew it was forfeited, and 
 thought rightly it would have been as well to make an end 
 of it amidst the Rocks of Ruggerbund, sword in hand, as to 
 be hanged in the face of the multitude, which fate he was 
 well aware was in store for him. The doctor’s report too 
 was somewhat serious ; he told Hobson that many of the 
 wounded were bad cases, and it was desirable to get them 
 within the shelter of a regular hospital as soon as might 
 be. “ Captain Slade,” he continued, “ will soon be all 
 right, his arm is broken by a pistol-shot, and he has one 
 or two slight flesh wounds. It will be some time before he 
 recovers the use of his sword-arm, but one can feel easy 
 about him. I only wish I could say as much for some of 
 the others.” 
 
 ^ What about Mr. Devereux ? ” asked Hobson anxiously. 
 “Ah ! that’s serious,” replied the doctor, “ it must be a 
 touch and a go with him ; he seems weak as a rat from his 
 wound, which has never been properly attended to, and 
 these wretches have driven him into a raging fever to wind 
 up with. It is a question whether he will have strength to 
 pull through that ; anyway, the sooner I can get my sick 
 back to the cantonments the better.” 
 
 Hobson had accomplished his mission, and after giving 
 his men a few hours’ rest, and thoroughly ransacking the 
 robbers’ stronghold, he started with his prisoners aaad 
 wounded for the nearest cantonment, where he received 
 much congratulation on his capture of the ferocious bandit, 
 whom a military tribunal shortly relegated to the death ha 
 bad 80 well deserved* 
 
352 
 
 SADDLE AND SABRE. 
 
 Charlie Devereux’s battle for life was long and painful. 
 More than once the doctors thought he v/as gone, and 
 nothing but the most unwearied care and attention 
 snatched him from the very jaws of death. When at last 
 the delirium left him he was so weak, so utterly prostrated 
 in mind and body, that the doctors unhesitatingly agreed 
 there was nothing for it but to send him home. 
 
 ^ “ Let him go round the Cape,” said the medical officer 
 
 who had principal charge of him. “A long sea-voyage 
 will do more to set him on his legs than anything else,” 
 and as Gilbert Slade, though doing well, was still unfit for 
 duty, it was arranged that the two friends should proceed 
 to England together. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Devereux,” said Hobson, as he shook hands 
 with his subaltern. “ English air, and especially English 
 beef, will soon put you all to rights. My dream wasn’t 
 quite accurate, which I attribute to the fact of my never 
 having seen Shere Ali. It was, however, most unpleasantly 
 near the truth.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Charlie, with a faint smile, “ I was destined 
 to be cut down by a dacoit, but whether it was Shere Ali 
 or one of his lieutenants made little difference.” 
 
 The news of Furzedon’s death offered a facility for the 
 arrangement of Charlie Devereux’s affairs, which Major 
 Braddock at once took advantage of. Furzedon’s heirs 
 had no desire to continue the bill-discounting business, and 
 were only too glad to accept the money due to them, with 
 a reasonable rate of interest. That, although Mrs. Kynas- 
 ton gave free vent to her malicious tongue, and would have 
 prevented the marriage of Gilbert Slade and Lettie had 
 she been able, it is needless to say ; but, for all that, the 
 two were made man and wife a few months after the 
 former landed in England, Charlie Devereux being suffi- 
 ciently recovered to enact best man on the occasion. The 
 breakfast took place at Mrs. Connop’s house ; and, as that 
 lady had consulted Major Braddock on the occasion, it 
 was pronounced a great success ; that distinguished officer 
 having thrown himself into the affair with great energy, 
 and been at immense pains to see that the champagne was 
 of an unexceptionable brand, and “ not that usually kept 
 for wedding breakfasts, my boy,” 
 
/ 
 
 i