“THE BOOT ON THE OTHER LEG”
MEANWHILE in the stable of the Honourable Crasher is considerable
consternation and bewilderment. The helpers look wise, and wink at each
other, as they pass from stall to stall, in the execution of their
duties. Mr. Tiptop is completely at his wits’ end. Can he, the knowing
Tiptop, looked up to as the great unerring authority on training, pace,
weight for age, and other racing mysteries—Newmarket all over—can he
have made a mistake? He begins to think, not only that he _can_, but
that he _has_.
First of all they gave the hapless Marathon a spin with Chance, as a
mere breather, and I have already said with what result.
Mr. Tiptop being determined to get at “the rights of it,” then tried the
horses a mile at even weights; the consequences admitted of less doubt
than ever. Marathon’s “form” was so obviously bad, that the groom
concluded he must be amiss.
“Why, he can’t go no faster than our mare can trot,” soliloquised Mr.
Tiptop, as he contemplated the bay grinding away at his afternoon’s feed
(to do Marathon justice, he was always good at this part of his day’s
work), and thought that the animal did by no means show to advantage
amongst his stable companions. “Can he be one of those extraordinary
horses as I’ve hear’d of, wot can scarcely wag without they’re trained
a’most to fiddle-strings, but as nothing mortal can touch if once you
gets them fit?” He almost persuaded himself that the new purchase must
indeed be such a phenomenon, and resolved on putting him through a
severe course of physic, and into strong training forthwith. Before,
however, resorting to such ulterior measures, he had the wisdom to think
of applying to old Isaac for a solution of the mystery.
He found the senior busy in his little saddle-room, engaged in no less
important an occupation than the improvement of The Boy’s morals and
general deportment, for which I grieve to observe, since his arrival at
Harborough, there was sufficient room. The youth, though he worked hard,
was seldom sober now, and never told the truth but by accident. Isaac’s
method of imparting ethical instruction was uncompromising, if not
agreeable. With the lad’s collar in one hand, and a spare
stirrup-leather in the other, he insisted forcibly on those maxims which
he considered most salutary to the tender mind, accompanying each with a
stinging illustration from the strap; the dialogue between the sage and
his disciple being conducted much in this wise:—
Isaac: “I’ve told you over and over again, ye young warmint, and I’ll
tell it ye every day I live, if I larrup the skin off ye.” (Whack.)
The Boy: “Oh, please!”
Isaac: “You’ll never rise in life, nor be fit to be called a stableman,
without you can work them qualities which have made _me_ what I am;
that’s what I am a teaching of ye.” (Whack.)
The Boy: “Oh, please!”
Isaac: “First and foremost, sobriety.”—(Whack, and “Oh, please!”)
“Secondly, honesty, coupled with early rising.”—(Whack again, and a
howling “Oh, please!” from the pupil.) “Thirdly and lastly,
sobriety.”—(Whack.) “I’ll go over ’em again; them’s the three cardinal
virtues. You mind what I’m a tellin’ ye—Sobriety, honesty, coupled with
early rising, and sobriety.” (Whack, whack, whack; and “Oh, please! oh,
please! oh, please!”)
At this juncture, Mr. Tiptop entered. Casting an approving glance at the
mode of treatment adopted, he seated himself on an inverted
stable-bucket, and professed his readiness to await old Isaac’s leisure
ere he asked to have “a word with him.” The other let go of The Boy’s
collar—who darted from the place like a weasel—and put on his own coat
and hat. Thus armed, he waited to hear what his guest had to say. Mr.
Tiptop broached the subject at once.
“Rum go, this here!” said he, hoisting his hat on to his eyebrows.
“Uncommon queer start it is, about your bay horse. Can’t get him _out_,
I can’t, do what I will with him; the beggar seems well, too, and pretty
fit, as far as I see, and I’ve trained a few of them! If I didn’t _know_
he was a smartish nag now, I should say he was as slow as an eight-day
clock when it runs down. What am I to think of it?”
Isaac’s little blue eyes twinkled for an instant, but turned to stone
once more, as he replied slowly, “Think of it? Well, it seems to _me_,
now, that he won’t be much use to your governor if he can’t win.”
“Not he!” answered Mr. Tiptop, contemptuously. “I could have told _you_
that. What I want to know is, why the beggar was so much better in your
stable than in ours? Come, old chap! you and me has always been good
friends, give us an _item_ now; what would you do with him, if you was
me?”
Isaac’s face altered not a muscle, nor did the eyes twinkle now, while
he replied gravely, “If I was in your shoes, Mr. Tiptop, _this_ is what
I’d do—I’d put him into this here race sure-lie, and _lay agin him for
the very shirt on my back_!”
And like the Pythian of old, Isaac having thus delivered himself, could
by no means be brought back to the subject. If Mr. Tiptop had looked
puzzled when he entered the veteran’s saddle-room, the expression of his
countenance, as he emerged from it, was that of a man whom mystery has
so completely enfolded in her web, that he has no energy left to make an
effort for escape. That he was so utterly bamboozled as to have recourse
to his own master, thus risking his authority over the Honourable for
ever after, may be gathered from the conversation held between the
latter and Mr. Sawyer over their last cigar, before separating for the
night, about two P.M. The Honourable, with an air of cordial approval,
as that of a man who is paying another a well-merited compliment, drawls
out—
“That’s an awful brute you sold me, Sawyer,—that bay of yours. You were
quite right to part with him. My fellow tells me he can’t go a yard:
wants me to ride him myself; told him I’d rather not, if I can _walk_ as
fast. Do you think there’s anything wrong with him, or used he _always_
to gallop as if his legs were tied?”
This is not a very easy question for the former owner to answer, asked,
as it is, in the Honourable’s off-hand careless manner. Mr. Sawyer
thinks of trying the “virtuous indignation” tack; reflects that under
the circumstances it would only make him ridiculous, and that thoroughly
to carry it out, he ought to be prepared to take back the horse, a
measure that in his wildest moments he has never contemplated, and
finally subsides into a good-humoured smile, and affirms—
“We thought him a fair horse enough in the Old Country. Perhaps he don’t
shine so bright amongst your clippers. He’s a sound, good-constitutioned
beast, too, and _never_ off his feed; that I can answer for, and you’ve
seen him jump. I am sorry you don’t like him; but if you wanted a
racehorse, you know, that sort of thing is quite out of my line.”
The Honourable, who is good-nature itself, laughs heartily. “I don’t
hate him as much as Tiptop does; and if worst comes to worst, he’s
good-looking enough for harness. By the bye, old fellow, do you dine
over at Dove-cote to-morrow?”
“Well, I’ve been _asked_” replied our friend, as if he hadn’t set his
heart upon going, and been thinking of it ever since. “Why?” he adds,
smothering a blush, as he thinks his companion may have found out his
secret, and is laughing in his sleeve.
“Only that we’re all going,” rejoins the Honourable; “I’m glad to hear
you are not to be left in the lurch. It’s a fearful road, and an
infernal long way; but Dove gives you such ’41 as is not to be got
anywhere else, and a skinful of it, my boy, not forgetting to drink his
own share. I like the mother Dove, too, and pretty Miss ‘Cissy’ is
always good fun!”
Sawyer felt the blood tingling in his ears. Amongst the many annoyances
that gird as with briars the man who is sufficiently ill-advised to take
an interest in any one but himself, not the least is that ridiculous
sensitiveness to remarks, hazarded by the most careless of bystanders on
the “object” or its belongings. If it is praised, we are jealous; if
censured, we are angry; and if not mentioned at all, we are
disappointed. That Mr. Sawyer, who had no more “vested interest” in her
than the Lord Chancellor, should feel annoyed at Miss Cissy being spoken
of as “good fun,” by so amiable a critic as the Honourable Crasher, only
shows the absurd organisation of the human mind, and how careful we
should be never to put off that armour of selfishness and self-conceit,
with which nature has provided us for our self-defence.
Mr. Sawyer made a move toward his bed-candle.
“Good-night, old fellow,” said the Honourable. “By Jove! we’ll go
together to-morrow to the Dove-cote. I’ll drive you there in my phaeton;
and, by Jove! we’ll put that bay horse of yours in, and see how it goes
with a trap behind him—so we will.”
The Honourable appeared so delighted with his own suggestion, that it
was impossible to controvert it; but as Mr. Sawyer wound up his watch
and deposited it on his dressing-table, it certainly occurred to him
that there was such a thing as retribution even at Market Harborough.
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