"Would not a horse be necessary, or a pony?"
"Well, yes," said my uncle dryly, "I think it would, sir; but that
difficulty will be got over. Sir Hawkhurst Rye has offered the boy the
use of a stout cob. One of the grooms will bring it over two or three
times a week; and, if you would allow me, I should like to have a few
words with the old sergeant."
The Doctor was perfectly agreeable; and when they were going, I had the
pleasure--for it was a pleasure--of taking them down to Lomax's little,
neatly-kept place, where the old sergeant stood ready to draw himself up
and salute, with his eyes lighting up, and a proud look of satisfaction
in his hard face.
My uncle took him aside, and they remained talking together, while my
mother walked up and down with me, holding my hand through her arm, and
eagerly whispering her hopes--that I would be very careful, that I would
not run into any danger with the riding, and, above all, mind not to do
anything my uncle would not like.
Of course I promised with the full intention of performing, and soon
after my uncle marched back with Lomax--they did not seem to walk.
Everything had apparently gone off satisfactorily, and after plenty of
advice from my uncle, he handed my mother into the carriage, followed
and they were driven off.
I stood watching the carriage till it was out of sight, and then turned
to Lomax, who was standing as upright as if he were on parade, till he
caught my eye, and then he gave himself a jerk, thrust one hand into his
pocket, and gave the place a slap.
"You're a lucky one," he said, "to have an uncle like that, sir. Hah!
there's nothing like a soldier."
"How am I lucky?" I said rather sourly, for I was low-spirited from the
parting I had just gone through.
"Lucky to have a fine old officer like that to want me to make a man of
you, and teach you everything you ought to know to become an officer and
a gentleman."
"Oh, bother!" I said. "Look here, Lomax; you're to teach me riding.
Can you?"
"Can I?" he said, with a little laugh; "wait till the horse comes round,
and I'll show you, my boy."
"I can ride, you know," I said; "but not military fashion."
"You? you ride, sir?" said the old soldier scornfully. "Rubbish! Don't
talk to me. I know how you ride--like a sack of wool with two legs.
Knees up to your chin and your nose parting the horse's mane all down
his neck."
"Oh, nonsense, Lom!"
"Fact, sir, fact. Think I don't know? A civilian rides, sir, like a
monkey, bumping himself up and down, and waggling his elbows out like a
young chicken learning to fly. There, you be easy, and I'll teach you
how to ride same as I did how to fight."
"But I don't know that you have taught me how to fight. I haven't tried
yet."
Lomax chuckled.
"Wait a bit," he said. "You don't want to fight. It's like being a
soldier--a British soldier, sir. He don't want to fight, and he will
not if he can help it. He always hangs back because he knows that he
can fight. But when he does--well, I'm sorry for the other side."
"Then you think I could lick Eely if he knocked me about, or big
Dicksee?"
"No, I don't think anything about it, my boy. You wait. Don't fight if
you can help it, but if you're obliged to, recollect all I've shown you,
and let him have it."
I did not feel in any hurry, and when I talked to Tom Mercer about what
I had said to Lomax, he agreed with me that he felt a little nervous
about his powers, and said that he should like to try a small boy or two
first; but I said no, that would not do; it would be cowardly.
"So it would," said Mercer; "besides, it would let the cat out of the
bag, wouldn't it? Look here, I know: we ought to have a quiet set to up
in the loft some day."
"But that would only be boxing," I said.
"Why not make a fight of it?" suggested Mercer.
"But we couldn't fight without there was a genuine quarrel."
"Let's quarrel, then."
"What about?"
"Oh, I don't know. Anything. You call me a fool, and I'll hit you, and
then you go at me again, and we should know then what we could do."
"Get out!" I said. "I shan't call you a fool; but if I did, you
wouldn't be such a beast as to hit me, and if you did, I should be so
sorry that I shouldn't hit you again. That wouldn't do."
Tom Mercer scratched his head.
"No," he said dryly, "that wouldn't do. It seems precious rum, though."
"What does?"
"That I shouldn't care to hit you. I feel as if I couldn't hit a fellow
who saved my life."
"Look here," I said angrily, "you're always trying to bring up that
stupid nonsense about the holding you up on the penstock. If you do it
again, I will hit you."
"Boo! Not you. You're afraid," cried Mercer derisively. "Who pulled
the chap out of the water when he was half drowned, and saved him?
Who--"