“Have bought a first-class mount,” read out the vicar, from a telegram
which he had just received. “There,” he said to his wife, “it’s done
now—so Towser will have to go.”
“What, part with Towser? Poor old Towser,” spoke up Mrs. Dene.
“He’s so slow, and I have been indulgent too long already. Now, don’t
make a fuss, my dear. I daresay you have grown fond of him, and so you
will be of the new horse when it comes.”
That settled it.
Next morning soon after breakfast, the groom led a fine spirited mount
up to the hall door. Up jumped the vicar from his seat.
[Illustration]
“Ah! Lucy Lu! Now are you not pleased with my new purchase?” he cried.
“You are sure that horse is quiet, John?”
“Read the warranty.”
“He doesn’t look steady like dear old Towser.”
“Please don’t bracket them together. They are two entirely different
animals. This new horse is well bred, and but six years old; while
Towser has not many good points and is aged.”
“You won’t send Towser away—now will you, John? for I’m sure this new
horse will not suit. He’s got such a wicked eye.”
“My dear, what silly things you say. I can see you don’t like my new
purchase, and I do,” said the vicar, emphatically.
* * * * *
“Morning, Hopkins.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Well, this appears to be a grand creature,” stroking the mane.
“Yes, sir,” said the groom.
“I somehow fancied Grahame would choose well. He has a splendid head.
Fine bone. Stands well. Splendid flank—got many good points, I
notice—he’s not quite as sedate looking as our old pony.”
“Indeed he’s not, sir.”
“Well, we shall see. I’ll take him for a ride.”
And as his master rode away, “He’s a real bad’un that little horse is,”
said Hopkins. “A reg’lar bad’un. Bought at a grand Repository, and quiet
and sound, warranty says—a real varmint,” says I.
Now as Lele was stepping along, would it not be as well to tell you
something of him, children? To begin with, he had been sold several
times, changed masters more than once for something worse than
disobedience. He was up to all kinds of tricks, could buck, kick, jib,
in fact he could perform all manner of naughty tricks—yes, do all except
do as he was bid.
So he looked this way and that, snorted, gave a bit of a jerk, just to
rouse his new master, and than sighed. “Well, it’s come to a nice thing
now,” he grunted, “me—a well-set-up sprightly hunter, knocked down at a
sale for thirty pounds! Sold to an old parson. Humph! I’ve seen lots of
parsons in the hunting field, but never thought I’d like to live with
one. Now I know I shan’t. Wish I hadn’t thrown Lord Jim. Bless me!
Changed my walk in life entirely, and however I shall take to being a
goody-goody horse I don’t know. Suppose I shall have to eat second-rate
oats till I grow old and wheezy.”
A gentleman who was riding along the road stopped to speak to the vicar.
“Hallo!” said Lele to the stranger’s mare. “How do! Fine morning.”
“Very,” said the sedate little grey mare.
[Illustration]
“Not much doing here. Slow sort of place I should say, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean? Have you just come to this neighbourhood?”
“Came last night. Slow train. Block in the line. A miserable journey.”
“Do you think you will like the neighbourhood?”
“No.”
“Oh! you rude creature, I shan’t talk to you any more! Where do you come
from, and whatever is the vicar doing with you?”
Lele took no notice. Presently he said:
“Does nobody hunt here?”
“Hunt? My master doesn’t, but people he knows do. I’m sure your master
doesn’t.”
Lele groaned. “Well, however I’m going to suit goodness knows. I shall
die of yawning and rust out before a month is over.”
“As I was saying,” said the vicar to his friend, “I think he is a
perfect little horse. He is quiet, as you see, and I’m not likely to
kill him with work. I just go my usual round, but I do like a well-bred
horse. He’ll have a very easy time of it with me.” Lele groaned louder
than ever.
“We have not stiff hills in this neighbourhood.”
Lele grew restive.
“And life is much the same all the year round.”
“Shall I bolt?” fumed Lele.
“I ride for an hour in the mor—”
“Look here, I can’t stand this. In all the homes I’ve had there’s been
something to do. There’s been steeplechasing in Spring—hunting—”
“Why, the hounds are out,” called Mr. Dobson. He was riding a little way
in front and could see over the hedge. “See! there’s the whip making for
Cranstone Hill! Is he used to following the hounds?”
“I don’t know—he does appear restive. Whoa-a then!”
“Do you hunt, Mr. Grey?”
“Oh, yes, but I haven’t indulged in such things for years.”
“Then you’d better get off—I wouldn’t trust that horse.” But the vicar
had no time to get off, and another thing he did not mean to. He meant
to stop on.
“It’s my opinion my master is not so simple as he looks,” thought Lele.
“He’s been used to spurs he has. What a dig he did give me then. I shall
have to try to unsettle him—for he is rather a heavy load to carry, and
I mean to follow the hounds—”
“Tally ho!” rang out in the clear morning air as Lele bucked.
The vicar stuck on.
He shied.
His master didn’t care.
He jibbed.
But he might have exploded if he liked, nothing short of an earthquake
would have disturbed the vicar.
[Illustration]
“I say, hold hard there,” yelled Mr. Dobson, “he’ll kill you.”
“No, he won’t.”
“You’d better get off.”
“Not if I know it.”
“You won’t, then, eh!” struck in Lele—“then here goes—” And, like a
flash, over the hedge he went—in short, I may tell you he had galloped a
field over, cleared a gate, forded a stream, broken through a copse, and
then, Tally ho! he was with the hounds, close alongside the whip, and in
a few minutes stood with his master, who was perspiring and mopping his
face with his handkerchief, abashed at the attention his presence called
forth, and stammering his thanks to the master of the hounds who handed
him the brush.
“Allow me to congratulate you, good sir,” he said.
“Now, just look here,” interrupted Lele—only nobody noticed him—“that
brush belongs to me. I followed the hounds, and as I couldn’t throw the
vicar off, of course I had to bring him—much against his will—a fact, I
assure you. Just stick that brush behind my ear, please. Why, Kiddy, is
that you?”
“Lily!”
“Goodness me! Wonders will never cease, I own a vicar now—you know I was
bundled off to a Repository after I had thrown Lord Jim.”
“He’s here.”
“Never!”
“But he is, sir! Here he comes riding that limping crocodile of a
nag—don’t think he is benefited by the change—do you, Lele?” But before
Lele could answer Lord Jim had discovered his late horse. He made up to
the vicar as they were going home.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, and then, “allow me to congratulate you on
your horse.”
“What, another!” said the vicar.
“I have just sold him.”
“That accounts for my possession—fact is I have just bought him.”
And then it all came out—Lord Jim repented parting with Lele, and
although the good vicar said nothing, he thought, “Well, he’s certainly
a bargain, but my parish will miss me if, every time I want a little
trot out, my horse takes it into his head to follow the hounds.”
And how it came about I cannot tell you, children, but before the vicar
got home he decided to let Lord Jim have his favourite back again.
“I repented it directly after. But you do look so stupid being thrown in
the hunting field—it was the first time, you know.”
The vicar nodded—and Mrs. Grey chuckled when he came home, safe but very
much shaken.
“He’s far too much for you, John.”
“Yes, my dear, you are right.”
“Old Towser?”
“Shall remain.”
[Illustration]
“And Lele?”
“Again belongs to Lord Jim.”
“It was a clear walk over that,” mused Lele as he crunched the
well-grown oats in Lord Jim’s stables that night. “I never met my match
till his reverence mounted me—I might have behaved ugly, but I’m pleased
to think I didn’t throw the old gentleman. There’s ever so many runs in
prospect, you say?”
“Five,” said Biddy.
“And I’m entered for next Spring steeplechases, so Tally ho! But I
know—I’ll never throw Lord Jim again!”
[Illustration]