IT was Ronald’s birthday, and the day fixed for the Races at Bayview—an
unlucky coincidence, for he always showed a keen spirit of enterprise on
that particular morning. He was now fourteen, and looked a trifle older
owing to his splendid physique. Even in the nursery visitors had
christened him the “Infant Hercules.” A Viking he was in miniature, with
clear blue eyes and short, crisp hair, carrying with him an atmosphere of
suppressed fun that, dangerous as it might prove, was a certain guarantee
against dulness or want of spirit. He had behaved himself beautifully
for an entire month. But I distrusted him to-day. He had never seen the
races, and had constantly signified his intention of doing so. So when
his uncle said to him at breakfast, “You are not to go to the races; they
are destructive of morality, especially to a boy of your age,” and Ronald
winked at me across the table, I felt sure he intended to go.
“No sir,” he said respectfully—“and I suppose you won’t go either. Of
course they can’t do you any harm at your age; but they can’t do you any
good.”
“As it happens, Ronald, I shall go—just to make sure that you don’t.
Besides, I think it a good principle that elderly people should be seen
doing things which they forbid to their youngsters. Unquestioning
obedience is a fine thing. It doesn’t follow that because I allow myself
a cigar to quiet my nerves, therefore you should smoke who don’t know
what a nerve means.”
“No sir: of course it doesn’t”—and he winked again.
For myself, I distinctly intended to go to the races, seeing that I was
past the age at which my uncle feared their contagion; though neither was
I old enough to plead the principle which he had so astutely paraded on
his own account. And so I went.
Ronald had left the house soon after breakfast—for a ride (he said)—and,
as I saw nothing of him on the racecourse, I was comfortable in the
belief that for once he had obeyed orders. When the races were nearly
over, a little stable boy came up to me and touched his cap:
“Hold your horse, sir?”
By Jove, it was Ronald. He had borrowed Dick the groom’s livery, and had
had a fine time of it, he told me, in that unconventional attire.
Just then our uncle rode up. “Now stand away, Fred, and don’t be seen
talking to me, and I’ll show you some rare sport.”
“Hold your horse, sir?”—this to our uncle.
“Well, I don’t mind if you do, and I’ll have a stroll with Fred here till
it’s time to go home.”
After a lounge along the course, chatting with friends and criticising
the horses, we came back to where we left Ronald. “Thanks,” said the
uncle, as he re-mounted, “here’s a shilling for you. A lucky dog you
are, too, for it’s got a hole in it, I see. Good-day.”
When dinner was over that evening, the uncle waxed genial over a bottle
of ’75 Margaux. “We’d a capital day’s racing, Ronald. I’m almost sorry
you weren’t with us. Next year, all well, my boy, I’ll take you myself.”
“Thanks, sir”—and he winked the third time. “By the way, you haven’t
lost a shilling, sir, have you? I picked up this one while you were at
the races. You’re a lucky dog, sir, if it does belong to you, for it’s
got a hole in it?”
Verdict: _Acquitted_, _but don’t do it again_.