|IT was Mr Chifney in person who admitted Walter Lisgard, after a
precautionary glance at him through a little grating, which doubtless
the monks had used for a similar purpose, although without the same
excuse, for they had never possessed any Derby “cracks” to be
poisoned. Mr Chifney might have been himself a monk but for his apparel,
which, although scrupulously neat and plain, fitted him almost like
war-paint, so that there was not a crease to be seen, except at the
knees, of which he made as much use as the holy fathers themselves did,
though not precisely in the same way. His dark hair was closely cropped,
and a little bald spot on the top of the crown might well have been
taken for a tonsure. Moreover, he had a grave and secretive look, which
would have well enough become one in whom were reposed the secrets of
the Confessional; and when he smiled, he looked sorry for it immediately
afterwards, as though he had given way to a carnal pleasure.
Captain Lisgard shook the trainer's hand with his usual hearty warmth,
and Mr Chifney returned his pressure with unwonted cordiality. He was
accustomed to meet men of a much higher social rank than his present
visitor on something like equal terms; many of them shook hands with
him; all of them treated him with familiarity. The Turf, like the Grave,
levels all distinctions. Between the Lord and the Blackleg (to make an
antithetical use of terms that are not seldom synonymous), there is
but slight partition on that common ground; the widest gulf of
social difference is bridged over, _pro tem_, by the prospect of an
advantageous bet. How much more, then, was this wont to be the case in
view of the trustworthy “information” which Mr Tite Chifney had
it so often in his power to bestow? Marquises had taken his arm in a
confidential manner before now in the most public places, and dukes had
called him “Tite;” even ladies of the highest fashion had treated
him to pretty speeches, and to what they hoped might turn out
literally “winning ways.” But the great trainer estimated all these
condescensions at their true value. He never concealed from himself the
motives that caused these people to be so civil to him; and perhaps he
had seen too much of the turfite aristocracy to be flattered by their
attentions, even had they been disinterested. But Walter Lisgard's
greeting was different from those which he was wont to receive from his
great patrons; there was not only a cordial frankness about it, but a
something of sympathy, conveyed with marvellous tact, in his air and
manner; which seemed to say: “I unfeignedly regret that anything
like friendship should be impossible between us, for I am your social
superior; and yet, how ridiculous a thing it is that this should be so!
I, but the younger brother of a man himself of no great position, and
you, at the head of that profession in which the noblest in the land
take so great and personal an interest.” If Mr Chifney did not read
all this, it is certain that so acute an observer could not fail to read
some of it. He was as far from being moved by any considerations not
strictly practical as any man connected with horseflesh; his calling,
too, rendered him as suspicious of his fellow-creatures as a police
detective; but Master Walter's sort of flattery was too subtle for
him. He had always had a liking for this genial young fellow, with
his handsome face and pleasant speech, and who, moreover, rode across
country like a centaur; he was one of his own landlord's family, too,
and the heir-presumptive of the property, whose favour it was just
as well to win and keep; and lastly, the lad had been so unfeignedly
grateful to him for the little hints he had occasionally afforded him,
as well as so wisely reticent about his informant, that he was not
unwilling to help him again to a few “fivers,” if he could do so
without the betrayal of professional confidence.
“Come for another 'tip,' eh, Master Walter?” whispered he
good-naturedly as he led the way into the house. “You see I did not
deceive you the last time you were here about _Cambyses!_”
“No, indeed, you did not, Mr Chifney” (Walter never addressed this
friend of his without the Mister), “and a very great blessing it was
to yours thankfully at a time when he was even more hard-up than usual.
Is your Derby 'crack' visible today? I am poor, but honest. I have
no motive beyond that of curiosity, and if suspected of a concealed
weapon, will submit to be searched.”
“Well, Master Walter,” grinned the trainer, “I can't say that
I much credit the honesty of anybody myself; but I don't see why you
should not have a look at his majesty, particularly as there is one
coming here this morning already upon the same errand, and I'm sure
I'd as soon oblige you as him--or, indeed, as any man, let it be who
it will.”
“You are very kind to say so, Mr Chifney, and still more to mean it,
as I am sure you do; but I feel that I have no right with my bagatelle
of a stake depending upon the matter to take up your time--nay, I must
insist upon throwing my cigar away before entering your house; it is all
very well for Mrs Chifney to give _you_ the privilege of smoking within
doors, but I could not venture to take such a liberty myself. What a
jolly place this is of yours; I always think it is so much snugger than
the Abbey. I should never sit anywhere but in your grand old kitchen,
if I were you.”
“Well, the fact is we _do_ sit a good deal in the kitchen,” returned Mr
Chifney reddening. “It's warm, you see, although it's large, and my wife
likes to see how things are going on. She's engaged there just at
present, and--you're a great favourite of hers; but I would recommend
you to step in as you _go out_, instead of now. A queer thing is woman,
Master Walter, and no man can tell how queer till he comes to be
married! Young gals is all sweetness and easily cajoled; but wives--O
lor! Now, it's exactly different with horseflesh, for the brood-mares
one _can_ manage with a little care, and it's only the fillies that give
us trouble, and have such tempers of their own. There; that's a Derby
nag, _Blue Ruin_, in the cloths yonder, and I believe the Duke would not
sell him for three thousand pounds; but I have told His Grace, as I tell
you, that I wouldn't back the horse even for a place.”
“A splendid stepper, too,” exclaimed Walter admiringly, as the
beautiful creature paced slowly round the straw-yard, with arching
neck and distended nostrils, as though he were aware of the trainer's
depreciating remarks, and could afford to despise them.
“That's true,” rejoined Mr Chifney drily; “but we don't want
steppers, but goers; there's a vast of steppers in this world, both
men and horses.--Now, in that box yonder, there is an animal who, in
my opinion, could give _Blue Ruin_ ten pounds; but you shall judge for
yourself presently. _The King's_ palace is this next one.”
And truly, scarce could horse be better housed than was his equine
majesty. No light-house could be more exquisitely clean; no drawing-room
in Mayfair more neat, or better suited to the requirements of its
inhabitant, although of ornament, save the plaited straw that fringed
the royal couch, there was nothing. A dim religious light pervaded this
sanctuary, which was kept at a moderate temperature by artificial means,
while an admirable ventilation prevented the slightest “smell of the
stable” from being perceptible. The object of all this consideration
was a magnificent bay horse, by rule of Liliput, very fitly named _The
King_, since, if not a head taller than his fellows, he was fully “a
hand.” His coat quite shone amid the gloom, and as the key turned in
the door, he pricked his long fine ears, and turned his full eyes upon
his two visitors inquiringly, with far more expression in his lean-jawed
face than is possessed by many a human creature.
“This gives the world assurance of a horse indeed,” muttered Walter
to himself as he contemplated this wonder. “Shew me his faults, Mr
Chifney, for his excellences dazzle me.”
“Well, sir,” whispered the trainer, looking up towards a square hole
in the ceiling, “it is not for me to depreciate 'the crack;' and
there's a boy up yonder--for the horse is never left for a moment,
night or day--who is getting too sharp to live, at least in my stables.
But look at what he stands on.”
Most men who ride think it a disgrace not to know all about a horse.
Every man who keeps a pony thinks himself qualified to “pick” out
the winner from any number of thoroughbreds before “the start;” and
when the race is over, protests that he _had_ picked him out in his
own mind, only something (not quite satisfactorily explained) made him
distrust his own judgment, and back a loser.
It was a great temptation to Captain Walter Lisgard, of the 104th Light
Dragoons, to shew himself horse-wise, but he put it from him manfully,
or rather, with strength of mind far beyond that of most men of his
class. “The pasterns seem to be long and strong enough,” answered
he, “and the feet neither too large nor too small.”
“Just what my lord says,” observed the trainer in the same
low tones; “nor can I make him see that there is any degree of
contraction. But he is not _your_ horse, so tell me; look now--is it not
so?”
It was so, or at least it seemed to be so to the captain, as the trainer
returned the faulty member to its proprietor, with the air of a banker
declining a forged cheque.
“It is of small consequence to me,” said Walter; “but I shall be
sorry if the winner does not come out of your stable. I took a thousand
to twenty in October, which I can now hedge to great advantage.”
“If you take my advice, you will hold on,” said Mr Chifney
confidentially. “Twenty pound is little to lose, and what I have shewn
you by no means destroys his chance; moreover, _The King_ will not be
deposed in the betting. I shall be surprised if, in the paddock, they
lay more than three to one.”
“You were going to tell me something, Mr Chifney, only you thought
better of it,” said Captain Lisgard, laying his finger upon the
other's coat-cuff as they emerged from the royal presence. “And yet
you trusted me when I was but a boy at school, and I never abused your
confidence.”
“What a fellow you are to read a chap!” returned the trainer
admiringly. “Burst my buttons, but you are a cunning one, Master
Walter! It is true that I was thinking of letting you into a little
secret--though, after all, it mayn't be worth much. Let us come on
to the tan-gallop for five minutes, for nowhere else can we get out of
earshot of these boys.” With that, passing through a paddock, itself
provided with a straw-ride, so that the race-horses need not set foot
upon the frost-bound turf as they issued forth to exercise, Mr
Chifney led the way to the upland, where a broad brown road of tan
was permanently laid on the level down. Here the trainer paused, and
speaking aloud for the first time, observed in a solemn tone: “Now,
look you, true as fate, I would tell no other man but you. What I said
about _The King's_ feet was on the square: but that ain't all.
There's a horse here as nobody ever heard of, and yet who's a real
good un. He's the one that I said could give _Blue Ruin_ ten pounds.
You may get two hundred to one against him at this blessed moment, and
he'll be at twenty to one before April Fool Day. It's the best
thing we've had at Mirk yet, and---- Ah, the devil! here comes the man
I was expecting; remember, we were talking about _The King_.”
“Morning, Mr Chifney,” said the new-comer, nodding familiarly to
the trainer.--“And morning to _you_, sir, if you ain't too proud to
accept it.”
He was a large-built middle-aged man, with a sunburnt countenance,
generally good-humoured enough, notwithstanding the presence of a
truculent red beard, but upon this occasion, somewhat sullen, and even
defiant. Walter recognised in him the stranger stopping at the _Lisgard
Arms_, at once, and was at no loss to account for his displeasure. He
had doubtless received some hint that his presence at the Abbey would
not be welcome.
“Good-morning, Mr Derrick,” returned the captain cheerfully.
“There is no pride about me, since, unfortunately, I have nothing to
be proud of; but if there was, why should I not return a civil reply to
a civil speech?”
“Oh, because I ain't good enough to speak to,” answered the other
scornfully. “Because I ain't a gentleman, forsooth, like your high
and mighty family. But the fact is, sir, although I have got decent
blood in my veins myself, I come from a country where we don't care
_that_”--and he snapped his fingers with a noise equal to the crack of
a whip--“for who is a man's father, unless the man himself is worth
his salt.”
“That, then, must have been the reason why this good-for-nothing
ruffian left that country,” thought the captain; but he answered with
humility: “Then, I fear, I should be giving up my best chance if I
went there.”
“Well,” answered the stranger, somewhat mollified, “you don't
speak like one of them beastly aristocrats--that I will say--as though
it were too much trouble to open their darned lips.”
Mr Derrick himself did not speak like an aristocrat either; his voice,
though rich in song, had in speech a strong northern burr, which
rescued it from any such imputations. “Why, if a man in my country,”
continued he, “should venture to warn another off his land--unless,
of course, it was a mining claim--as Sir Richard Lisgard”----
“Mr Derrick,” interrupted the captain firmly, “I am sure that it
is not the custom in any country in the world to abuse a man's
brother to his face. Having said that much, I will add that, if you have
received any rudeness from any one at the Abbey, I am sincerely sorry
for it. It did not emanate from _me_. Mr Chifney here will give me
a character so far.”
“Master Walter is as civil-spoken and well-behaved a young gentleman as
any in the county,” exclaimed the trainer warmly; “and I will go bail
has never given you or any man offence. He has just stepped in, like
you, to see 'the crack' on which he has a little money; and since I am
not one of those who say: 'It is no use now a days to attempt to take in
your enemies, and therefore your friends must suffer,' I have been
giving him some advice.”
“About _Manylaws?_” inquired the stranger suspiciously, turning
sharp round upon the captain.
The look of blank astonishment upon that gallant officer's face would
have set at rest the doubts of a Pollaky.
“It is not my habit to disclose my customer's secrets,” observed
the trainer tartly; “although I may say that, with Master Walter,
everything is as safe as wax.”
“Is it so?” quoth Mr Derrick warmly; “then let him come with us and see
the Black.--Only mind, Mr Walter Lisgard, I will not have that brother
of yours bettered by a fourpenny-piece by anything you may see or hear
to-day.”
“My brother never bets upon any race,” answered the captain quietly;
“so that promise is easily given.”
“Then come along with me and Mr Chifney,” said the stranger, holding
out his hairy hand in token of amity. “You've read a deal about
that crack as I've just been looking at; but I dare say, now, you have
never so much as heard of this same _Manylaws_.”
“Not unless you mean the French horse, about which there were a few
lines in _Bell_ some time ago--_Menelaus_.”
“Ay, that's him. But it's called Manylaws” explained Mr Derrick;
“for you wouldn't think of calling the Oaks' mare _Antigown_, I
suppose, _Antigone_. Well, the Black ain't fancied much, I reckon; but
he _will_ be, Mr Chifney, eh? He _will_ be?”
“It is my opinion that he will be at very short odds indeed,”
returned the trainer; “and many more people will be desirous of paying
him a call than do him that honour just at present. This is his stable.
He does not look quite such a likely horse as _The King_, Master Walter,
does he? There's bone for you!”
“An ounce of blood is worth a pound of bone, says the proverb,”
remarked the captain.
“So far as that goes, although he _is_ a Frenchman,” answered the
trainer, “he has Godolphin's blood in his veins. But only look at
his ragged hips!”
“Ragged enough, Mr Chifney. And do you mean to say that this animal
will be a public favourite?”
“We hope not,” returned the trainer, winking facetiously at his
bearded friend; “but---- Shall we tell him what we do hope, Mr
Derrick?”
“I'll tell him myself,” quoth the other impulsively, “for you say
the young gentleman is safe, and I have taken a sort of unaccountable
fancy to him. We hope, and more than that, believe, Captain Lisgard,
that that same ragged-hipped horse will Win the Derby!”
“Two hundred to one against Mr Blanquette's _Menelaus_,” murmured Walter
pathetically, as though it were a line from some poem of the affections.
“That's the present quotation,” answered Mr Derrick with a
chuckle, and rattling a quantity of loose silver and gold in his
breeches' pockets. “Perhaps you would like to lay it in ponies with
Mr Chifney and me.”
“No, Mr Derrick; but I should like to thank you very much for letting
me into this secret, which, I assure you, shall never pass my lips;”
and he held out his hand to the stranger.
“Our way lies together as far as the inn,” returned the other
warmly; “we'll liquor---- But there; I forgot I was no longer in
Cariboo. I dare say a gentleman like you _don't_ liquor so early in the
day.”
“At all events, I will walk with you, my good sir,” answered
the captain laughing; and so, forgetting to repeat his request to be
permitted to pay his respects to the trainer's wife, he took his
departure with his new acquaintance.
“And who _is_ this Monsieur Blanquette?” inquired Walter carelessly
as they walked down the village street.
“He was a mate of mine at the gold-diggings in British Columbia, and
the only Frenchman as ever I saw there. We did a pretty good stroke
of work together; and when we came home, he invested his money
in horseflesh, and that there _Manylaws_ was one of his cheapest
bargains.”
“I think I saw it stated somewhere that Mr Blanquette is only
part-owner of the horse?” observed the captain inquiringly.
“That's so,” rejoined the other. “It belongs to him and a
company.”
“And you are the company, eh, Mr Derrick?”
“You have hit it,” responded the bearded man with the air of a
proprietor. “This here child is the _Co._ in question.”