A RIGHTABOUT FACER FOR MR BHOSH
Halloo! at a sudden your love warfare is changed!
Your dress is changed! Your address is changed!
Your express is changed! Your mistress is changed!
Halloo! at a sudden your funny fair is changed!
_A song sung by Messengeress Binda before Krishnagee_
_Dr. Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong)._
Those who are _au faits_ in the tortoise involutions of the feminine
disposition will hear without astonishment that Duchess Dickinson--so
far from being chastened and softened by the circumstance that the curse
she had launched at Mr Bhosh's head had returned, like an illominous
raven, to roost upon her own nose and irreparably destroy its
contour--was only the more bitterly incensed against him.
Instead of interring the hatchet that had flown back, as if it were that
fabulous volatile the boomerang, she was in a greater stew than ever,
and resolved to leave no stone unturned to trip him up. But what trick
to play, seeing that all the honours were in Mr Bhosh's hands?
She could not officiate as Marplot to discredit him in the affections of
his lady-love, since the Princess was too severely enamoured to give the
loan of her ear to any sibillations from a snake in grass.
How else, then, to hinder his match? At this she was seized with an idea
worthy of Maccaroni himself. She paid a complimentary visit to the
Princess, arrayed in the sheepish garb of a friend, and contrived to
lure the conversation on to the vexed question of prying into futurity.
Surely, she artfully suggested, the Princess at such a momentous epoch
of her existence had, of course, not neglected the sensible precaution
of consulting some competent soothsayer respecting the most propitious
day for her nuptials with the accomplished Mr Bhosh?...
What, had she omitted to pop so important a question? How incredibly
harebrained! Fortunately, there was yet time to do the needful, and she
herself would gladly volunteer to accompany the Princess on such an
errand.
Princess Petunia fell a ready victim into the jaws of this diabolical
booby-trap and inquired the address and name of the cleverest
necromancer, for it is matter of notoriety that London ladies are quite
as superstitious and addicted to working the oracle as their native
Indian sisters.
The Duchess replied that the Astrologer-Royal was a _facile princeps_ at
uttering a prediction, and accordingly on the very next day she and the
Princess, after disguising themselves, set forth on the summit of a
tramway 'bus to the Observatory Temple of Greenwich, where, after first
propitiating the prophet by offerings, they were ushered into a
darkened inner chamber. Although they were strictly _pseudo_, he at once
informed them of their genuine cognomens, and also told them much
concerning their past of which they had hitherto been ignorant.
And to the Princess he said, stroking the long and silvery hairs of his
beard, "My daughter, I foresee many calamities which will inevitably
befall thee shouldest thou marry before the day on which the bridegroom
wins a certain contest called the Derby with a horse of his own."
The gentle Petunia departed melancholy as a gib cat, since Mr Bhosh was
not the happy possessor of so much as a single racing-horse of any
description, and it was therefore not feasible that he should become
entitled to wear the _cordon bleu_ of the turf in his buttonhole on his
wedding day!
With many sighs and tears she imparted her piece of news to the
horror-stricken ears of our hero, who earnestly assured her that it was
contrary to commonsense and _bonos mores_, to attach any importance
to the mere _ipse dixit_ of so antiquated a charlatan as the
Astrologer-Royal, who was utterly incapable--except at very long
intervals--to bring about even such a simple affair as an eclipse which
was visible from his own Observatory!
[Illustration: 'MY DAUGHTER, I FORESEE MANY CALAMITIES WHICH WILL
INEVITABLY BEFALL THEE' (Illustration VI)]
However, the Princess, being a feminine, was naturally more prone to
puerile credulities, and very solemnly declared that nothing would
induce her to kneel by Mr Bhosh's side at the torch of Hymen until he
should first have distinguished himself as a Derby winner.
Whereat Mr Bhosh, perceiving that the date of his nuptial ceremony was
become a _dies non_ in a Grecian calendar, did wring his hands in a bath
of tears.
Alas! he was totally unaware that it was his implacable enemy, the
Duchess Dickinson, who had thus upset his apple-cart of felicity--but so
it was, for by a clandestine bribe, she had corrupted the
Astrologer-Royal--a poor, weak, very avaricious old chap--to trump out
such a disastrous prediction.
Some heroes in this hard plight would have thrown up the leek, but Mr
Bhosh was stuffed with sterner materials. He swore a very long oath by
all the gods that he had ceased to believe in, that sooner or later, by
crook or hook, he would win the Derby race, though entirely destitute of
horseflesh and very ill able to afford to purchase the most mediocre
quadruped.
Here some sporting readers will probably object! Why could he not enlist
his unwieldy gifthorse among Derby candidates and so hoist the Duchess
on the pinnacle of her own petard?
To which I reply: Too clever by halves, Misters! _Imprimis_, the steed
in question was of far too ferocious a temperament (though undeniably
swift-footed) ever to become a favourite with Derby judges; secondly,
after dismounting Mr Bhosh, it had again taken to its heels and departed
into the Unknown, nor had Mr Bhosh troubled himself to ascertain its
private address.
But fortune favours the brave. It happened that Mr Bhosh was one day
promenading down the Bayswater Road when he was passed by a white horse
drawing a milk chariot with unparalleled velocity, outstripping
omnibuses, waggons, and even butcher-carts in its wind-like progress,
which was unguided by any restraining hand, for the milk-charioteer
himself was pursuing on foot.
His natural puissance in equine affairs enabled Mr Bhosh to infer that
the steed which could cut such a record when handicapped with a cumbrous
dairy chariot would exhibit even greater speed if in _puris
naturalibus_, and that it might even not improbably carry off first
prize in the Derby race.
So, as the milk-charioteer ran up, overblown with anxiety, to learn the
result of his horse's escapade, Mr Bhosh stopped him to inquire what he
would take for such an animal.
The dairy-vendor, rather foolishly taking it for granted that horse and
cart were gone concerns, thought he was making the good stroke of
business in offering the lot for a twenty-pound note.
"I have done with you!" cried Mr Bhosh sharply, handing over the
purchase-money, which he very fortunately chanced to have about him, and
galloping off to inspect his bargain, which was like buying a pig after
once poking it in the ribs.
In what condition he found it I must leave you to learn, my dear
readers, in an ensuing chapter.