THE BRAVE PREPARE FOR A RACE, THE FAIR FOR A PICNIC
Next morning after Millard’s hop, several of our acquaintance met on
the piazza.
“What happened at the subscription party last night?” asked Peter
Skerrett of Gyas, who looked blue and slumbrous as a night policeman.
“They didn’t do a very heavy business,” responded Guy. “Lob Lolly
subscribed three hundred. Hobble de Hoy collected two-fifty. Belden
lost like leaking. De Châteaunéant was collecting pretty well, till
Sir Com Ambient came in and sat down opposite; then he seemed to get
flustrated, subscribed once or twice, and went away.”
“What an astonishing feller that Belden is!” said Cloanthus. “There he
comes in on Knockknees, and we’ve only just grubbed.”
Belden gave his horse to Figgins and lounged up the steps. He affected
a dignified indifference with the younger men generally, but this
morning he was quite gracious. They were discussing the preliminaries
of the race. They had talked of a steeple-chase, but the riders did not
come forward very freely, and they had determined to have a formal
race; mile heats on the second beach, best two in three, free to all
ages, no handicap--in short, a kind of scrub race.
While they were talking it over, Chin Chin brought up Pallid. Mr. Waddy
was going for a morning ride with Clara and Diana. There were divers
opinions on Pallid’s merits. Some of them said he was too handsome to
make time--“a good un to go should always be a bad un to look at,” and
there were instances enough on this side. There were also abundant
instances on the other. In short, no one had seen him put to his speed,
and none could do more than conjecture how low he would go down in the
seconds. A very few seconds make the great differences in horses, as
the minor, imperceptible charms distinguish between the few beautiful
and the many pretty among women. It was conceded that it was a sin
to race on the beach. “The horses’ feet will be ruined; the beach is
as hard as Macadam.” But they had determined to do it. There was an
_éclat_ about the beach that no other place could have.
Belden said that Pallid was a very fine animal--the handsomest horse
he knew--very fast, too; very fast. He was surprised that Mr. Waddy
had not entered him. Perhaps Mr. Waddy did not want to win their
money--very likely! He couldn’t know, of course, anything about the
comparative powers of the two horses, but if Pallid were in the race,
he wouldn’t fear to back his horse against him for a thousand.
“Do you mean that for an offer?” asked Major Granby, joining the group.
“I would make it one if the horse were in the race,” answered Belden.
“This is getting interesting,” said Peter Skerrett; “and just in time
here comes Dunstan, and Mr. Waddy to speak for himself.”
The boys crowded round Mr. Waddy to persuade him to enter his horse.
Guy and Clo wished to see Belden beat; he had scoffed at them for being
imberb.
“Of course,” said Mr. Waddy, “anything to please the children; but I
can’t ride him myself. I carry too much weight for a race. Pallid’s
only five. I say, Dunstan, don’t you want to ride him? You are just
my height--five feet ten--but then I outweigh you fifteen pounds--two
pounds a year for the difference in our ages.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Dunstan, “if you’ll trust me. Is there
anything on it besides the stakes?”
“That is as Mr. Belden pleases,” said Granby. “Do you hold to the
offer?”
“Certainly,” responded Belden, and the bet was booked.
“If I were betting with Belden,” said Gyas, aside to Peter Skerrett, “I
should want stakes up.”
“You would behave with your usual asinine indecorum, Guy, my boy,
if you hinted such a thing. Belden is not a man to back down. He’d
rather murder somebody and get the money. If he loses, he’ll pay. But
he don’t intend to lose. He knows his horse, and I’d advise you not
to bet against him. In fact, the best thing you and Clo can do is to
stop betting entirely and put your money in your old boots. I’ve been
talking like a father to you two for years, and you don’t improve.”
“Why, what do you want us to do, Peter?” asked they penitently, by
Gyas, principal spokesman. “Everybody is down on us. We try to do
the fair thing. We pay our tailor’s bills and don’t smoke over five
cigars a day. We don’t know what to do. Miss Sullivan, up at The Island
this summer, used to pitch into us and say we ought to have ambition.
Well, I did try politics once and went to the polls to vote. There
was an Irish beggar who swore he’d seen me vote twice before. That
rather knocked my politics. I’ve read all Thackeray, and Buck on the
‘Sublime,’ and Tennyson’s ‘Sacred Memories,’ and the ‘Pickwick Club.’
Then about religion--I’ll be blowed if I can keep awake in church. It’s
no go. I try every Sunday. The Doctor can’t do it, and he’s allowed
to be the best preacher in the world. I get asleep and have bustin’
nightmares on account of the painted windows.”
“Well, try to be good boys. Don’t bet, and I’ll see if I can think of
something for you,” said Peter.
The season was drawing to a close. There had been no earthquakes of
excitement, no avalanches of clean or dirty scandal. Indeed, since the
Pithwitch oration, there had been no event at Newport. People actually
began to talk of going away too soon. The race, then, was the right
thing at the right time. People began to talk of it astonishingly.
Major Granby had, people said, ten thousand dollars bet with Mr.
Belden. Major Granby was, so report alleged, a younger son of the
Marquis of Grimilkin, and had made an enormous fortune on the turf.
Rev. Theo. Logge said that he disapproved very much of betting, but
that he should ask the winner to contribute to the Cause--he did not
say whether the Lee Scuppernong cause or not. He hoped that his sister
in the faith, Mrs. Grognon, would not interrupt her drive to the beach
for these carnal excitements. Perhaps it was as well that she should
see the race, to know for the future what to avoid. He would escort her
and gain experience, which would be valuable to him in warning young
men not to go to such scenes of temptation.
All the ladies became partisans. Miss Milly Center asked Mr. Dulger if
he should ride.
“I’ve no horse,” said Billy, safe in that negation.
“But,” said Miss Millicent, “Sir Com Ambient has none, and he says he
intends to hire one just for the fun of the start.”
Unhappy Billy Dulger, whom nature did not shape to fit a saddle,
must not be outdone by Sir Com, whom Milly quoted constantly. Billy
consulted a livery-stable man. This personage provided Billy with a
four-legged quadruped.
“He won’t win the first heat,” said the man, “nor perhaps the second;
but git him through those, and I shouldn’t be surprised at anything.”
Bob O’Link entered his horse. Miss Anthrope, her nature seemingly
changed with her proximate change of name, hung about him tenderly,
praying him not to ride. She preferred that he should not be killed,
for with his death would die Mrs. O’Link _in posse_.
Blinders entered a headlong steed. He generally rode him with two
snaffles, one around his waist, the other in his two hands. Blinders
did not talk about his horse. He was a fellow who always went slap at
anything without a word; but he looked at all the horses and thought
his own chance was good. His horse was called Nosegay, on account of
the gayness of his nose.
Little Skibbereen besieged his mamma to let him enter with Gossoon, but
mamma had prejudices against the breaking of Skibby’s neck. Scalper,
the artist, arrived in time. He would ride Gossoon, who was one of the
favourites. Unfortunately, Scalper was too amusing a fellow not to be
fat, and he outweighted Gossoon.
Guy and Clo, though _fortes ambo_ in a buggy, were not accustomed to
bestride the prancing steed. Paulding reserved himself to drive Diana
and Clara.
There was question between Tim Budlong and De Châteaunéant which should
bounce upon Drummer. When the Gaul discovered that Sir Comeguys was
to contend, he remembered that Drummer seemed to have unreasonable
prejudices against him, and if he should endeavour to subdue that very
priceless steed with spiteful whip and spur, some displeasure might
arise on the part of Mr. Budlong. Tim therefore proposed himself and
Drummer for victory, and the fair Saccharissa Mellasys bestowed upon
him a lovely jockey cap of blue and white satin gores. Tim’s face was
by this time pale and flabby, and he did not look the handsomer for his
fresh head-piece.
Thus, a field of eight was entered, as many as could conveniently
start on the beach. Peter Skerrett, by common consent, became the
_impresario_ of the occasion. Interest rather centred upon Pallid
and Knockknees on account of the bet pending. Some of the knowing
ones backed Blinders and Nosegay for the purse. A few trusted to Bob
O’Link’s personal reputation for luck, and one or two backed Drummer,
thinking Tim could not possibly persuade him to be beaten.
While the gentlemen were thus ardently preparing for their Olympic
games, the ladies also had their scheme of festivity.
“What shall we do for Milly Center on her birthday?” asked Mrs. Wilkes,
that unwearied chaperon.
Miss Millicent was not too old to have a birthday on the day before the
race. Mr. Dulger was aware of this epoch and had written to Bridgeman
for a barrel of flowers. Dulger’s clerkly salary--for his stern papa
kept him on a salary much too exiguous for his exigencies--his salary
hardly sufficed for his systematic floral tributes. He had been obliged
to write to the bookkeeper in Front Street for another temporary loan.
Billy had presentiments that the crisis of his fate was at hand. He
would not fail at the last for want of sufficient investment. A flower
barrel was a _grandiose_ gift. He was confident that no one else had
thought of it. True love makes a Dulger a genius. If the wooed could
not be won by a barrel of flowers, he would forever fly her false
toleration and among the flour barrels toilsomely regain his wasted
bouquet money. Poor Billy Dulger! So long a Tolerated, he was weary of
this “longing much, hoping little, asking naught.”
“How shall Milly’s birthday be honoured?” was, however, still a
question for the generality. Each suggested other things and a picnic.
“A picnic, of course,” said the masterly Mrs. Wilkes.
“To the Dumplings, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why, yes; how could we think of anything else?”
“With a band,” said Julia, “and dancing on the grass.”
“With a boatload of champagne,” said Cloanthus.
“No flirtations allowed,” suggested Peter Skerrett.
“No? Well, then, flirtations compulsory; first, with Miss Milly, Queen
of the Day, afterwards with our private Queens of Hearts,” and he
chanted,
“The Queen of Hearts she brought some Tarts
Unto a Picnic gay;
The King of Hearts he ate the Tarts
And gave his Heart away.”
It is not very important, but be it hereby known unto thee, O outsider
of Kenosha, Stamboul, Fond du Lac, Paris, Natchez under the Hill,
London, Lecompton, or Jerusalem! that the Dumplings of Newport _is_
an old stone fort, not _are_ certain apples enclosed in certain
unwholesome strata of dough.
Picnics go to the Dumplings as a shad to fresh water in spring, as a
moth to a candle, as a swain to a nymph. They go there in boats over
the smooth bay, across the strait, where a soft, lulling prolongation
of the distant ocean swell reaches the navigator with sweet reminder
motion. When picnics arrive at the Dumplings, they stroll about; their
better halves are handed over the rocks by their worse halves; they
view that crumbling, cheese-shaped object, the fort, and say sweet
things of salt water and sunshine. They chat. They romp. Then comes the
climax--to eat the picnic. Picnics are properly eaten with the fingers.
The idea is to return to Arcadian manners.
Picnics being well known by all the fair and brave, who deserve each
other, as so charming and offering such charming opportunities for
attaining their deserts, there is no wonder that everyone was delighted
with Mrs. Wilkes’s scheme. Miss Millicent, as the heroine of the
occasion, gave deep thought to her toilet. She was resolved to be
captivating as Miss Millicent, that is for herself; not as Miss Center,
that is for her fortune. She had always adorers enough, besides the
inevitable Dulger, but he was her thrall and the others she had flirted
through. She had been observed to be dissatisfied of late. Was it that
she had failed with Sir Comeguys? Or did some other novelty refuse
to enter her toils? Or was there some escaped one whom she wished
to beguile back again with penitential wiles? Or was she a little
ashamed of her exacting, not immoral, _cicisbeism_ with poor Billy? For
whatever reason, Miss Milly seemed a little disappointed, and Mrs.
Wilkes, not thinking it proper that any of her protégées should be out
of spirits, hoped well of the picnic, that it would restore the heiress
to amiability. So Mrs. Wilkes shopped extravagantly with Miss Milly and
the girls.
Clara and Diana were of course to be of the party. They were really the
belles. The men who fell in love with Diana that summer, and some of
them were stanch old belle-ringers, say that she was the culmination;
that there never was and never will be another like her. And then, some
stanchest old member of the pack gives tongue and says “Except Clara,”
and the whole pack cry “Except Clara”--Clara not second in order, but
only subsequent in thought.
Everybody, in a word, was to be at the picnic. Everybody means thirty
or forty people. Good Mrs. Wilkes had a moment’s hesitation about Mrs.
Budlong, and privately consulted Peter Skerrett, her Grand Vizier.
Peter, with his usual thoughtfulness, pointed out that Miss Arabella
couldn’t go without her mother; so Mrs. B. was invited. Mrs. Aquiline,
_née_ Retroussée, had recently begun a dead set at Mr. Waddy. She
engaged ardently in the project. There would be a band and a boatload
of champagne and a sail home by moonlight.
In short, Miss Milly Center’s birthday picnic was to be the event of
the season. Her spirits rose as she beheld her most becoming dress,
and she prognosticated for herself no solemn epoch of repentance and
reform, but an auroral dawn of new flirtations with full recovery of
all the old, an _annus mirabilis_ of social success and scores of manly
hearts trampled under foot.