MY TWO MATCHES, OR WATERLOO AVENGED.
_A man with a history--Was it murder?--Clotilde avenges Waterloo--The
winner of the Two Thousand makes a good hack._
It was difficult to say to what nationality Monsieur H---- belonged,
as he spoke as many different languages as a Pole or a Russian, but
probably Switzerland had the honour of producing the keen-eyed, wiry
little man. He was not, even in his most friendly moments, very
communicative about his antecedents, and, if that jade rumour did not
belie him, he had good reasons for his reticence.
The gossips of the place, envious of his prosperity, alleged amongst
other things against him, that he had been a waiter at a notorious
night-house in Panton Street, Haymarket, and that on the occurrence
of a drunken brawl he and a disreputable man about town called B----
threw a gentleman of good position either out of the window or down the
stairs and killed him.
Murder was never meant, and death was, no doubt, the result of an
accident. The police could not get to the bottom of the affair--as the
people who were present kept out of the way--and the friends of the
deceased did all they could to hush the matter up.
It was more than likely that Monsieur H---- was mixed up in this
disturbance, as he disappeared from England about that time, and
although he annually makes a holiday visit to Paris or Berlin, Geneva
or Vienna, he never favours London with his presence.
The land he could see on a clear day without the aid of glasses
appeared to be forbidden ground to him. That he had mingled in the fast
life of the metropolis in his younger days you would be thoroughly
convinced by a few minutes' conversation with him.
One tangible fact connected with the little man is to be obtained
from the journals of the period; his wife was successful in getting a
divorce from him. The lady who found him too wayward in his affection
and a little too ready with his hands, was not frightened at her
unfortunate matrimonial experiences, for when that troublesome
individual, the Queen's Proctor, could no longer interfere, she was led
a second time to the altar, on this occasion by Mr. R----, who recently
had a favourite for one of the largest races of the year.
This Monsieur H----, with a history in the background, kept a small
hotel at a French watering place.
The autumn of life seemed to give him a great amount of pleasure in a
temperate manner. His early youth, however mild it might have been, had
evidently not clogged his sense of enjoyment.
In addition to his hotel--which was well managed--he had two other
possessions on which he prided himself, and I put them in the order
in which he judged them; first, was a long-tailed half-bred hack, and
the second a big, strapping black-eyed wife, for he had also sought
connubial bliss once again.
If it had not been for this horse this narrative would not have been
written.
It was a rough-coated, badly-groomed mare of a chestnut colour, with a
blaze face and two white heels, a little doubtful about the forelegs,
standing as near as possible sixteen hands high. Good fun was often to
be got out of the series of tremendous efforts the diminutive landlord
had to make before he could mount his tall steed. Once in the pigskin,
however, he seemed comfortable enough, and did not appear as if even
buck-jumping would dislodge him.
In his private bar and round the billiard table at night the prowess
of Clotilde--that was the hack's name--was often the subject of much
animated talk. Her early life was shrouded in mystery like her owner's,
but taking into account her formation, the white marks and chestnut
colour, the astute Monsieur H---- was inclined to admit Blair Athol to
the dignity of having been her male progenitor.
Dreams of breeding winners of the Derby flitted across the little man's
mind, but he could never fix upon a suitable sire, and for aught I know
he may be still cogitating on that important subject.
When I made Monsieur H----'s acquaintance, I had with me a pony I
picked up a bargain at Newmarket, and when I met the jovial little man
out riding we used to have a canter together.
It was one night at a supper the match between our nags was first
mooted.
Somebody had caught a splendid basket of trout, and wished his friends
to share the finny delicacy. When the speckled beauties had been
done justice to, and grog and cigars was the order of the evening,
the proposition about the match, previously mentioned as a joke, was
brought forward in real earnest.
The landlord was willing to run his Clotilde against my pony Jack over
a mile for any reasonable sum--owners to ride. After the usual amount
of desultory talk the match was at last arranged, the stakes to be £25
a side, and an early day was fixed for its decision.
The advantages were to all appearances not with me. I was nearly a
stone heavier than my opponent, and the long stride of his mare would
tell against Jack. My only chance of success lay in the fact that the
mare was entirely out of condition, and could not be got ready in the
time, whereas my pony had not an ounce of superfluous flesh about him.
I knew also that Jack could go a rattling pace, and that he would be
quicker on his legs than the mare.
The wily landlord was not ignorant of his mare's weak point, and no
time was lost in putting her into hard work and practising her to jump
off quickly at the word "Go" given by his billiard-marker.
The latter part of the business was the source of much amusement to
the onlookers, and puts one in mind of Jennings' teaching Gladiateur
similar lessons before a certain Cambridgeshire.
On the important day Jack was very troublesome at the post, he was too
eager to begin, while Clotilde stood watchful, but quiet as a sheep.
Her schooling had apparently not been wasted. When the flag fell--we
had an example--the mare was as ready to commence as the pony, and
ere half the distance had been covered her long stride began to tell,
and I could see that only an accident would save the race. I nursed
my impetuous little brute as much as I could for a final rush, but
my opponent was up to every movement and was not going to be caught
napping.
Nothing I could do disturbed him, and he kept on the even tenor of his
way, winning without difficulty by a couple of lengths. The mare showed
more speed than I had given her credit for, and her owner rode like a
Trojan.
The victory rested with the foreigner, and there was nothing for it but
to pay and look pleasant. I omitted to say that the loser was bound to
give a supper for the benefit of the hotel, and altogether I found,
on including some sundry bets I had made; I was to the bad over the
transaction nearly £100.
If the matter had ended with the transfer of the money and the supper I
would not have cared, but it did not. It was excessively galling to be
condoled with on every side, and to read a sensational but thoroughly
incorrect account of the match in the columns of the local newspaper,
the _Journal du Nord_.
On perusing a lengthy description of the race and accompanying remarks,
a stranger would have come to the conclusion that we had been engaged
in nothing less than a great international struggle, and that the
disgrace of Waterloo had at last been wiped out.
They managed to ruffle my temper to a considerable extent, and I
impatiently waited an opportunity to be revenged.
"Why don't you have a proper hack and not a weed, they cost the same to
keep," was the remark continually dinned into my ears by the triumphant
Monsieur H----. I meekly submitted that he was in the right, and that I
was on the look out for a better animal.
He was anxious to assist me with his judgment, but the horses he
recommended did not suit, and I wrote to a friend in England explaining
my dilemma, and asked him to send me something decent. He was not long
in complying with my wishes.
One morning about ten days after the dispatch of my letter a telegram
from Clarence intimated that he had been successful.
"Have sent what you want by to-day's tidal train, particulars by post,"
he said.
When my new hack stepped on shore and his clothes were taken off,
Monsieur H---- and his allies--who had heard of the expected arrival
and were in waiting--pronounced him not good enough to draw a
_voiture_, and said if I had given more than £10 for the ugly brute I
had been swindled.
The new comer was, it must be confessed, not a beauty to look at,
and before he had been many minutes on French soil he displayed
unmistakable signs of a disagreeable temper, but the old adage says
"handsome is that handsome does." He was certainly not an easy horse
to ride, and you required to know his little peculiarities. A dead set
was made against him in the town, and I was about the only person who
thought him anything but the unmanageable animal he appeared to be. Of
course I had good grounds for a contrary belief.
Trotting on the sands one day soon after the arrival of my new purchase
I encountered Monsieur H---- on Clotilde. Since his victory the little
man had taken to patronizing me; before, he rather valued my opinion,
but now my most sagacious remarks passed unheeded, and wore not worth
the breath spent upon them.
"So sorry you have been imposed upon with that brute," he remarked. "I
wanted to give you your revenge."
"Nevermind my horse's appearance," I replied. "If you really wish
another contest, we are ready."
"You mean that? At double the stakes if you like."
The cunning landlord was sanguine of the result because his mare had
undergone a regular course of training, and looked at least 10 lbs.
better than she did on the last occasion.
This was well known to me, but I was not in the least afraid. So
anxious was he of settling the match there and then that to equalize
the chances, as he said, he offered to give me a two lengths start, but
this kind proposal I, much to his astonishment, declined. I consented,
however, to the other terms, and later in the day a regular agreement
was signed at the hotel.
Although by my desire this second match was fixed for an early hour of
the morning to keep away loafers, the affair had got wind, and to my
intense annoyance there were hundreds of spectators. The English colony
was present to a man, that officious ass the reporter of the _Journal
du Nord_ was there, busy with his pencil, an expatriated bookmaker was
fully occupied in taking the odds--they laid 2 to 1 on Clotilde--and
Monsieur H---- 's friends mustered in great force. An even start was
effected at the first time of asking; for three parts of the journey I
contented myself with racing side by side with my opponent, but when
the last quarter of a mile was reached, I gave my horse his head. He
instantly took advantage of his freedom, and carried me past the judge
about ten lengths in front of Clotilde. The only trouble I had in the
race was to hold back my horse, who almost pulled my arms out of their
sockets. Perfidious Albion had regained her prestige, and my winnings
were not to be despised.
"What the deuce have you got there?" asked an English officer, after
the race.
"Only a winner of the Two Thousand," was my somewhat astonishing but
truthful answer.
My friend Clarence offered me for choice two horses, the second in the
Cesarewitch and a winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and I selected
the latter.