CHAPTER XIV “BEFORE THE DAWN”

An unshaved face, blotched and parti-coloured from waning inebriety, upturned and open-mouthed in all the imbecility of profound sleep; a recumbent form snoring loudly under a patchwork quilt, and supported by a rickety bedstead, on an uncarpeted floor, in a room with a sloping roof, of which the only furniture seemed to be a box, originally intended for horse-clothing; a five-pound saddle, a pair of spurs, and a black bottle containing a tallow candle that had guttered itself out some two hours previously—all this does not sound like a cheerful and inspiriting scene about five o’clock on a winter’s morning. Nevertheless, such did not fail to call a grim smile into Isaac’s harsh countenance, as he contemplated it, on this, his first visit to Mr. Tiptop’s apartment. Isaac had been revolving the swell stud-groom’s proposal of the evening before, and had come to a decision in his own mind ere he went to sleep, the result of which was his matutinal appearance in the chamber I have endeavoured to describe. He was not a man to waste much time in the contemplation even of a more agreeable sight than that which now met his eyes. He shook Mr. Tiptop roughly by the shoulder till that worthy sat up in bed, and blinked at his visitor’s candle with a ludicrous expression of astonishment and dismay.

“What’s up?” he exclaimed at last, as he began to be sensible of the old man’s identity. “Blessed if I didn’t think the stables was a-fire, and all our horses grilling, till I see it was you. Will you take any refreshment?” added Mr. Tiptop jocosely, pointing to an earthenware ewer containing cold water—and not much of that; “or is there anything I can do for you besides telling you what o’clock it is?” he added, yawning, and betraying strong symptoms of a desire to go to sleep again.

Old Isaac laid his finger to his nose.

“Get up,” said he in a cautious whisper. “It is just to know what’s o’clock as I’ve come here. You lay your hand on a fourteen-pound saddle, and there need be no mistake about the weights. My nag’s ready, and turned round. You go and get yourn. There’s a bit o’ moon left: not quite burned down yet. We can get it over and done with, and the horses back in the stable afore the others is up.”

Mr. Tiptop was a man of considerable energy when anything like a robbery was on the cards: he was, however, hardly prepared for such a display of alacrity on the part of his companion. He put one skinny leg out of bed, and then paused, staring vaguely at his visitor.

“Come, look alive!” said old Isaac, fishing a pair of breeches from the floor; “there ain’t a minute to lose. Where’s the key o’ your stable?”

The weaker nature obeyed instinctively: Tiptop put on his breeches, and produced the key,

“Not a word to living mortal!” urged the old man impressively. “It’s as much as my place is worth. I’ve left The Boy safe locked up. You go and get your horse, and meet me in the close. There’s just light enough to gallop ’em. Look alive, man! Whatever should I do if master was to get wind of this here?”

Isaac seemed unusually perturbed as he preceded Mr. Tiptop down the creaking stairs, and wended his way to his own stable, leaving the latter—still rather confused—to saddle and bring out the redoubtable Chance.

The Honourable Crasher’s groom felt for the first time in his life somewhat puzzled, and taken aback. He had not calculated on such promptitude and decision from a “yokel.” Also, his intellects had hardly recovered the potency of the flip, a beverage of which it requires several hours’ sleep to obviate the effects. Altogether he was sensible of less than his usual self-confidence. In his hurry, too, and by the imperfect light of a stable-lantern, he put the wrong saddle on Chance, who, by the way, was not a very pleasant animal to caparison, save by her own accustomed attendant—a grey-haired, withered old helper, then probably dreaming of the better days most of these ancient stablemen have seen. The snaffle, too, that he wanted was not in its accustomed place. Altogether, it took him some considerable time before he could lead the horse out into the wan light of a morning moon. This interval, however, had enabled him to recover the good opinion he generally entertained of Mr. Tiptop. As he got upon Chance’s back, and felt the animal step lightly and jauntily under him, the conviction came strong upon his mind that in some way or other he was sure to get the better of the yokel.

As the conscience-stricken Marmion riding his red-roan by night into the enchanted ground was aware of a phantom cavalier looming dimly in the distance in guise of his deadliest enemy, so Mr. Tiptop, opening the gate of the close which he had appointed for a trysting-place, distinguished the outline of the man and horse with whom he was about to try the speed of his thorough-bred. As he neared his antagonist, he observed that the animal he bestrode was sheeted and hooded, and otherwise so swaddled up in clothing, that there was nothing visible of it, save its legs; and in the uncertain twilight the general effect of the pair much resembled that of those hobby-horses which so delighted our ancestors in their Christmas revels.

“Look alive!” exclaimed Mr. Tiptop, somewhat angrily, as a black cloud swept across the moon, and a raw morning breeze dashed a score of sharp rain-drops into his feverish face. “It will be light in half an hour, though it’s as dark as pitch now. Ain’t you going to strip him?”

“Strip him!” repeated Isaac, keeping off at a respectful distance the while. “Not I; he always runs kindest in his clothes. Don’t ye come anigh!” he added, as Mr. Tiptop ranged alongside. “He’s werry handy with his heels when he’s at exercise. Are you ready?”

Now the close, as such open spaces are termed only in the midland counties, was a field of sound old grass, comprising little less than a hundred acres, and was much affected as an exercising ground by the grooms of such sportsmen as had chosen Market Harborough for their head-quarters. This was sufficiently attested by the trodden state of its hedges, betraying the hoofs-marks of many a good nag, whose speed had been tried here far oftener than was dreamt of by his master. Do you think we know the merits of our steeds one-half as well as do their own immediate attendants? Why are the hacks always in such good condition, and constantly falling lame so unaccountably? Is it that on their homeward way they are matched continually against each other, and against Father Time, whereby many pots of beer and goes of brandy are lost and won on the result? To a man who really cares for his horses, a groom he can depend upon is worth his weight in gold.

Both Isaac and Mr. Tiptop knew perfectly well that a straight run-in, the long way of the furrows, up to a certain white gate which they would pass on their right hand, was as near half-a-mile as possible. The latter, keeping out of reach of his opponent’s heels, proposed a longer distance; but Isaac, declaring it was simply a question of speed, as they both knew their horses’ performances in the hunting-field, overruled his friend on this point.

“When you’re ready,” said the old sinner, who could hardly see his listener in the increasing darkness, “we’ll start, and run it from end to end. Mind, Mr. Tiptop, I trust to your h’onour!”

“In course!” replied Mr. Tiptop, who was considering whether he could make a better thing of it by acting, as he himself would have said, entirely on “the square,” or otherwise.

Accordingly they took up their positions some ten yards apart, but strictly on the same level, and went off with a rush, amicably and honourably, when they were both ready.

It would be doing injustice to Mr. Tiptop to say that, when he really chose, he was not a consummate horseman, either across a country or over the flat. On the present occasion he was resolved to do all he knew, and he sat down upon Chance, and got at her in the most masterly manner. The mare, however, like many that have been in training, was a lurching, shifty goer, taking several strides before she got fairly into her speed. Mr. Tiptop, notwithstanding his proficiency, saw the dark figure of his opponent a dozen lengths ahead of him, and could not overhaul him do what he would. His finish, no doubt, was inimitable, but it failed to land him first past the goal. Old Isaac, there was no disputing it, won cleverly by a couple of lengths.

Mr. Tiptop couldn’t make it out. “They’ve got a flyer,” said he to himself; “and they know it!”

He would fain have talked it over with Isaac then and there; but the veteran, simply remarking that “he was quite satisfied, and it would be daylight in ten minutes,” passed through the white gate already mentioned, and trotted back to the town at a pace which Mr. Tiptop’s regard for Chance’s legs forbade him to imitate.

Both horses were safe home in their stables before the helpers were up.