CHAPTER XIX “THE BOOT ON THE OTHER LEG”

Meanwhile in the stable of the Honourable Crasher is considerable consternation and bewilderment. The helpers look wise, and wink at each other, as they pass from stall to stall, in the execution of their duties. Mr. Tiptop is completely at his wits’ end. Can he, the knowing Tiptop, looked up to as the great unerring authority on training, pace, weight for age, and other racing mysteries—Newmarket all over—can he have made a mistake? He begins to think, not only that he can, but that he has.

First of all they gave the hapless Marathon a spin with Chance, as a mere breather, and I have already said with what result.

Mr. Tiptop being determined to get at “the rights of it,” then tried the horses a mile at even weights; the consequences admitted of less doubt than ever. Marathon’s “form” was so obviously bad, that the groom concluded he must be amiss.

“Why, he can’t go no faster than our mare can trot,” soliloquised Mr. Tiptop, as he contemplated the bay grinding away at his afternoon’s feed (to do Marathon justice, he was always good at this part of his day’s work), and thought that the animal did by no means show to advantage amongst his stable companions. “Can he be one of those extraordinary horses as I’ve hear’d of, wot can scarcely wag without they’re trained a’most to fiddle-strings, but as nothing mortal can touch if once you gets them fit?” He almost persuaded himself that the new purchase must indeed be such a phenomenon, and resolved on putting him through a severe course of physic, and into strong training forthwith. Before, however, resorting to such ulterior measures, he had the wisdom to think of applying to old Isaac for a solution of the mystery.

He found the senior busy in his little saddle-room, engaged in no less important an occupation than the improvement of The Boy’s morals and general deportment, for which I grieve to observe, since his arrival at Harborough, there was sufficient room. The youth, though he worked hard, was seldom sober now, and never told the truth but by accident. Isaac’s method of imparting ethical instruction was uncompromising, if not agreeable. With the lad’s collar in one hand, and a spare stirrup-leather in the other, he insisted forcibly on those maxims which he considered most salutary to the tender mind, accompanying each with a stinging illustration from the strap; the dialogue between the sage and his disciple being conducted much in this wise:—

Isaac: “I’ve told you over and over again, ye young warmint, and I’ll tell it ye every day I live, if I larrup the skin off ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “You’ll never rise in life, nor be fit to be called a stableman, without you can work them qualities which have made me what I am; that’s what I am a teaching of ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “First and foremost, sobriety.”—(Whack, and “Oh, please!”) “Secondly, honesty, coupled with early rising.”—(Whack again, and a howling “Oh, please!” from the pupil.) “Thirdly and lastly, sobriety.”—(Whack.) “I’ll go over ’em again; them’s the three cardinal virtues. You mind what I’m a tellin’ ye—Sobriety, honesty, coupled with early rising, and sobriety.” (Whack, whack, whack; and “Oh, please! oh, please! oh, please!”)

At this juncture, Mr. Tiptop entered. Casting an approving glance at the mode of treatment adopted, he seated himself on an inverted stable-bucket, and professed his readiness to await old Isaac’s leisure ere he asked to have “a word with him.” The other let go of The Boy’s collar—who darted from the place like a weasel—and put on his own coat and hat. Thus armed, he waited to hear what his guest had to say. Mr. Tiptop broached the subject at once.

“Rum go, this here!” said he, hoisting his hat on to his eyebrows. “Uncommon queer start it is, about your bay horse. Can’t get him out, I can’t, do what I will with him; the beggar seems well, too, and pretty fit, as far as I see, and I’ve trained a few of them! If I didn’t know he was a smartish nag now, I should say he was as slow as an eight-day clock when it runs down. What am I to think of it?”

Isaac’s little blue eyes twinkled for an instant, but turned to stone once more, as he replied slowly, “Think of it? Well, it seems to me, now, that he won’t be much use to your governor if he can’t win.”

“Not he!” answered Mr. Tiptop, contemptuously. “I could have told you that. What I want to know is, why the beggar was so much better in your stable than in ours? Come, old chap! you and me has always been good friends, give us an item now; what would you do with him, if you was me?”

Isaac’s face altered not a muscle, nor did the eyes twinkle now, while he replied gravely, “If I was in your shoes, Mr. Tiptop, this is what I’d do—I’d put him into this here race sure-lie, and lay agin him for the very shirt on my back!”

And like the Pythian of old, Isaac having thus delivered himself, could by no means be brought back to the subject. If Mr. Tiptop had looked puzzled when he entered the veteran’s saddle-room, the expression of his countenance, as he emerged from it, was that of a man whom mystery has so completely enfolded in her web, that he has no energy left to make an effort for escape. That he was so utterly bamboozled as to have recourse to his own master, thus risking his authority over the Honourable for ever after, may be gathered from the conversation held between the latter and Mr. Sawyer over their last cigar, before separating for the night, about two P.M. The Honourable, with an air of cordial approval, as that of a man who is paying another a well-merited compliment, drawls out—

“That’s an awful brute you sold me, Sawyer,—that bay of yours. You were quite right to part with him. My fellow tells me he can’t go a yard: wants me to ride him myself; told him I’d rather not, if I can walk as fast. Do you think there’s anything wrong with him, or used he always to gallop as if his legs were tied?”

This is not a very easy question for the former owner to answer, asked, as it is, in the Honourable’s off-hand careless manner. Mr. Sawyer thinks of trying the “virtuous indignation” tack; reflects that under the circumstances it would only make him ridiculous, and that thoroughly to carry it out, he ought to be prepared to take back the horse, a measure that in his wildest moments he has never contemplated, and finally subsides into a good-humoured smile, and affirms—

“We thought him a fair horse enough in the Old Country. Perhaps he don’t shine so bright amongst your clippers. He’s a sound, good-constitutioned beast, too, and never off his feed; that I can answer for, and you’ve seen him jump. I am sorry you don’t like him; but if you wanted a racehorse, you know, that sort of thing is quite out of my line.”

The Honourable, who is good-nature itself, laughs heartily. “I don’t hate him as much as Tiptop does; and if worst comes to worst, he’s good-looking enough for harness. By the bye, old fellow, do you dine over at Dove-cote to-morrow?”

“Well, I’ve been asked” replied our friend, as if he hadn’t set his heart upon going, and been thinking of it ever since. “Why?” he adds, smothering a blush, as he thinks his companion may have found out his secret, and is laughing in his sleeve.

“Only that we’re all going,” rejoins the Honourable; “I’m glad to hear you are not to be left in the lurch. It’s a fearful road, and an infernal long way; but Dove gives you such ’41 as is not to be got anywhere else, and a skinful of it, my boy, not forgetting to drink his own share. I like the mother Dove, too, and pretty Miss ‘Cissy’ is always good fun!”

Sawyer felt the blood tingling in his ears. Amongst the many annoyances that gird as with briars the man who is sufficiently ill-advised to take an interest in any one but himself, not the least is that ridiculous sensitiveness to remarks, hazarded by the most careless of bystanders on the “object” or its belongings. If it is praised, we are jealous; if censured, we are angry; and if not mentioned at all, we are disappointed. That Mr. Sawyer, who had no more “vested interest” in her than the Lord Chancellor, should feel annoyed at Miss Cissy being spoken of as “good fun,” by so amiable a critic as the Honourable Crasher, only shows the absurd organisation of the human mind, and how careful we should be never to put off that armour of selfishness and self-conceit, with which nature has provided us for our self-defence.

Mr. Sawyer made a move toward his bed-candle.

“Good-night, old fellow,” said the Honourable. “By Jove! we’ll go together to-morrow to the Dove-cote. I’ll drive you there in my phaeton; and, by Jove! we’ll put that bay horse of yours in, and see how it goes with a trap behind him—so we will.”

The Honourable appeared so delighted with his own suggestion, that it was impossible to controvert it; but as Mr. Sawyer wound up his watch and deposited it on his dressing-table, it certainly occurred to him that there was such a thing as retribution even at Market Harborough.