by R S Surtees
Cheesecake was sore perplexed; Goliah had gained three prizes in his own part of the country, and it had been a matter of argument with his owner whether he should send him to St. Boswell or to a more distant show to take place a few days after. Cheesecake’s evil genius had induced him to decide on St. Boswell, and now he found the Queen’s Prime Minister’s bull was to be there to compete with him. “It was a monstrous shame,” he said, as he kicked and jagged his pony along to overtake the bull. “It wasn’t fair. No bull could stand against a Prime Minister’s bull. The judges would be sure to give the prize to him. It was no use wasting money by going. Only be laughed at. Would go home and try his luck at Moorsley instead.” So saying, he overtook the ponderous quadruped, and, much to the astonishment of its leader, directed him to take a cross country road home.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HE RIDES A race.
’Tis for a thousand pounds.”
JUST as Mr. Jorrocks was getting on to Dickey Cobden to follow his bull to St. Boswell, he espied Hercules Strong lugging a couple of urchins along in a way that plainly said there was work for the justice. His worship was sore perplexed,, for as it was he was half-an-hour behind time, having split his stockingette pantaloons in the rear in drawing on his Hessian boots, and when he had got them replaced by another pair, one of the Hessians flew at the instep, and one of his shirt wrist-buttons came off, which he was obliged to get Batsay to replace before he was what he called “ comfey rumph.” The arrival of the “waggabones” was a pleasure he could have dispensed with. However, there they were, and his worship felt bound to hear the case.
The youths had been stealing peas, and Hercules Strong had caught them in the act. They had their pockets full. The case was quite clear, and Benjamin, with more than his usual dexterity, having fished out the law in the Justice’s Pocket Manual, Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to read aloud, “Stealin’, or destroyin’, or damagin’ with intent to steal, any plant,. root, fruit, or wegetable production”—” such as peas,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking off the book at the malefactors, “growin’ in any garden, orchard, nursery ground, ‘ôt’ouse, green’ouse, or consarvatory — Pun.: on conwiction afore one Justice, for first offence, imprisonment with or without ‘ard labour in gaol or ‘ouse of 0.”—” which means Correction,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, again looking off the book at the urchins, “for not exceedin’ six calendar months,” read he, “or penalty above the walue not exceedin’ twenty pund.”
“Now, vot ‘ave you young warmints got to say,” asked he, “why I shouldn’t send you each to the ‘ouse of C. for six calendar months apiece; to be fed on worms and potato parins, — and whipped with stingin’-nettles?” added he, thinking of his own experience that way.
“Pray don’t!” exclaimed both the lads.
“Please, sir,” observed Hercules Strong, in a whisper, “the peas were growing in a field.”
“‘Ord rot it, vy didn’t you tell me that?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, starting round in a rage. “Here have I been a treatin’ the case as one of a garden, and jest as I’m a goin’ to pass sentence on the malefactors, you tell me they were growin’ in a field! Who the deuce can do jastice for you? All the labour to go over again, without knowin’ where to look for the law! I’ll not bother my ‘ead,” added he, throwing the book over the back of the judicial chair, “I’ll not bother my ‘ead with a case so ambiguously mysterious. I’ll deal sammarily with it. Take that bigger bouy to Batsay,” said he to Benjamin, “and make my compliments to her, and say I’ll thank her to flog him well. And ‘ark ye, young ‘un,” added he, with a shake of the head at the other, “if you are caught at this ’ere game again, I’ll ‘ave you flogged too! desperate!” concluded he, with a shake of the head, as he rose from his throne.
At length our worthy friend got started, and worked Dickey Cobden along so vigorously, that he nearly pumped the wind out of him before he got five miles. The day too was hot, and both Mr. Jorrocks and the nag were in a running down perspiration at the end of that distance.
“Dash those waggabones,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself as he pulled up into a walk, and began mopping his head with a great blue and white bandanna. “Didn’t give them ‘alf enough,” said he, thinking he should have flogged them both for detaining him so long.
“Come hup!” exclaimed he, jerking the cob’s mouth, and kicking its lathered sides. “Will take all the shine off my ‘essians’, I do believe,” added he, looking inwards at his legs.
On they jogged again, though only in a slovenly way, Dickey raising the dust, and playing the castanets with his feet as he went. “Confounded noisy beast,” said Mr. Jorrocks, trying to get him to alter his pace, so as to avoid the noise; “lumberin’-actioned beggar — goes like a crab — all vays at once and none in particklar.”
On they went, Dickey going very near the ground, and knocking the loose stones about as if he were playing at marbles.
“Do believe the beast will tumblo with me,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, tightening his hold of his head. “ Oh, but you are a brute!” added he, grinning with rage and vexation.
“Confound it, I must be near there now,” at length exclaimed he, pulling up into a walk, fairly exhausted with working the nag — throwing the reins on his neck, and fumbling out his great watch. “I’m dashed if it ar’nt near twelve,” added he, eyeing the chronometer. “Show to commence at eleven. Shall be a day after the fair. Come hup, you hugly beast,” added he, again seizing the reins in a bunch and cracking Dickey Cobden across the shoulders with the ends, a compliment that he merely acknowledged by boring and shaking his head.
“‘Ord rot you, but I’ll get a stick to you,” said Mr. Jorrocks, running Dickey alongside a hazel bush in the hedge, from which Mr. Jorrocks helped himself to a stout stick.
“Now, my man,” said he, as he broke the twigs off, “we’ll see who’s to be master — you or I;” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks turned sideways in his saddle, and gave Dickey a good lamming in the ribs.
Away they went in a canter.
“Ah, I thought as much!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as he felt Dickey easing himself down into a trot again at the end of a hundred yards or so. “I thought as much,” repeated he, “short and sweet, like a donkey’s canter;” adding, “if I rides a donkey, I rides a donkey; but if I rides an ‘oss, I rides an ‘oss,” whereupon our friend turned sideways again, and proceeded to lam the other side of Dickey’s carcass. —
Away he went again — left foot leading.
This canter, however, did not last much longer than the first. Dickey kept bobbing up and down, it is true, but the pace was no better than a trot — hardly so good. He construed the first touch of the bridle into an intimation to stop, and obeyed on the instant.
“Ah, you slug!” groaned Mr. Jorrocks in disgust, “vouldn’t give tappence a dozen for such brutes as you;” thereupon our friend pocketed his wig, and proceeded to mop himself again after his unwonted exertion.
“Must be near there now, surely,” exclaimed he, looking again at his watch, after progressing a mile or two. “It’s a weary long way to be sure — wouldn’t have gone if I’d thought it had been so far — at all ewents not on ‘ossback — the exertion of quiltin’ and workin’ this stinkin’, curly-coated beggar is too much this ‘ot weather.”
Our friend now came within sight of the gate — the turnpike gate through which Pigg had passed in the morning.
“‘Ow far is this to St. Boswell?” inquired he of Tommy Sacker, riding up to the gate, money in hand.
“How far is it to St. Boswell?” repeated Tommy Sacker very slowly.
“Yes, St. Boswell!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks; “come, quick, man, you’re not fit to keep a pike.”
“Why, it’s four miles and better,” drawled the man.
“Four miles and better!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, looking angrily around at him— “four miles and wuss, I should say. Impossible! Can’t be! you know nothin about it.”
“It’s the case, I assure you,�
� drawled Sacker, astonished at our friend’s impetuosity.
“Dash my vig, I shall never get there!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, preparing his stick to give Dickey Cobden another quilting.
“Has my ball gone through!” roared he, looking back at the gatekeeper.
“Oh, I axes your pardon, sir — Sir Robert,” replied Mr. Sacker, taking off his hat, and advancing respectfully towards Mr. Jorrocks; “that’s to say — I really didn’t know you, sir — yes, Sir Robert, sir, your bull’s gone through, sir.”
“Sir Robert! I’m not Sir Robert!” growled Mr. Jorrocks; “who d’ye take me for?”
“Why, Sir Robert Peel,” replied the man; “Sir Robert Peel’s bull’s gone through.”
“Sir Robert Peel’s ball,” roared Mr. Jorrocks; “wot on airth business has Sir Robert Peel to send his beastly ball down here? I’ll Sir Robert Peel him” added he, grinning with rage, as he whacked Dickey Cobden’s quarters with his stick.
“Confound it, what a shame that is now!” muttered Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself; “there’s Peel, with his I don’t know ’ow many thousands a year for doin’ nothin’, and yet he must come and rob us poor farmers of our prizes. It ar’nt right — I’m shot if it is.” So saying, he shortened his reins, and laid the stick smartly into Dickey Cobden’s withers.
Dickey shook his head, and poked it down, and winced as if he would kick; but before he had summoned resolution to do so, Mr. Jorrocks brought him such a crack across the hind-quarters as set him off in a canter.
Up and down, up and down, up and down, he went tittupping along, with great labour and little progress.
“Vish I may find a fool at the fair to stick you into,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing Dickey’s bobbing ears with disgust — adding, “you certain are the most worthless beast that ever was lapped in leather.’Oss, by Jove! I’ve seen a cow wot would go quicker.”
Thus he went working along.
“‘Ow far will this be to St. Boswell?” asked our perspiring friend, as he overtook a drab-coated farmer in similar coloured overalls, riding a mealy-legged, mealy-muzzled, lumbering bay cart-horse, with a brass-cantrelled, brass-pommelled saddle. “‘Ow far will this be to St. Boswell?” continued he, repeating the question that he had hazarded at the traveller’s back.
“Why, upon the wh-o-o-le” — commenced the drab-coat, without looking round.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Yopstraw?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks.
“Your servant, sir! your servant, sir!” replied Wopstraw, raising his hat respectfully to the Squire.
“I didn’t know you,” said Mr. Jorrocks, pulling up alongside of him—” I didn’t know you — vot ‘ave you got your great hupper binjimin on for?” asked Mr. Jorrocks, lifting one of the enormous laps with his stick.
“To keep the heat out, sir — to keep the heat out,” replied Mr. Wopstraw; “upon the who-o-o-le it’s very warm to-day.”
“Werry” said Mr. Jorrocks, with an emphasis.
“And ’ow far is it to St. Boswell?” again inquired Mr. Jorrocks, after they had looked each other over.
Wopstraw still kept staring.
“‘Ow far will this be to St. Boswell?” asked Mr. Jorrocks in a sharper key.
“Upon the wh-o-o-le” said Johnny Wopstraw, transferring his eyes from Dickey Cobden to the rider, “I think your nag must be better than he looks, Mr. Jorrocks.”
“He can’t look wuss nor he is,” grunted our friend; “howsomever that’s not the question — I wants to know ’ow far it is to St. Boswell?”
“St. Boswell?” repeated Wopstraw, very deliberately, “upon the wh-o-o-le I should say it’s five miles.”
“Five miles!” screamed Mr. Jorrocks. “Impossible! the pike-man told me it was only four.”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Wopstraw, apparently conning the thing over in his mind, “I don’t know, but upon the wh-o-o-le I should say it was full that.”
“‘Ord rot it, ’ow can that be?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks; “if it was four miles from the gate, and we’re a mile from it, ’ow can it possibly be five?”
“Why, upon the wh-o-o-le, I never was there before,” replied Wopstraw; “my brother’s always gone, and I’ve met him and the sheep about half-a-mile from this, just at you plantation end you see.”
“Oh, then, upon the whole, good day!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, seizing Dickey by the head and working him up again into a canter, muttering execrations as he went, upon cross roads, country stupidity, and want of milestones. On they went for half-a-mile or more, when the sight of white petticoats and smart shawls lining the road as it wound round the hillsides greeted his eyes. All the country round was pouring in, and every little mountain track was contributing its quota of healthy, blooming lasses, escorted by sunburnt, stalwart sweethearts. St. Boswell Fair was the great event of their year: a series of them furnished the epochs of their lives.
“And ’ow far will this be to St. Boswell, my pretty gal?” asked Mr. Jorrocks of the first group he overtook, consisting ef three couple, all in their Sunday best; the girls in light gowns, with artificial flowers in their caps, and many-coloured ribbons on their bonnets, all laughing and talking of their anticipated enjoyment.
“Four miles, sir!” cried a couple of the ladies; “rather more than four,” replied the third.
“Nay, not so far!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks; “it can’t be so far,” repeated he softly.
“You’d say it was, though, if you’d to walk it,” observed the first, with a smile on her pretty dimpled cheeks.
“Not if I vas to valk with you,” replied our gallant Squire; “ your laughin’ blue eyes would shorten the distance.”
A loud guffaw followed this gallant sally. “Will you give us our fairings?” asked Blue-eyes.
“If you’ll give me a kiss,” rejoined our Squire.
“No,” replied she, looking at her sweetheart, who didn’t seem to relish the proposal.
“Then I’ll give it you without,” said our liberal friend, fumbling in his pantaloon pockets for some money. Presently he made a great haul — silver, copper, keys, rings, knife, pencil-case, all in a handful. “See,” said he, picking a couple of sixpences and a five-shilling piece out of the mélange— “see, there’s a shillin’ apiece for you,” giving it all to Blue-eyes to divide.
“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed she, with a curtsey; “thank you, sir!” exclaimed the others. “Good luck to you,” exclaimed the youths, and amid the hearty good wishes of the party, Mr. Jorrocks again set Dickey Cobden a-going. Shorter and shorter still grew Dickey’s canters. He seemed to have taken it into his head that his master wanted to speak to everybody they overtook, and dropped short at each group he came up to.
“Oh, you’re an ‘umbug!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, jerking the curb sharply in his mouth.
Presently they overtook an equestrian — a stiff little man on a very slight bay pony. He had on a very low, dish-crowned hat, with a broadish brim, and a couple of fly-hooks and a twist of line round the band, a red cotton neckcloth, with an old dirty Witney blanket greatcoat cut down into a frock, with enormous mother-of-pearl buttons, and a very long dirty Meg-Merrilies tartan waistcoat. His breeches were of broad patent cord; and leggings of a similar material, though of a smaller pattern, met a pair of very stout ankle boots. He had a fair, but desperately freckled face, with curly yellow locks, and a pair of little, roving, ferrety, grey eyes that took everything in at a glance. His pony, as we said before, was small and slight, high in bone and low in flesh, while the indented mark above the eye gave evidence of age.
“‘Ow far will this be to St. Boswell?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as he tit-tupped up within a few yards of the man.
“To St. Boswell?” repeated he of the hat, pulling his left hand out of the Witney coat pocket; “three miles or so.”
“Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, pulling up alongside of him to indulge in a little talk with a man who seemed to have some London quickness about him.
Mr
. Jorrocks scanned him attentively, and his eye caught the hooks. “Fisherman,” grunted he to himself. —
“You’ve a niceish nag there,” observed the stranger, breaking the silence.
“Yes, he is a werry nice nag,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, patting Dickey’s neck. “Rather ‘ot jest now,” added he; “come a long way — werry quick too.”
“You’ll not be for selling him perhaps,” observed the man, after they had ambled on a few paces in silence.
“Vy, I’m not particklar about sellin’ of him,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “that’s to say, I’m not anxious. In course,” added he casually, “if I could get my price, I might part with him.”
“And what are you asking for him?” inquired the man, after a good survey.
“I’ll tell you in a word,” replied Mr. Jorrocks brusquely —
“twenty guineas! Not a fardin’ less, so it’s no use offerin’ of it; wouldn’t take punds even.”
“What age is he?” asked the man.
“He’s eight,” replied ‘Mr. Jorrocks, with the greatest effrontery.
“He’s long in the tooth,” observed the man, looking into Dickey’s mouth, as he yawned and bored at the bridle.
“You must have length somewhere,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “and I’m blow’d he ain’t got it nowhere else.”
“Will you let me lay my leg over him?” at length asked the man.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “certainly,” stopping I and preparing to dismount. “You must mind he’s, come twenty miles though,” observed he, dropping himself quietly on to the ground, “and ar’nt fit to show. We can ride on together, you know,” added he.
The man leapt off his pony, and turning it round for Mr. Jorrocks to mount on the right side, prepared to get upon Dickey.
