by R S Surtees
Billy then braced himself up for the coming interview.
A true groom’s knock, a loud and a little one, presently sounded on the white-over-black painted door-panel, and at our friend’s “Come in,” the door opened, when in sidled a sleek-headed well put on groomish-looking man, of apparently forty or five-and-forty years of age. The man bowed respectfully, which Billy returned, glancing at his legs to see whether they were knock-kneed or bowed, his Mamma having cautioned him against the former. They were neither; on the contrary, straight good legs, well set off with tightish, drab-coloured kerseymere shorts, and continuations to match. His coat was an olive-coloured cutaway, his vest a canary-coloured striped toilanette, with a slightly turned-down collar, showing the whiteness of his well-tied cravat, secured with a gold flying-fox pin. Altogether he was a most respectable looking man, and did credit to the recommendation of Mr. Grueler.
Still he was a groom of pretension — that is to say, a groom who wanted to be master. He was hardly, indeed, satisfied with that, and would turn a gentleman off who ventured to have an opinion of his own on any matter connected with his department. Mr. Gaiters considered that his character was the first consideration, his master’s wishes and inclinations the second; so if master wanted to ride, say, Rob Roy, and Gaiters meant him to ride Moonshine, there would be a trial of skill which it should be.
Mr. Gaiters always considered himself corporally in the field, and speculated on what people would be saying of “his horses.”
Some men like to be bullied, some don’t, but Gaiters had dropped on a good many who did. Still these are not the lasting order of men, and Gaiters had at tended the dispersion of a good many studs at the Corner. Again, some masters had turned him off, while he had turned others off; and the reason of his now being disengaged was that the Sheriff of Doubleimupshire had saved him the trouble of taking Captain Swellington’s horses to Tattersall’s, by selling them off on the spot. Under these circumstances, Gaiters had written to his once former master — or rather employer — Mr. Grueler, to announce his retirement, which had led to the present introduction. Many people will recommend servants who they wouldn’t take themselves. Few newly married couples but what have found themselves saddled with invaluable servants that others wanted to get rid of.
Mutual salutations over, Gaiters now stood in the first position, hat in front, like a heavy father on the stage.
Our friend not seeming inclined to lead the gallop, Mr. Gaiters, after a prefatory hem, thus commenced: “Mr. Grueler, sir, I presume, would tell you, sir, that I would call upon you, sir?”
Billy nodded assent.
“I’m just leaving the Honourable Captain Swellington, of the Royal Hyacinth Hussars, sir, whose regiment is ordered out to India; and fearing the climate might not agree with my constitution, I have been obliged to give him up.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Billy.
“I have his testimonials,” continued Gaiters, putting his hat between his legs, and diving into the inside pocket of his cutaway as he spoke. “I have his testimonials,” repeated he, producing a black, steel-clasped banker or bill-broker’s looking pocket-book, and tedding up a lot of characters, bills, recipes, and other documents in the pocket. He then selected Captain Swellington’s character from the medley, written on the best double-thick, cream-laid note-paper, sealed with the Captain’s crest — a goose — saying that the bearer John Gaiters was an excellent groom, and might safely be trusted with the management of hunters. “You’ll probably know who the Captain is, sir,” continued Mr. Gaiters, eyeing Billy as he read it, “He’s a son of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Flareup’s, of Flareup Castle, one of the oldest and best families in the kingdom — few better families anywhere,” just as if the Peer’s pedigree had anything to do with Gaiters’s grooming. “I have plenty more similar to it,” continued Mr. Gaiters, who had now selected a few out of the number which he held before him, like a hand at cards. “Plenty more similar to it,” repeated he, looking them over. “Here is Sir Rufus Rasper’s, Sir Peter Puller’s, Lord Thruster’s, Mr. Cropper’s, and others. Few men have horsed more sportsmen than I have done; and if my principals do not go in the first flight, it is not for want of condition in my horses. Mr. Grueler was the only one I ever had to give up for overmarking my horses; and he was so hard upon them I couldn’t stand it; still he speaks of me, as you see, in the handsomest manner,” handing our friend Mr. Grueler’s certificate, couched in much the same terms as Captain Swellington’s.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, glancing over and then returning it, thinking, as he again eyed Mr. Gaiters, that a smart lad like Lord Ladythorne’s Cupid without wings would be more in his way than such a full-sized magnificent man. Still his Mamma and Mr. Grueler had sent Gaiters, and he supposed they knew what was right. In truth, Gaiters was one of those overpowering people that make a master feel as if he was getting hired, instead of suiting himself with a servant.
This preliminary investigation over, Gaiters returned the characters to his ample book, and clasping it together, dropped it into his capacious pocket, observing, as it fell, that he should be glad to endeavour to arrange matters with Mr. Pringle, if he was so inclined.
Our friend nodded, wishing he was well rid of him.
“It’s not every place I would accept,” continued Mr. Gaiters, growing grand; “for the fact is, as Mr. Grueler will tell you, my character is as good as a Bank of England note; and unless I was sure I could do myself justice, I should not like to venture on an experiment, for it’s no use a man undertaking anything that he’s not allowed to carry out his own way; and nothing would be so painful to my feelings as to see a gentleman not turned out as he should be.”
Mr. Pringle drawled a “yarse,” for he wanted to be turned out properly.
“Well, then,” continued Mr. Gaiters, changing his hat from his right hand to his left, subsiding into the second position, and speaking slowly and deliberately, “I suppose you want a groom to take the entire charge and management of your stable — a stud groom, in short?”
“Yarse, I s’pose so,” replied Billy, not knowing exactly what he wanted, and wishing his Mamma hadn’t sent him such a swell.
“Well, then, sir,” continued Mr. Gaiters, casting his eyes up to the dirty ceiling, and giving his chin a dry shave with his disengaged hand; “Well, then, sir, I flatter myself I can fulfil that office with credit to myself and satisfaction to my employer.”
“Yarse,” assented Billy, thinking there would be very little satisfaction in the matter.
“Buy the forage, hire the helpers, do everything appertaining to the department, — in fact, just as I did with the Honourable Captain Swellington.”
“Humph,” said Billy, recollecting that his Mamma always told him never to let servants buy anything for him that he could help.
“Might I ask if you buy your own horses?” inquired Mr. Gaiters, after a pause.
“Why, yarse, I do,” replied Billy; “at least I have so far.”
“Hum! That would be a consideration,” muttered Gaiters, compressing his mouth, as if he had now come to an obstacle; “that would be a consideration. Not that there’s any benefit or advantage to be derived from buying horses,” continued he, resuming his former tone; “but when a man’s character’s at stake, it’s agreeable, desirable, in fact, that he should be intrusted with the means of supporting it. I should like to buy the horses,” continued he, looking earnestly at Billy, as if to ascertain the amount of his gullibility.
“Well,” drawled Billy, “I don’t care if you do,” thinking there wouldn’t be many to buy.
“Oh!” gasped Gaiters, relieved by the announcement; he always thought he had lost young Mr. Easyman’s place by a similar demand, but still he couldn’t help making it. It wouldn’t have been doing justice to the Bank of England note character, indeed, if he hadn’t.
“Oh!” repeated he, emboldened by success, and thinking he had met with the right sort of man. He then proceeded to sum up his case
in his mind, — forage, helpers, horses, horses, helpers, forage; — he thought that was all he required; yes, he thought it was all he required, and the Bank of England note character would be properly supported. He then came to the culminating point of the cash. Just as he was clearing his throat with a prefatory “Hre” for this grand consideration, a sudden rush and banging of doors foreboding mischief resounded through the house, and something occurred —— that we will tell in another chapter.
CHAPTER XLVII. A CATASTROPHE. — A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER
ON, SIR, SIR, please step this way! please step this way!” exclaimed the delirium tremems footman, rushing coatless into the room where our hero and Mr. Gaiters were, — his shirt-sleeves tucked up, and a knife in hand, as if he had been killing a pig, though in reality he was fresh from the knife-board.
“Oh, Sir, Sir, please step this way!” repeated he, at once demolishing the delicate discussion at which our friend and Mr. Gaiters had arrived.
“What’s ha-ha-happened?” demanded Billy, turning deadly pale; for his cares were so few, that he couldn’t direct his fears to any one point in particular.
“Please, sir, your ‘oss has dropped down in a f-f-fit!” replied the man, all in a tremble.
“Fit!” ejaculated Billy, brushing past Gaiters, and hurrying out of the room.
“Fit!” repeated Gaiters, turning round with comfortable composure, looking at the man as much as to say, what do you know about it?
“Yes, f-f-fit!” repeated the footman, brandishing his knife, and running after Billy as though he were going to slay him.
Dashing along the dark passages, breaking his shins over one of those unlucky coal-scuttles that are always in the way, Billy fell into an outward-bound stream of humanity, — Mrs. Margerum, Barbara the housemaid, Mary the Lanndrymaid, Jones the gardener’s boy, and others, all hurrying to the scene of action.
Already there was a ring formed round the door, of bare-armed helpers, and miscellaneous hangers-on, looking over each other’s shoulders, who opened a way for Billy as he advanced.
The horse was indeed down, but not in a fit; for he was dying, and expired just as Billy entered. There lay the glazy-eyed hundred-guinea Napoleon the Great, showing his teeth, reduced to the mere value of his skin; so great is the difference between a dead horse and a live one.
“Bad job!” said Wetun, who was on his knees at its head, looking up; “bad job!” repeated he, trying to look dismal.
“What! is he dead?” demanded Billy, who could hardly realise the fact.
“Dead, ay — he’ll never move more,” replied Wetun, showing his fast-stiffening neck.
“By Jove! why didn’t you send for the doctor?” demanded Billy.
“Doctor! we had the doctor,” replied Wetun, “but he could do nothin’ for him.”
“Nothin’ for him!” retorted Billy; “why not?”
“Because he’s rotten,” replied Wetun.
“Rotten! how can that be?” asked our friend, adding, “I only bought him the other day!”
“If you open ’im you’ll find he’s as black as ink in his inside, rejoined the groom, now getting np in the stall and rubbing his knees.
“Well, but what’s that with?” demanded Hilly. “It surely must be owing to something. Horses don’t die that way for nothing.”
“Owing to a bad constitution — harn’t got no stamina,” replied Wetun, looking down upon the dead animal.
Billy was posed with the answer, and stood mute for a while.
“That ‘oss ‘as never been rightly well sin he com’d,” now observed Joe Bates, the helper who looked after him, over the heads of the door-circle.
“I didn’t like his looks when he com’d in from ‘unting that day,” continued Tom Wisp, another helper.
“No, nor the day arter nonther,” assented Jack Strong, who was a capital hand at finding fault, and could slur over his work with anybody.
Just then Mr. Gaiters arrived; and a deferential entrance was opened for his broadcloth by the group before the door.
The great Mr. Gaiters entered.
Treating the dirty blear-eyed Wetun more as a helper than an equal, he advanced deliberately up the stall and proceeded to examine the dead horse.
He looked first np his nostrils, next at his eye, then at his neck to see if he had been bled.
“I could have cured that horse if I’d had him in time,” observed he to Billy with a shake of the head.
“Neither you nor no man under the sun could ha’ done it,” asserted Mr. Wetun, indignant at the imputation.
“I could though — at least he never should have been in that state,” replied Gaiters coolly.
“I say you couldn’t!” retorted Wetun, putting his arms a-kimbo, and sideling up to the daring intruder, a man who hadn’t even asked leave to come into his stable.
A storm being imminent, our friend slipped off, and Sir Moses arrived from Henerey Brown &, Co.’s just at the nick of time to prevent a fight.
So much for a single night in a bad stable, a result that our readers will do well to remember when they ask their friends to visit them— “Love me, love my horse,” being an adage more attended to in former times than it is now.
“Ah, my dear Pringle! I’m so sorry to hear about your horse! go sorry to hear about your horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses, rushing forward to greet our friend with a consolatory shake of the hand, as he came sauntering into the library, flat candlestick in hand, before dinner. “It’s just the most unfortunate thing I ever knew in my life; and I wouldn’t have had it happen at my house for all the money in the world — dom’d if I would,” added he, with a downward blow of his fist.
Billy could only reply with one of his usual monotonous “y-a-r-ses.”
“However,” said the Baronet, “it shall not prevent your hunting to-morrow, for I’ll mount you with all the pleasure in the world — all the pleasure in the world,” repeated he, with a flourish of his hand.
“Thank ye,” replied Billy, alarmed at the prospect; “but the fact is, the Major expects me back at Yammerton Grange, and — —”
“That’s nothin!” interrupted Sir Moses; “that’s nothin; hunt, and go there after — all in the day’s work. Meet at the kennel, find a fox in five minutes, have your spin, and go to the Grange afterwards.”
“O, indeed, yes, you shall,” continued he, settling it so, “shall have the best horse in my stable — Pegasus, or Atalanta, or Old Jack, or any of them — dom’d if you shalln’t — so that matter’s settled.”
“But, but, but,” hesitated our alarmed friend, “I — I — I shall have no way of getting there after hunting.”
“O, I’ll manage that too,” replied Sir Moses, now in the generous mood. “I’ll manage that too — shall have the dog-cart — the thing we were in to-day; my lad shall go with you and bring it back, and that’ll convey you and your traps ‘and all altogether. Only sorry I can’t ask you to stay another week, but the fact is I’ve got to go to my friend Lord Lundyfoote’s for Monday’s hunting at Harker Crag,” — the fact being that Sir Moses had had enough of Billy’s company and had invited himself there to get rid of him.
The noiseless Mr. Bankhead then opened the door with a bow, and they proceeded to a tête-à-tête dinner, Cuddy Flintoff having wisely sent for his things from Heslop’s house, and taken his departure to town under pretence, as he told Sir Moses in a note, of seeing Tommy White’s horses sold.
Cuddy was one of that numerous breed of whom every sportsman knows at least one — namely, a man who is always wanting a horse, a “do you know of a horse that will suit me?” sort of a man. Charley Flight, who always walks the streets like a lamplighter and doesn’t like to be cheeked in his stride, whenever he sees Cuddy crawling along Piccadilly towards the Corner, puts on extra steam, exclaiming as he nears him, “How are you, Cuddy, how are you? I don’t know of a horse that will suit you!” So he gets past without a pull-up.
But we are keeping the soup waiting — also
the fish — cod sounds rather — for Mrs. Margerum not calculating on more than the usual three days of country hospitality, — the rest day, the drest day, and the pressed day, — had run out of fresh fish. Indeed the whole repast bespoke the exhausted larder peculiar to the end of the week, and an adept in dishes might have detected some old friends with new faces. Some rechauffers however are quite as good if not better than the original dishes — hashed venison for instance — though in this case, when Sir Moses inquired for the remains of the Sunday’s haunch, he was told that Monsieur had had it for his lunch — Jack being a safe bird to lay it upon, seeing that he had not returned from the race. If Jack had been in the way then, the cat would most likely have been the culprit, or old Libertine, who had the run of the house.
Neither the Baronet nor Billy however was in any great humour for eating, each having cares of magnitude to oppress his thoughts, and it was not until Sir Moses had imbibed the best part of a pint of champagne besides sherry at intervals, that he seemed at all like himself. So he picked and nibbled and dom’d and dirted as many plates as he could. Dinner being at length over, he ordered a bottle of the green-sealed claret (his best), and drawing his chair to the fire proceeded to crack walnuts and pelt the shells at particular coals in the fire with a vehemence that showed the occupation of his mind. An observing eye could almost tell which were levelled at Henerey Brown, which at Cuddy Flintoff, and which again at the impudent owner of Tippy Tom.
At length, having exhausted his spleen, he made a desperate dash at the claret-jug, and pouring himself out a bumper, pushed it across to our friend, with a “help yourself,” as he sent it. The ticket-of-leave butler, who understood wine, had not lost his skill during his long residence at Portsmouth, and brought this in with the bouquet in great perfection. The wine was just as it should be, neither too warm nor too cold; and as Sir Moses quailed a second glass, his equanimity began to revive.
When not thinking about money, his thoughts generally took a sporting turn,
