by R S Surtees
Sir Felix has hardly contemplated the room and the semicircular chair, from which he has to deliver his classical eloquence, ere Sir Stephen Sappey is borne in by the pushing, rushing crowd, all clamorous for places and anxious to be at the viands. Seeing the style of men, and feeling pretty sure that if one of them was to choose to occupy the chair, he would not perhaps get him out again, Sir Felix immediately takes possession, his brother Baronet squats in the seat of honour on his right, Mr. O’Dicey seats himself on his left, and the thirty or forty sportsmen — or sporting men — composing the body of the party fall into place as best they may. An immediate onslaught commenced upon the food, and the joints and the pies and the potatoes were pulled and rolled and pushed about the table in a most promiscuous, every-man-for-himself, sort of way. Munch, crunch, munch, crunch, patter clatter, patter clatter, waiter, beer, spoon, salt, pepper, fork, knife, plate, are the only intelligible sounds that escape. Presently the less voracious of the appetites begin to be appeased, and as the noise somewhat subsides Mr. O’Dicey’s voice is heard storming the waiters, and demanding all sorts of unheard-of and impossible things. First he wants some Gorgona anchovies, and is furious, or pretends to be, at not getting them. “What! no Gorgona anchovies! Never heard of such a thing! Where’s the man of the house? Send the man of the house here!” But the man of the house is far too busy drawing old bottled sherry — rich, dry, and full of character — out of the cask to attend to any such summons, and our friend’s wrath is diverted at the absence of French mustard for his cold beef; so sending his plate away he demands some plovers’ eggs, then some Bombay mangoes, and last some Emmenthaler cheese, which latter is offered to him in the shape of a great leathery-looking slice of strong-smelling Cheshire. Scorning the substitute, he sends his plate away, and balancing himself on the hind legs of a somewhat ricketty rush-bottomed chair, proceeds to twirl his moustache and contemplate the company There are a good many fellows there that he knows, legs, levanters, and lame ducks of all sorts, but none that he cares particularly about. If they can blow him, he can return the compliment and the reciprocity system is well understood among them. So amid the process of identifying faces, now seen without their familiar hats, the last sounds of mastication gradually die out, and a short grace is now listened to that was not waited for at the opening. Plates, bread, sweepings generally, disappear; and two long lines of variously-shaped wine-glasses range from end to end of the narrow table, guarding, as it were, sundry pyramids of very teeth-trying biscuits, placed on the well-known old green-coloured dessert plates. Mr. Boozeyworth then furnishes material for the coming conviviality by placing “ports and sherries” at either end of the table, while his coadjutors take orders for rum, gin, hollands, brandy, whatever the parties prefer to wine. These in their various forms of hot with and cold without, cold with and hot without, being at length distributed according to each man’s behest, and an approving sip taken, eyes began gradually to turn towards the chair, and Sir Felix, after a good prefatory “Hem!” arose and calling for a bumper-toast, gave “the health of Her Majesty the Queen” in a very laudatory, word-dwelling manner; after which he complimented the Prince Consort, the Prince of Wales, and the rest of the Royal family, in a similar strain, and again resumed his seat, feeling pretty comfortable as to voice, provided he could bring out the book-learning when he wanted it. After a proper pause he again rose, and gave “the Army and Navy” in highly eulogistic terms, when, true to his morning spurs, and greatly to the surprise of Sir Felix, up jumped Mr. O’Dicey to return thanks on behalf of the army. A buzz of applause welcomed the change of voice, and assured our not overdiffident friend of a favourable reception.
“Sir Felix Flexible, Sir Stephen Sappey, and gentlemen,” said he, looking down the table, “I thank you most cordially for the compliments you have paid that branch of the service to which I had the honour to belong. (O’Dicey had been turned out of the Fandango Huzzars for turning up the King too often at écarté.) I need not say, gentlemen, that under all times, all climes, all circumstances, the army will ever be found true to those illustrious antecedents that have procured us honour abroad, and comfort and tranquillity at home. (Applause.) Gentlemen, I agree with my Lord Palmerston, that a foreign foe would bitterly rue the day he ever set his presumptuous foot on our shores, for the country would rise to a man, and show that we are as great in the strength of war as we are in milder pursuits of peace. (Renewed applause, during which the grog-drinkers took courage out of the varied contents of their glasses, and felt very brave.) And let me observe, gentlemen,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, addressing himself to the legs, “that these race-meetings are intimately connected with the best interests of the army, fostering and encouraging that unrivalled breed of horses for which our glorious country has so long been justly famous. (Applause.) I need not observe to this meeting, presided over by a gentleman of the high classical knowledge and acquirements of the worthy Baronet, that in all times, and all ages, the improvement of its breed of horses has been an object of care and solicitude to every paternal government.”
“Very true! very true!” assented Sir Felix, tickled by the compliment paid to himself, which he did not expect from our friend.
“We know,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, twirling his moustache, “We know how all-absorbing were the Olympic games, and that racing was considered in Greece a matter of the highest national importance.”
“Holloa!” muttered Sir Felix, pricking his ears.
“We can almost realise the glorious spectacle of Philip of Macedon, and Hiero, King of Cyracuse, contending in person for the prize.” (“The deuce!” exclaimed the Baronet, starting up in his seat). “And to come nearer home,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, taking a sip of his sloe juice port wine, “history tells us how in the ninth century, Hugh Capet sent a present of race-horses to Athelstane.”
“Oh, the deuce!” groaned the Baronet, sinking back in despair, and covering his face with his kerchief, in which position he had the mortification to hear Mr. O’Dicey run glibly through the very speech he had taken such pains to prepare for himself, and finish with a well-rounded eulogium on the Turf, which drew forth the general applause of the company.
Mr. O’Dicey having resumed his seat, then presently arose, and sweeping his wine-glasses on to the floor with his brown dress-coat tails, swung carelessly out of the room — chuckling at having paid the old boy (as he called Sir Felix) off for his former interference. He then ordered a fly, and drove away to tell his friend Curlew, who lived in the adjoining rooms to the Baronet in the too thinly-walled Minerva mansion, how he had stolen the speech they had jointly heard Sir Felix concocting, and anticipated its delivery at the ordinary. O’Dicey also recounted his own observations on the race-course; how Miss Rosa had looked sweet on young Fatty, as they called Jasper, and Mamma rather sour on himself; and being presently joined by their confederate, Mr. Wanless, whose acquaintance the reader will presently make, they resolved themselves into a committee of management to consider what was best to be done under the circumstances. Meanwhile Sir Felix floundered on as best he could with the court card taken out of his hand, and when, after speech, song, and sentiment, subscription to this, that, and t’other, Mr. Boozeyworth again steered him down stairs, and along the dark intricate passage; “A step down here, Sir Felix,”
“A step up here, Sir Felix,”
“Mind your head, Sir Felix,” he felt he had been made a tool of, and resolved that he wouldn’t be caught that way again. And so he drove home in the dumps, and when he awoke the next morning, with a dry tongue and feverish head, instead of pleasant applause and tinkling of spoons in the toddy-glasses, he was very ill-pleased to find that, one way and another, he had been let in for some five-and-twenty pounds. While Sir Felix was acquiring all these désagrément, O’Dicey and Co were settling their course of procedure towards our friend Mr. Jasper.
CHAPTER XXVII.
BATCH OF GOOD FELLOWS.
“COME AND HAVE a quiet chop with me at Chousey�
��s,” said Mr. O’Dicey in his usual off-hand way, as he met our plump hero strolling moodily along the north shore — hands deep in peg-top trouser pockets — chewing the cud of a conversation he had just had with Miss Rosa, in which he thought she had been rather more affable to Bunting than there was any occasion for. This was shortly after the consultation we described in our last chapter, during which time O’Dicey had had ample time for making arrangements, as well for the entertainment as for securing the company of a few of those choice spirits by whom a “pluck” is best effected. The invitation was opportune, for Jasper was out of humour with Miss Rosa for encouraging that grinning simpleton, with his flourishing airs and poetical nonsense, and knew that dining with O’Dicey would annoy both her and Mamma, so he immediately closed with the offer, and inquired about the hour.
“What time?” asked he, with a smile of satisfaction. —
“Oh, any time, — six, half-past; seven if you like; but seven pune mind, if it is seven.”
“O six would suit me best,” replied Jasper, unused to such fashionable hours. (Four was their hour in the country.)
“Six be it, then,” replied Mr. O’Dicey, “Six be it; and I’ll see if I can get two or three good fellows to meet you. Just a chop you know — no dressing — no dressing — come as you are — come as you are.” So saying, he waved an adieu with his clean primrose-colour kid-gloved hand, and went swinging away in quest of his comrogues.
It no happened that there were a good many queer fellows down at the Rocks at this particular time; indeed there generally are at all race-meetings; and though the sports of the turf were over for the present, the vultures availed themselves of the short interregnum before the commencement of the Scrambleford meeting to indulge in a little bodily ablution, and pick up such stray birds as came in their way at billiards, cards, dice, or what not. An accomplished “leg” can play at anything, or find those who can. Mr. O’Dicey’s dining rule being not more than the eight nor less than the six, he very soon picked up as many guests as filled the round table of the Dolphin diningroom. As it is always a convenience to know something of those we are going to meet before they arrive, we will here introduce them to the reader, instead of leading them up as they come. The stuttering Major Minster claims precedence in point of age, and was a long-faced, straight-haired, blue-eyed, stoutish, middle-aged, clean-shaven, blue-surtouted, pepper-and-salt-trowsered man, who talked aide-de-camp-ship, and affected such a horror for gaming and all youthful indiscretions, that a fond mother would think he was just the sort of man she would like to send a darling son abroad with. The Major was cautious and considerate; always paused before he stuttered his answer; and gave disparaging opinions in such a guarded sort of way, that they carried far more weight than downright denunciations would have done. He was a capital hand at both billiards and cards, but having had the misfortune to be found out, people had got shy of him; and not having the wherewithal to set up for himself, had become a sort of hanger-on of O’Dicey’s, to whom the Major’s steady demure looks and respectable conversation were a great advantage and accommodation.
Curlew, the before-mentioned Ginger Curlew, was a very little man, with a whipped-spaniel sort of look about him that told sadly against him at first; but he was a bold, bad little fellow, who if he made a set at a man, would follow him to the Land’s End, before he would let him go unamerced. His rôle was Parliament. “When oi was in Parliament,” for he always took care to trot out his short parliamentary career, just as Mr. Handeycock trots out Peter Simple’s grandfather, Lord Privilege, — when he thinks there is anything to be made by the display. Curlew’s investment for a seat had not been a bad one, for “Thos. Curlew, Esq., M.P.” appears on all books, papers, and writings, belonging to him; thus giving his comrogues an opportunity of thinking he is still a senator instead of something else beginning with an S, a title that would not be quite so useful in aiding his plucking endeavours.
The next gentleman we have the honour of introducing to the reader is the well-known Captain Arthur Gammon, who goes on the false tack principle too, namely, that of keeping hounds, thus usurping the credit of the Gammon who does. His flash talk is about hunting,
“Hones and Horses and and the system of kennel,
Leicestershire nags and the bounds of old Meynell.”
And very well he does it. He is always wanting a huntsman or whip, or a horse “to carry one of my men.” In person he is a sort oi O’Dicey double, but younger, having all his great original’s impudence without his tact. Gammon had the misfortune to begin life by thinking he could do O’Dicey, and bitterly he paid for his temerity. O’Dicey plucked him as clean as a poulterer plucks a pullet, and then converted him into a sort of second fiddle, setting him to aid his arrangements and do his bidding on all occasions. Like O’Dicey, Gammon goes for the clothes, flash, shiny, and glittering, seldom appearing two days alike. He is a smart well-set-up little man, with a good curly head of dark clustering hair, bright eyes, and good features generally; which, with his careful costume and consummate assurance, served him in good stead at first, and got him into several good country houses, from which he was often as difficult to eject as the celebrated Soapey Sponge himself. Having once effected a logement in a certain nobleman’s house, where he seemed well inclined to stay on for ever, various expedients, such as packing up his portmanteau and presenting him with the key at breakfast, asking him where he wished to have his letters directed to, and so on, were resorted to for the purpose of ousting him without success. At length it was thought advisable to take soundings as to how long he meant to stay, so the project of some future excursion was brought upon the tapis during dinner, and Captain Gammon was urgently appealed to to form one of the party. “Hay — haw — hum,” replied he, fingering his tie; “hay — haw — hum,” paying the same compliment to his trinkets, “fear I must be off before then — been here almost a fortnight as it is.”
“Sir,” interposed the pompous butler, who was “drying” or “sweeting” the company—” Sir, you will have been here three weeks to-morrow.”
So much for the Captain, who may now pass on for the present.
Now for Mr. Wanless, the gentleman who formed one of the council of war at the Minerva Mansion. Joe, as they call him, is a queer fellow, and he looks like one. He calls himself a monetary discount and general commission agent, which may mean anything. He is a sedate, bald-headed, middle aged man, whose otherwise quiet appearance is marred by a watchful restlessness of eye, as if he lived in constant expectations of a kick. His conversation is generally about lords and great people whose bills he has manipulated (perhaps stolen); but a man might talk to Joe for a month without being able to come to any conclusion as to what he really is, so mixed and miscellaneous is his matter — now about politics, now about prices, now about farming, now about shooting, and anon about fox-hunting. His is the finishing department — his the delicate duty of opportunely producing the little bill-stamp that enables parties to square accounts at the moment, on the principle that Joe always enforces, of short reckonings making long friends. Joe’s next business is to trot off into the City to get the bill “done.” Such were the parties to the plant on our fat friend; and O’Dicey, well knowing where to find them — the Major at Slowman’s reading-room, Curlew at Sidepocket’s billiard-table, Gammon at Spurrier the saddler’s, and Joe at the railway station — he gave each a monosyllabical summons for six, and proceeded on his way rejoicing. He would steal a march on mother and daughter (meaning our fair friend and Mamma) if he could. He then looked in at Chousey’s to give the finishing touch to the programme of the entertainment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. O’DICEY’S DINNER.
ALTHOUGH MR. O’DICEY talked of a mutton chop — a quiet chop, it was only a pleasant figurative sort of way he had of speaking of as good a dinner as money can procure, and Mr. Chousey’s instructions were to send up the best entertainment the house could afford. So long as a man played, Mr. O’Dicey said he was u
nwise to deny himself anything, for it was only to increase the stakes a little and have it all back. Whatever O’Dicey did, therefore, he did in the most liberal manner, trusting to other people paying for it. Accordingly a first-class dinner was ordered in the best room at the Dolphin, the waiters were beshorted and bebuckled, and the prime vintages brought up from the cave. Nothing was omitted that could add to the bill, and though the dinner might cost three times as much as it would in a private house, we should like to know the private house where you could get such a one at such short notice. As of course it would not do for O’Dicey to be fussy or figetty about it, he was not there to receive our friend, who arrived a few minutes before six; and when “Mr. Goldspink” was ushered into the Dolphin — a room radiant with mirrors, and shining with French polish, and cut crimson velvet furniture — he found the exemplary Major admiring a number of the Turner collection of engravings, while Joe was raking the sea through a standard telescope, looking at this ship and that, as though he expected a cargo of something coming in. They both desisted from their avocations as Jasper entered, and received him with an obsequious civility that was extremely flattering to our friend. They apologised for the absence of their host. “Dare say’d Mr. Goldspink knew O’Dicey as well as they did — excellent fellow, but anything but punctual; however, it wasn’t quite time yet, so they wouldn’t say anything,” and proceeded to discuss the sea, and the weather, and the state of the country, courting and encouraging our young friend’s opinion instead of laying down the law in the dictatorial tone of some of the elders.
