by R S Surtees
CHAPTER III.
TOM IN GOOD HANDS.
“SIVIN AND FOUR’S elivin, and eight’s nineteen — I don’t know that that’ll do you any good,” observed old Hall, when Torn boasted at dinner that he had made Major Fibs’s acquaintance.
“I don’t know that, my dear,” observed Mrs Hall, coming to the rescue. “I think it’s just the sort of company our Tummus should be in.”
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and forty-five is fifty-six — don’t like the milintary,” replied Hall, busy with a chicken leg.
“That’s only because Captain Sloper bit you,” replied his wife. “You shouldn’t judge of all by the faults of one. The army’s a most honorable profession.”
“Middlin’,” replied Hall, who had had the offer of many other “bites” besides Sloper’s — for escaping which he was more indebted to his own acuteness than to the candour of the would-be biters.
Tom, too, with the generous sympathies of youth, defended the major, whose action in cautioning him against the advertising turf swindlers he eulogised; and what between his wife and his son, old Hall soon found that he might as well hold his tongue.
Next day, as he was peering over the dingy green blinds of his bank, and saw Tom strutting by on the arm of the red-jacketed major, in the full enjoyment of the curious pleasure some little men feel in walking with very tall ones, the old man felt more pleased than pained at the sight. The major and Tom walked the streets for two hours, in the course of which time they met Mrs Flareup’s gold-lace hatted coachman, nine times watched the Miss Skippingtons into seven milliners’ and other shops, and got innumerable salutes from the soldiers. Their conversation was chiefly about “horthes,” which the major criticised, or rather denounced freely as they passed, pronouncing one to be a rip, another a brute, a third a devil, a fourth a screw, and so on — opinions to which Tom freely assented, though he knew nothing whatever about them. Seeing the swaggering way in which Tom brandished his cane whip-stick, the major asked him what hounds he hunted with, and being told that he had never been out but once, and then on foot, with old Mr Bloatingford’s beagles, he particularly recommended hunting to his attention, assuring him that the very best introduction for a young man of figure and fortune like him was to be found at the cover-side. He then entered into a dissertation on the relative merits of Lord Heartycheer’s and Sir Harry Bulfinches’ hounds, commenting on the skill of their respective huntsmen, and the powers and performances of their packs.
He also glanced at the composition of their respective fields, denouncing this man as a “jealous dog,” that as a “fine ‘orthman,” and concluded by asking our Tom to dine at the barracks on the morrow, being band-day, to which our friend readily assented.
To this enlivening scene let us now adjourn. Although Fibs was not considered quite the thing in the regiment — at least not by some of the saucy subalterns, who, after all, might be no great judges of propriety, or might, perhaps, mistake for cheating what in reality were most useful lessons in the ways of the world — although Fibs, we say, was not considered quite the thing in the regiment, yet, being an intense toady of the colonel’s — Colonel Blunt — who was no great shakes himself, they pocketed their dislikes and wined with our Tom in the hearty liberal sort of way of men who have got to pay their share of the shot. The colonel, who sat opposite Tom, led the charge with a great stentorian voice, an example that was quickly followed by the major, taken up by Captain Pippin opposite, responded to by Mr Mattyfat down below, followed by Captain Dazzler higher up, repeated by Captain Spill from behind the epergne, re-echoed by Captain Whopper in the vicechair, chorused by Mr Stalker on his left, and squeaked by little Mister Jug, the junior comet, who was very industrious in the drinking way, and generally got too much wine every night. They all took wine with our Tom — the adjutant twice.
The consequence was that our Tom got a very considerable quantity of hot heady wine during dinner, and soon felt at home among these jolly cocks instead of rising from table as unacquainted with them as when he sat down, according to the frigid rules of high society, where people are neither introduced nor make acquaintance by asking each other to wine. We really think it would be an improvement on the modern practice if a host were to calculate how much a dinner would cost, and send a share of the money to each guest, with, “Company not required,” as undertakers do with mourning at a funeral — a solemnity that a modern dinner-party very much resembles. Not so our mess, however, where everybody wined with our Tom; and what with the novelty of the scene, the dash of the uniforms, the tall liveried footmen, the massive plate, the general glare and glitter of everything except the plate, which was dull and pewtery-like, when the profane Cardigans mingled with the cut-glass decanters, and the band struck up, and the orderlies went round with their books, our Tom felt as though he had imbibed the spirit of the Duke of Wellington, and could lead whole armies on to glory and renown.
The conversation, however, did not take a military turn, for Colonel Blunt, being a great, coarse, blackleg sort of man, soon turned it into his favourite channel, and after a very critical review of the previous week’s sporting transactions, as detailed in the Sunday papers, he evoked an expression of opinion as to the propriety of matching his bull-terrier, Griper, against Bullhide the butcher’s Holdfast, and the band striking up “Rory O’More” in the course of the discussion, he sent the adjutant to dismiss them as a noisy set of scamps. Having got rid of them, he resumed the subject, frequently directing his questions and observations to our Tom, who felt flattered by the attentions of the great commander, and his offer of allowing any one to go halves in the match rather hanging fire, Tom boldly closed with it, leaving it to the colonel to make it for any sum he liked. Having attentively scrutinised Tom’s fat vacant face, and considered whether he had better pigeon him or let his daughter have a run at him, he came to the conclusion that he might do both, and being in the secret of the then great coming cross between Sledgehammer, the blacksmith, and Granitenob, the miner, the colonel accommodated Tom with the favourite at evens.
He then introduced the subject of some leather-plating they were getting up among themselves — quite select—” small stakes — just for amusement, and to please the country folks — five-pound forfeits — only five pounds,” and Tom dashed at them too. In fact, he was ripe for anything; but the prudent colonel thinking he had done enough, and many of the officers having retired on the appearance of a bottle with a white paper cravat, the colonel looked significantly at the major, who forthwith proposed retiring to his room and having “thum thardines or anthovies, or bitter ale and grilled bones, or thumthin’ of that thort.” The fat boy and the fat colonel then rose together, and the fat colonel seeing that the fat boy rather lurched in his gait, thrust his huge arm through his, and led him away before the now tittering remnant of his regiment.
“What a youth!” whispered one. “Green as grass,” observed another. “In good hands,” said a third. “The old ‘uns will draw him,” tittered another. “Never mind, he’s plenty of wool on his back!” exclaimed a fifth. “Right shop for getting it shorn in,” rejoined the first speaker, who had had practical experience both of the colonel and his major. But we must accompany the departing worthies.
Colonel Blunt being quite a martinet in money matters, never compromising a good bet, or letting a youngster off a bad one, or out of a bad horse deal on the plea of inebriety, which he used to say was only an additional reason for enforcing the bet or the deal, were it only to cure him of the foul propensity — the colonel, we say, being quite a martinet in money matters, was anxious to “compare” with Tom Hall in private, so that there might be no mistake or misunderstanding in the morning. Seeing, too, how freely Tom rose at all manner of bait, he thought he might feel how the land lay with regard to entering him for his daughter — a most lovely and angelic girl, as her mother told the gents, or a fiery little fiend, as she occasionally told the young lady herself. Accordingly he stuck to our friend Tom, even af
ter he had got him safe down the stone steps of the mess-room and into the spacious star-canopied barrack-yard, looking so different in the dull sombre garments of night to what it did when he entered in the bright glare of day. Whether it was the night air, or the stars, or the young moon, or the young port, or the old cheese, or the green salad, we know not, but Tom’s head ceased to serve him even as indifferently well as it had been doing, and his legs seemed inclined to rebel too. However, the colonel got him over the ground, and up to the end of a spacious wind-whistling passage, through which darkness was made visible by a few glowworm-looking lamps, aided by occasional gleams of light from partially-opened doors on either side, disclosing adjourned scenes of revelry, or emitting the fumes of tobacco. The major’s soldier-servant, anticipating his master’s coming, had got a couple of composite candles lighted, which cast a cheerful radiance over the crimson furniture and fancy fittings of the little room, and had even been so considerate as to lay a pack of cards on the table.
“Thit down, my dear feller — thit down,” lisped the major, wheeling a semi-circular chair behind our friend Tom, which, taking him just behind the knees, sent him souse into it. The colonel then took possession of one opposite. Tom’s head now began to swim. He thought the carpet was undulating, like the sham sea at a theatre, and clutched his chair manfully with both hands.
“I wish this chair mayn’t come down with me,” observed the colonel, as his chair began to creak under his enormous weight, for he walked seventeen stone.
“That would be ve — ve — very awkward,” stammered Tom, staring wildly.
“Oh, no; it things (sings) with me,” observed the major from the adjoining cupboard of a room, whither he had gone under pretence of arranging his supper tray, but in reality to give the colonel an opportunity of taking Tom through hands.
“Well, I hope Bullhide won’t whop us,” observed the colonel, reverting to the dog-match, slapping his great brawny hands on to his enormous knees, and contemplating Tom just as a cat contemplates a mouse before pouncing. “I hope Bullhide won’t whop us,” repeated he in a louder tone, Tom not noticing the observation.
“That would be ve — ve — very awkward,” replied Tom after a pause.
“If the Nob beats the Hammer I shall want two ponies of you,” observed the colonel, slowly and sententiously.
“That would be ve — ve — very awkward,” replied Tom.
“Humph!” grunted the colonel, fixing his eyes on the now open-mouthed, drooping-lidded, chubby-faced boy, and thinking whether it was worth while continuing the effort.
Just then Tom thought he felt the room begin to rock, and started forward with a violent stamp on the floor. Finding his mistake, he gave an idiotic sort of laugh, as if nothing particular had happened, and then essayed to sit bolt upright.
The colonel thought he would make one more attempt.
“You understand the terms of the Warrior Stakes,” observed he, speaking very loudly, and leaning towards Tom. “It’s a fifteen-guinea stake, ten guineas forfeit, and only five if declared by the 15th. If you don’t mean to run, you’ll have to pay five guineas.”
“That would be ve — ve — very awkward,” replied Tom with much labour.
“Ay, but if you don’t declare in time, you’ll have to pay ten,” rejoined the colonel, with a knowing jerk of his great bull head.
“That would be ve — ve — very awkward,” replied Tom as before.
“Hang your awkwards!” growled the colonel, rising from his chair; and, going to where the major was still busy among his condiments, he whispered him “that the boy was drunk, and he (the major) must see that matters were right in the morning.”
This the obsequious major promised to do, and bidding Tom “Good-night” the colonel rolled off home, to take the usual revenge upon his wife and daughter that he did when things didn’t go right.
And the major got a fly and took our Tom home to his father’s.
CHAPTER IV.
MARTIAL ARDOUR.
MAJOR FIBS WAS in town betimes the next afternoon, having double duty to perform — namely, to call the colonel’s bets over with our Tom, and to caution him against the men in the regiment who he thought likely to enlighten Tom as to their joint propensities. The mess dinner having made Tom common property, the major felt the urgency of the occasion; for though few of the men had been long in the regiment — which, indeed, seemed to act the part of conduit-pipe to others — yet they could all tell something against the colonel or the major, or both.
Not falling in with Tom in High-street, or Cross-street, or at the corner of Spooneypope-street, and seeing nothing of him over Paddington the tailor “from London’s” blinds, between the brush and soap bottles of Bergamot the hairdresser’s window, or in the coffee-room of the Salutation Inn, the major drew on to Miss Isinglass the confectioner’s, where he found our jolly friend sitting backwards in his chair, contemplating the young lady over a conical tumbler of capillaire and soda-water. The major clanked in with his long brass spurs and coarse iron-heeled boots.
“Ah, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?” lisped he, as if the meeting was the veriest accident in the world. “Good mornin’, Miss I.,” continued he, addressing the lady, with a military touch of his gold-laced forage cap. “Hope I don’t intrude? as Paul Pry used to say,” looking significantly at Tom; at which the lady smiled and hung her head, showing her auburn ringlets to great advantage.
The trio then entered upon the interesting subject of the weather: the major wanting rain, to soften the ground, to train a ticklish-legged horse; Miss Isinglass wanting it fair, as she was going by the last cheap excursion train to the Great Exhibition; and Tom Hall not knowing exactly what he wanted. So they talked a very edifying pastrycook-shop sort of conversation. At length, having finished his beverage, and told Miss Isinglass to “tick it,” Tom rose from his seat, and, with a parting leer, linked arms with the major, and sallied forth for a stroll, Tom observing confidentially to his friend that his “coppers were hot.”
“I thought you were rather thleepy last night,” replied the major, suspecting that Tom might be wanting to cry off his bets on the plea of intoxication. “I thought you were rather thleepy,” repeated he; adding, “That beethly band’s enough to thet anybody to thleep.”
The “sleepiness” was not the only reminiscence of the previous night’s carouse, for, in addition to the ghost of a tune with his headache, Tom had awoke with a desperate military mania. Nothing would serve him but he would be a soldier. As he lay cooling his throbbing head against the pillow, he thought over the glories of a military career, the magnificent uniforms, the splendid dinners, the enlivening bands, the brazen trumpet’s sound, the honour of belonging to the “Rag”; and he fancied himself capering about the streets on a splendidly caparisoned charger, with a red-and-white feather floating gracefully from his cocked hat.
“I tell you what,” said he, squeezing the major’s arm confidentially—” I tell you what, I’ve been thinking — that is to say, I’ve been considering — I mean, I’ve half an idea — I should like to go into the army.”
“Hem!” mused the major, thinking how that would fit. “And I should like to go into your regiment,” continued Tom eagerly; adding, “D’ye think I’ve any chance?”
“Not impothible,” replied the major, making a good mouthful of the poth—” not impothible. The colonel’s parthal to sthtout men — likes them fat.”
“Indeed,” replied Tom, who didn’t consider himself at all out of the way in that respect. “D’ye think he’d give me a commission?” asked Tom.
“Why, as to that,” mused the major—” why, as to that, I dare say he’d give you his interest, and he’s thick with the old Dook; has a bed at Apthley Houth whenever he goes to town. Indeed, I’ve no doubt the Dook would be only too happy to therve him. But thee him yourthelf, my dear feller,” continued the major—” thee him yourthelf, and ask him the question.”
Tom walked on in silence, not exactly kn
owing how to set about it.
“You might call under pretenth of talking over your last night’s beths, you know,” suggested the major, “and that would give you an opportunity of theeing his daughter Anthelena, the most lovely creature you ever thet eyes on — things like a theraphum!”
The lady temptation was for the moment lost upon Tom by the sudden irruption of Granitenob and Griper, and Bullhide and the Warrior Stakes, upon his recollection. He now felt that, if he hadn’t made the colonel’s acquaintance thereby, he would rather not have made the bets; for, like the great John Gilpin, although on pleasure bent, Tom had a frugal mind — a deal of his father’s caution about him.
“If you have any therious thoughts about the army,” continued the major after a pause, “it wouldn’t be a bad plan to humour the old gentleman by making a few more beths with him. It isn’t the money he cares about,” continued the major, “he likes the ecthitement of the thing. Money! — bleth ye, he has more than he knows what to do with. I’ll be bound to thay, Anthelena will have fifty thouthand punds — not fifty thouthand stock, but stock that will prodooth fifty thouthand tholid thubstanthal thovereigns.”
