Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  CHAPTER XIII.

  SATISFACTION OF THE COLONEL.

  WHILE THE INCIDENTS of the last chapter were going on, the old colonel, eager and anxious at all times, was now doubly so, in consequence of having received a dunning letter from his accoutrement maker, threatening an appeal to the Horse Guards if his bill for 1849-50 was not immediately discharged, the writer, of course, having “to meet a large one himself the next week;” nay, so excitable had the colonel become that he could not contain himself in barracks, but putting himself in mufti — to wit, in a tight brown Newmarket cut-away, with a voluminous bright-buttoned buff waistcoat, scanty tweed trousers, and high-lows, with a drab felt wide-awake, proceeded to carry his corporation in the direction of the railway station to make an observation, relying on the disguise for Tom not knowing him; as if there was any disguise that would effect the concealment of such a figure as his. However, off he set, and there is no saying but his impetuosity would have carried him to the field of action, had not a lofty pile of Bimam native oysters, in Grundsell the greengrocer’s window, attracted his attention, and caused a diversion. There, as he stood, with his great stomach resting on the counter, devouring bivalve after bivalve as fast as Mrs Grundsell could open them, the light tramp of a horse’s hoofs fell upon his ear, and, looking round, he saw the well-known steed stepping gaily along, followed by the gaunt major, with his long arm thrust through our Tom’s.

  The colonel saw by the radiance of the major’s usually heavy brow, and the airy swagger of his walk, that it was a deal; and, nearly choking himself with the huge oyster he was in the act of swallowing, he clapped down half-a-crown on the counter, and was only prevented giving chase, and most likely spoiling sport, by the time Mrs Grundsell took fumbling for the change.

  When he got rolled to the door the group had turned up Spooneypope-street, and feeling satisfied that it was a case of delivery (the road to the barracks being right up the town), he gave vent to his gratitude by ordering a gallon of rum, a Dutch cheese, and a dozen red herrings, to be sent to the major’s rooms directly. When, however, he fingered the flimseys, as he called them, though greaseys would have been a more accurate description of “Hall & Co.’s” dirty five-pound notes, his gratitude expanded; and besides chucking the major a fiver for his trouble, he ordered him two dozen of strong military port, exclaiming, as he gave the order, “Mind, let it have a good grip of the gob!”

  He then went rolling about the town with a plethoric-looking tarnished-blue purse, paying his ear-ache and stomach-ache bills, and talking as if he was going to buy all the things in the shops. Mrs Bustleton got her money, and wrote a most obsequious letter, “hoping to be honoured with their future orders.” So the money was not altogether wasted, and the deal furnished abundant conversation for the town, the horse being made the representative of all sorts of imaginary sums.

  There were such solemn consultations — such feelings — such handlings — such trottings out and sittings in judgment on the unfortunate animal. What with the postboys and flymen continually going in and out with their horses, and young gentlemen dropping in to pass their opinions, the door of the stable was continually on the swing. What a diversity of opinion the horse elicited! No two people thought the same of him. Buttons, the postboy, thought he’d done a deal of work with his legs, while Bricks, the boots, thought he’d done a deal more with his teeth. Mr Weathertit thought his body too large for his legs, while young Mr Spoilwater, as they called Freebody, the brewer’s son, thought his legs too large for his body. The young Emperor of Morocco thought the fetlocks too fine; Mr Smiley took exception to the elbows; Mr Fielding pronounced the hocks to be curbey; Mr Clapgate suspected he had been at his prayers; while Mr Bright thought he detected incipient cataract in the right eye. No one, however, hinted that he had seen the horse before, or suspected that it was only Captain Smallbeere’s horse clipped, and his tail squared. To crown the whole, the old colonel waddled down from the barracks in a shell-jacket and high-lows to pass his opinion upon it. After making a most critical examination, beginning with the horse’s head and ending with his heels, grasping his windpipe and punching his sides, he exclaimed, with admirable naïveté, after straddling with his great fin ends in the bottom of his dog-earey overall pockets, as if making his calculations between Swipes’s horse and it, “Well! dash my sabretache, if there’s tuppence to choose atween ’em!”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE HEAVVSTEEDS AT DINNER.

  THE COUNTY PAPERS, after coming out blank, or as good as blank, all the summer, at length gave symptoms of returning animation, and Eureka Shirts, Parr’s Pills, and Dental Surgery advertisements found themselves “slap by cheek,” as Colonel Blunt called it, with “Hunting Appointments.” Three varmint-looking short-tailed pinks that had long been ornamenting Scissors & Tape’s window disappeared; Felt, the hatter, had imported some best-made London caps; Corns, the bootmaker, exhibited rows of variously-tinted tops; while Gag, the saddler, placed a whole sheaf of highly finished whips, and long lines of glittering spurs, in his bay-windowed shop. A few frosty nights had brought the leaves showering from the trees, while four-and-twenty hours’ rain had saturated the ground, making it fit for that best of all sports, fox-hunting. Big-breeched, knock-kneed, brandy-nosed caitiffs began to steal into towns from their summer starvings, offering themselves as grooms, or helpers, or clippers, or singers, or shavers, or anything — anything except honest work. All things bespoke the approaching campaign. Our military friends partook of the mania.

  “Let’s give old Cheer a benefit,” exclaimed Colonel Blunt, from the right of the president of the mess, on the evening the fixtures appeared— “let’s give old Cheer a benefit at his Park meet. Let’s cut a dash with the drag, and I’ll drive,” added he, the above being roared out in his usual stentorian strain, slightly impeded by the quantity of roast pig he had eaten, or rather devoured.

  “I vote we do,” lisped Major Fibs, from the opposite side of the table; adding, “Who’ll stand an orth?”

  “Goody Two-shoes is much at your service, sir,” observed Captain Dazzler, who wanted a little leave of absence.

  “That’s right!” exclaimed the colonel, with a thump of his fist on the table.

  “Cockatoo also,” bowed Adjutant Collop, who was in strong competition with Fibs for the colonel’s favour.

  “I’ll stand Billy Roughun,” observed Pippin, from the bottom of the table.

  “That’s right!” repeated the colonel. “Goody Two-shoes, Cockatoo, and Billy Roughun, that’s three — only want another to make up a team.”

  “You are welcome to old Major Pendennis,” squeaked little Jug, “if you don’t mind his knuckling-over knees.”

  “Oh, hang his knees!” responded the colonel; “four horses are four horses, and if he does tumble down he’ll get up at his leisure; but when the weight’s off their backs there’s no great temptation to tumble. Well,” continued he, “that’ll do — Goody and Cock for wheelers, and the Major and Roughun for leaders; or s’pose we put Roughun at the wheel, and Cock and Pen leaders.”

  “Nothing can be better,” observed Fibs.

  “Nothing,” ejaculated Collop.

  “We must have the drag overhauled,” continued the colonel; “and I vote we have the ballet-girl — Taglioni, or whatever you call her — painted out, and a rattling Fox with a ‘tallyho’ painted in. It’ll please old Cheer, and p’r’aps get us invited to the castle — they tell me the old man has an undeniable cook.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do! — I’ll tell you what we’ll do!” he went on. “We’ll go and breakfast with the old boy. He gives a spread — cold pies, pork-chops, pigeons, porter — all the delicacies of the season in short, — at least he did the last time we were quartered here, and I make no doubt he does still.”

  “We’d better not go on speculation, I think,” observed Captain Mattyfat, who was very fond of his food. “How would it do to have a jolly good breakfast here and lunch with his lordship?”


  “And have that fat Hall up and make him muzzy,” suggested Jug, helping himself to an overflowing bumper of port.

  “Oh, Hall’s a good fellow,” growled the colonel; “I won’t have him run down.”

  “We don’t want to run him down,” squeaked Jug, “we only want to make him comfortable.”

  “I’ll make you comfortable,” roared the colonel, his bloodshot eyes flashing with indignation—” I’ll make you comfortable,” repeated he, “with an extra drill on that day” — a threat that produced a hearty guffaw from the company.

  Jug bit his lips, for he saw that Hall was the favourite, as well with the colonel as with Angelena and mamma.

  “Well, but about the wrag,” resumed the colonel, “how shall it be? Breakfast or no breakfast — that’s the question.”

  “Oh, breakfast by all means before you start,” exclaimed several voices.

  “Have your breakfast before you go, whatever you do, and what you get extra will be all so much gained,” assented Mattyfat.

  “True,” replied the colonel—” true. Pass the bottle, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do — I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make a day of it — we’ll make a day of it; we’ll have a light breakfast here — slops (catlap, you know) and so on — then drive there and have a regular tuck-out; broiled bones, sherry coblers, sausages, and so on,” the colonel munching and smacking his lips as if he was engaged with a plateful.

  “And send the horses on, I suppose?” observed Mr Gape.

  “Oh, of course,” replied the colonel—” of course; you wouldn’t disgrace the regiment by riding your own horse on — that would never do. No, send them to Hearty-cheer’s, get them fed, and so on: cost nothin’ — old man has plenty of money. One groom will take two horses. Servants will come back in the drag, you know.”

  “That’ll do capitally, thir,” observed Major Fibs.

  “Capitally!” exclaimed the opposition toady, Collop.

  “You’ve a wonderful talent for arrangement,” observed Major Fibs.

  “Wonderful!” echoed the other.

  “Yes; I don’t think I’m deficient in that way,” replied the self-satisfied colonel, taking double toll of the port as it passed.

  Conversation then became general and brisk, turning altogether upon hunting — or rather upon riding — each man having some wonderful recollection of some wonderful feat he had performed in some other country. The colonel’s heretofore pig-impeded voice presently rose to the ascendant in details of the doings of his day; when he used to ride — when he used to beat everybody — when nobody could hold a candle to him — heavens, how he used to go! And he turned up the whites of his eyes as if lost in amazement at the recollection of his temerity.

  Fibby and Collop egged him on, as if they had never heard his lies before; while Mattyfat and Pippin, and Dazzler and Gape, and all the jolly subs winked and nudged each other under the table.

  “Yeth, thir, yeth,” observed Major Fibs;— “I’ve alwayth heard that you were firht-rate acroth country.”

  “Heard it!” exclaimed Collop; “I know it. ‘We’ve ridden side by side,’ as the song says.”

  “So we have, Colly, so we have,” roared the colonel, dashing at the port as it again passed up. “You know how I used to show them the way in Warwickshire — Ladbrooke Gorse, to wit!”

  “Ah, but Northamptonshire was the country you shone in most, wasn’t it, thir?” asked Fibby, determined not to be outdone by his detested rival.

  “I believe you,” replied the colonel, “I believe you. One doesn’t like speaking of oneself,” continued he, striking out with his right fin, “but I believe it’s generally admitted that there never was a better man in the Pytchley than I was.”

  “They talk of you yet, sir!” exclaimed Collop. “I’ve an uncle lives in that country.”

  “I make no doubt they do, I make no doubt they do,” replied the colonel. “I firmly believe, if you were to go into the market-place at Northampton, and ask who was the best man they ever had in the county, they would exclaim, ‘Blunt of the Heavysteeds!’”

  An announcement that was received with the most mirth-concealing applause.

  “You set the squire, didn’t you?” asked Fibby, as the noise subsided.

  “I did,” replied the colonel, with an emphasis, his eyes glistening as he spoke—” I did. That was the last time I was there,” continued he, attacking the sherry now in mistake for the port. “It was in the Harborough country — met at Arthingworth — the man — I forget his name — who lived there gave a spread. Took a thimbleful of brandy — not a gill, certainly — half a tumblerful p’r’aps,” the colonel showing the liberal quantity on a tumbler before him—” rode a famous horse I had called Owen Swift — a horse I refused no end of money for — immense field — Goodricke and a lot of the Melton men down, the Pytchley men looking at the Melton men as much as to say, ‘What’s brought you here?’ and the Melton men looking at the Pytchley men as much as to say, ‘What a rum-lookin’ lot are you.’ However, before they got the question of looks settled — indeed, before they’d got well clear of the premises — there was the most aggravatin’ tallyhoing that ever was heard from a whole regiment of foot-people, and in an instant the Squire was capping his hounds on to a great dog-fox. Well, we all rose in our stirrups and prepared for play, for it was clear there would be a tussle between the two hunts, and though in no ways implicated, military men not being expected to subscribe to hounds, I got Owen by the head, and tickled him to the front. There, as I lay well with the hounds — next to Jack Stevens, in fact, — I looked back, and saw such an exhibition of industry — such hitting, and holding, and ramming, and cramming, and kicking, and scolding, and screeching. However, that was no business of mine; Owen kept me clear of the crowd, and, as we got upon the great grazing-grounds, he extended his stride, and seemed equal to anything. Presently we came to lower ground, and I saw, by the bluish-green of the grass, that there was water, and just then the sun shone under the planks of a footbridge, as it might be thus” (the colonel placing a knife and fork on each side of a plate), “showing that the path was liable to be flooded. ‘Hold hard, one minute!’ exclaimed the Squire, holding up his hand, as the hounds, having overshot the scent, now spread like a rocket to recover it. ‘Yooi, over he goes!’ screeched he, as they swept short to the left, and took it up again, full cry. The Squire then backed his horse, and crammed full tilt at the fence — a great high, ragged, rambling, briary place, with an old pollard willow hanging over. No go; horse turned short round. At him again, same result. ‘Let me try,’ cried I, seeing we should soon have the whole field upon us. I took Owen back,” continued the colonel, “about as far as the Squire had done, and giving him a taste of the Latchfords, crammed him at it full tilt, and absolutely flew it like a bird.”

  “B-o-o-y Jove, how you must have crammed at it!” exclaimed Collop, as if he had never heard the story before.

  “I went at it like a cannon-ball!” roared the colonel, ducking his bull head and putting his fins together, as if getting his horse by the head.

  “I think I thee you,” lisped the major.

  “Biggest leap on record, isn’t it?” asked Collop, determined not to be outbid by the major.

  “Mytton’s leap over the flying higgler’s tilt-cart, in the Tewkesbury-lane, was perhaps more marvellous; but, for real sporting spirit, mine, I believe, is unsurpassed,” replied he, giving his great chin a dry shave with his hand.

  “You’d sell the orth for a good prithe after that, I imagine, thir,” continued Fibs, leading the gallant officer onwards.

  “Goodricke said to me, ‘Blunt, I’ll give you any money for that horse.’”

  “And what did you say?” asked several.

  “I said, ‘Goody, my boy, money won’t buy him!’”

  “Bravo, bravo!” exclaimed several voices, Pippin muttering to Mattyfat, “The last time the colonel told the story, he said he got three hundred and a horse Goodri
cke gave two hundred for.”

  As, however, the colonel admitted that he had taken a thimbleful of brandy, he could not be expected always to tell the story the same way.

  “What’s the use of partin’ with one’s comforts?” exclaimed the colonel, staring down at the now approving audience. “Couldn’t do it! — couldn’t, by Jove!” continued he, lashing out with his left fin, and knocking the president’s wine into his lap.

  This caused a little interruption, and by the time the president had got himself dried, the mess allowance of wine was discovered to be done; but the party seeming stanch, a fresh supply was ordered without reference to the fact. So they went on sipping and drinking and running their runs, or rather riding their ridings over again, and making magnificent arrangements for astonishing the Heartycheerites. At length they all passed the bottles, except the colonel, who, having finished them, and more than once, in the excitement and forgetfulness of the moment, applied to the water-bottle, whose contents he spluttered out like physic, he got himself raised, and, telling them to mind and not forget about the horses for the drag, bid them good night, and rolled off on the heels of a pair of terribly creaking high-lows.

  Arrived at home, he found the ladies absorbed in the metamorphosis of some finery, and, after blinking for a while at the candles, to see that they were not burning four, he gave a hearty dive into his trouser pocket, and, scooping out the contents, laid it reef-ways on the table.

  “There!” exclaimed he, as he surveyed the dancing coin, “five half-crowns, two half-sovereigns, and a whole one, mixed up with threepence-halfpenny worth of copper, some shillings, sixpences, and fourpenny-pieces. There!” repeated he, as he withdrew two cob-nuts, a piece of ginger, and a key that were mixed up with it, “g-g-go to Mrs Flounceys in the mor-mor-mornin’, and get new b-b-bonnets, and I’ll take you to see old Cheer’s hounds throw off — get somethin’ neat, but not — ga-gaudy, you know — red and y-y-yellow, or somethin’ of that sort,” he continued, sousing himself on to the old horse-hair sofa.