CHAPTER III
PETER LEATHER
Nothing bespeaks the character of a dealer's trade more than the servantsand hangers-on of the establishment. The civiler in manner, and the betterthey are 'put on,' the higher the standing of the master, and the betterthe stamp of the horses.
Those about Mr. Buckram's were of a very shady order. Dirty-shirted,sloggering, baggy-breeched, slangey-gaitered fellows, with the word 'gin'indelibly imprinted on their faces. Peter Leather, the head man, was one ofthe fallen angels of servitude. He had once driven a duke--the Duke ofDazzleton--having nothing whatever to do but dress himself and climb intohis well-indented richly fringed throne, with a helper at each horse's headto 'let go' at a nod from his broad laced three-cornered hat. Then havinggot in his cargo (or rubbish, as he used to call them), he would start offat a pace that was truly terrific, cutting out this vehicle, shooting pastthat, all but grazing a third, anathematizing the 'buses, and abusing thedraymen. We don't know how he might be with the queen, but he certainlydrove as though he thought nobody had any business in the street while theDuchess of Dazzleton wanted it. The duchess liked going fast, and Peteraccommodated her. The duke jobbed his horses and didn't care about pace,and so things might have gone on very comfortably, if Peter one afternoonhadn't run his pole into the panel of a very plain but very neat yellowbarouche, passing the end of New Bond Street, which having nothing but asimple crest--a stag's head on the panel--made him think it belonged tosome bulky cit, taking the air with his rib, but who, unfortunately, turnedout to be no less a person than Sir Giles Nabem, Knight, the great policemagistrate, upon one of whose myrmidons in plain clothes, who came to therescue, Peter committed a most violent assault, for which unlucky casualtyhis worship furnished him with rotatory occupation for his fat calves inthe 'H. of C.,' as the clerk shortly designated the House of Correction.Thither Peter went, and in lieu of his lace-bedaubed coat, gold-garteredplushes, stockings, and buckled shoes, he was dressed up in a suit oftight-fitting yellow and black-striped worsteds, that gave him theappearance of a wasp without wings. Peter Leather then tumbled regularlydown the staircase of servitude, the greatness of his fall beingoccasionally broken by landing in some inferior place. From the Duke ofDazzleton's, or rather from the tread-mill, he went to the Marquis ofMammon, whom he very soon left because he wouldn't wear a second-hand wig.From the marquis he got hired to the great Irish Earl of Coarsegab, whoexpected him to wash the carriage, wait at table, and do other incidentalsnever contemplated by a London coachman. Peter threw this place up withindignation on being told to take the letters to the post. He then lived onhis 'means' for a while, a thing that is much finer in theory than inpractice, and having about exhausted his substance and placed the bulk ofhis apparel in safe keeping, he condescended to take a place as jobcoachman in a livery-stable--a 'horses let by the hour, day, or month'one, in which he enacted as many characters, at least made as manydifferent appearances, as the late Mr. Mathews used to do in his celebrated'At Homes.' One day Peter would be seen ducking under the mews' entrance inone of those greasy, painfully well-brushed hats, the certain precursors ofsoiled linen and seedy, most seedy-covered buttoned coats, that wouldpuzzle a conjuror to say whether they were black, or grey, or olive, orinvisible green turned visible brown. Then another day he might be seen inold Mrs. Gadabout's sky-blue livery, with a tarnished, gold-laced hat,nodding over his nose; and on a third he would shine forth in Mrs.Major-General Flareup's cockaded one, with a worsted shoulder-knot, and amuch over-daubed light drab livery coat, with crimson inexpressibles, sotight as to astonish a beholder how he ever got into them. Humiliation,however, has its limits as well as other things; and Peter having beeninvited to descend from his box--alas! a regular country patent leatherone, and invest himself in a Quaker-collared blue coat, with a red vest,and a pair of blue trousers with a broad red stripe down the sides, todrive the Honourable old Miss Wrinkleton, of Harley Street, to Court in a'one oss pianoforte-case,' as he called a Clarence, he could stand it nolonger, and, chucking the nether garments into the fire, he rushedfrantically up the area-steps, mounted his box, and quilted the oldcrocodile of a horse all the way home, accompanying each cut with animprecation such as '_me_ make a guy of myself!' (whip) '_me_ put on sichthings!' (whip, whip) '_me_ drive down Sin Jimses-street!' (whip, whip,whip), '_I'd_ see her ---- fust!' (whip, whip, whip), cutting at the oldhorse just as if he was laying it into Miss Wrinkleton, so that by the timehe got home he had established a considerable lather on the old nag, whichhis master resenting a row ensued, the sequel of which may readily beimagined. After assisting Mrs. Clearstarch, the Kilburn laundress, ingetting in and taking out her washing, for a few weeks, chance at lastlanded him at Mr. Benjamin Buckram's, from whence he is now about to beremoved to become our hero Mr. Sponge's Sancho Panza, in his fox-hunting,fortune-hunting career, and disseminate in remote parts his doctrines ofthe real honour and dignity of servitude. Now to the inspection.
Peter Leather, having a peep-hole as well as his master, on seeing Mr.Sponge arrive, had given himself an extra rub over, and covered his dirtyshirt with a clean, well-tied, white kerchief, and a whole coloured scarletwaistcoat, late the property of one of his noble employers, in hopes thatSponge's visit might lead to something. Peter was about sick of thesuburbs, and thought, of course, that he couldn't be worse off than wherehe was.
'Here's Mr. Sponge wants some osses,' observed Mr. Buckram, as Leather metthem in the middle of the little yard, and brought his right arm round witha sort of military swing to his forehead; 'what 'ave we in?' continuedBuckram, with the air of a man with so many horses that he didn't know whatwere in and what were out.
'Vy we 'ave Rumbleton in,' replied Leather, thoughtfully, stroking down hishair as he spoke, 'and we 'ave Jack o'Lanthorn in, and we 'ave the Camelin, and there's the little Hirish oss with the sprig tail--Jack-a-Dandy, asI calls him, and the Flyer will be in to-night, he's just out a hairing, asit were, with old Mr. Callipash.'
'Ah, Rumbleton won't do for Mr. Sponge,' observed Buckram, thoughtfully, atthe same time letting go a tremendous avalanche of silver down his trouserpocket, 'Rumbleton won't do,' repeated he, 'nor Jack-a-Dandy nouther.'
'Why, I wouldn't commend neither on 'em,' replied Peter, taking his cuefrom his master, 'only ven you axes me vot there's in, you knows vy I mustgive you a _cor_-rect answer, in course.'
'In course,' nodded Buckram.
Leather and Buckram had a good understanding in the lying line, and hadfallen into a sort of tacit arrangement that if the former was staunchabout the horses he was at liberty to make the best terms he could forhimself. Whatever Buckram said, Leather swore to, and they had establishedcertain signals and expressions that each understood.
'I've an unkimmon nice oss,' at length observed Mr. Buckram, with ascrutinizing glance at Sponge, 'and an oss in hevery respect werry likeyour work, but he's an oss I'll candidly state, I wouldn't put in everyone's 'ands, for, in the fust place, he's wery walueous, and in the second,he requires an ossman to ride; howsomever, as I knows that you _can_ ride,and if you doesn't mind taking my 'ead man,' jerking his elbow at Leather,'to look arter him, I wouldn't mind 'commodatin' on you, prowided we can'gree upon terms.'
'Well, let's see him,' interrupted Sponge, 'and we can talk about termsafter.'
'Certainly, sir, certainly,' replied Buckram, again letting loose areaccumulated rush of silver down his pocket. 'Here, Tom! Joe! Harry!where's Sam?' giving the little tinkler of a bell a pull as he spoke.
'Sam be in the straw 'ouse,' replied Leather, passing through a stable intoa wooden projection beyond, where the gentleman in question was enjoying anap.
'Sam!' said he, 'Sam!' repeated he, in a louder tone, as he saw the objectof his search's nose popping through the midst of the straw.
'What now?' exclaimed Sam, starting up, and looking wildly around; 'whatnow?' repeated he, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
'Get out Ercles,' said Leather, _sotto voce_.
The lad was a
mere stripling--some fifteen or sixteen, years,perhaps--tall, slight, and neat, with dark hair and eyes, and was dressedin a brown jacket--a real boy's jacket, without laps, white cords, andtop-boots. It was his business to risk his neck and limbs at all hours ofthe day, on all sorts of horses, over any sort of place that any personchose to require him to put a horse at, and this he did with the daringpleasure of youth as yet undaunted by any serious fall. Sam now bestirredhimself to get out the horse. The clambering of hoofs presently announcedhis approach.
Whether Hercules was called Hercules on account of his amazing strength, orfrom a fanciful relationship to the famous horse of that name, we knownot; but his strength and his colour would favour either supposition. Hewas an immense, tall, powerful, dark brown, sixteen hands horse, with anarched neck and crest, well set on, clean, lean head, and loins that lookedas if they could shoot a man into the next county. His condition wasperfect. His coat lay as close and even as satin, with cleanly developedmuscle, and altogether he looked as hard as a cricket-ball. He had a famousswitch tail, reaching nearly to his hocks, and making him look less than hewould otherwise have done.
Mr. Sponge was too well versed in horse-flesh to imagine that such ananimal would be in the possession of such a third-rate dealer as Buckram,unless there was something radically wrong about him, and as Sam andLeather were paying the horse those stable attentions that always precede ashow out, Mr. Sponge settled in his own mind that the observation about hisrequiring a horseman to ride him, meant that he was vicious. Nor was hewrong in his anticipations, for not all Leather's whistlings, or Sam'sendearings and watchings, could conceal the sunken, scowling eye, that asgood as said, 'you'd better keep clear of me.'
Mr. Sponge, however, was a dauntless horseman. What man dared he dared, andas the horse stepped proudly and freely out of the stable, Mr. Spongethought he looked very like a hunter. Nor were Mr. Buckram's laudationswanting in the animal's behalf.
'There's an 'orse!' exclaimed he, drawing his right hand out of his trouserpocket, and flourishing it towards him. 'If that 'orse were down inLeicestersheer,' added he, 'he'd fetch three 'under'd guineas. Sir Richardwould 'ave him in a minnit--_that he would!_' added he, with a stamp of hisfoot as he saw the animal beginning to set up his back and wince at theapproach of the lad. (We may here mention by way of parenthesis, that Mr.Buckram had brought him out of Warwicksheer for thirty pounds, where thehorse had greatly distinguished himself, as well by kicking off sundryscarlet swells in the gaily thronged streets of Leamington, as by runningaway with divers others over the wide-stretching grazing grounds ofSoutham and Dunchurch.)
But to our story. The horse now stood staring on view: fire in his eye, andvigour in his every limb. Leather at his head, the lad at his side. Spongeand Buckram a little on the left.
'W--h--o--a--a--y, my man, w--h--o--a--a--y,' continued Mr. Buckram, as aliberal show of the white of the eye was followed by a little wince andhoist of the hind quarters on the nearer approach of the lad.
'Look sharp, boy,' said he, in a very different tone to the soothing one inwhich he had just been addressing the horse. The lad lifted up his leg fora hoist. Leather gave him one as quick as thought, and led on the horse asthe lad gathered up his reins. They then made for a large field at the backof the house, with leaping-bars, hurdles, 'on and offs,' 'ins and outs,'all sorts of fancy leaps scattered about. Having got him fairly in, and thelad having got himself fairly settled in the saddle he gave the horse atouch with the spur as Leather let go his head, and after a desperateplunge or two started off at a gallop.
'He's fresh,' observed Mr. Buckram confidentially to Mr. Sponge, 'he'sfresh--wants work, in short--short of work--wouldn't put every one onhim--wouldn't put one o' your timid cocknified chaps on him, for if ever hewere to get the hupper 'and, vy I doesn't know as 'ow that we might get thehupper 'and o' him, agen, but the playful rogue knows ven he's got aworkman on his back--see how he gives to the lad though he's only fifteen,and not strong of his hage nouther,' continued Mr. Buckram, 'and I guess ifhe had sich a consternation of talent as you on his back, he'd wery soon beas quiet as a lamb--not that he's wicious--far from it, only play--full ofplay, I may say, though to be sure, if a man gets spilt it don't argufymuch whether it's done from play or from wice.'
During this time the horse was going through his evolutions, hopping overthis thing, popping over that, making as little of everything as practicemakes them do.
Having gone through the usual routine, the lad now walked the glowingcoated snorting horse back to where the trio stood. Mr. Sponge again lookedhim over, and still seeing no exception to take to him, bid the lad get offand lengthen the stirrups for him to take a ride. That was the difficulty.The first two minutes always did it. Mr. Sponge, however, nothing daunted,borrowed Sam's spurs, and making Leather hold the horse by the head till hegot well into the saddle, and then lead him on a bit; he gave the animalsuch a dig in both sides as fairly threw him off his guard, and made himstart away at a gallop, instead of standing and delivering, as was hiswont.
Away Mr. Sponge shot, pulling him about, trying all his paces, and puttinghim at all sorts of leaps.
Emboldened by the nerve and dexterity displayed by Mr. Sponge, Mr. Buckramstood meditating a further trial of his equestrian ability, as he watchedhim bucketing 'Ercles' about. Hercules had 'spang-hewed' so many triers,and the hideous contraction of his resolute back had deterred so many frommounting, that Buckram had begun to fear he would have to place him in theonly remaining school for incurables, the 'bus. Hack-horse riders areseldom great horsemen. The very fact of their being hack-horse riders showsthey are little accustomed to horses, or they would not give the fee-simpleof an animal for a few weeks' work.
'I've a wonderful clever little oss,' observed Mr. Buckram, as Spongereturned with a slack-rein and a satisfied air on the late resoluteanimal's back. '_Little_ I can 'ardly call 'im,' continued Mr. Buckram,'only he's low; but you knows that the 'eight of an oss has nothin' to dowith his size. Now this is a perfect dray-oss in miniature. An 'Arrow gent,lookin' at him t'other day christen'd him "Multum in Parvo." But thoughhe's so _ter-men_-dous strong, he has the knack o' goin', specially indeep; and if you're not a-goin' to Sir Richard, but into some o' themplough sheers (shires), I'd 'commend him to you.'
'Let's have a look at him,' replied Mr. Sponge, throwing his right leg overHercules' head and sliding from the saddle on to the ground, as if he werealighting from the quietest shooting pony in the world.
All then was hurry, scurry, and scamper to get this second prodigy out.Presently he appeared. Multum in Parvo certainly was all that Buckramdescribed him. A long, low, clean-headed, clean-necked, big-hocked,chestnut, with a long tail, and great, large, flat white legs, without markor blemish upon them. Unlike Hercules, there was nothing indicative of viceor mischief about him. Indeed, he was rather a sedate, meditative-lookinganimal; and, instead of the watchful, arms'-length sort of way Leather andCo. treated Hercules, they jerked and punched Parvo about as if he were acow.
Still Parvo had his foibles. He was a resolute, head-strong animal, thatwould go his own way in spite of all the pulling and hauling in the world.If he took it into his obstinate head to turn into a particular field, intoit he would be; or against the gate-post he would bump the rider's leg in away that would make him remember the difference of opinion between them.His was not a fiery, hot-headed spirit, with object or reason for itsguide, but just a regular downright pig-headed sort of stupidity, thatnobody could account for. He had a mouth like a bull, and would walk cleanthrough a gate sometimes rather than be at the trouble of rising to leapit; at other times he would hop over it like a bird. He could not beat Mr.Buckram's men, because they were always on the look-out for objects ofcontention with sharp spur rowels, ready to let into his sides the momenthe began to stop; but a weak or a timid man on his back had no more chancethan he would on an elephant. If the horse chose to carry him into themidst of the hounds at the meet, he would have him in--nay, he would thinknothing of upsett
ing the master himself in the middle of the pack. Then theprovoking part was, that the obstinate animal, after having done all themischief, would just set to to eat as if nothing had happened. Afterrolling a sportsman in the mud, he would repair to the nearest hay-stack orgrassy bank, and be caught. He was now ten years old, or a _leetle_ moreperhaps, and very wicked years some of them had been. His adventures, hissellings and his returning, his lettings and his unlettings, his bumpingsand spillings, his smashings and crashings, on the road, in the field, insingle and in double harness, would furnish a volume of themselves; and indefault of a more able historian, we purpose blending his future fortunewith that of 'Ercles,' in the service of our hero Mr. Sponge, and hisaccomplished groom, and undertaking the important narration of themourselves.
Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Page 3
