Chapter XXXVIII: The Sick Horse and the Sick Master

288m

_Original Size_

YOUR oss sall be seek—down in de mouth dis mornin’, sare,”
observed Monsieur to Billy, as the latter lay tossing about in
his uncomfortable bed, thinking how he could shirk that day’s
hunting penance; Sir Moses, with his usual dexterity, having
evaded the offer of lending him a horse, by saying that Billy’s
having nothing to do the day before would be quite fresh for the
morrow.

“Shall be w-h-a-w-t?” drawled our hero, dreading the reply.

“Down in de mouth—seek—onvell,” replied Jack, depositing the
top-boots by the sofa, and placing the shaving-water on the
toilette table.

“Oh, is he!” said Billy, perking up, thinking he saw his way out
of the dilemma. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He coughs, sare—he does not feed, sare—and altogether he is not
right.”

“So-o-o,” said Billy, conning the matter over—“then, p’raps I’d
better not ride him?”

“Vot you think right, sare,” replied Jack. “He is your quadruped,
not mine; but I should not say he is vot dey call, op to
snoff—fit to go.”

“Ah,” replied Billy. “I’ll not ride ‘im! hate a horse that’s not
up to the mark.”

“Sare Moses Baronet vod perhaps lend you von, sare,” suggested
Jack.

“Oh, by no means!” replied Billy in a fright. “By no means! I’d
just as soon not hunt to-day, in fact, for I’ve got a good many
letters to write and things to do; so just take the water away
for the present and bring it back when Sir Moses is gone.” So
saying, Billy turned over on his thin pillow, and again sought
the solace of his couch. He presently fell into a delightful
dreamy sort of sleep, in which he fancied that after dancing the
Yammerton girls all round, he had at length settled into an
interminable “Ask Mamma Polka,” with Clara, from which he was
disagreeably aroused by Jack Rogers’ hirsute face again
protruding between the partially-drawn curtains, announcing,
“Sare Moses Baronet, sare, has cot his stick—is off.”

“Sir Moses, _what!_” started Billy, dreading to hear about the
hunt.

“Sare Moses Baronet, sare, is gone, and I’ve brought you your
_l’eau chaude_, as you said.”

“All right!” exclaimed Billy, rubbing his eyes and recollecting
himself, “all right;” and, banishing the beauty, he jumped out of
bed and resigned himself to Rogers, who forthwith commenced the
elaborate duties of his office. As it progressed he informed
Billy how the land lay. “Sare Moses was gone, bot Coddy was left,
and Mrs. Margerum said there should be no _déjeuner_ for Cod”
(who was a bad tip), till Billy came down. And Jack didn’t put
himself at all out of his way to expedite matters to accommodate
Cuddy.

At length Billy descended in a suit of those tigerish tweeds into
which he had lapsed since he got away from Mamma, and was
received with a round of tallihos and view-holloas by Cuddy, who
had been studying _Bell’s Life_ with exemplary patience in the
little bookless library, reading through all the meets of the
hounds as if he was going to send a horse to each of them. Then
Cuddy took his revenge on the servants by ringing for everything
he could think of, demanding them all in the name of Mr. Pringle;
just as an old parish constable used to run frantically about a
fair demanding assistance from everybody in the name of the
Queen. Mr. Pringle wanted devilled turkey, Mr. Pringle wanted
partridge pie, Mr. Pringle wanted sausages, Mr. Pringle wanted
chocolate, Mr. Pringle wanted honey, jelly and preserve. Why the
deuce, didn’t they send Mr. Pringle his breakfast in properly?
And if the servants didn’t think Billy a very great man, it
wasn’t for want of Cuddy trying to make them.

And so, what with Cuddy’s exertions and the natural course of
events, Billy obtained a very good breakfast. The last cup being
at length drained, Cuddy clutched _Bell’s Life_, and wheeling his
semicircular chair round to the fire, dived into his side pocket,
and, producing a cigar-case, tendered Billy a weed. And Cuddy did
it in such a matter-of-course way, that much as Billy disliked
smoking, he felt constrained to accept one, thinking to get rid
of it by a sidewind, just as he had got rid of old Wotherspoon’s
snuff, by throwing it away. So, taking his choice, he lit it, and
prepared to beat a retreat, but was interrupted by Cuddy asking
where “he was going?”

“Only into the open air,” replied Billy, with the manner of a
professed smoker.

“Open air, be hanged!” retorted Cuddy. “Open airs well enough in
summer-time when the roses are out, and the strawberries ripe,
but this is not the season for that kind of sport. No, no, come
and sit here, man,” continued he, drawing a chair alongside of
him for Billy, “and let’s have a chat about hunting.”

“But Sir Moses won’t like his room smoked in,” observed Billy,
making a last effort to be off.

“Oh, Sir Moses don’t care!” rejoined Cuddy, with a jerk of his
head; “Sir Moses don’t care! can’t hurt such rubbish as this,”
added he, tapping the arm of an old imitation rose-wood painted
chair that stood on his left. “No old furniture broker in the
Cut, would give ten puns for the whole lot, curtains, cushions,
and all,” looking at the faded red hangings around.

So Billy was obliged to sit down and proceed with his cigar.
Meanwhile Cuddy having established a good light to his own, took
up his left leg to nurse, and proceeded with his sporting
speculations.

“Ah, hunting wasn’t what it used to be (whiff), nor racing either
(puff). Never was a truer letter (puff), than that of Lord
Derby’s (whiff), in which he said racing had got into the (puff)
hands of (whiff) persons of an inferior (puff) position, who keep
(puff) horses as mere instruments of (puff) gambling, instead of
for (whiff) sport.” Then, having pruned the end of his cigar, he
lowered his left leg and gave his right one a turn, while he
indulged in some hunting recollections. “Hunting wasn’t what it
used to be (puff) in the days of old (whiff) Warde and (puff)
Villebois and (whiff) Masters. Ah no!” continued he, taking his
cigar out of his month, and casting his eye up at the dirty
fly-dotted ceiling. “Few such sportsmen as poor Sutton or Ralph
Lambton, or that fine old fire-brick, Assheton Smith. People want
to be all in the ring now, instead of sticking to one sport, and
enjoying it thoroughly—yachts, manors, moors, race-horses,
cricket, coaches, coursing, cooks—and the consequence is, they
get blown before they are thirty, and have to live upon air the
rest of their lives. Wasn’t one man in fifty that hunted who
really enjoyed it. See how glad they were to tail off as soon as
they could. A good knock on the nose, or a crack on the crown
settled half of them. Another thing was, there was no money to be
made by it. Nothing an Englishman liked so much as making money,
or trying to make it.” So saying, Cuddy gave his cigar another
fillip, and replacing it in his mouth, proceeded to blow a series
of long revolving clouds, as he lapsed into a heaven of hunting
contemplations.

From these he was suddenly aroused by the violent retching of
Billy. Our friend, after experiencing the gradual growth of
seasickness mingled with a stupifying headache, was at length
fairly overcome, and Cuddy had just time to bring the slop-basin
to the rescue. Oh, how green Billy looked!

****

“Too soon after breakfast—too soon after breakfast,” muttered
Cuddy, disgusted at the interruption. “Lie down for half an hour,
lie down for half an hour,” continued he ringing the bell
violently for assistance.

“Send Mr. Pringle’s valet here! send Mr. Pringle’s valet here!”
exclaimed he, as the half-davered footman came staring in,
followed by the ticket-of-leave butler, “Here, Monsieur!”
continued he, as Rougier’s hairy face now peeped past the door,
“your master wants you—eat something that’s disagreed with
him—that partridge-pie, I think, for I feel rather squeamish
myself; and you, Bankhead,” added he, addressing the butler,
“just bring us each a drop of brandy, not that nasty brown stuff
Mother Margermn puts into the puddings, but some of the white,
you know—the best, you know,” saying which, with a “now old boy!”
he gave Billy a hoist from his seat by the arm, and sent him away
with his servant. The brandy, however, never came, Bankhead
declaring they had drunk all he had out, the other night. So
Cuddy was obliged to console himself with his cigars and _Bell’s
Life_, which latter he read, marked, learned, and inwardly
digested, pausing every now and then at the speculative passages,
wondering whether Wilkinson and Kidd, or Messrs. Wilkinson and
Co. were the parties who had the honour of having his name on
their books, where Henry Just, the backer of horses, got the
Latin for his advertisement from, and considering whether Nairn
Sahib, the Indian fiend, should be roasted alive or carried round
the world in a cage. He also went through the column and a
quarter of the meets of hounds again, studied the doings at
Copenhagen Grounds, Salford Borough Gardens, and Hornsea Wood,
and finally finished off with the time of high-water at London
Bridge, and the list of pedestrian matches to come. He then
folded the paper carefully up and replaced it in his pocket,
feeling equal to a dialogue with anybody. Having examined the day
through the window, he next strolled to his old friend the
weather-glass at the bottom of the stairs, and then constituting
himself huntsman to a pack of hounds, proceeded to draw the house
for our Billy; “_Y-o-o-icks_, wind him! _y-o-o-icks_, push him
up!” holloaed he, going leisurely up-stairs, “_E’leu in there!
E’leu in!_” continued he, on arriving at a partially closed door
on the first landing.

“_There’s nobody here! There’s nobody here!_” exclaimed Mrs.
Margerum, hurrying out. “There’s nobody here, sir!” repeated she,
holding steadily on by the door, to prevent any one entering
where she was busy packing her weekly basket of perquisites, or
what the Americans more properly call “stealings.”

“Nobody here! bitch-fox, at all events!” retorted Cuddy, eyeing
her confusion—“where’s Mr. Pringle’s room?” asked he.

“I’ll show you, sir; I’ll show you,” replied she, closing the
room-door, and hurrying on to another one further along. “This is
Mr. Pringle’s room, sir,” said she, stopping before it.

“All right!” exclaimed Cuddy, knocking at the door.

“Come in,” replied a feeble voice from within; and in Cuddy went.

There was Billy in bed, with much such a disconsolate face as he
had when Jack Rogers appeared with his hunting things. As,
however, nobody ever admits being sick with smoking, Billy
readily adopted Cuddy’s suggestion, and laid the blame on the
pie. Cuddy, indeed, was good enough to say he had been sick
himself, and of course Billy had a right to be so, too.
“Shouldn’t have been so,” said Cuddy, “if that beggar Bankhead
had brought the brandy; but there’s no getting anything out of
that fellow.” And Caddy and Billy being then placed upon terms of
equality, the interesting invalids agreed to have a walk
together. To this end Billy turned out of bed and re-established
himself in his recently-discarded coat and vest; feeling much
like a man after a bad passage from Dover to Calais. The two then
toddled down-stairs together, Cuddy stopping at the bottom of the
flight to consult his old friend the glass, and speculate upon
the Weather.

“Dash it! but it’s falling,” said he, with a shake of the head
after tapping it. “Didn’t like the looks of the sky this
morning—wish there mayn’t be a storm brewing. Had one just about
this time last year. Would be a horrid bore if hunting was
stopped just in its prime,” and talked like a man with
half-a-dozen horses fit to jump out of their skins, instead of
not owning one. And Billy thought it would be the very thing for
him if hunting was stopped. With a somewhat light heart, he
followed Cuddy through the back slums to the stables.

“Sir Moses doesn’t sacrifice much to appearances, does he?” asked
Cuddy, pointing to the wretched rough-cast peeling off the back
walls of the house, which were greened with the drippings of the
broken spouts.

“No,” replied Billy, staring about, thinking how different things
looked there to what they did at the Carstle.

“Desperately afraid of paint,” continued Cuddy, looking about.
“Don’t think there has been a lick of paint laid upon any place
since he got it. Always tell him he’s like a bad tenant at the
end of a long lease,” which observation brought them to the first
stable-door. “Who’s here?” cried Cuddy, kicking at the locked
entrance.

“Who’s there?” demanded a voice from within.

“Me! _Mr. Flintoff_’!” replied Cuddy, in a tone of authority;
“_open the door_” added he, imperiously.

The dirty-shirted helper had seen them coming; but the servants
generally looking upon Cuddy as a spy, the man had locked the
door upon him.

“Beg pardon, sir,” now said the Catiff, pulling at his cowlick as
he opened it; “beg pardon, sir, didn’t know it was you.”

“Didn’t you,” replied Cuddy, adding, “you might have known by my
knock,” saying which Cuddy stuck his cheesey hat down on his
nose, and pocketing his hands, proceeded to scrutinise the stud.

“What’s this ‘orse got a bandage on for?” asked he about one.
“Why don’t ye let that ‘orse’s ‘ead down?” demanded he of
another. “Strip this ’orse,” ordered he of a third. Then Cuddy
stood criticising his points, his legs, his loins, his hocks, his
head, his steep shoulder, as he called it, and then ordered the
clothes to be put on again. So he went from stable to stable,
just as he does at Tattersall’s on a Sunday, Cuddy being as true
to the “corner” as the needle to the pole, though, like the
children, he looks, but _never_ touches, that is to say, “bids,”
at least not for himself. Our Billy, soon tiring of this
amusement—if, indeed, amusement it can be called—availed himself
of the interregnum caused by the outside passage from one set of
stables to another, to slip away to look after his own horse, of
whose health he suddenly remembered Rougier had spoken
disparagingly in the morning. After some little trouble he found
the Juniper-smelling head groom, snoring asleep among a heap of
horse-cloths before the fire in the saddle-room.

It is said that a man who is never exactly sober is never quite
drunk, and Jack Wetun was one of this order, he was always
running to the “unsophisticated gin-bottle,” keeping up the steam
of excitement, but seldom overtopping it, and could shake himself
into apparent sobriety in an instant. Like most of Sir Moses’s
people, he was one of the fallen angels of servitude, having
lived in high places, from which his intemperate habits had
ejected him; and he was now gradually descending to that last
refuge of the destitute, the Ostlership of a farmer’s inn.
Starting out of his nest at the rousing shake of the helper, who
holloaed in his ear that “Mr. Pringle wanted to see his ‘orse,”
Wetun stretched his brawny arms, and, rubbing his eyes, at length
comprehended Billy, when he exclaimed with a start, “Oss, sir?
Oh, by all means, sir;” and, bundling on his greasy-collared,
iron-grey coat, he reeled and rolled out of the room, followed by
our friend. “That (hiccup) oss of (hiccup) yours is (hiccup)
amiss, I think (hiccup), sir,” said he, leading, or rather
lurching the way. “A w-h-a-w-t?” drawled Billy, watching Weton’s
tack and half-tack gait.

“Amiss (hiccup)—unwell—don’t like his (hiccup) looks,” replied
the groom, rolling past the stable-door where he was. “Oh, beg
pardon,” exclaimed he, bumping against Billy on turning short
back, as he suddenly recollected himself; “Beg pardon, he’s in
here,” added he, fumbling at the door. It was locked. Then, oh
dear, he hadn’t got the (hiccup) key, then (hiccup); yes, he had
got the (hiccup) key, as he recollected he had his coat on, and
dived into the pocket for it. Then he produced it; and, after
making several unsuccessful pokes at the key-hole, at length
accomplished an entry, and Billy again saw Napoleon the Great,
now standing in the promised two-stalled stable along with Sir
Moses’s gig mare.

To a man with any knowledge of horses, Napoleon certainly did
look very much amiss—more like a wooden horse at a
harness-maker’s, than an animal meant to go,—stiff, with his
fore-logs abroad, and an anxious care-worn countenance
continually cast back at its bearing flanks.

“Humph!” said Billy, looking him over, as he thought, very
knowingly. “Not so much amiss, either, is he?”

“Well, sir, what you think,” replied Wetun, glad to find that
Billy didn’t blame him for his bad night’s lodgings.

“Oh, I dare say he’ll be all right in a day or two,” observed

Billy, half inclined to recommend his having his feet put into
warm water.

“Ope so,” replied Wetun, looking up the horse’s red nostrils,
adding, “but he’s not (hiccup) now, somehow.”

Just then a long reverberating crack sounded through the
courtyard, followed by the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and Wetun
exclaiming, “_Here be Sir Moses!_” dropped the poor horse’s head,
and hurried ont to meet his master, accompanied by Billy.

“Ah, Pringle!” exclaimed Sir Moses, gaily throwing his leg over
his horse’s head as he alighted. “Ah, Pringle, my dear fellow,
what, got you?”

“Well, what sport?” demanded Cuddy Flintoff, rushing up with
eager anxiety depicted on his face.

“Very good,” replied Sir Moses, stamping the mud off his boots,
and then giving himself a general shake; “very good,” repeated
he; “found at Lobjolt Corse—-ran up the banks and down the banks,
and across to Beatie’s Bog, then over to Deep-well Rocks, and
back again to the banks.”

“_Did you kill?_” demanded Cuddy, not wanting to hear any more
about the banks—up the banks or down the banks either.

“Why, no,” replied Sir Moses, moodily; “if that dom’d old Daddy
Nevins hadn’t stuck his ugly old mug right in the way, we should
have forced him over Willowsike Pastures, and doubled him up in
no time, for we were close upon him; whereas the old infidel
brought us to a check, aud we never could get upon terms with him
again; but, come,” continued Sir Moses, wishing to cut short this
part of the narrative, “let’s go into the house and get ourselves
warmed, for the air’s cold, and I haven’t had a bite since
breakfast.”

“Ay, come in!” cried Cuddy, leading the way; “come in, and get
Mr. Pringle a drop of brandy, for he’s eat something that’s
disagreed with him.”

“Eat something that’s disagreed with him. Sorry to hear that;
what could it be?—what could it be?” asked Sir Moses, as the
party now groped their way along the back passages.

“Why, I blame the partridge-pie,” replied Cuddy, demurely.

“Not a bit of it!” rejoined Sir Moses—“not a bit of it! eat some
myself—eat some myself—will finish it now—will finish it now.”

“We’ve saved you that trouble,” replied Cuddy, “for we finished
it ourselves.”

“The deuce you did!” exclaimed Sir Moses, adding, “and were _you_
sick?”

“Squeamish,” replied Cuddy—“Squeamish; not so bad as Mr.
Pringle.”

“But bad enough to want some brandy, I suppose,” observed the
Baronet, now entering the library.

“Quite so,” said Cuddy—“quite.”

“Why didn’t you get some?—why didn’t you get some?” asked the
Baronet, moving towards the bell.

“Because Bankhead has none out,” replied Mr. Cuddy, before Sir
Moses rang.

“None out!” retorted Sir Moses—“none out!—what! have you finished
that too!”

“Somebody has, it seems,” replied Cuddy, quite innocently.

“Well, then, I’ll tell you what you must do—I’ll tell you what
you must do,” continued the Baronet, lighting a little red taper,
and feeling in his pocket for the keys—“you must go into the
cellar yourself and get some—go into the cellar yourself and get
some;” so saying, Sir Moses handed Cuddy the candle and keys,
saying, “shelf above the left hand bin behind the door,” adding,
“you know it—you know it.”

“Better bring two when I’m there, hadn’t I?” asked Cuddy.

“Well,” said Sir Moses, dryly, “I s’pose there’ll be no great
harm if you do;” and away Cuddy went.

“D-e-e-a-vil of a fellow to drink—d-e-e-a-vil of a fellow to
drink,” drawled Sir Moses, listening to his receding footsteps
along the passage. He then directed his blarney to Billy. “Oh
dear, he was sorry to hear he’d been ill; what could it be? Lost
a nice gallop, too—dom’d if he hadn’t. Couldn’t be the pie!
Wondered he wasn’t down in the morning.” Then Billy explained
that his horse was ill, and that prevented him.

“Horse ill!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his hands, and
raising his brows with astonishment—“horse ill! O dear, but that
shouldn’t have stopped you, if I’d known—should have been most
welcome to any of mine—dom’d if you shouldn’t! There’s Pegasus,
or Atalanta, or Will-o’-the-Wisp, or any of them, fit to go. O
dear, it was a sad mistake not sending word. Wonder what Wetun
was about not to tell me—would row him for not doing so,” and as
Sir Moses went on protesting and professing and proposing, Cuddy
Flintoff’s footstep and “_for-rard on! for-rard on!_” were heard
returning along the passage, and he presently entered with a
bottle in each hand.

“There are a brace of beauties!” exclaimed he, placing them on
the round table, with the dew of the cellar fresh on their
sides—“there are a brace of blood-like beauties!” repeated he,
eyeing their neat tapering necks, “the very race-horse of
bottles—perfect pictures, I declare; so different to those great
lumbering roundshouldered English things, that look like black
beer or porter, or something of that sort.” Then Cuddy ran off
for glasses and tumblers and water; and Sir Moses, having taken a
thimble-full of brandy, retired to change his clothes, declaring
he felt chilly; and Cuddy, reigning in his stead, made Billy two
such uncommonly strong brews, that we are sorry to say he had to
be put to bed shortly after.

And when Mr. Bankhead heard that Cuddy Flintoff had been sent to
the cellar instead of him, he declared it was the greatest insult
that had ever been offered to a gentleman of his “order,” and
vowed that he would turn his master off the first thing in the
morning.