Chapter XLIII: Sir Moses Perplexed—the Rendezvous for the Race

THE great event was ushered in by one of those fine bright
autumnal days that shame many summer ones, and seem inclined to
carry the winter months fairly over into the coming year. The sun
rose with effulgent radiance, gilding the lingering brown and
yellow tints, and lighting up the landscape with searching,
inquisitorial scrutiny. Not a nook, not a dell, not a cot, not a
curl of smoke but was visible, and the whole scene shone with the
vigour of a newly burnished, newly varnished picture. The cattle
stood in bold relief against the perennially green fields, and
the newly dipped lambs dotted the hill-sides like white marbles.
A clear bright light gleamed through the stems of the Scotch fir
belt, encircling the brow of High Rays Hill, giving goodly
promise of continued fineness.

* We append one of Mr. Gallon’s advertisements for a horse, which is very characteristic of the man:—

“A Flash high-stepping SCREW WANTED. Must be very fast, steady in single harness, and the price moderate. Blemishes no object. Apply, by letter, real name and address, with full description, to Mr. George Gallon, Rose and Crown, Four-Lane-ends. Hit-im and Hold-im shire.”

Sir Moses, seeing this harbinger of fair from his window as he
dressed, arrayed himself in his best attire, securing his new
blue and white satin cravat with a couple of massive blood-stone
pins, and lacing his broad-striped vest with a multiplicity of
chains and appendant gew-gaws. He further dared the elements with
an extensive turning up of velvet. Altogether he was a great
swell, and extremely well pleased with his appearance.

The inmates of the Park were all at sixes and sevens that
morning, Monsieur having left Billy to be valeted by the footman,
whose services were entirely monopolised by Cuddy Flintoff and
Sir Moses. When he did at length come, he replied to Billy’s
enquiry “how his horse was,” that he was “quite well,” which was
satisfactory to our friend, and confirmed him in his opinion of
the superiority of his judgment over that of Wetun and the rest.
Sir Moses, however, who had made the tour of the stables, thought
otherwise, and telling the Tiger to put the footboard to the back
of the dog-cart, reserved the other place in front for his guest.
A tremendous hurry Sir Moses was in to be off, rushing in every
two or three minutes to see if Billy wasn’t done his breakfast,
and at last ordering round the vehicle to expedite his movements.
Then he went to the door and gave the bell such a furious ring as
sounded through the house and seemed well calculated to last for
ever.

Billy then came, hustled along by the ticket-of-leave butler and
the excitable footman, who kept dressing him as he went; and
putting his mits, his gloves, his shawl, cravat, and his taper
umbrella into his hands, they helped him up to the seat by Sir
Moses, who forthwith soused him down, by touching the mare with
the whip, and starting off at a pace that looked like trying to
catch an express train. Round flew the wheels, up shot the yellow
mud, open went the lodge gates, bark went the curs, and they were
presently among the darker mud of the Marshfield and Greyridge
Hill Road.

On, on, Sir Moses pushed, as if in extremis.

“Well now, how is it to be?” at length asked he, getting his mare
more by the head, after grinding through a long strip of
newly-laid whinstone: “How is it to be? Can this beggar of yours
ride, or can he not?” Sir Moses looking with a scrutinising eye
at Billy as he spoke.

“Yarse, he can ride,” replied Billy, feeling his collar; “rode
the other day, you know.”

_Sir Moses_. “Ah, but that’s not the sort of riding I mean. Can
he ride across country? Can he ride a steeple-chase, in fact?”

_Mr. Pringle_. “Yarse, I should say he could,” hesitated our
friend.

_Sir Moses_. “Well, but it won’t do to back a man to do a thing
one isn’t certain he can do, you know. Now, between ourselves,”
continued he, lowering his voice so as not to let the Tiger
hear—“Cuddy Flintoff is no great performer—more of a mahogany
sportsman than any thing else, and it wouldn’t take any great
hand to beat him.”

Billy couldn’t say whether Monsieur was equal to the undertaking
or not, and therefore made no reply. This perplexed Sir Moses,
who wished that Billy’s downy face mightn’t contain more mischief
than it ought. It would be a devil of a bore, he thought, to be
done by such a boy. So he again took the mare short by the head,
and gave expression to his thoughts by the whip along her sides.
Thus he shot down Walkup Hill at a pace that carried him half way
up the opposing one. Still he couldn’t see his way—dom’d if he
could—and he felt half inclined not to risk his “fi-pun” note.

In this hesitating mood he came within sight of the now
crowd-studded rendezvous.

Timberlake toll bar, the rendezvous for the race, stands on the
summit of the hog-backed Wooley Hill, famous for its frequent
sheep-fairs, and commands a fine view over the cream of the west
side of Featherbedfordshire, and by no means the worst part of
the land of Jewdea, as the wags of the former country call Hit-im
and Hold-im shire.

Sir Moses had wisely chosen this rendezvous, in order that he
might give Lord Ladythorne the benefit of the unwelcome intrusion
without exciting the suspicion of the farmers, who would
naturally suppose that the match would take place over some part
of Sir Moses’s own country. In that, however, they had reckoned
without their host. Sir Moses wasn’t the man to throw a chance
away—dom’d if he was.

The road, after crossing the bridge over Bendibus Burn, being all
against collar, Sir Moses dropped his reins, and sitting back in
his seat, proceeded to contemplate the crowd. A great gathering
there was, horsemen, footmen, gigmen, assmen, with here and there
a tinkling-belled liquor-vending female, a tossing pie-man, or a
nut-merchant. As yet the spirit of speculation was not aroused,
and the people gathered in groups, looking as moody as men
generally do who want to get the better of each other. The only
cheerful faces on the scene were those of Toney Loftus, the
pike-man, and his wife, whose neat white-washed, stone-roofed
cottage was not much accustomed to company, save on the occasion
of the fairs. They were now gathering their pence and having a
let-off for their long pent-up gossip.

Sir Moses’s approach put a little liveliness into the scene, and
satisfied the grumbling or sceptical ones that they had not come
to the wrong place. There was then a general move towards the
great white gate, and as he paid his fourpence the nods of
recognition and How are ye’s? commenced amid a vigorous salute of
the muffin bells. _Tinkle tinkle tinkle, buy buy buy_, toss and
try! toss and try! _tinkle tinkle tinkle_. Barcelona nuts, crack
’em and try ’em, crack ’em and try ’em; the invitation being
accompanied with the rattle of a few in the little tin can.

“Now, where are the jockeys?” asked Sir Moses, straining his
eye-balls over the open downs.

“They’re coomin. Sir Moses, they’re coomin,” replied several
voices; and as they spoke, a gaily-dressed man, on a milk-white
horse, emerged from the little fold-yard of Butterby farm, about
half a mile to the west, followed by two distinct groups of
mounted and dismounted companions, who clustered round either
champion like electors round a candidate going to the hustings.

“There’s Geordey Gallon!” was now the cry, as the hero of the
white horse shot away from the foremost group, and came best pace
across the rush-grown sward of the sheep-walk towards the
toll-bar. “There’s Geordey Gallon! and now we shall hear summut
about it;” whereupon the scattered groups began to mingle and
turn in the direction of the coming man.

It was Mr. Gallon,—Gallon on his famous trotting hack Tippy Tom—a
vicious runaway brute, that required constant work to keep it
under, a want that Mr. Gallon liberally supplied it with. It now
came yawning and boring on the bit, one ear lying one way, the
other another, shaking its head like a terrier with a rat in its
mouth, with a sort of air that as good as said. “Let me go, or
I’ll either knock your teeth down your throat with my head, or
come back over upon you.” So Mr. Gallon let him go, and came
careering along at a leg-stuck-out sort of butcher’s shuffle, one
hand grasping the weather-bleached reins, the other a
cutting-whip, his green coat-laps and red kerchief ends lying
out, his baggy white cords and purple plush waistcoat strings all
in a flutter, looking as if he was going to bear away the gate
and house, Toney Loftus and wife, all before him. Fortunately for
the byestanders there was plenty of space, which, coupled with
the deep holding ground and Mr. Gallon’s ample weight—good
sixteen stone—enabled him to bring the white nag to its bearings;
and after charging a flock of geese, and nearly knocking down a
Barcelona-nut merchant, he got him manoeuvred in a semicircular
sort of way up to the gate, just as if it was all right and plain
sailing. He then steadied him with a severe double-handed jerk of
the bit, coupled with one of those deep ominous _wh-o-o ah’s_
that always preceded a hiding. Tippy Tom dropped his head as if
he understood him.

All eyes were now anxiously scrutinising Gallon’s great rubicund
double-chinned visage, for, in addition to his general sporting
knowledge and acquirements, he was just fresh from the scene of
action where he had doubtless been able to form an opinion. Even
Sir Moses, who hated the sight of him, and always declared he
“ought to be hung,” vouchsafed him a “good morning, Gallon,”
which the latter returned with a familiar nod.

He then composed himself in his capacious old saddle, and taking
off his white shallow began mopping his great bald head, hoping
that some one would sound the key-note of speculation ere the
advancing parties arrived at the gate. They all, however, seemed
to wish to defer to Mr. Gallon—Gallon was the man for their
money, Gallon knew a thing or two, Gallon was up to snuff,—go it,
Gallon!

****

“What does onybody say ‘boot it Frenchman?” at length asked he in
his elliptical Yorkshire dialect, looking round on the company.

“What do you say ‘boot it Frenchman, Sir Moses?” asked he, not
getting an answer from any one.

“Faith, I know nothing,” replied the Baronet, with a slight curl
of the lip.

“Nay, yeer tied to know summut, hooever,” replied Gallon, rubbing
his nose across the back of his hand; “yeer tied to know summut,
hooever. Why, he’s a stoppin’ at yeer house, isn’t he?”

“That may all be,” rejoined Sir Moses, “without my knowing
anything of his riding. What do you say yourself? you’ve seen
him.”

“Seen him!” retorted Gallon, “why he’s a queer lookin’ chap, ony
hoo—that’s all ar can say: haw, haw, haw.”

“You won’t back him, then?” said Sir Moses, inquiringly.

“Hardly that,” replied Gallon, shaking his head and laughing
heartily, “hardly that, Sir Moses. Ar’ll tell you whatar’ll do,
though,” said he, “just to mak sport luike, ar’ll tak yeer two to
one—two croons to one,” producing a greasy-looking
metallic-pencilled betting-book as he spoke.

Just then a move outside the ring announced an arrival, and
presently Mr. Heslop came steering Cuddy Flintoff along in his
wife’s Croydon basket-carriage, Cuddy’s head docked in an
orange-coloured silk cap, and his whole person enveloped in a
blue pilot coat with large mother-of-pearl buttons. The ominous
green-pointed jockey whip was held between his knees, as with
folded arms he lolled carelessly in the carriage, trying to look
comfortable and unconcerned.

“Mornin’, Flintoff’, how are ye?” cried Sir Moses, waving his
hand from his loftier vehicle, as they drew up.

“Mornin’, Heslop, how goes it? Has anybody seen anything of
Monsieur?” asked he, without waiting for an answer to either of
these important inquiries.

“He’s coming, Sir Moses,” cried several voices, and presently the
Marseillaise hymn of liberty was borne along on the southerly
breeze, and Jack’s faded black hunting-cap was seen bobbing up
and down in the crowd that encircled him, as he rode along on
Paul Straddler’s shooting pony.

Jack had been at the brandy bottle, and had imbibed just enough
to make him excessively noisy.

“Three cheers for Monsieur Jean Rougier, de next Emperor of de
French!” cried he, rising in his stirrups, as he approached the
crowd, taking off his old brown hunting-cap, and waving it
triumphantly, “Three cheers for de best foxer, de best fencer, de
best fighter in all Europe!” and at a second flourish of the cap
the crowd came into the humour of the thing, and cheered him
lustily. And then of course it was one cheer more for Monsieur;
and one cheer more he got.

“Three cheers for ould England!” then demanded Mr. Gallon on
behalf of Mr. Flintoff, which being duly responded to, he again
asked “What onybody would do ‘boot it Frenchman?”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Moses, standing erect in his dogcart,
and waving his hand for silence: “Now, gentlemen, listen to me!”
Instead of which somebody roared out, “Three cheers for Sir
Moses!” and at it they went again, _Hooray, hooray, hooray_, for
when an English mob once begins cheering, it never knows when to
stop. “Now, gentlemen, listen to me,” again cried he, as soon as
the noise had subsided. “It’s one o’clock, and it’s time to
proceed to business. I called you here that there might be no
unnecessary trespass or tampering with the ground, and I think
I’ve chosen a line that will enable you all to see without risk
to yourselves or injury to anyone” (applause, mingled with a
tinkling of the little bells). “Well now,” added he, “follow me,
and I’ll show you the way;” so saying, he resumed his seat, and
passing through the gate turned short to the right, taking the
diagonal road leading down the hill, in the direction of
Featherbedfordshire.

“Where can it be?” was then the cry.

“I know,” replied one of the know-everything ones.

“Rainford, for a guinea!” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, fighting with
Tippy Tom, who wanted to be back.

“I say Rushworth!” rejoined Mr. Heslop, cutting in before him.

“Nothin’ o’ the sort!” asserted Mr. Buckwheat; “he’s for
Harlingson green to a certainty.”

The heterogeneous cavalcade then fell into line, the vehicles and
pedestrians keeping the road, while the horsemen spread out on
either side of the open common, with the spirit of speculation
divided between where the race was to be and who was to win.

Thus they descended the hill and joined the broad, once well-kept
turnpike, whose neglected milestones still denoted the distance
between London and Hinton—London so many miles on one side,
Hinton so many miles on the other—things fast passing into the
regions of antiquity. Sir Moses now put on a little quicker, and
passing through the village of Nettleton and clearing the
plantation beyond, a long strip of country lay open to the eye,
hemmed in between the parallel lines of the old road and the new
Crumpletin Railway.

He then pulled up on the rising ground, and placing his whip in
the socket, stood up to wait the coming of the combatants, to
point them out the line he had fixed for the race. The spring
tide of population flowed in apace, and he was presently
surrounded with horsemen, gigmen, footmen, and bellmen as before.

“Now, gentlemen!” cried Sir Moses, addressing Mr. Flintoff and
Monsieur, who were again ranged on either side of his dogcart:
“Now, gentlemen, you see the line before you. The stacks, on the
right here,” pointing to a row of wheat stacks in the adjoining
field, “are the starting post, and you have to make your ways as
straight as ever you can to Lawristone Clump yonder,” pointing to
a clump of dark Scotch firs standing against the clear blue sky,
on a little round hill, about the middle of a rich old pasture on
Thrivewell Farm, the clump being now rendered more conspicuous by
sundry vehicles clustered about its base, the fair inmates of
which had received a private hint from Sir Moses where to go to.
The Baronet always played up to the fair, with whom he flattered
himself he was a great favourite.

“Now then, you see,” continued he, “you can’t get wrong, for
you’ve nothing to do but to keep between the lines of the rail
and the road, on to neither of which must you come: and now you
gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the spectators generally,
“there’s not the slightest occasion for any of you to go off the
road, for you’ll see a great deal better on it, and save both
your own necks and the farmers’ crops; so just let me advise you
to keep where you are, and follow the jockeys field by field as
they go. And now, gentlemen,” continued he, again addressing the
competitors, ‘“having said all I have to say on the subject, I
advise you to get your horses and make a start of it, for though
the day is fine its still winter, you’ll remember, and there are
several ladies waiting for your coming.” So saying, Sir Moses
soused down in his seat, and prepared to watch the proceedings.

Mr. Flintoff was the first to peel; and his rich orange and white
silk jacket, natty doeskins, and paper-like boots, showed that he
had got himself up as well with a due regard to elegance as to
lightness. He even emptied some halfpence out of his pockets, in
order that he might not carry extra weight. He would, however,
have been a great deal happier at home. There was no “yoieks,
wind him,” or “yoicks, push ‘im up,” in him now.

Monsieur did not show to so much advantage as Cuddy; but still he
was a good deal better attired than he was out hunting on the
Crooked-Billet day. He still retained the old brown cap, but in
lieu of the shabby scarlet, pegtop trousers and opera-boots, he
sported a red silk jacket, a pair of old-fashioned broad-seamed
leathers, and mahogany boots—the cap being the property of Sir
Moses’s huntsman, Tom Findlater, the other articles belonging to
Mr. George Gallon of the Rose and Crown. And the sight of them,
as Monsieur stripped, seemed to inspirit the lender, for he
immediately broke out with the old inquiry, “What does onybody
say ‘boot it Frenchman?”

“What do _you_ say ‘boot it Frenchman, Sir Moses?” asked he.

Sir Moses was silent, for he couldn’t see his way to a
satisfactory investment; so, rising in his seat, he holloaed out
to the grooms, who were waiting their orders outside the crowd,
to “bring in the horses.”

“Make way, there! make way, there!” cried he, as the hooded and
sheeted animals approached and made up to their respective
riders.

“Takeoff his nightcap! take off his nightcap!” cried Jack,
pulling pettedly at the strings of the hood; “take off his
nightcap!” repeated he, stamping furiously, amid the laughter of
the bystanders, many of whom had never seen a Frenchman, let
alone a mounted one, before.

The obnoxious nightcap being removed, and the striped sheet swept
over his tail, Mr. Rowley Abingdon’s grey horse Mayfly Blood
showing himself as if he was in a dealer’s yard, for as yet he
had not ascertained what he was out for. A horse knows when he is
going to hunt, or going to exercise, or going to be shod, or
going to the public house, but these unaccustomed jaunts puzzle
him. Monsieur now proceeded to inform him by clutching at the
reins, as he stood preparing for a leg-up on the wrong side.

“The other side, mun, the other side,” whispered Paul Straddler
in his ear; whereupon Monsieur passed under the horse’s head, and
appeared as he ought. The movement, however, was not lost on Sir
Moses, who forthwith determined to back Cuddy. Cuddy might be
bad, but Monsieur must be worse, he thought.

“I’ll lay an even five on Mr. Flintoff!” cried he in a loud and
audible voice. “I’ll lay an even five on Mr. Flintoff,” repeated
he, looking boldly round. “Gallon, what say you?” asked he,
appealing to the hero of the white horse.

“Can’t be done, Sir Moses, can’t be done,” replied Gallon,
grinning from ear to ear, with a shake of his great bull head.
“Tak yeer three to two if you loike,” added he, anxious to be on.

Sir Moses now shook his head in return.

“Back myself, two pound ten—forty shillin’, to beat dis serene
and elegant Englishman!” exclaimed Jack, now bumping up and down
in his saddle as if to establish a seat.

“Do you owe him any wages?” asked Sir Moses of Billy in an
under-tone, wishing to ascertain what chance there was of being
paid if he won.

“Yarse, I owe him some,” replied Billy; but how much he couldn’t
say, not having had Jack’s book lately.

Sir Moses caught at the answer, and the next time Jack offered to
back himself, he was down upon him with a “Done!” adding, “I’ll
lay you an even pund if you like.”

“With all my heart, Sare Moses Baronet,” replied Jack gaily;
adding, “you are de most engagin’, agreeable mans I knows; a
perfect beauty vidout de paint.”

Gallon now saw his time was come, and he went at Sir Moses with a
“Weell, coom, ar’le lay ye an even foive.”

“Done!” cried the Baronet.

“A tenner, if you loike!” continued Gallon, waxing valiant.

Sir Moses shook his head.

“Get me von vet sponge, get me von vet sponge,” now exclaimed
Jack, looking about for the groom.

“Wet sponge! What the deuce do you want with a wet sponge?”
demanded Sir Moses with surprise.

“Yet sponge, just damp my knees leetle—make me stick on better,”
replied Jack, turning first one knee and then the other out of
the saddle to get sponged.

“O dom it, if it’s come to that, I may as well have the ten,”
muttered Sir Moses to himself. So, nodding to Gallon, he said
“I’ll make it ten.”

“Done!” said Gallon, with a nod, and the bet was made—Done, and
Done, being enough between gentlemen.

“Now, then,” cried Sir Moses, stepping down from his dogcart,
“come into the field, and I’ll start you.”

Away then the combatants went, and the betting became brisk in
the ring. Mr. Flintoff the favourite at evens.