Chapter XLVI: The Pringle Correspondence

MR. Pringle’s return was greeted with an immense shoal of
letters, one from Mamma, one with “Yammerton Grange” on the seal,
two from his tailors—one with the following simple heading, “To
bill delivered,” so much; the other containing a vast catalogue
of what a jury of tailors would consider youthful “necessaries,”
amounting in the whole to a pretty round sum, accompanied by an
intimation, that in consequence of the tightness of the
money-market, an early settlement would be agreeable—and a very
important-looking package, that had required a couple of heads to
convey, and which, being the most mysterious of the whole, after
a due feeling and inspection, he at length opened. It was from
his obsequious friend Mr. Smoothley, and contained a printed copy
of the rules of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire Hunt, done up in a
little red-backed yellow-lined book, with a note from the sender,
drawing Mr. Pringle’s attention to the tenth rule, which
stipulated that the annual club subscription of fifteen guineas
was to be paid into Greedy and Griper’s bank, in Hinton, by
Christmas-day in each year at latest, or ten per cent, interest
would be charged on the amount after that.

“Fi-fi-fifteen guineas! te-te-ten per cent.!” ejaculated Billy,
gasping for breath; “who’d ever have thought of such a thing!”
and it was some seconds before he sufficiently recovered his
composure to resume his reading. The rent of the cover he had
taken, Mr. Smoothley proceeded to say, was eight guineas a-year.
“Eight guineas a-year!” again ejaculated Billy; “eight guineas
a-year! why I thought it was a mere matter of form. Oh dear, I
can’t stand this!” continued he, looking vacantly about him.
“Surely, risking one’s neck is quite bad enough, without paying
for doing so. Lord Ladythorne never asked me for any money, why
should Sir Moses? Oh dear, oh dear! I wish i’d never embarked in
such a speculation. Nothing to be made by it, but a great deal to
be lost. Bother the thing, I wish I was out of it,” with which
declaration he again ventured to look at Mr. Smoothley’s letter.
It went on to say, that the rent would not become payable until
the next season, Mr. Treadcroft being liable for that year’s
rent. “Ah well, come, that’s some consolation, at all events,”
observed our friend, looking up again; “that’s some consolation,
at all events,” adding, “I’ll take deuced good care to give it up
before another year comes round.”

Smoothley then touched upon the more genial subject of the
hunt-buttons. he had desired Garnet, the silversmith, to send a
couple of sets off the last die, one for Billy’s hunting, the
other for his dress coat; and he concluded by wishing our friend
a long life of health and happiness to wear them with the
renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt; and assuring him that he
was always his, with great sincerity, John Smoothley. “Indeed,”
said Billy, throwing the letter down; “more happiness if I don’t
wear them,” continued he, conning over his many misfortunes, and
the great difficulty he had in sitting at the jumps. “However,”
thought he, “the dress ones will do for the balls,” with which
not uncommon consolation he broke the red seal of the Yammerton
Grange letter.

This was from our friend the Major, all about a wonderful hunt
his “haryers” had had, which he couldn’t resist the temptation of
writing to tell Billy of. The description then sprawled over four
sides of letter paper, going an arrant burst from end to end,
there not being a single stop in the whole, whatever there might
have been in the hunt; and the Major concluded by saying, that it
was by far the finest run he had ever seen during his long
mastership, extending over a period of five-and-thirty years.

Glancing his eye over its contents, how they found at Conksbury
Corner, and ran at a racing pace without a check to Foremark
Hill, and down over the water-meadows at Dove-dale Green to
Marbury Hall, turning short at Fullbrook Folly, and over the
race-course at Ancaster Lawn, doubling at Dinton Dean, and back
over the hill past Oakhanger Gorse to Tufton Holt, where they
killed, the account being interwoven, parenthesis within
parenthesis, with the brilliant hits and performances of Lovely,
and Lilter, and Dainty, and Bustler, and others, with the names
of the distinguished party who were out, our old friend
Wotherspoon among the number, Billy came at last to a sly
postscript, saying that “his bed and stall were quite ready for
him whenever he liked to return, and they would all be delighted
to see him.” The wording of the Postscript had taken a good deal
of consideration, and had undergone two or three revisions at the
hands of the ladies before they gave it to the Major to add—one
wanting to make it rather stronger, another rather milder, the
Major thinking they had better have a little notice before Mr.
Pringle returned, while Mamma (who had now got all the linen up
again) inclined, though she did not say so before the girls, to
treat Billy as one of the family. Upon a division whether the
word “quite” should stand part of the Postscript or not, the
Major was left in a minority, and the pressing word passed. His
bed and stall were “quite ready,” instead of only “ready” to
receive him. Miss Yammerton observing, that “quite” looked as if
they really wished to have him, while “ready” looked as if they
did not care whether he came or not. And Billy, having pondered
awhile on the Postscript, which he thought came very opportunely,
proceeded to open his last letter, a man always taking those he
doesn’t know first.

This letter was Mamma’s—poor Mamma’s—written in the usual strain
of anxious earnestness, hoping her beloved was enjoying himself,
but hinting that she would like to have him back. Butterfingers
was gone, she had got her a place in Somersetshire, so anxiety on
that score was over. Mrs. Pringle’s peculiar means of
information, however, informed her that the Misses Yammerton were
dangerous, and she had already expressed her opinion pretty
freely with regard to Sir Moses. Indeed, she didn’t know which
house she would soonest hear of her son being at—Sir Moses’s with
his plausible pocket-guarding plundering, or Major Yammerton’s,
with the three pair of enterprising eyes, and Mamma’s mature
judgment directing the siege operations. Mrs. Pringle wished he
was either back at Tantivy Castle, or in Curtain Crescent again.

Still she did not like to be too pressing, but observed, as
Christmas was coming, when hunting would most likely be stopped
by the weather, she hoped he would run up to town, where many of
his friends, Jack Sheppard, Tom Brown, Harry Bean, and others,
were asking for him, thinking he was lost. She also said, it
would be a good time to go to Uncle Jerry’s, and try to get a
settlement with him, for though she had often called, sometimes
by appointment, she had never been able to meet with him, as he
was always away, either seeing after some chapel he was building,
or attending a meeting for the conversion of the Sepoys, or some
other fanatics.

The letter concluded by saying, that she had looked about in vain
for a groom likely to suit him; for, although plenty had
presented themselves from gentlemen wishing for high wages with
nothing to do, down to those who would garden and groom and look
after cows, she had not seen anything at all to her mind. Mr.
Luke Grueler, however, she added, who had called that morning,
had told her of one that he could recommend, who was just leaving
the Honourable Captain Swellington; and being on his way to town
from Doubleimupshire, where the Captain had got to the end of his
tether, he would very possibly call; and, if so, Billy would know
him by his having Mr. Grueler’s card to present. And with renewed
expressions of affection, and urging him to take care of himself,
as well among the leaps as the ladies, she signed herself his
most doting and loving “Mamma.”

“Groom!” (humph) “Swellington!” (humph) muttered Billy, folding
up the letter, and returning it to its highly-musked envelope.

“Wonder what sort of a beggar he’ll be?” continued he, twirling
his mustachios; “Wonder how he’ll get on with Rougier?” and a
thought struck him, that he had about as much as he could manage
with Monsieur. However, many people have to keep what they don’t
want, and there is no reason why such an aspiring youth as our
friend should be exempt from the penance of his station. Talking
of grooms, we are not surprised at “Mamma’s” difficulty in
choosing one, for we know of few more difficult selections to
make; and, considering the innumerable books we have on the
choice and management of horses, we wonder no one has written on
the choice and management of grooms. The truth is, they are as
various as the horse-tribe itself; and, considering that the best
horse may soon be made a second-rate one by bad grooming, when a
second-rate one may be elevated to the first class by good
management, and that a man’s neck may be broken by riding a horse
not fit to go, it is a matter of no small importance. Some men
can dress themselves, some can dress their horses; but very few
can dress both themselves and their horses. Some are only fit to
strip a horse and starve him. It is not every baggy-corded fellow
that rolls slangily along in top-boots, and hisses at everything
he touches, that is a groom. In truth, there are very few grooms,
very few men who really enter into the feelings and constitutions
of horses, or look at them otherwise than as they would at chairs
or mahogany tables. A horse that will be perfectly furious under
the dressing of one man, will be as quiet as possible in the
hands of another—-a rough subject thinking the more a horse
prances and winces, the greater the reason to lay on. Some
fellows have neither hands, nor eyes, nor sense, nor feeling, nor
anything. We have seen one ride a horse to cover without ever
feeling that he was lame, while a master’s eye detected it the
moment he came in sight. Indeed, if horses could express their
opinions, we fear many of them would have very indifferent ones
of their attendants. The greater the reason, therefore, for
masters giving honest characters of their servants.

Our friend Mr. Pringle, having read his letters, was swinging up
and down the little library, digesting them, when the great Mr.
Bankhead bowed in with a card on a silver salver, and announced,
in his usual bland way, that the bearer wished to speak to him.

“Me!” exclaimed Billy, wondering who it could be; “Me!” repeated
he, taking the highly-glazed thin pasteboard missive off the
tray, and reading, “Mr. Luke Grueler, Half-Moon Street,
Piccadilly.”

“Grueler, Grueler!” repeated Billy, frowning and biting his
pretty lips; “Grueler—I’ve surely heard that name before.”

“The bearer, sir, comes _from_ Mr. Grueler, sir,” observed Mr.
Bankhead, in explanation: “the party’s own name, sir, is Gaiters;
but he said by bringing in this card, you would probably know who
he is.”

“Ah! to be sure, so I do,” replied Billy, thus suddenly
enlightened, “I’ve just been reading about him. Send him in, will
you?”

“If you please, sir,” whispered the bowing Bankhead as he
withdrew.

Billy then braced himself up for the coming interview.

A true groom’s knock, a loud and a little one, presently sounded
on the white-over-black painted door-panel, and at our friend’s
“Come in,” the door opened, when in sidled a sleek-headed well
put on groomish-looking man, of apparently forty or
five-and-forty years of age. The man bowed respectfully, which
Billy returned, glancing at his legs to see whether they were
knock-kneed or bowed, his Mamma having cautioned him against the
former. They were neither; on the contrary, straight good legs,
well set off with tightish, drab-coloured kerseymere shorts, and
continuations to match. His coat was an olive-coloured cutaway,
his vest a canary-coloured striped toilanette, with a slightly
turned-down collar, showing the whiteness of his well-tied
cravat, secured with a gold flying-fox pin. Altogether he was a
most respectable looking man, and did credit to the
recommendation of Mr. Grueler.

Still he was a groom of pretension—that is to say, a groom who
wanted to be master. He was hardly, indeed, satisfied with that,
and would turn a gentleman off who ventured to have an opinion of
his own on any matter connected with his department. Mr. Gaiters
considered that his character was the first consideration, his
master’s wishes and inclinations the second; so if master wanted
to ride, say, Rob Roy, and Gaiters meant him to ride Moonshine,
there would be a trial of skill which it should be.

Mr. Gaiters always considered himself corporally in the field,
and speculated on what people would be saying of “his horses.”

Some men like to be bullied, some don’t, but Gaiters had dropped
on a good many who did. Still these are not the lasting order of
men, and Gaiters had attended the dispersion of a good many studs
at the Corner. Again, some masters had turned him off, while he
had turned others off; and the reason of his now being disengaged
was that the Sheriff of Doubleimupshire had saved him the trouble
of taking Captain Swellington’s horses to Tattersall’s, by
selling them off on the spot. Under these circumstances, Gaiters
had written to his once former master—or rather employer—Mr.
Grueler, to announce his retirement, which had led to the present
introduction. Many people will recommend servants who they
wouldn’t take themselves. Few newly married couples but what have
found themselves saddled with invaluable servants that others
wanted to get rid of.

Mutual salutations over, Gaiters now stood in the first position,
hat in front, like a heavy father on the stage.

Our friend not seeming inclined to lead the gallop, Mr. Gaiters,
after a prefatory hem, thus commenced: “Mr. Grueler, sir, I
presume, would tell you, sir, that I would call upon you, sir?”

Billy nodded assent.

“I’m just leaving the Honourable Captain Swellington, of the
Royal Hyacinth Hussars, sir, whose regiment is ordered out to
India; and fearing the climate might not agree with my
constitution, I have been obliged to give him up.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Billy.

“I have his testimonials,” continued Gaiters, putting his hat
between his legs, and diving into the inside pocket of his
cutaway as he spoke. “I have his testimonials,” repeated he,
producing a black, steel-clasped banker or bill-broker’s looking
pocket-book, and tedding up a lot of characters, bills, recipes,
and other documents in the pocket. He then selected Captain
Swellington’s character from the medley, written on the best
double-thick, cream-laid note-paper, sealed with the Captain’s
crest—a goose—saying that the bearer John Gaiters was an
excellent groom, and might safely be trusted with the management
of hunters. “You’ll probably know who the Captain is, sir,”
continued Mr. Gaiters, eyeing Billy as he read it. “He’s a son of
the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Flareup’s, of Flareup Castle,
one of the oldest and best families in the kingdom—few better
families anywhere,” just as if the Peer’s pedigree had anything
to do with Gaiters’s grooming. “I have plenty more similar to
it,” continued Mr. Gaiters, who had now selected a few out of the
number which he held before him, like a hand at cards. “Plenty
more similar to it,” repeated he, looking them over. “Here is Sir
Rufus Rasper’s, Sir Peter Puller’s, Lord Thruster’s, Mr.
Cropper’s, and others. Few men have horsed more sportsmen than I
have done; and if my principals do not go in the first flight, it
is not for want of condition in my horses. Mr. Grueler was the
only one I ever had to give up for overmarking my horses; and he
was so hard upon them I couldn’t stand it; still he speaks of me,
as you see, in the handsomest manner,” handing our friend Mr.
Grueler’s certificate, couched in much the same terms as Captain
Swellington’s.

“Yarse,” replied Billy, glancing over and then returning it,
thinking, as he again eyed Mr. Gaiters, that a smart lad like
Lord Ladythorne’s Cupid without wings would be more in his way
than such a full-sized magnificent man. Still his Mamma and Mr.
Grueler had sent Gaiters, and he supposed they knew what was
right. In truth, Gaiters was one of those overpowering people
that make a master feel as if he was getting hired, instead of
suiting himself with a servant.

This preliminary investigation over, Gaiters returned the
characters to his ample book, and clasping it together, dropped
it into his capacious pocket, observing, as it fell, that he
should be glad to endeavour to arrange matters with Mr. Pringle,
if he was so inclined.

Our friend nodded, wishing he was well rid of him.

“It’s not every place I would accept,” continued Mr. Gaiters,
growing grand; “for the fact is, as Mr. Grueler will tell you, my
character is as good as a Bank of England note; and unless I was
sure I could do myself justice, I should not like to venture on
an experiment, for it’s no use a man undertaking anything that
he’s not allowed to carry out his own way; and nothing would be
so painful to my feelings as to see a gentleman not turned out as
he should be.”

Mr. Pringle drawled a “yarse,” for he wanted to be turned out
properly.

“Well, then,” continued Mr. Gaiters, changing his hat from his
right hand to his left, subsiding into the second position, and
speaking slowly and deliberately, “I suppose you want a groom to
take the entire charge and management of your stable—a stud
groom, in short?”

“Yarse, I s’pose so,” replied Billy, not knowing exactly what he
wanted, and wishing his Mamma hadn’t sent him such a swell.

“Well, then, sir,” continued Mr. Gaiters, casting his eyes up to
the dirty ceiling, and giving his chin a dry shave with his
disengaged hand; “Well, then, sir, I flatter myself I can fulfil
that office with credit to myself and satisfaction to my
employer.”

“Yarse,” assented Billy, thinking there would be very little
satisfaction in the matter.

“Buy the forage, hire the helpers, do everything appertaining to
the department,—in fact, just as I did with the Honourable
Captain Swellington.”

“Humph,” said Billy, recollecting that his Mamma always told him
never to let servants buy anything for him that he could help.

“Might I ask if you buy your own horses?” inquired Mr. Gaiters,
after a pause.

“Why, yarse, I do,” replied Billy; “at least I have so far.”

“Hum! That would be a consideration,” muttered Gaiters,
compressing his mouth, as if he had now come to an obstacle;
“that would be a consideration. Not that there’s any benefit or
advantage to be derived from buying horses,” continued he,
resuming his former tone; “but when a man’s character’s at stake,
it’s agreeable, desirable, in fact, that he should be intrusted
with the means of supporting it. I should like to buy the
horses,” continued he, looking earnestly at Billy, as if to
ascertain the amount of his gullibility.

“Well,” drawled Billy, “I don’t care if you do,” thinking there
wouldn’t be many to buy.

“Oh!” gasped Gaiters, relieved by the announcement; he always
thought he had lost young Mr. Easyman’s place by a similar
demand, but still he couldn’t help making it. It wouldn’t have
been doing justice to the Bank of England note character, indeed,
if he hadn’t.

“Oh!” repeated he, emboldened by success, and thinking he had met
with the right sort of man. He then proceeded to sum up his case
in his mind,—forage, helpers, horses, horses, helpers, forage;—he
thought that was all he required; yes, he thought it was all he
required, and the Bank of England note character would be
properly supported. He then came to the culminating point of the
cash. Just as he was clearing his throat with a prefatory “_Hre_”
for this grand consideration, a sudden rush and banging of doors
foreboding mischief resounded through the house, and something
occurred——that we will tell in another chapter.