Chapter XLVII: A Catastrophe.—a Tête-à-Tête Dinner

ON, Sir, Sir, please step this way! please step this way!”
exclaimed the _delirium tremems_ footman, rushing coatless into
the room where our hero and Mr. Gaiters were,—his shirt-sleeves
tucked up, and a knife in hand, as if he had been killing a pig,
though in reality he was fresh from the knife-board.

“Oh, Sir, Sir, please step this way!” repeated he, at once
demolishing the delicate discussion at which our friend and Mr.
Gaiters had arrived.

“What’s ha-ha-happened?” demanded Billy, turning deadly pale; for
his cares were so few, that he couldn’t direct his fears to any
one point in particular.

“Please, sir, your ‘oss has dropped down in a f-f-fit!” replied
the man, all in a tremble.

“Fit!” ejaculated Billy, brushing past Gaiters, and hurrying out
of the room.

“Fit!” repeated Gaiters, turning round with comfortable
composure, looking at the man as much as to say, what do you know
about it?

“Yes, f-f-fit!” repeated the footman, brandishing his knife, and
running after Billy as though he were going to slay him.

Dashing along the dark passages, breaking his shins over one of
those unlucky coal-scuttles that are always in the way, Billy
fell into an outward-bound stream of humanity,—Mrs. Margerum,
Barbara the housemaid, Mary the Lanndrymaid, Jones the gardener’s
boy, and others, all hurrying to the scene of action.

Already there was a ring formed round the door, of bare-armed
helpers, and miscellaneous hangers-on, looking over each other’s
shoulders, who opened a way for Billy as he advanced.

The horse was indeed down, but not in a fit; for he was dying,
and expired just as Billy entered. There lay the glazy-eyed
hundred-guinea Napoleon the Great, showing his teeth, reduced to
the mere value of his skin; so great is the difference between a
dead horse and a live one.

“Bad job!” said Wetun, who was on his knees at its head, looking
up; “bad job!” repeated he, trying to look dismal.

“What! is he dead?” demanded Billy, who could hardly realise the
fact.

“Dead, ay—he’ll never move more,” replied Wetun, showing his
fast-stiffening neck.

“By Jove! why didn’t you send for the doctor?” demanded Billy.

“Doctor! we had the doctor,” replied Wetun, “but he could do
nothin’ for him.”

“Nothin’ for him!” retorted Billy; “why not?”

“Because he’s rotten,” replied Wetun.

“Rotten! how can that be?” asked our friend, adding, “I only
bought him the other day!”

“If you open ‘im you’ll find he’s as black as ink in his inside,
rejoined the groom, now getting up in the stall and rubbing his
knees.

“Well, but what’s that with?” demanded Billy. “It surely must be
owing to something. Horses don’t die that way for nothing.”

“Owing to a bad constitution—harn’t got no stamina,” replied
Wetun, looking down upon the dead animal.

Billy was posed with the answer, and stood mute for a while.

“That ‘oss ‘as never been rightly well sin he com’d,” now
observed Joe Bates, the helper who looked after him, over the
heads of the door-circle.

“I didn’t like his looks when he com’d in from ‘unting that day,”
continued Tom Wisp, another helper.

“No, nor the day arter nonther,” assented Jack Strong, who was a
capital hand at finding fault, and could slur over his work with
anybody.

Just then Mr. Gaiters arrived; and a deferential entrance was
opened for his broadcloth by the group before the door.

The great Mr. Gaiters entered.

Treating the dirty blear-eyed Wetun more as a helper than an
equal, he advanced deliberately up the stall and proceeded to
examine the dead horse.

He looked first up his nostrils, next at his eye, then at his
neck to see if he had been bled.

“I could have cured that horse if I’d had him in time,” observed
he to Billy with a shake of the head.

“Neither you nor no man under the sun could ha’ done it,”
asserted Mr. Wetun, indignant at the imputation.

“I could though—at least he never should have been in that
state,” replied Gaiters coolly.

“I say you couldn’t!” retorted Wetun, putting his arms a-kimbo,
and sideling up to the daring intruder, a man who hadn’t even
asked leave to come into his stable.

A storm being imminent, our friend slipped off, and Sir Moses
arrived from Henerey Brown &, Co.‘s just at the nick of time to
prevent a fight.

So much for a single night in a bad stable, a result that our
readers will do well to remember when they ask their friends to
visit them—“Love me, love my horse,” being an adage more attended
to in former times than it is now.

“Ah, my dear Pringle! I’m so sorry to hear about your horse! go
sorry to hear about your horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses, rushing
forward to greet our friend with a consolatory shake of the hand,
as he came sauntering into the library, flat candlestick in hand,
before dinner. “It’s just the most unfortunate thing I ever knew
in my life; and I wouldn’t have had it happen at my house for all
the money in the world—dom’d if I would,” added he, with a
downward blow of his fist.

Billy could only reply with one of his usual monotonous
“y-a-r-ses.”

“However,” said the Baronet, “it shall not prevent your hunting
to-morrow, for I’ll mount you with all the pleasure in the
world—all the pleasure in the world,” repeated he, with a
flourish of his hand.

“Thank ye,” replied Billy, alarmed at the prospect; “but the fact
is, the Major expects me back at Yammerton Grange, and——”

“That’s nothin!” interrupted Sir Moses; “that’s nothin; hunt, and
go there after—all in the day’s work. Meet at the kennel, find a
fox in five minutes, have your spin, and go to the Grange
afterwards.”

“O, indeed, yes, you shall,” continued he, settling it so, “shall
have the best horse in my stable—Pegasus, or Atalanta, or Old
Jack, or any of them—dom’d if you shalln’t—so that matter’s
settled.”

“But, but, but,” hesitated our alarmed friend, “I—I—I shall have
no way of getting there after hunting.”

“O, I’ll manage that too,” replied Sir Moses, now in the generous
mood. “I’ll manage that too—shall have the dog-cart—the thing we
were in to-day; my lad shall go with you and bring it back, and
that’ll convey you and your traps and all altogether. Only sorry
I can’t ask you to stay another week, but the fact is I’ve got to
go to my friend Lord Lundyfoote’s for Monday’s hunting at Harker
Crag,”—the fact being that Sir Moses had had enough of Billy’s
company and had invited himself there to get rid of him.

The noiseless Mr. Bankhead then opened the door with a bow, and
they proceeded to a tête-à-tête dinner, Cuddy Flintoff having
wisely sent for his things from Heslop’s house, and taken his
departure to town under pretence, as he told Sir Moses in a note,
of seeing Tommy White’s horses sold.

Cuddy was one of that numerous breed of whom every sportsman
knows at least one—namely, a man who is always wanting a horse, a
“do you know of a horse that will suit me?” sort of a man.
Charley Flight, who always walks the streets like a lamplighter
and doesn’t like to be checked in his stride, whenever he sees
Cuddy crawling along Piccadilly towards the Corner, puts on extra
steam, exclaiming as he nears him, “How are you, Cuddy, how are
you? I _don’t_ know of a horse that will suit you!” So he gets
past without a pull-up.

But we are keeping the soup waiting—also the fish—cod sounds
rather—for Mrs. Margerum not calculating on more than the usual
three days of country hospitality,—the rest day, the drest day,
and the pressed day,—had run out of fresh fish. Indeed the whole
repast bespoke the exhausted larder peculiar to the end of the
week, and an adept in dishes might have detected some old friends
with new faces. Some _rechauffers_ however are quite as good if
not better than the original dishes—hashed venison for
instance—though in this case, when Sir Moses inquired for the
remains of the Sunday’s haunch, he was told that Monsieur had had
it for his lunch—Jack being a safe bird to lay it upon, seeing
that he had not returned from the race. If Jack had been in the
way then, the cat would most likely have been the culprit, or old
Libertine, who had the run of the house.

Neither the Baronet nor Billy however was in any great humour for
eating, each having cares of magnitude to oppress his thoughts,
and it was not until Sir Moses had imbibed the best part of a
pint of champagne besides sherry at intervals, that he seemed at
all like himself. So he picked and nibbled and dom’d and dirted
as many plates as he could. Dinner being at length over, he
ordered a bottle of the green-sealed claret (his best), and
drawing his chair to the fire proceeded to crack walnuts and pelt
the shells at particular coals in the fire with a vehemence that
showed the occupation of his mind. An observing eye could almost
tell which were levelled at Henerey Brown, which at Cuddy
Flintoff, and which again at the impudent owner of Tippy Tom.

At length, having exhausted his spleen, he made a desperate dash
at the claret-jug, and pouring himself out a bumper, pushed it
across to our friend, with a “help yourself,” as he sent it. The
ticket-of-leave butler, who understood wine, had not lost his
skill during his long residence at Portsmouth, and brought this
in with the bouquet in great perfection. The wine was just as it
should be, neither too warm nor too cold; and as Sir Moses
quaffed a second glass, his equanimity began to revive.

When not thinking about money, his thoughts generally took a
sporting turn,

Horses and hounds, and the system of kennel, Leicestershire saga, and the hounds of old Moynell,

as the song says; and the loss of Billy’s horse now obtruded on
his mind.

“How the deuce it had happened he couldn’t imagine; his man,
Wetun,—and there was no better judge—said he seemed perfectly
well, and a better stable couldn’t be than the one he was in;
indeed he was standing alongside of his own favourite mare,
Whimpering Kate,—‘faith, he wished he had told them to take her
out, in case it was anything infectious,—only it looked more like
internal disease than anything else.—Wished he mightn’t be
rotten. The Major was an excellent man,—cute,——” and here he
checked himself, recollecting that Billy was going back there on
the morrow. “A young man,” continued he, “should be careful who
he dealt with, for many what were called highly honourable men
were very unscrupulous about horses;” and a sudden thought struck
Sir Moses, which, with the aid of another bottle, he thought he
might try to carry out. So apportioning the remains of the jug
equitably between Billy and himself, he drew the bell, and
desired the ticket-of-leave butler to bring in another bottle and
a devilled biscuit.

“That wine won’t hurt you,” continued he, addressing our friend,
“that wine won’t hurt you, it’s not the nasty loaded stuff they
manufacture for the English market, but pure, unadulterated juice
of the grape, without a headache in a gallon of it so saying, Sir
Moses quaffed off his glass and set it down with evident
satisfaction, feeling almost a match for the owner of Tippy Tom.
He then moved his chair a little on one side, and resumed his
contemplation of the fire,—the blue lights rising among the
red,—the gas escaping from the coal,—the clear flame flickering
with the draught. He thought he saw his way,—yes, he thought he
saw his way, and forthwith prevented any one pirating his ideas,
by stirring the fire. Mr. Bankhead then entered with the bottle
and the biscuit, and, placing them on the table, withdrew.

“Come, Pringle!” cried Sir Moses cheerfully, seizing the massive
cut-glass decanter, “let’s drink the healths of the young ladies
at——, you know where,” looking knowingly at our friend, who
blushed. “We’ll have a bumper to that,” continued he, pouring
himself out one, and passing the bottle to Billy.

“The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” continued Sir Moses,
holding the glass to the now sparkling fire before he transferred
its bright ruby-coloured contents to his thick lips. He then
quaffed it off with a smack.

“The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” faltered Billy, after
filling himself a bumper.

“Nice girls those, dom’d if they’re not,” observed the Baronet,
now breaking the devilled biscuit. “You must take care what
you’re about there, though, for the old lady doesn’t stand any
nonsense; the Major neither.”

Billy said he wasn’t going to try any on——.

“No—but they’ll try it on with you,” retorted Sir Moses; “mark my
words if they don’t.”

“O, but I’m only there for hunting,” observed Billy, timidly.

“I dare say,” replied Sir Moses, with a jerk of his head, “I dare
say,—but it’s very agreeable to talk to a pretty girl when you
come in, and those _are_ devilish pretty girls, let me tell
you,—dom’d if they’re not,—only one talk leads to another talk,
and ultimately Mamma talks about a small gold ring.”

Billy was frightened, for he felt the truth of what Sir Moses
said. They then sat for some minutes in silence, ruminating on
their own affairs,—Billy thinking he would be careful of the
girls, and wondering how he could escape Sir Moses’s offer of a
bump on the morrow,—Sir Moses thinking he would advance that
performance a step. He now led the way.

“You’ll be wanting a horse to go with the Major’s harriers,”
observed he; “and I’ve got the very animal for that sort of work;
that grey horse of mine, the Lord Mayor, in the five-stalled
stable on the right; the safest, steadiest animal ever man got on
to; and I’ll make you a present of him, dom’d if I won’t; for I’m
more hurt at the loss of yours than words can express; wouldn’t
have had such a thing happen at my house on any account; so
that’s a bargain, and will make all square; for the grey’s an
undeniable good ‘un—worth half-a-dozen of the Major’s—and will do
you some credit, for a young man on his preferment should always
study appearances, and ride handsome horses; and the grey is one
of the handsomest I ever saw. Lord Tootleton, up in
Neck-and-crop-shire, who I got him of, gave three ‘under’d for
him at the hammer, solely, I believe, on account of his looks,
for he had never seen him out except in the ring, which is all my
eye, for telling you whether a horse is a hunter or not; but,
however, he _is_ a hunter, and no mistake, and you are most
heartily welcome to him, dom’d if you’re not; and I’m deuced glad
that it occurred to me to give him you, for I shall now sleep
quite comfortable; so help yourself, and we’ll drink Foxhunting,”
saying which, Sir Moses, who had had about enough wine, filled on
a liberal heel-tap, and again passed the bottle to his guest.

Now Billy, who had conned over the matter in his bedroom before
dinner, had come to the conclusion that he had had about hunting
enough, and that the loss of Napoleon the Great afforded a
favourable opportunity for retiring from the chase; indeed, he
had got rid of the overpowering Mr. Gaiters on that plan, and he
was not disposed to be cajoled into a continuance of the penance
by the gift of a horse; so as soon as he could get a word in
sideways, he began hammering away at an excuse, thanking Sir
Moses most energetically for his liberality, but expressing his
inability to accept such a magnificent offer.

Sir Moses, however, who did not believe in any one refusing a
gift, adhered pertinaciously to his promise,—“Oh, indeed, he
should have him, he wouldn’t be easy if he didn’t take him,” and
ringing the bell he desired the footman to tell Wetun to see if
Mr. Pringle’s saddle would fit the Lord Mayor, and if it didn’t,
to let our friend have one of his in the morning, and “here!”
added he, as the man was retiring, “bring in tea.”—And Sir Moses
being peremptory in his presents, Billy was compelled to remain
under pressure of the horse.—So after a copious libation of tea
the couple hugged and separated for the night, Sir Moses
exclaiming “Breakfast at nine, mind!” as Billy sauntered up
stairs, while the Baronet ran off to his study to calculate what
Henerey Brown & Co. had done him out of.