Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Tain’t me,” said Barney, grinning hugely; “it’s these here two swell mob blokes.”

There was another roar of laughter, which culminated in a shriek of delight when Barney of the black muzzle removed his pipe from his mouth, and designedly spat upon Trevor’s glossy boot.

The young man started as if he had been stung; but there was a quiet, firm pressure of his arm, and he said, in French —

“Is it much further to the course?”

As he spoke, he quietly drew a white cambric handkerchief from his pocket, carefully removed all trace of the disgusting offence from his boot, and threw the handkerchief into the road, following it up by lighting a fresh cigar.

“My! what a pity!” said the fellow, sneeringly, as he watched with curiosity the young man’s action. “I am sorry. Wouldn’t you like the handkerchief – again?”

And he pointed to a boy who had just picked it up from the road.

The pressure was again upon Trevor’s arm, but he did not speak, and the only movement was a slight twitching about the muscles of the face.

What more insult might have followed it is impossible to say, for the omnibus now stopped at a gate, and the occupants began to scramble off. Trevor rose, and waited for the gentleman called Barney to get down. But he remained; so Trevor stepped over him, and Pratt was about to follow, when the fellow thrust out his legs, and the young man tripped, staggered, and would have fallen from the omnibus but for the strong arm of his friend.

“Get down first,” said Trevor.

“No, no – never mind,” said Pratt, catching his arm.

“Get down first,” said Trevor, as if he were on the quarter-deck.

“There’s nothing to be gained by it,” whispered Pratt.

“I’ll come directly,” was the reply; and facing round upon the fellow, who had risen, he looked him full in his closely-set eyes, face close to face, as he said, quietly —

“I think I shall know you again, my friend.”

Before the fellow had recovered from his surprise, Trevor stepped lightly down, took Pratt’s arm in an easy-going, familiar way, and the friends joined the string of people crossing the fields.

“Thank goodness!” said Pratt; “I do hate a row. You must be on the losing side. Lost anything?”

“No,” said Trevor, thoughtfully. “But if that fellow had been at sea with me, and behaved like that – ”

“You’d have had him flogged?”

“No,” said Trevor, “I’d have pitched him overboard.”

“Overboard?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, with his face once more all smiles – “and fished him out!”

Rather Unpleasant

“Ah,” said Pratt, after a brisk walk, “it might have been worse; it all comes of getting on knife-boards. I never do go on a ’bus but I’m sure to meet some one I don’t want to see from that elevated position. Let’s see: in somebody’s fables one poor bird got his neck wrung through being in bad company, and getting caught by the fowler.”

“And what has that to do with knife-boards?”

“Only this,” said Frank, grimly; “I should uncommonly like to see that barouche; and the cocky old gentleman inside will be safe to give us credit for being the ringleaders of those rowdies.”

“Well, never mind,” said Trevor; “I wanted to see a steeplechase, though I don’t suppose I shall like it any more than a ball.”

No more was said then, for they had reached the ground flagged out for the course – a pleasant tract running round in front of a mound-like hill, affording the spectators from the various stands a capital view of the whole race; save where here and there a tiny copse intervened, so that it must inevitably hide the horses for a few moments.

They were in ample time, for twelve, one, and two o’clock upon racing cards are very different hours to those represented upon the time-tables at our various termini; so they had a stroll round, pausing here or there; but, no matter where they strayed, so sure as Frank Pratt turned his head, it was to see the evil-looking countenance of their companion on the omnibus close at hand, though whether Trevor had seen him or not he could not tell.

For, probably from a love of the beautiful, the young men’s steps generally led them to where they could stand in pretty close proximity to the barouche – whose occupants seemed to have, for one at least, something of an attraction. And no wonder; for on the front seat were two fresh, bright-eyed English girls, whose eyes sparkled with animation, and in whose cheeks came and went the bright colour that told you of excited interest in the day’s proceedings.

“I thought as much,” said Pratt, as they passed once close by the carriage on their way to the stand, and a quick glance showed that they were recognised by the ladies, who coloured slightly, and turned away; whilst the old gentleman’s countenance, as he stood up, gradually assumed the purply-red well known to all who have seen a turkey-cock at such time as he ruffleth his plumes, and scowled fiercely at the friends.

“The impudent scoundrels!” he said aloud, as he turned to the elderly lady at his side.

“That comes of being in bad company,” said Pratt. “Dick, old fellow, I shall walk back. Here, my friend, I have feeling in my toe.”

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said a fine, handsome, bluff West-countryman – a regular keeper, in brown velveteens; “I really didn’t see you.” And he passed on towards the barouche, the friends following him with their eyes, to see him touch his hat to first one and then another of the inmates, who smiled, and seemed to talk to him in a very animated way, the old gentleman ending by pointing to the box-seat, a good post for seeing, to which the young man climbed.

“Lucky dog!” said Frank Pratt, softly; and they took their places on the stand, from which, close at hand, they could readily command the movements of all in the barouche.

But there was the ground mapped out by the little flags; green field, ploughed piece, brook, road, double fence, bullfinch; a cluster of spectators by this dangerous leap; a pollard laden with human fruit there; oak branches bending, groups of mounted men, with here and there the flutter of veil and riding-habit; vehicles in pastures, lanes, and wherever a glimpse could be obtained of the course; and over all the bright unclouded sun looked down, gilding, with its mellow beams, brown stubble and changing leaf; while overhead, little troubled by the buzzing crowds, a lark carolled its sweet song.

The friends were in ample time; but at last the excitement here and there announced the coming of the horses, and one by one the sleek, fleet creatures made their appearance to give the customary canter down the field, and then be gathered together for the start.

At last a low, dull, murmurous buzz runs through the crowd. They are off – nearly all together. The first hedge – only a preparation for troubles to come – and the horses going easily over a ploughed piece, the young and ardent jockeys pushing to the front, the old stagers waiting their opportunity.

Another hedge. A refusal. One – two – four – six – nine over somehow or another, and one down.

Then a loud cheer, by no means pleasant for the fallen man; and “for the fun of the thing,” as he said, Trevor began to back the grey mare known as White Lassie.

“How can you be so foolish?” said Pratt.

“So,” said Trevor, laughing; and he doubled his stakes with another.

“I believe we should be better off there on the knoll,” said Pratt, pointing to the spot where the barouche was standing hemmed in by the crowd.

And acting upon the suggestion, the two friends quitted the low, temporary stand, and managed to get a pretty good position on the little eminence, where they could see right down the valley with the horses running along its slope.

But Pratt saw more than this; he noted that they were within half a dozen yards of the barouche where the ladies were standing on the seats, with eyes sparkling and parted lips, whilst close at hand were Barney, of the omnibus, and a couple of his intimates, demonstrative in their comments upon the race.

Of the eleven horses that started, four had, in hunting parlance, come to grief; and now of the others only five seemed to be in the race.

“Twenty pounds fooled away, Dick,” said Pratt, in a whisper, as they now made out, the last of the five, the white cap and pale blue shirt of the rider of White Lassie.

“Be quiet, raven,” was the calm reply; “the race is not won yet. Look at that.”

That was the downfall of the leading horse at the next fence, the poor beast literally turning a somersault, and then getting up to stand shaking itself, as the other competitors got safely over; White Lassie, still last clearing the obstacle with ease.

“Now comes the tug of war,” said Trevor; and all eyes were strained in the direction now taken by the horses towards a tolerably wide brook running between stunted pollards; for this once passed, there was only a low fence, and a straight run in to the winning post.