Lord Plunger looks on with a calm indifferent demeanour.

"By G--, Plunger," said one of George's old messmates, with a scared countenance, "Bradon is done. We shall all drop finely."

"Wait!" was the quiet answer.

The last hurdle but one is taken, which the Irish horse jumps first; but what a change has taken place in the field! Scarlet and white hoops, instead of being nearly last, is hanging on the leading horse's quarters, and it is very patent to all those skilled in racing matters that from the manner Guardsman skimmed over the hurdle the other horse was only permitted to lead on sufferance.

Turn where you will, the same look of intense excitement is discernible on every countenance; the vast ma.s.s surges to and fro, the hoa.r.s.e murmur of the frenzied mult.i.tude has something unearthly in it.

"The Irish horse wins,--Guardsman wins!" is shouted on all sides. The horses come up closely locked together; never moving on his horse Bradon sits as quiet as a statue, but the heels of the other horseman are at work; the whip arm is raised, but just as it is the strain on Guardsman's jaws is relaxed, and the n.o.ble horse, without the slightest effort, quits the other, and is landed an easy winner by some half-dozen lengths.

"There," said Lord Plunger, heaving a vast sigh, which seemed to relieve him immensely; "did you ever see such a horse, and such a bit of riding?"

His lordship is not calm now; there is a wild feverish light in his eyes; he trembles, too, slightly; a bright hectic spot is on either cheek, and the veins in his temples are swollen, and seem ready to burst as he takes off his hat to draw his hand across his clammy brow.

"Thank G.o.d!" he muttered, as he turned to meet his friend, who was returning to the weighing-stand, amidst such shouts as are seldom heard. Cheer after cheer rent the air.

"G.o.d bless you, old fellow!" said his lordship, as his friend pa.s.sed him in the enclosure; "there never was, and never will be, such a Silverpool again. I will never bet another farthing! I'm square again."

George is now dismounted. Taking the saddle off his n.o.ble favourite, as he has it on one arm, he fondly and proudly pats his neck. Tim is standing at the horse's head, with a rein in each hand; tears are coursing down the old man's cheek. "G.o.d spare you many years, sir!"

said he to his master, who looked kindly at him; "but never ride another race whilst I am alive; I can't bear it; one more day such as this would be my last."

George entered the weighing-room. "Guardsman, ten twelve," said he, seating himself in the chair.

The clerk of the scales approached with book in hand and pencil in mouth, looking up to the dial for an instant said, "Right!"

Cheer after cheer rent the air again as he came out in his top-coat.

"For G.o.d's sake, George, come to the drag and have some champagne; I'm ready to faint," said Lord Plunger, as he seized his arm.

"Come on, then," returned Bradon; "I'm thirsty too; but just let me look to the horse and Tim first."

But Tim had clothed the horses up, as he said the boxes were only a few paces off, and they would be better dressed there. As he turned to follow Lord Plunger, he was seized by a host of his old companions-in-arms, hoisted up, and carried to the drag on their shoulders.

"Bradon," said Lord Plunger, after he had drained off a silver goblet of the sparkling wine, "we have pulled out of this well, right well; for myself, I have now done with betting and the Turf. I have been hit, and hard hit, but this _coup_ more than squares me. I'll tempt the fickle G.o.ddess no more."

"My decision you knew long ago," returned his friend. "This is my last appearance in public. I shall only hunt, and I think with such a horse as Guardsman I may be a first-flight man."

His lordship and Bradon were ever afterwards only lookers-on at the few race-meetings they attended, and here we must take leave of them.

In a snug little cottage close by Bradon Hall lives Tim Mason, now rather an infirm old man; still he looks after the stud as usual.

In his pretty little parlour, on a side table, stand two gla.s.s cases.

Under one is a saddle, bridle, &c., in the other a satin racing jacket and cap--scarlet and white hoops. It may easily be divined whose they were.

"They were only used once," he would say, pointing them out to some friend who had dropped in to see him, "only once; but they won a pot of money for my boy. Lord, you should have seen him ride and win that Silverpool--it was a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you. Never were two better horses than Guardsman and my gray. It's rather the ticket to see them in the field now; they're the best hunters as ever was foaled."

[This story was first published in _Baily's Magazine_ (1870).--ED.]

A CUB-HUNTING INVITATION

_Monday._--Received letter from POWNCEBY. "Come down to my little place and we'll do a morning's cubbing. Can mount you. Say Tuesday night by 6.5, and I'll meet you at Chickenham Station." Deuced good of POWNCEBY.

Hardly known him a week. Will wire at once to accept.

_Tuesday._--Go down by 6.5 train. Pouring all the way. Wonder how far Chickenham is. Inquire, and am told next station. POWNCEBY receives me on platform. Awfully dark and still raining. Hope he has brought closed carriage of some sort. Hate open carts this weather. POWNCEBY greets me heartily. Seems a deuced good chap this. So thoroughly pleased to see me. "My little place only a short step from here, so hope you won't mind walking? Porter will take your bag. Yes, the roads _are_ a bit muddy, but that's nothing. Ready? We'll start, then." Don't think walking is quite in my line, especially on pouring wet night. We trudge along dark lane, splashing into deep puddles at every other step.

"Don't mind going a little out of our way, do you?" says POWNCEBY, "must just run into the butcher's and the grocer's to take a few things home with me." We diverge into dimly-lit street. POWNCEBY disappears into shop, leaving me standing outside. Seems to be at least an hour in grocer's; another ten minutes in butcher's. My teeth chattering now.

Start again, and walk on and on. Ask, "Where's your place, are we anywhere near it?" "Oh, close by," says POWNCEBY, cheerily. Trudge on again; wet through by this time. Am seriously marshalling supply of cuss-words into their places for use in the near future, when POWNCEBY suddenly grips my arm, dropping pound of sausages from under his own at same moment. They fall into puddle. "There's my little place, old chap." Wish he wouldn't "old chap" me. Hardly know the fellow, and begin to hate him now. He picks up sausages, and repeats, "there's my little place; jolly little crib, ain't it?" Fear POWNCEBY is vulgar, never noticed it before. Can just see feeble light in cottage window, apparently miles off. Murmur, faintly, "Oh, I see," and struggle along again. My boots like wet paper, now, and trying to imitate suction pump. Do rest of journey silently. Cottage at last. POWNCEBY lifts latch, and we enter. Smell of lamp-oil overpowering. POWNCEBY's "little place" is labourer's four-roomed cottage, and singularly dirty at that.

Met by aggressive elderly female, even dirtier than cottage. POWNCEBY silently hands her mud-stained sausages and two chops, wrapped in newspaper. I don't exactly dine, says POWNCEBY to me, "I have supper, you know; same thing, only different name. Being a bachelor, I make no fuss with anyone." Rather wish he would. "Come upstairs and put yourself straight. Mind that loose board. Not 'up to weight,' as we say, eh?" Avoid loose plank and stumble upstairs into sloping-roofed attic. Painted wooden bedstead; ditto washstand. Smells musty. Paper peeling off walls, and ceiling coming down in patches. I shudder, and ask when I may expect portmanteau. "Oh, in about an hour, I daresay.

Got all you want? Sure that you're _quite_ comfortable?" _Mem._ This man evidently an unconscious humorist. Have to borrow (greatly against my will) some dry clothes of POWNCEBY's in absence of my own. Wash, and descend ricketty stairs to sitting room. Fire smokes. "Like me," says POWNCEBY, facetiously, and laughs uproariously. Must have _very_ keen sense of humour, this man. Aggressive female enters with two chops (fried) and ditto sausages; small jug of table beer and tinned loaf complete picture. "Let's fall to," says POWNCEBY; "you see your meal before you. None of your French dishes for me!" (_Mem._ nor for me either, unfortunately,) "but, good, plain, English food, eh?" Do not reply, but attack sausage. Decline fried chop. Beer turgid; leave it untasted; Thank goodness, my portmanteau arrives during repast. Pay porter half-a-crown--looks as if he had earned it. POWNCEBY finishes off my chop and his own too, smacks his lips, and produces bottle of "cooking" brandy. I light cigar, and take one sip of the brandy. Find one sip more than satisfying and do not try another. "Got a nice horse for you, to-morrow," says POWNCEBY; "he ain't a beauty, but a real good 'un. Useful horse, too. Does all the chain-harrowing and carting work.

Must start at 5 A.M. sharp and get breakfast afterwards." I nod. Am past the speaking stage now. Retire to bed, damp and shivering, and very hungry. Find mouse seated on dressing table, regarding me contemptuously. Shy boot at him. Miss mouse, but smash mirror. Feel glow of unholy satisfaction at this. Toss about all night.

_Wednesday._--Rise 4.30, dress by candle-light, and crawl down stairs.

Ask POWNCEBY where are horses? "Oh, we'll walk round to the stable for 'em," says POWNCEBY. Plod through many puddles, and enter evil smelling shed. Labourer saddling melancholy grey, elaborately stained on both quarters. "There you are, and as good as they make 'em." Don't know who "they" are, but wish "they" would "make 'em" a little cleaner. Mount, and am joined by POWNCEBY on equine framework. Beginning to rain again.

"This is jolly, eh?" he says. "Oh, awfully," I reply, feebly, as my wreck nearly blunders down on to his fiddle head. Arrive at meet 6.30.

"Oh, the 'ounds 'as bin gorn this 'arf hour or more. The meet was at six," says a yokel.

POWNCEBY borrows fiver on road home. Caught 10.15 back to town, and if ever----!

TOLD AFTER MESS

"You want to hear the story, eh?"

Loud chorus of subalterns: "No!"

"All right, then, that settles your fate, and you shall!" and I lit a cigar preliminary to starting the yarn.

"Well do I remember the episode. It was a cut-throat country that we had to ride over. Many of my soldier comrades, brave and true, fell that day thickly around me--but as they all got up again, it did not really so much matter."

Having deftly dodged a sofa-cushion shied at my head by way of a gentle hint to "get forrard," I dropped from airy heights to the sober realms of fact, and proceeded to tell my plain unvarnished tale.

"After hunting for ten years with a pack belonging to a Cavalry regiment--let us call it the 'Heavyshot Drag'--the Fates (and Taylor & Co.) removed me into a far country, and but for the kindness of some members of the hunt, who often asked me up and gave me a mount, I should have known the Heavyshot no more, as it was too far to bring any of my own select stud--consisting of a musical one, with three legs and a swinger, a bolter with a blind eye, and a 13.2 pony!--up for the gallop. And what jolly gallops they always were, too!

"One day I got a wire from my excellent friend Major Laughton, who was then Master of the Heavyshot, 'Come up, Friday. Lunch mess. Hounds meet Pickles Common.' To which, in the degenerate language of the times, I wired reply, 'You bet,' and one P.M. on the day named found my breeched and booted legs beneath the mahogany of the hospitable mess room.

"Major Laughton, in greeting me, said, 'So sorry, my dear boy, I can't give you my second horse, as he's all wrong to-day--a severe "pain under the pinafore" has floored him. But I've got you a gee from--well, never mind where from, I know he can jump.' And with these words the conversation dropped. As to where my mount came from--well, it was no concern of mine, was it? I thought I noticed a slight deflection of the gallant Major's left eyelid when he was speaking, but that, after all, might have been my fancy.

"After putting in some strong work over the luncheon course, we lit cigars, and in a few minutes both horses and hounds appeared on the parade ground. My horse with the mysterious origin was a good-looking bay, who carried his head in the 'c.o.c.ky' fashion beloved of riding-masters, and proved a very pleasant hack. We jogged along and soon reached the meet.

"The usual scene of eagerness and excitement, hounds supplying the latter element, whilst the superior animal, man, jostled his fellows consumedly, in his natural desire to 'get off the mark' as soon as decency and the Master permitted. The last-named held forth vigorously to us, as with a 'Tow-yow-yow!' hounds dashed across the first field, and jumped, scrambled, or squeezed through the first fence.