EPISTLE VIII

BUCKTHORN MANSE, SURREY, January 6th.

My Dearest Patricia,—

When you ingenuously asked in your refreshingly-conventional Yuletide rigmarole whether I duly suspended my stocking on Christmas Eve and, if so, what I got out of it, you were actuated more, I believe, by a vapid desire to appear "seasonable" than by a spirit of idle inquiry as to whether I had sensibly cloven the continuity of a ghastly practice; but in either case it cheers me greatly to be able to inform you that, though my shins are still covered with woven brown silk to a point that is defiant of criticism, I really did find it convenient to hang up my enamelled garters for a tenner, and, thanks to subsequent investments at the Buckthorn Park New Year's Hunt Meeting, that sum has been multiplied sevenfold. A hunt meeting per se would mean less than nothing to you, dear, but when one is staying, as I am, with the people who are the breath in the nostrils of the whole thing, one becomes a part of the meeting itself and appreciates with a new perception the points which previously were unseen or unrecognised. Unlike such foxy fixtures as Ascot and Epsom and Goodwood, where the roguery of the owner is too often reflected in the reluctance of the racehorse, an atmosphere of probity and rectitude envelops the hunt meeting and inspires its votaries to pursue the same policy of frank, unbuckled integrity and veracious candour by which alone it sternly silences the ever-ready tongue of scandal. Not as in flat-racing, where all is whispered and inscrutable, there is no concealment here from first to last—from the titled stewards meeting in the lavatory regularly before each race to equitably arrange the rates of betting; the humane trainers giving their horses a refreshing bucket of water apiece before sending them to the starting-post; the returning jockey of the winner pulling up without dismounting at the paddock bar and taking three large, courage-giving drinks and a pork pie before going in to scale; and finally the principal bookmaker driving off the course in a dogcart behind the hot favourite who was so unfortunately left at the post in the opening event. To me the whole thing is completely bewitching, for though, in the absence of trains reserved exclusively for the use of "Club" members, one may have to travel in the company of persons whose knowledge of attenuated English classics is limited and whose conversations, even when ostentatiously suppressed, are distinctly not anæmic, there is ample compensation to be had in the overheard narrative of the drinking of strong wines from reeking gourds, to say nothing of the conversational "pointers" which accompany it. How I should love to stay in the dining-room with the men to-night whence all (the petticoats) but I had fled, to, like a gramophone, repeat this memoir of my journey down:

"Did ye 'ear about Bill Willis an' Tom Reeder a-goin' to Plumpton, George?"

"Which Bill Willis d'ye mean, 'Arry; him as set the old woman on the fire at Doncaster?"

"No, no; not him. The Bill Willis what the doctor in the Sunday paper told to eat a raw inion at each meal—him as they used to call 'Ev'ry-Morn-I-Bring-Thee-Vi'lets'?"

"Oh, him! Why, what happened to 'em?"

"They set out about a week ago to carry on the noble work at Plumpton Steeplechases, an', as both felt as they could do with a bit of a change, they arranges to stop 'private' in Brighton, at a little case in Black Lion Street where Tom Reeder annually took his old woman every August. It's not by no means a fash'nable lodgin' for society ducks—in fact, as showin' that the lan'lady wasn't expectin' winter lodgers, Bill and Tom found as she'd been snowballin' the layout, or in other words, stuffin' all the settin'-room furniture, with that chemical moth-stuff what looks like candles but hums like as if the gas was turned on. There was only one bedroom, too, but it had a brace o' kips in it as well as a big double wardrobe for to 'ang yer clothes in; in every respec' as good a place as a man need want, and all comin' at a figure that didn't compel ye to give the lan'lady the frozen face on the last day o' the meetin' unless things went extra kerteever. You follow me, George?"

"Abso-pleadin'-lutely, 'Arry. Well?"

"Well—but you know what Brighton is, George; the wettest part o' the glorious place lies north o' the beach, not south. You stroll along the front fully intendin' to give yer old liver a good washin' in Schilling's beautiful natural sel'zer water, an', before you're half way to the Metropole, you've done eight or ten splits, a pint o' stout along o' the oysters what you've 'ad at the little shop behind the Star an' Garter, so many gins-an'-bitters that yer stomach, originally humbugged into believin' it was a-goin' to have a square meal, refuses to take any further notice of 'em, a stray slosh o' bay rum where you got shaved in Ship Street, two or three drops o' that stuff as you took when the doctor told yer to do all as you could to be sick—

"Ver-mooth."

"Aye, ver-mooth; an' by the time you oughter be half way to the racecourse you're still a-lookin' for a conveyance round about Castle Square, an' a-gapin' to such an extent that street boys comes up to you an' offers to show yer the chemist's shop in East Street where they sells the infallible yawn drops. But there's one thing I will say for the Brighton atmosphere: you seem to pull yerself round again just as quick as you seemed to get oiled—consequently Bill Willis an' Tom Reeder spent a thoroughly enj'yable an' int'lectual week of it."

"I'm sure!"

"Any'ow, on the Saturday mornin' just about nine o'clock, Bill marches into the 'Swan' in Ship Street with his tongue a-feelin' like a ash-heap an' literally a-gaspin' for his mornin's mornin'. Now the 'Swan' in Ship Street is a sort of 'ome-from-'ome for families an' sportsmen visitin' Brighton, an' from goin' there so frequent like, both Bill an' Tom had come to know the manager. So, as Bill glides softly in, lookin' as if he'd just seen Hell in a nightmare, the manager wishes him good-mornin' an' asks him if he hadn't slep' well last night. 'Fact is, mister,' said Bill, 'I've only a hazy remembrance of 'ow I got to bed at all, an' it certainly wasn't till close on four this mornin' in any case. That gentleman-friend o' mine an' me had two other gents to dinner at our lodgin's—I dessay you remember we took eight bottles o' Scotch away from here with us?—an' I must have had the devil's own luck at cards, for although I seemed to get whacked every time as I went the bundle, jiggered if I didn't wake up this mornin' with close on twelve quid in my kick—a state o' things that whistles aloud for a bottle o' the best. Give us yer wine list, an' set out one tumbler for yerself.' But the manager, though producin' the wine list, says he makes it a rule never to drink so early; besides he's jest had one; also it's the brewery traveller's day for comin' down, an' that'll mean another. So Bill Willis, with that glorious feelin' of affluence that comes from a well-lined kick—when one feels matey with all the world, an' seriously considers why he don't write to the brewery an' ask for special terms for a wholesale order—sings a bottle o' something extra sec at fourteen-an'-a-tanner, an' takes it from a half-pint tumbler. 'Drink 'earty, boy!' he says to himself aloud as he fills his second glass, an'—well, just as he said the words, in rushes Tom Reeder!"

"Just in time, eh?"

"No, a wee bit late. Tom's awfully hot-under-the-collar about something or other, for he no sooner sets eyes on Bill, than he bellers out, 'Gawdstroth, Bill, I've run half over Brighton to find yer!' 'Well, you should have took a fly,' says Vi'lets, bold with the booze; 'but what's the matter?' 'Matter enough!' shouts Tom, 'when you went to that ruddy wardrobe this mornin' you put on my trahsers!"

It may not have been a very convincing argumentum ad judicium (as they said at Weatherby's when a certain racing countess wanted to register "Haste to the Wedding" as the name of a gelding) for one so well posted to have purchased before the eyes of all men a shilling card from a racecourse tipster, whose wardrobe would have precluded his obtaining employment at delivering coals, but I stood by the rails to listen to the engaging story of how he never failed to find the winner, but that it was his fearful thirst which seemed to keep him broke; how he should "be 'aving something very 'ot" for the last race, cabled straight to him by Slod Toan, who was at present schooling yearlings for President Roosevelt in the Phillypeanut Islands, on to which he wanted us to get our money into action quick, tear up our return briefs, and ride 'ome in an airship. Up to now, he continued, the Ring didn't even know that such an 'orse existed; but owner, trainer, and jockey had tried it to give two stone to Pretty Polly, and were surprised to find it even so much better than that, that they had wired to Coutts's to reserve room in their new premises for another scuttleful. All that he asked us to do was to get on before the Ring rumbled, and show his card to our friends afterwards.

Oh yes, dear; to anticipate your inevitable inquiry, I "done it," as my tipster would have said, but it did not finish in the first eight. The horse that won was owned by the brother-in-law of the authorised printer of the official racecard, was bedded in the jockey's ambulance room on dried seaweed, patented and sold on commission by the handicapper, and came up and ate loaf-sugar out of the hand of the clerk-of-the-scales. Nevertheless, no sooner had "All right!" been called, than the preposterous horse-watcher was peacocking up and down the course in front of the lawn, closely followed by an all-night souse without shoes or socks and blackballed in perpetuity at the Rowton Residences, but shouting, with well assumed enthusiasm, "Brayvo! He's bin an' done it agen. Brayvo!" If only the poor thing had realised his possibilities, and taken a short, graduating course in one of the advertisement-concocting colleges (as the clerk of the course, who took half the profits on the tipster's cards as the price of giving permission to sell them, observed, as he stood beside me and checked the man's sales) what couldn't he have torn off the public with some more refined thimble-game, such as a new sawdust health-food, a heal-the-blind "institute," or a dud encyclopedia?

But I must on no account omit to tell you of an ingenuous incident which followed the decision of the antepenultimate event—"A Handicap Hurdle Plate of 30 sovs. (to quote the card), for the produce of mares that have never thrown a winner under any rules; gentlemen riders, Members of the Postman's Knock Hunt who have touched twice over one race to carry 7 lb. extra; the winner to be sold for 40 sovs. Two miles, over eight flights of hurdles. Six subs."

This valuable prize had just been taken by a ten-to-one shot, ridden most admirably by the acquitted co-respondent of the noble horseman who had bunkered the favourite down the wrong course, and we all filed round to the back of the stand to see the winner bought in. It was about the only thing there was to do for ten minutes or so, wherefore all but the tactiturn, the tired, and the tight-booted trapesed round to the rostrum with a Cleopatra-going-to-meet-Antony hopefulness. Round and round a small railed-in grass plot, a stable lad paced a still panting mare, whose sides were pinked by the spur, and whose knees were so far ahead of her toes, that when she stood still she looked as though she were getting ready to make a jump. There would surely be a vitriolic battle-royal to possess her, and, anticipating much spirited bidding, and being anxious not to begin till all were assembled, the rural auctioneer stood in his pulpit rubbing his hands together like the handkerchiefless person who eats prawns in a race-train, and grinning as if he had suddenly contracted gas on the brain. Nor was he disappointed. Opposed by a venal bunch of leather-legginged get-rich-quick's, Bronzewing's owner had to go to sixty-five guineas to retain her; and then, for a moment, we looked like languishing again, for even the excitement attaching to the attempted dispersal of a sensational stud of one soon dies down. "But don't go away, please," cried the auctioneer, to our intense relief, "I've one here that also ran. Williams, bring in Little Breeches."

And Williams did. Little Breeches, a nine-year-old gelding, standing about 17.2, came into the ring sideways like a one-eyed ghost reluctantly winging its way to heaven. Little Breeches had been given a pint and a half of the celebrated "Flying Hornet" preserving whisky before going to the post, and had tried three times to hang himself in the starting-gate; now that the first effects of the powerful stimulant were working off, there remained only a splitting headache, whose mission it was to beat it into him that he had been played, and, still too doped to show resentment, he walked round and round as though in a trance.

"Now, gentlemen," cried the auction person, "I claim your attention to Little Breeches, by Gumsucker out of Sewing Girl, by Gozo, by Wild Oats. A nice, handy animal, gentlemen, and one that is sure to pick up a perfect roll of money this winter. He's in the Sluggard's Plate at Sandown Park next Tuesday at a nice weight, and only needs keying up to concert pitch; now what may I say for him?"

But answer there came none.

"Come, gentlemen, come," rated the auctioneer, in a tone of astonished reproach, "it only wants one of you to give me a start; may I put him in at five guineas? Walk him round again, Williams. A great, slashing colt like this—he was fairly on terms with the winner at the last hurdle—and five guineas only bid! Five—five in two places—six, thank you, sir. Six guineas only for Little Breeches! About a tenth of what he'd fetch to pull an omnibus! Seven, seven—against you, sir, at seven—eight. And eight I'm only offered; have you all done at—nine, thank you, nine; may I make it ten for you, sir? Ten—going at ten——"

But even as the auctioneer hung upon his own words there came running from the inner recesses of the refreshment room a burly, fatherly man of fifty, who had the hansom-cab industry stamped indelibly all over him. He seemed amazed to find that the sale had progressed so far, while he had been painting the future of cabbing in rosy colours and bottled stout, and he pushed and elbowed his way through the throng as though eager to retrieve lost opportunities. Ducking beneath the railings and entering the sale-ring, he stooped and ran his critical right-hand fingers up and down the forelegs of Little Breeches.

"What's this one, mister?" he asked the auctioneer.

"Little Breeches, sir, by Gumsucker out of Sewing Girl," replied the alert salesman, and added, "and it is against you at ten. Now have you all done at ten——"

"AND SIX!" advanced the representative of the Shoful Trust, with the guileless air of one who hails from near to Nature's heart; and in two ticks he was being roughly hustled towards the bleak high road by a posse of the pantomimic pensioners done up in football pads, known as the racecourse police.

But there are more takedowns at this game of racing than are suspected by those who "do" their Derby dryfooted at their favourite music-hall—even if one gives them in the takedown by the exhilarated gentleman who is so pleased with himself at having worn dark blue and yellow braces, that he enters the stalls with them dangling at his heels for the racegoers in the pit to see and applaud. Though these stallites, after seeing St Amant spring from somewhere underneath the orchestra, execute a few wild buck and wing steps in Barnard's Ring, and then shoot bodily over the top of Mr Sherwood's cottage, may say of the sporting press what David said in his haste of all concerned, the dark thought and aching heart of desperation and despair are as often seen in racing, as the black eye and splitting headache of delirious joy. For instance, estimate if you can, the weight of anguish that is but faintly shadowed in the following letter, picked up by me from the platform at Victoria:

"Peavine Villa, New Year's Night.

"My Dear Father and Mother,—

Having cried over your sympathetic letter of yesterday until I have started my nose a-bleeding, I have now hypothecated my wedding ring and keeper, as you advised, and propose to stack my drapery and return to dear old Saffron Walden to-morrow by the 10.25 from Liverpool Street. Heav'n knows I have loved James Henry (who has again recently lost his voice in formally applying for a rise in his salary) as ardently as any woman could; but the accursed Yellow Card has come between us. How little did I dream when, nine months ago, James Henry offered me his heart, his hand, and whatever was left in the weekly envelope after sweetening Topping and Spindler; and I promised that even if he could not make me completely happy no other should ever try to do so; that he entertained no thought of forsaking the double-your-stake-but-stick-to-your-martingale system!

"For many months past James Henry, whose views on the true methods of banishing poverty lend themselves felicitously to the purposes of the vigilant humorist, has been strenuously endeavouring to choke a firm at Flushing (postage 2½d.), and take it away from them. Meantime the rent has fallen two quarters in arrear, and our butcher has had the immortal rind to stop supplies entirely. The wretched grocer has followed suit, and—from the quires of circulars telling how an eighty-shilling income should carry a £200 bill-of-sale, which are dropped into our letter-box—has mentioned the matter more than once across his counter. The climax came on Tuesday evening, when, during Henry's absence, the landlord called. He had a bunch of bananas, a bottle of whisky, and six mince pies in a paper bag; and, saying he would rather meet me than a mowing machine any day, he chased me thirty-three times round the sitting-room sofa, and nearly forgot that he was a gentleman. I judged it better, however, to tell James Henry that Mr Groundrent's demeanour was extremely frigid and bitterly threatening; for no wreck of matrimony can destroy its high ideals or take from her, who was judicious while it lasted, the gain to her own soul of unselfishly endeavouring to preserve peace at any sacrifice; whereupon James Henry wrote as follows:

"'Look here, Groundrent, dear old soul; it galls me like sin to have to hand you the ice-bowl once again, but all my stocks are falling—Bath Tramways, Allsopp's Ordinary, Cotton Spinners' Deferred, and Schweppe's Pref.—and I can't even book a date till one of them goes up. Knowing, however, that you occasionally make out a little bit of paper when you hear of any goods of an extra-superior quality, I want you to keep your mouth shut and absorb the following right straight into your system: You must have a pony each way to-morrow, Broiled Bird in the Hardware Plate, and when it has rollicked home, just pay yourself the two quarters' rent due, and act honourably by dropping a little cheque for half of the diff. remaining into any pillar-box, addressed to—Yours and so forth.'

"The occasional charwoman's little boy took the letter round, and was unreflectingly detained in the hall—I say unreflectingly for the reason that the youth was sucking a heavy line in paregoric lozenges at the time—while Mr Groundrent penned the following reply:—

"'Sir, you omit, intentionally, or otherwise, the Turf alias of the bug-eyed slanderer who averred that I occasionally pricked the garter; but I respect your confidence, and even beg to slip you a bigger cert than changing a shilling for a blind man. I want you to take the cotton batting out of your ears and let the good thing soak right in—Bum Bailiff for the Man in Possession Stakes, first thing in the morning. Act honourably, as he has imperative orders to nail anything to the floor if he catches you trying to shift it—Yours and all, N. G.'

"Broiled Bird did not, I regret to say, connect; but Mr Groundrent's nominee arrived before we were up. He is at this moment gridironing a kipper at the kitchen fire and reading aloud to our small servant the more mirth provoking paragraphs from the "They say" column of Stubbs's Mercantile Gazette. Please have the spare bed well aired. I can walk up from the station, and leave my trunk in the cloakroom till later, since you say that old Snowdrop is nearly due to foal. Since Louisa took it to Southend it only fastens with a hairpin, but lord knows there's nothing in it to shock a married railway man. So no more, with love and kisses,

Henrietta."

And here must I break off, for the first bell has gone, and to-night dinner is to be followed by that fine old country-house frolic which has been the beginning of so many flourishing society divorces—snapdragon with the lights out.

Thine, Viola.