Volume Ii Part 18 (2/2)

Bradon, when with his regiment, had been the crack rider in it, and many a good stake had he won for that gallant corps. His services had always been most anxiously sought after, and mounts given him in most of the great steeple-chases of the day.

He was so cool and collected, no bustle or flurrying with him. A fine eye, a fine hand, a famous judge of pace, and strong at the finish, with a knowledge, that must almost have been born in him, when to ease his horse, force the running, or take advantage of any mistake. ”On the whole,” Lord Plunger, who was no mean judge, used to say--”on the whole I consider George Bradon the finest cross-country rider in Europe.”

Bradon, though uncommonly lucky in his mounts, bore his honours meekly, and when he sold out and came down to the old place to live, gave up steeple-chasing altogether. ”He had so much to do, so much to attend to; after a bit he would have another squeeze at the lemon, but really he must attend to his affairs first.”

Repeated refusals damped the ardour of his friends, so at last they gave up asking him to ride, and he was left in quiet to pursue his own way.

Time went on, and such a person as George Bradon had almost been forgotten by the sporting public. One morning, some eighteen months after he had come home, going into the harness-room, he carelessly seated himself in the weighing-chair, and exclaimed to the old stud-groom, an heirloom his father had left him: ”The same weight, Tim, I suppose--eleven three?”

The person thus appealed to, standing on tiptoe, looked up at the dial as well as he was able; for, in addition to being short and stout, he had a very tight pair of trousers, which seemed to have been made on him, and was moreover incommoded by a stiff white neckcloth, which threatened to strangle him. After having studied the dial for a few seconds, he started back, and blurted out in a voice of horror and amazement: ”Can I believe my haged heyes, Master George? You're twelve five, as I'm a miserable sinner!”

”What!” exclaimed George, jumping out of the chair considerably quicker than he had got into it, and throwing away the cigar which he had been indolently puffing--”what! twelve five? It cannot be; weigh me again, Tim.”

The old man did so with the same result. ”Oh, hang it!” said George, ”the scale is wrong; it cannot be. I am not a bit heavier than I was; the same clothes fit me I wore two years ago. It's all bosh.”

”I don't know, Master George, if it's all bosh or no,” replied his old servant, ”but the scale is right. Now lookee, sir, I've been fourteen stun nine for the last eleven years--not a hounce more or less. See my weight, sir.”

George cast his eyes up at the dial as Tim wriggled himself into the chair.

”Yes,” he said, ”you are right--fourteen nine to a fraction, Tim. How the deuce I came to be this weight I have no idea; but I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that, instead of eleven three, my old walking weight, I am twelve five--sixteen pounds in less than two years,” he muttered, as he sauntered away. ”By George, I'll knock off that sixteen pounds pretty quickly, though. I detest fat people. An idle life will not suit me. I'll do Banting or something.”

Tim looked after his young master as he walked away. ”Well,” he exclaimed at length, ”Master George”--he was always Master George with the old servants--”twelve five; I'd never have thought it. There's something in his heye, though, that tells me he won't be that weight long. Although he is so cool he'll hunt every day the coming season, I'll bet my life; walk like blazes, and take physic enough to float a jolly-boat. I'll lay a sov,” he remarked, as he slowly drew one out of a bag which he extracted from the depths of his capacious breeches-pocket, ”that he is in his old form this day six months; dashed if I don't bet a fiver, or any part of it.” But as no one was there to take him, he put back the coin, gave the neck of the bag a twist, and after a struggle managed to convey it to his breeches pocket again.

”What will my old woman say,” he continued, ”when I tells her o' this?

she as nussed him as a foal, and said he'd never get fat like me. It's heart-breaking to think on. And there's Guardsman, the finest and fastest hunter in England, just coming six; how will he be able to carry him if he goes sticking mountains of flesh on like that?--he can't do it. He'll have to ride in a seven-pound saddle; but I don't let him do that, not if I knows it--he'd break his precious neck, and then I should like to be told where Tim Mason would be, the old woman, and all the kids. No seven-pound saddle for me. I ain't a-going to have my boy a-smas.h.i.+ng of hisself, and all because he will put flesh on.

He's the only one left of the old stock; it's time he married, and I hope he will. I'm almost afraid to tell the old woman. Twelve stun five!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, as he wended his way thoughtfully across the yard; ”it seems almost impossible.”

”Tim,” said his master the next morning, ”this idle life won't do for me. I'm going over to France for three or four months. Would you like a trip?”

”Me, sir?” said the old man. ”Why in course I should like to see them mounseer fellows eat frogs, and taste their brandy, too.”

”Well, Tim, so you shall,” replied George; ”and look here, we will take Guardsman and the gray with us. I will run them both at some of the meetings. Young Harry shall go with us; he is a good rider, a light weight, and can keep his mouth shut.”

”Yes, sir,” said Tim. ”He and I can do the horses as they ought to be done, and a little work now will do them good.”

”Well,” continued his master, ”I'm off to London this afternoon to make some arrangements. Travel the horses down to Southampton, and meet me at the 'Dolphin,' in High Street, you know. Be there on Monday morning; take saddles, clothing, and all you want. However, I need not tell you all this, or of the necessity of keeping our movements a profound secret.”

”No occasion--no occasion, sir; I'll be there. Huzza!” he exclaimed, as soon as his master was out of hearing. ”My words are coming true--racing again, by all that's jolly! This is a proud day for me. My boy will get into form again, I know he will. I should like to give him a leg up once more, and see him set a field.” So saying he waddled off to inform his old woman, as he irreverently called her, of the change about to take place.

Some few days after this Bradon, his servants and horses, were located in a quiet little village in Lower Brittany.

”Well, Tim,” said his master one morning, as the old stud-groom came in to say the horses were well, and ask what exercise they were to take.

”What exercise?” said George; ”why, I'll tell you. They are to go into regular training; they are in pretty good fettle now, but they must be better. We can do it in quiet here, without those confounded touts and fellows watching us, as they would have done at home. I should have had a scoundrel perched up in nearly every tree in the park if they knew the game I was flying at. I have found out good ground here, and have permission to use it. Now, Tim, I am going to astonish your weak nerves. I need not caution you of the necessity of being silent. All the races, I find, are over in France for the year; but, Tim, what do you think? I have entered both the horses for the Grand Silverpool Steeple-chase. I did it when I was in town the other day.”

<script>