Volume Ii Part 21 (1/2)
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 lords.h.i.+p 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 lords.h.i.+p, 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 lords.h.i.+p 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.]