Part 44 (1/2)

When Mr. Bouncer had refreshed his inner man, and strengthened himself for his severe course of reading by the consumption of a singular mixture of coffee and kidneys, beef-steaks and beer; and when he had rested from his exertions, and had resumed his pipe - which was not ”the judicious Hooker,” but a short clay, smoked to a swarthy hue, and on that account, as well as from its presumed medicatory power, called ”the Black Doctor,” - just then, Mr. Smalls, and a detachment of invited guests, who had been to an early lecture, dropped in to breakfast. Huz and Buz, setting up a terrific bark, darted towards a minute specimen of the canine species, which, with the aid of a powerful microscope, might have been discovered at the feet of its proud proprietor, Mr. Smalls. It was the first dog of its kind imported into Oxford, and it was destined to set on foot a fas.h.i.+on that soon bade fair to drive out of the field those long-haired Skye-terriers, with two or three specimens of which species, he entered the room.

”Kill 'em, Lympy!” said Mr. Smalls to his pet, who, with an extreme display of pugnacity, was submitting to the curious and minute inspection of Huz and Buz. ”Lympy” was a black and tan terrier, with smooth hair, glossy coat, bead-like eyes, cropped ears, pointed tail, limbs of a cobwebby structure,

[300 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN]

and so diminutive in its proportions, that its owner was accustomed to carry it inside the breast of his waistcoat, as a precaution, probably, against its being blown away. And it was called ”Lympy,”

as an abbreviation of ”Olympus,” which was the name derisively given to it for its smallness, on the ~lucus a non lucendo~ principle that miscalls the lengthy ”brief” of the barrister, the ”living” - not-sufficient-to-support-life - of the poor vicar, the uncertain ”certain age,” the unfair ”fare” and the son-ruled ”governor.”

”Lympy” was placed upon the table, in order that he might be duly admired; an exaltation at which Huz and Buz and the Skye-terriers chafed with jealousy. ”Be quiet, you beggars! he's prettier than you!” said Mr. Smalls; whereupon, a mild punster present propounded the canine query, ”Did it ever occur to a cur to be lauded to the Skyes?” at which there was a shout of indignation, and he was sconced by the unanimous vote of the company.

”Lympy ain't a bad style of dog,” said little Mr. Bouncer, as he puffed away at the Black Doctor. ”He'd be perfect, if he hadn't one fault.” ”And what's his fault, pray?” asked his anxious owner.

”There's rather too much of him!” observed Mr. Bouncer, gravely.

”Robert!” shouted the little gentleman to his scout; ”Robert! doose take the feller, he's always out of the way when he's wanted.” And, when the performance of a variety of octaves on the post-horn, combined with the free use of the speaking-trumpet, had brought Mr.

Robert Filcher to his presence, Mr. Bouncer received him with objurgations, and ordered another tankard of beer from the b.u.t.tery.

In the meantime, the conversation had taken a sporting turn. ”Do you meet Drake's to-morrow?” asked Mr. Blades of Mr. Four-in-hand Fosbrooke.

”No! the old Berks.h.i.+re,” was the reply. ”Where's the meet?”

”At Buscot Park. I send my horse to Thompson's, at the Farringdon-Road station, and go to meet him by rail.”

”And, what about the Grind?” asked Mr. Smalls of the company generally.'

”Oh yes!” said Mr. Bouncer, ”let us talk over the Grind. Giglamps, old feller, you must join.”

”Certainly, if you wish it,” said Mr. Verdant Green, who,

[AN OXFORD FRESHMAN 301]

however, had as little idea as the man in the moon what they were talking about. But, as he was no longer a Freshman, he was unwilling to betray his ignorance on any matter pertaining to college life; so he looked much wiser than he felt, and saved himself from saying more on the subject, by sipping a hot spiced draught from a silver cup that was pushed round to him. <vg301.jpg> ”That's the very cup that Four-in-hand Fosbrooke won at the last Grind,” said Mr. Bouncer.

”Was it indeed!” safely answered Mr. Verdant Green, who looked at the silver cup (on which was engraven a coat of arms with the words ”Brazenface Grind.- Fosbrooke,”), and wondered what ”a Grind” might be. A medical student would have told [him] that a ”Grind” meant the reading up for an examination [under] the tuition of one who was familiarly termed ”a Grinder” - a process which Mr. Verdant Green's friends would phrase as ”Coaching” under ”a Coach;” but the conversation that followed upon Mr. Smalls' introduction of the subject, made our hero aware, that, to a University man, a Grind did not possess any reading signification, but a riding one. In fact, it was a steeple-chase, slightly varying in its details according to the college that patronized the pastime. At Brazenface, ”the Grind” was usually over a known line of country, marked out with flags by the gentleman (familiarly known as Anniseed) who attended to this business, and full of leaps of various kinds, and various degrees of stiffness. By sweepstakes and subscriptions, a sum of from ten to fifteen pounds was raised for the purchase of a silver cup, wherewith to grace the winner's wines and breakfast parties; but, as the winner had occasionally been known to pay as much as fifteen pounds for the day's hire of the blood horse who was to land him first at the goal, and as he had, moreover, to discharge many other little expenses, including the by no means little one of a dinner to the losers, the conqueror for the cup usually obtained more glory than profit.

”I suppose you'll enter ~Tearaway~, as before?” asked Mr. Smalls of Mr. Fosbrooke.

”Yes! for I want to get him in condition for the Aylesbury steeple-chase,” replied the owner of ~Tearaway~, who was rather too fond of vaunting his blue silk and black cap before the eyes of the sporting public.

”You've not much to fear from this man,” said Mr. Bouncer, indicating (with the Black Doctor) the stalwart form of Mr.

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Blades. ”Billy's too big in the Westphalias. Giglamps, you're the boy to cook Fosbrooke's goose. Don't you remember what old father-in-law Honeywood told you, - that you might, would, should, and could, ride like a Shafto? and lives there a man with soul so dead, - as s.h.i.+kspur or some other cove observes - who wouldn't like to show what stuff he was made of? I can put you up to a wrinkle,” said the little gentleman, sinking his voice to a whisper. ”Tollitt has got a mare who can lick ~Tearaway~ into fits. She is as easy as a chair, and jumps like a cat. All that you have to do is to sit back, clip the pig-skin, and send her at it; and, she'll take you over without touching a twig. He'd promised her to me, but I intend to cut the Grind altogether; it interferes too much, don't you see, with my coaching. So I can make Tollitt keep her for you. Think how well the cup would look on your side-board, when you've blossomed into a parient, and changed the adorable Patty into Mrs. Verdant. Think of that, Master Giglamps!”

Mr. Bouncer's argument was a persuasive one, and Mr. Verdant Green consented to be one of the twelve gentlemen, who cheerfully paid their sovereigns to be allowed to make their appearance as amateur jockeys at the forthcoming Grind. After much debate, ”the Wet Ensham course” was decided upon; and three o'clock in the afternoon of that day fortnight was fixed for the start. Mr. Smalls gained ~kudos~ by offering to give the luncheon at his rooms; and the host of the Red Lion, at Ensham, was ordered to prepare one of his very best dinners, for the winding up of the day's sport.