A Bayard From Bengal<br />Being some account of the Magnificent and Spanking Career of Chunder Binda, F. Anstey [e book reader android .TXT] 📗

Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, her thoughts were entirely engrossed with the approaching Derby Race, and she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge that a notorious grandame, to wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, had backed heavily that Milky Way was to fail like the flash of a pan.[81]

Whereupon Mr Bhosh, recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare with her concomitant jockey to the mercy of this self-same Duchess, was harrowed with sudden misgivings.

By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated that Mr McAlpine was a pal of the Duchess, which she had herself admitted at the Victoria terminus, and thus by dint of penetrating instinct, Mr Bhosh easily unravelled the tangled labyrinth of a hideous conspiracy, which caused him to beat his head vehemently against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality.

Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Caroline was transfixed with passionate adoration for Bindabun, whom she regarded as a gallant and illused innocent, and resolved to assist him to cut his lucky.

To this end she furnished him with a file and a silken ladder of her own knitting—but unfortunately Mr Bhosh, having never before[82] undergone incarceration, was a total neophyte in effecting his escape by such dangerous and antiquated procedures, which he firmly declined to employ, urging her to sneak the paternal keybunch and let him out at daybreak by some back entrance.

And, not to crack the wind of this poor story while rendering it as short as possible, she yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him to the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5 A.M.

Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird!

It was the dawn of the Derby Day, and Mr Bhosh precipitated himself to his dwelling, intending to array himself in all his best and go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Heyday! What was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approach with streaming eyes, fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful!

"How comes it, Cadwallader," sternly inquired[83] Mr Bhosh, "that you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes?"

"I do not know," was the whimpered response.

"Then pray where is my Derby favourite, Milky Way?" demanded Bindabun.

"I cannot tell," wailed out the lachrymose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the Duchess had met him at the station portals, and, on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of Refreshment-room.

There she plied him with a stimulant which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist, viz., brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became catalyptic in a corner.

When he returned to sobriety neither the Duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, and he had been searching in vain for them ever since.

It was the time not for words, but deeds,[84] and Mr Bhosh did not indulge in futile irascibility, but sat down and composed a reply wire to the Clerk of Course, Epsom, couched in these simple words: "Have you seen my Derby mare?—Bhosh."

After the suspense of an hour the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, upon which Mr Bhosh thus addressed the abashed Perkin: "Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of riding her. Strip off your racing coat and cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian."

The lad handed over the toggery, which Bindabun stuffed, being of very fine silken tissue, into his coat pocket, after which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries.

There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, and he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation, when, mirabile dictu! all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-known[85] sound of a whinny, and he recognised the beloved voice of Milky Way!

But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound. There was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms, but at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the Left-Luggage department, and, summoning a porter, Mr Bhosh had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped Derby favourite Milky Way![86]

A RACE AGAINST TIME

There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,
If you'd beat him—although he is bald,
And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.
On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.

Stanza written to order by young English friend,
but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.

AH! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!

Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without—the probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and destroying the ticket-receipt.[87]

But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contents were rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director, politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.

What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until all Derby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubility he pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insisted on, Milky Way would infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too late to compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morally victorious—until at length the official relented, and agreed to do the job for valuable consideration in hard cash.

Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero could only fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket for himself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel as baggage in the guard's van.

I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were all in the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant to[88] advance so serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but it is nem. con. that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled in highly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended to walk himself and his horse off the platform.

Que faire? How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derby race without putting in an appearance? And how was Milky Way to put in her appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A less wilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainly succumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouse Bindabun's monkey.

"How far is the distance to Epsom?" he inquired.

"Fourteen miles," he was answered.

"And what o'clock the Derby race?"

"About one P.M."

"And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Very well, since it seems Milky Way is not to ride in the railway, [89]she shall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsom in propriâ personâ!"

THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCE

So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders, who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mounted his mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.

I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen from depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say that the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, and that Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that he might meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the day after the fair.

As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of the occupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby, and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness the spectacle he was to buck himself up.[90]

Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before the clock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of Epsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.

Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear of Milky Way: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our bacons!"

But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs of Milky Way were already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.

And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourself on the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What a marvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing together higgledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins; counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on through the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages;[91] others on terra firma; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tents rearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazing with smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged in running them in.

Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see if they are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and each horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible, commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.

(N.B.-The writer of above realistic description has never been actually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely from assiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving of recognition from a generous public!)

Now follows a period of dismay—for Milky Way, the favourite of high and low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The only person who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makes her entrance[92] into the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting a leading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to a monkey against Milky Way!"

Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake and earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager, but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a trembling hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.

No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a joyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions. "Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and three cheers for Milky Way!"

The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along the course, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered with perspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had been mislaid among the left luggage![93]

CHAPTER XIII

A SENSATIONAL DERBY STRUGGLE

Is it for sordid pelf that horses race?
Or can it be the glory that they go for?
Neither; they know the steed that shows best pace
Will get his flogging all the sooner over!

Reflection at a Racecourse.—H. B. J.

THE Duchess, seeing that her plot was foiled by the unexpected arrival of Mr Bhosh, made the frantic endeavour to hedge herself behind another bet of a million sterling to a monkey that Milky Way was to come off conqueror—but in vain, since none of the welshers would concede such very long odds.

So, wrapping her features in a veil of feminine duplicity, she advanced swimmingly to meet Mr Bhosh. "How lucky that you have arrived on the neck of time!" she said.[94] "And you have ridden all the way from town? Tell me now, would not you and your dear horse like some refreshment after so tedious a journey?"

"Madam," said Mr Bhosh, bowing to his saddle-bow, while his optics remained fixed upon the Duchess with a withering glare. "We are not taking any—from your hands."

This crushing sarcasm totally abashed the Duchess, who perceived that he had penetrated her schemes and crept away in discomfiture.

After this incident Milky Way was subjected to the ordeal of trying her weight, which she passed with honours. For—very fortunately as it turned out—the twenty-four hours' starvation which she had endured as left luggage had reduced her to the prescribed number of maunds, which she would otherwise have infallibly exceeded, since Mr Bhosh, being as yet a tyro in training Derby cracks, had allowed her to acquire a superfluous obesity.

Thus once more the machinations of the[95] Duchess had only benefited the very individual they were intended to injure!

But it remained necessary to hire a practical jockey, since Cadwallader Perkin was still lamenting in dust and ashes at home, so Mr Bhosh ran about from pillow to post endeavouring to borrow a rider for Milky Way.

Owing, probably, to the Duchess's artifices, he encountered nothing but refusals and pleas of previous engagement—until, at the end of the tether of his patience, he said: "Since my mare cannot compete in a riderless condition, I myself will assume command and steer her to victory!"

Upon which gallant speech the entire air became darkened by clouds of upthrown hats and shouts of "Bravo, Bindabun!"

But upon this the pertinacious Duchess lodged the objection that he was not