All on the Irish Shore Part 15

"Hullo Paddy, so you're the girl he left behind him!" "Hear he went off with two suits of your clothes, one over the other." "Cheer up, old man; he's left you the gra.s.s-cutter and the pony, and what _he_ leaves must be worth having, I'll bet!" and so on.

I suppose I'd had a good deal more than my share of the champagne, but all of a sudden I began to feel pretty warm.

"You're all d----d funny," I said, "but I daresay you'll find he's left me something that _is_ worth having."

"Oh, yes!" "Go on!" "Paddy's a great man when he's drunk," and a lot more of the same sort.

"I tell you what it is," said I, "I'll back the pony he's left here to trot his twelve miles an hour on the road."

"Bos.h.!.+" says Barclay of the 112th. "I've seen him, and I'll lay you a thousand rupees even he doesn't."

"Done!" said I, whacking my hand down on the table.

"And I'll lay another thousand," says another fellow.

"Done with you too," said I.

Every one began to stare a bit then.

"Go to bed, Paddy," says the Colonel, "you're making an exhibition of yourself."

"Thank you, sir; I know pretty well what I'm talking about," said I; but, by George, I began privately to think I'd better pull myself together a bit, and I got out my book and began to hedge--laid three to one on the pony to do eleven miles in the hour, and four to one on him to do ten--all the fellows delighted to get their money on. I was to choose my own ground, and to have a fortnight to train the pony, and by the time I went to bed I stood to lose about 1,000.

Somehow in the morning I didn't feel quite so cheery about things--one doesn't after a big night--one gets nasty qualms, both mental and the other kind. I went out to look after the pony, and the first thing I saw by way of an appetiser was Biddy, with a face as long as my arm. Biddy, I should explain, was a chap called Biddulph, in the Artillery; they called him Biddy for short, and partly, too, because he kept a racing stable with me in those days, I being called Paddy by every one, because I was Irish--English idea of wit--Paddy and Biddy, you see.

"Well," said he, "I hear you've about gone and done it this time. The 112th are going about with trumpets and shawms, and looking round for ways to spend that thousand when they get it. There are to be new polo ponies, a big luncheon, and a piece of plate bought for the mess, in memory of that benefactor of the regiment, the departed bagman. Well, now, let's see the pony. That's what I've come down for."

I'm hanged if the brute didn't look more vulgar and wretched than ever when he was brought out, and I began to feel that perhaps I was more parts of a fool than I thought I was. Biddy stood looking at him there with his under-lip stuck out.

"I think you've lost your money," he said. That was all, but the way he said it made me feel conscious of the shortcomings of every hair in the brute's ugly hide.

"Wait a bit," I said, "you haven't seen him going yet. I think he has the heels of any pony in the place."

I got a boy on to him without any more ado, thinking to myself I was going to astonish Biddy. "You just get out of his way, that's all," says I, standing back to let him start.

If you'll believe it, he wouldn't budge a foot!--not an inch--no amount of licking had any effect on him. He just humped his back, and tossed his head and grunted--he must have had a skin as thick as three donkeys!

I got on to him myself and put the spurs in, and he went up on his hind legs and nearly came back with me--that was all the good I got of that.

"Where's the gra.s.s-cutter," I shouted, jumping off him in about as great a fury as I ever was in. "I suppose _he_ knows how to make this devil go!"

"Gra.s.s-cutter went away last night, sahib. Me see him try to open stable door and go away. Me see him no more."

I used pretty well all the bad language I knew in one blast. Biddy began to walk away, laughin till I felt as if I could kick him.

"I'm going to have a front seat for this trotting match," he said, stopping to get his wind. "Spectators along the route requested to provide themselves with pitchforks and fireworks, I suppose, in case the champion pony should show any of his engaging little temper. Never mind, old man, I'll see you through this, there's no use in getting into a wax about it. I'm going shares with you, the way we always do."

I can't say I responded graciously, I rather think I cursed him and everything else in heaps. When he was gone I began to think of what could be done.

"Get out the dog-cart," I said, as a last chance. "Perhaps he'll go in harness."

We wheeled the cart up to him, got him harnessed to it, and in two minutes that pony was walking, trotting, anything I wanted--can't explain why--one of the mysteries of horseflesh. I drove him out through the Cashmere Gate, pa.s.sing Biddy on the way, and feeling a good deal the better for it, and as soon as I got on to the flat stretch of road outside the gate I tried what the pony could do. He went even better than I thought he could, very rough and uneven, of course, but still promising. I brought him home, and had him put into training at once, as carefully as if he was going for the Derby. I chose the course, took the six-mile stretch of road from the Cashmere gate to Sufter Jung's tomb, and drove him over it every day. It was a splendid course--level as a table, and dead straight for the most part--and after a few days he could do it in about forty minutes out and thirty-five back. People began to talk then, especially as the pony's look and shape were improving each day, and after a little time every one was planking his money on one way or another--Biddy putting on a thousand on his own account--still, I'm bound to say the odds were against the pony. The whole of Delhi got into a state of excitement about it, natives and all, and every day I got letters warning me to take care, as there might be foul play. The stable the pony was in was a big one, and I had a wall built across it, and put a man with a gun in the outer compartment. I bought all his corn myself, in feeds at a time, going here, there, and everywhere for it, never to the same place for two days together--I thought it was better to be sure than sorry, and there's no trusting a n.i.g.g.e.r.

The day of the match every soul in the place turned out, such crowds that I could scarcely get the dog-cart through when I drove to the Cashmere gate. I got down there, and was looking over the cart to see that everything was right, when a little half-caste _keranie_, a sort of low-cla.s.s clerk, came up behind me and began talking to me in a mysterious kind of way, in that vile _chi-chi_ accent one gets to hate so awfully.

"Look here, Sar," he said, "you take my car, Sar; it built for racing. I do much trot-racing myself"--mentioning his name--"and you go much faster my car, Sar."

I trusted n.o.body in those days, and thought a good deal of myself accordingly. I hadn't found out that it takes a much smarter man to know how to trust a few.

"Thank you," I said, "I think I'll keep my own, the pony's accustomed to it."

I think he understood quite well what I felt, but he didn't show any resentment.

"Well, Sar, you no trust my car, you let me see your wheels?"

"Certainly," I said "you may look at them," determined in my own mind I should keep my eye on him while he did.

He got out a machine for propping the axle, and lifted the wheel off the ground.

"Make the wheel go round," he said.

I didn't like it much, but I gave the wheel a turn. He looked at it till it stopped.

"You lose match if you take that car," he said, "you take my car, Sar."

"What do you mean?" said I, pretty sharply.

"Look here," he said, setting the wheel going again. "You see here, Sar, it die, all in a minute, it jerk, doesn't die smooth. You see _my_ wheel, Sar."

He put the lift under his own, and started the wheel revolving. It took about three times as long to die as mine, going steady and silent and stopping imperceptibly, not so much as a tremor in it.

"Now, Sar!" he said, "you see I speak true, Sar. I back you two hundred rupee, if I lose I'm ruin, and I beg you, Sar, take my car! can no win with yours, mine match car."

"All right!" said I with a sort of impulse, "I'll take it." And so I did.

I had to start just under the arch of the Cashmere gate, by a pistol shot, fired from overhead. I didn't quite care for the look of the pony's ears while I was waiting for it--the crowd had frightened him a bit I think. By Jove, when the bang came he reared straight up, dropped down again and stuck his forelegs out, reared again when I gave him the whip, every second of course telling against me.

"Here, let me help you," shouted Biddy, jumping into the trap. His weight settled the business, down came the pony, and we went away like blazes.

The three umpires rode with us, one each side and one behind, at least that was the way at first, but I found the clattering of their hoofs made it next to impossible to hold the pony. I got them to keep back, and after that he went fairly steadily, but it was anxious work. The noise and excitement had told on him a lot, he had a tendency to break during all that six miles out, and he was in a lather before we got to Sufter Jung's tomb. There were a lot of people waiting for me out there, some ladies on horseback, too, and there was a coffee-shop going, with drinks of all kinds. As I got near they began to call out, "You're done, Paddy, thirty-four minutes gone already, you haven't the ghost of a chance. Come and have a drink and look pleasant over it."

I turned the pony, and Biddy and I jumped out. I went up to the table, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a gla.s.s of brandy and filled my mouth with it, then went back to the pony, took him by the head, and sent a squirt of brandy up each nostril; I squirted the rest down his throat, went back to the table, swallowed half a tumbler of curacoa or something, and was into the trap and off again, the whole thing not taking more than twenty seconds.

The business began to be pretty exciting after that. You can see four miles straight ahead of you on that road; and that day the police had special orders to keep it clear, so that it was a perfectly blank, white stretch as far as I could see. You know how one never seems to get any nearer to things on a road like that, and there was the clock hanging opposite to me on the splash board; I couldn't look at it, but I could hear its beastly click-click through the trotting of the pony, and that was nearly as bad as seeing the minute hand going from pip to pip.

But, by George, I pretty soon heard a worse kind of noise than that. It was a case of preserve me from my friends. The people who had gone out to Sufter Jung's tomb on horseback to meet me, thought it would be a capital plan to come along after me and see the fun, and encourage me a bit--so they told me afterwards. The way they encouraged me was by galloping till they picked me up, and then hammering along behind me like a troop of cavalry till it was all I could do to keep the pony from breaking.

"You've got to win, Paddy," calls out Mrs. Harry Le Bretton, galloping up alongside, "you promised you would!"

Mrs. Harry and I were great friends in those days--very sporting little woman, nearly as keen about the match as I was--but at that moment I couldn't pick my words.