Boy Woodburn Part 47

"I reck'n they've took a couple o' million off of him since Christmas,"

he said, returning to the subject which he could not leave. "And I got to get it back for him."

"Indeed?" said Cherry ironically. "'Ow? Tellin' lies and gettin' paid for 'em?"

Albert opened the door of a loose-box and pointed dramatically.

Cherry stared at the brown horse within.

Albert whistled softly and the horse turned his long neck and gazed at them with wise and quizzical eye. "Ain't he a big un?" cried Cherry, the note of irony dropping from his voice in spite of himself.

Billy Bluff, who had been curled under the manger, came across the loose-box and sniffed the little ostler friendly.

"'Ullo, Billy!" said the old man. "Do you sleep in here?"

"Won't sleep nowhere else," answered Albert. "And what's more, Four Pound won't sleep unless his pal's with him. They've always had this loose-box atween 'em from the start. Miss Boy used to sleep in here, too, when he was a foal." The youth dropped his sw.a.n.k, and became confidential and keen. "Wonderful close friends, them two, you wouldn't believe. Four Pound had a cracked heel last autumn, and I used to bandage him at nights. He didn't like the bandages, and every night after I'd rugged him up and left him, Billy'd take and unwind the lot.

Didn't you, Billy?"

He shut the door.

"Who's goin' to ride him?" asked Cherry.

"Me or Monkey," said Albert. "'Taint settled yet. Will be this morning."

He led along toward the saddle-room.

"You got your work cut if you're goin' to beat _her_," said Cherry.

"No fear!" answered Albert. "Got the Sunday paper? What are they layin'?"

"Sevens the favourite," replied the old ostler, producing it. "The rest any price."

The youth glanced at the betting news.

"Sevens it is," he said. "Price shortening. I suppose the stable's got all the money they want on her, and so they don't bother to tell no more lies."

Albert opened the saddle-room door. Cherry pa.s.sed in. The lad followed, and locked the door behind him.

"Now don't mind me," he said. "I'm busy."

CHAPTER x.x.x

The Bible Cla.s.s

In the old days, when Mat had been in his prime, there had not seldom been as many as a hundred horses on occasion billeted in and around Putnam's.

At that time Mat had done a bit of dealing in addition to his training, and had kept hunters as well as 'chasers.

The Lads' Barn, as it was called, was at the back of the old hunter-stables, somewhat removed from the yard, and opening on to the Paddock Close.

It was big, black, with red-tiled roof, raftered, and ideal for its purpose; for it served as the Lads' Club, inst.i.tuted by Mrs. Woodburn when first she came to live at Putnam's. Here in winter they had singsongs, dances, and entertainments; and in the summer they played games, read, and held their committee meetings.

At one end was a mattress, a wooden horse, parallel bars and rings, and the ordinary appurtenances of a Boys' Club; at the other a raised platform, and on it a blackboard and harmonium.

Now some twenty lads were gathered in the barn, waiting for Miss Woodburn to take the Bible Cla.s.s.

To-day the girl for once was late. And the lads were glad. They had plenty to talk about this morning, and they welcomed an opportunity for misconduct at this time all the more because it rarely offered. There was a delicious relish about wrongdoing in the one hour a week devoted to seeking good and ensuing it.

Some of them were smoking, some playing cards.

Both acts were forbidden--the latter absolutely, the former in the main; for no lad under seventeen years was allowed to smoke in the Putnam stable.

The consequence was that the lads over the age limit bought and owned the cigarettes, and with fine capitalist instinct let them out to the youngsters at a farthing the puff. Albert when under age had inst.i.tuted the puff, and when over it had organized the tariff. By the puff-a-farthing method the cigarettes could not be confiscated, for they belonged only to those who had a prescriptive right to them, while the puffers, with a little cunning, were able to enjoy illicit smokes.

Jerry, the economist with the corrugated brow, and Stanley the stupid, both with cigarettes in their mouths, were standing apart in lofty isolation, as befitted the fathers of the flock.

A cherub-faced urchin, playing cards, and deep in his play, was humming abstractedly the chorus of a catchy song.

Stanley nudged his pal, strolled up behind the youth, and boxed his ears.

The whistler rose and rubbed his ear, aggrieved.

"What's that for?" he asked.

Stanley scowled down at him.

"Whistlin' that at Putnam's o' Sunday."

"What were I whistlin' then?" asked the aggrieved urchin.

"Moca.s.sin Song," said the haughty Stan. "Now no more of it!"

"I didn't know I were whistlin' it," replied the youth.

"He whistles it in his dreams, Alf does," explained a little pal. "It's got to his head."

"He won't 'ave no 'ead to dream with if he moca.s.sins us," retorted Stan.

The wrong righted, and order restored, Stanley stalked majestically back to his pal with a wink.

"Where's Albert then?" asked Jerry.

"He said he wasn't comin'."

"He's been sayin' that every Sunday these ten year past," answered Jerry with the insolence of the ancient habitue. "Ere, one o' you kids, fetch me a bit o' chalk. I 'ate to see you idlin' your time away, gamblin' and dicin', like the Profligate Son when he broke the bank at Monte Carlo."