The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖

For a while I affected to eat undisturbed: but lost patience at last and addressed a red-headed gazer——

“If you take me for a show, you ought to pay.”

“That's fair,” said the fellow, and laid a groat on the board. This came near to putting me in a passion, but his face was serious. “'Tis a real pleasure,” he added heartily, “to look on one so gifted.”

“If any of you,” I said, “could sell me a horse——”

At once there was a clamor, all bidding in one breath for my custom. So finishing my breakfast, I walked out with them to the tavern yard, where I had my pick among the sorriest-looking dozen of nags in England, and finally bought from the red-haired man, for five pounds, bridle, saddle, and a flea-bitten grey that seem'd more honestly raw-boned than the rest. And the owner wept tears at the parting with his beast, and thereby added a pang to the fraud he had already put upon me. And I rode from the tavern door suspecting laughter in the eyes of every passer-by.

The day ('twas drawing near noon as I started) was cold and clear, with a coating of rime over the fields: and my horse's feet rang cheerfully on the frozen road. His pace was of the soberest: but, as I was no skilful rider, this suited me rather than not. Only it was galling to be told so, as happened before I had gone three miles.

'Twas my friend the pickpocket: and he sat before a fire of dry sticks a little way back from the road. His scanty hair, stiff as a badger's, now stood upright around his batter'd cap, and he look'd at me over the bushes, with his hook'd nose thrust forward like a bird's beak.

“Bien lightmans, comrade—good day! 'Tis a good world; so stop and dine.”

I pull'd up my grey.

“Glad you find it so,” I answered; “you had a nigh chance to compare it with the next, last night.”

“Shan't do so well i' the next, I fear,” he said with a twinkle: “but I owe thee something, and here's a hedgehog that in five minutes'll be baked to a turn. 'Tis a good world, and the better that no man can count on it. Last night my dripping duds helped me to a cant tale, and got me a silver penny from a man of religion. Good's in the worst; and life's like hunting the squirrel—a man gets much good exercise thereat, but seldom what he hunts for.”

“That's as good morality as Aristotle's,” said I. — “'Tis better for me, because 'tis mine.” While I tether'd my horse he blew at the embers, wherein lay a good-sized ball of clay, baking. After a while he look'd up with red cheeks. “They were so fast set on drowning me,” he continued with a wink, “they couldn't spare time to look i' my pocket—the ruffin cly them!”

He pull'd the clay ball out of the fire, crack'd it, and lo! inside was a hedgehog cook'd, the spikes sticking in the clay, and coming away with it. So he divided the flesh with his knife, and upon a slice of bread from his wallet it made very delicate eating: tho' I doubt if I enjoyed it as much as did my comrade, who swore over and over that the world was good, and as the wintry sun broke out, and the hot ashes warm'd his knees, began to chatter at a great pace.

“Why, sir, but for the pretty uncertainty of things I'd as lief die here as I sit——”

He broke off at the sound of wheels, and a coach with two postillions spun past us on the road.

I had just time to catch a glimpse of a figure huddled in the corner, and a sweet pretty girl with chestnut curls seated beside it, behind the glass. After the coach came a heavy broad-shoulder'd servant riding on a stout grey; who flung us a sharp glance as he went by, and at twenty yards' distance turn'd again to look.

“That's luck,” observed the pickpocket, as the travelers disappear'd down the highway: “Tomorrow, with a slice of it, I might be riding in such a coach as that, and have the hydropsy, to boot. Good lack! when I was ta'en prisoner by the Turks a-sailing i' the Mary of London, and sold for a slave at Algiers, I escap'd, after two months, with Eli Sprat, a Gravesend man, in a small open boat. Well, we sail'd three days and nights, and all the time there was a small sea bird following, flying round and round us, and calling two notes that sounded for all the world like 'Wind'ard! Wind'ard!' So at last says Eli, ''Tis heaven's voice bidding us ply to wind'ard.' And so we did, and on the fourth day made Marseilles; and who should be first to meet Eli on the quay but a Frenchwoman he had married five years before, and left. And the jade had him clapp'd in the pillory, alongside of a cheating fishmonger with a collar of stinking smelts, that turn'd poor Eli's stomach completely. Now there's somewhat to set against the story of Whittington next time 'tis told you.”

I was now for bidding the old rascal good-bye. But he offer'd to go with me as far as Hungerford, where we should turn into the Bath road. At first I was shy of accepting, by reason of his coat, wherein patches of blue, orange-tawny and flame-color quite overlaid the parent black: but closed with him upon his promise to teach me the horsemanship that I so sadly lacked. And by time we enter'd Hungerford town I was advanced so far, and bestrode my old grey so easily, that in gratitude I offer'd him supper and bed at an inn, if he would but buy a new coat: to which he agreed, saying that the world was good.

By this, the day was clouded over and the rain coming down apace. So that as soon as my comrade was decently array'd at the first slopshop we came to, 'twas high time to seek an inn. We found quarters at “The Horn,” and sought the travelers' room, and a fire to dry ourselves.

In this room, at the window, were two men who look'd lazily up at our entrance. They were playing at a game, which was no other than to race two snails up a pane of glass and wager which should prove the faster.

“A wet day!” said my comrade, cheerfully.

The pair regarded him. “I'll lay you a crown it clears within the hour!” said one.

“And I another,” put in the other; and with that they went back to their sport.

Drawing near, I myself was soon as eager as they in watching the snails, when my companion drew my notice to a piece of writing on the window over which they were crawling. 'Twas a set of verses scribbled there, that must have been scratch'd with a diamond: and to my surprise—for I had not guess'd him a scholar—he read them out for my benefit. Thus the writing ran, for I copied it later:

“Master Ephraim Tucker, his dying councell to wayfardingers; to seek The Splendid Spur.

“Not on the necks of prince or hound, Nor on a woman's finger twin'd, May gold from the deriding ground Keep sacred that we sacred bind