Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (have you read this book TXT) đ
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âGoat and Compassesâ?â
âI mostly am, sir, after nine oâclock of an eveningâsummer and
winterââ
âThat will do,â exclaimed Victor, with a quick glance at the door of
the counting-house. âI will see you at the âGoat and Compassesâ to-night, at nine. Hush!â
Eversleigh and his cousin were just emerging from the counting-house,
as Victor Carrington gave the groom a warning gesture.
âMumâs the word,â muttered the man.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Douglas Dale took their places in the
phaeton, and drove away.
Victor Carrington arrived at half-past eight at the âGoat and
Compassesââa shabby little public-house in a shabby little street.
Here he found Mr. Hawkins lounging in the bar, waiting for him, and
beguiling the time by the consumption of a glass of gin.
âThereâs no one in the parlour, sir,â said Hawkins, as he recognized
Mr. Carrington; âand if youâll step in there, we shall be quite
private. I suppose there ainât no objection to this gent and me
stepping into the parlour, is there, Mariar?â Mr. Hawkins asked of a
young lady, in a very smart cap, who officiated as barmaid.
âWell, you ainât a parlour customer in general, Mr. Hawkins; but I
suppose if the gent wants to speak to you, thereâll be no objection to
your making free with the parlour, promiscuous,â answered the damsel,
with supreme condescension. âAnd if the gent has any orders to give,
Iâm ready to take âem,â she added, pertly.
Victor Carrington ordered a pint of brandy.
The parlour was a dingy little apartment, very much the worse for stale
tobacco smoke, and adorned with gaudy racing-prints. Here Mr.
Carrington seated himself, and told his companion to take the place
opposite him.
âFill yourself a glass of brandy,â he said. And Mr. Hawkins was not
slow to avail himself of the permission. âNow, Iâm a man who does not
care to beat about the bush, my friend Hawkins,â said Victor, âso Iâll
come to business at once. Iâve taken a fancy to that bay horse, âWild
Buffalo,â and I should like to have him; but Iâm not a rich man, and I
canât afford a high price for my fancy. What Iâve been thinking,
Hawkins, is that, with your help, I might get âWild Buffaloâ a
bargain?â
âWell, I should rather flatter myself you might, guvânor,â answered the
groom, coolly, âan uncommon good bargain, or an uncommon bad one,
according to the working out of circumstances. But between friends,
supposing that you was me, and supposing that I was you, you know, I
wouldnât have him at no priceâno, not if Spavin sold him to you for
nothing, and threw you in a handsome pair of tops and a bit of pink
gratis likewise.â
Mr. Hawkins had taken a second glass of brandy by this time; and the
brandy provided by Victor Carrington, taken in conjunction with the gin
purchased by himself was beginning to produce a lively effect upon his
spirits.
âThe horse is a dangerous animal to handle, then?â asked Victor.
âWhen you can ride a flash of lightning, and hold that well in hand,
you may be able to ride âWild Buffalo,â guvânor,â answered the groom,
sententiously; âbut till you have got your hand in with a flash of
lightning, I wouldnât recommend you to throw your leg across the
âBuffalo.ââ
âCome, come,â remonstrated Victor, âa good rider could manage the
brute, surely?â
âNot the cove as drove a mail-phaeton and pair in the skies, and was
chucked out of it, which served him rightânot even that sky-larking
cove could hold in the âBuffalo.â Heâs got a mouth made of cast-iron,
and there ainât a curb made, work âem how you will, thatâs any more to
him than a ladyâs bonnet-ribbon. He got a good name for his jumping as
a steeple-chaser; but when heâd been the death of three jocks and two
gentlemen riders, folks began to get rather shy of him and his jumping;
and then Captain Chesterly come and planted him on my guvânor, which
more fool my governor to take him at any price, says I. And now, sir,
Iâve stood your friend, and give you a honest warning; and perhaps it
ainât going too far to say that Iâve saved your life, in a manner of
speaking. So I hope youâll bear in mind that Iâm a poor man with a
fambly, and that I canât afford to waste my time in giving good advice
to strange gents for nothing.â
Victor Carrington took out his purse, and handed Mr. Hawkins a
sovereign. A look of positive rapture mingled with the habitual cunning
of the groomâs countenance as he received this donation.
âI call that handsome, guvânor,â he exclaimed, âand I ainât above
saying so.â
âTake another glass of brandy, Hawkins.â
âThank you kindly, sir; I donât care if I do,â answered the groom; and
again he replenished his glass with the coarse and fiery spirit.
âIâve given you that sovereign because I believe you are an honest
fellow,â said the surgeon. âBut in spite of the bad character you have
given the âBuffaloâ I should like to get him.â
âWell, Iâm blest,â exclaimed Mr. Hawkins; âand you donât look like a
hossey gent either, guvânor.â
âI am not a âhorsey gent.â I donât want the âBuffaloâ for myself. I
want him for a hunting-friend. If you can get me the brute a dead
bargain, say for twenty pounds, and can get a weekâs holiday to bring
him down to my friendâs place in the country, Iâll give you a five-pound note for your trouble.â
The eyes of Mr. Hawkins glittered with the greed of gold as Victor
Carrington said this; but, eager as he was to secure the tempting
prize, he did not reply very quickly.
âWell, you see, guvânor, I donât think Mr. Spavin would consent to sell
the âBuffaloâ yet awhile. Heâd be afraid of mischief, you know. Heâs a
very stiff âun, is Spavin, and he comes it uncommon bumptious about his
character, and so on. I really donât think heâd sell the âBuffaloâ till
heâs broke, and the deuce knows how long it may take to break him.â
âOh, nonsense; Spavin would be glad to get rid of the beast, depend
upon it. Youâve only got to say you want him for a friend of yours, a
jockey, whoâll break him in better than any of Spavinâs people could do
it.â
James Hawkins rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
âWell, perhaps if I put it in that way it might answer,â he said, after
a meditative pause. âI think Spavin might sell him to a jock, where he
would not part with him to a gentleman. I know heâd be uncommon glad to
get rid of the brute.â âVery well, then,â returned Victor Carrington;
âyou manage matters well, and youâll be able to earn your fiver. Be
sure you donât let Spavin think itâs a gentleman whoâs sweet upon the
horse. Do you think you are able to manage the business?â
The groom laid his finger on his nose, and winked significantly.
âIâve managed more difficult businesses than that, guvânor,â he said.
âWhen do you want the animal?â
âImmediately.â
âCould you make it convenient to slip down here to-morrow night, or
shall I wait upon you at your house, guvânor?â
âI will come here to-morrow night, at nine.â
âVery good, guvânor; in which case you shall hear news of âWild
Buffalo.â But all I hope is, when you do present him to your friend,
youâll present the address-card of a respectable undertaker at the same
time.â
âI am not afraid.â
âAs you please, sir. You are the individual what comes down with the
dibbs; and you are the individual whatâs entitled to make your choice.â
Victor Carrington saw that the brandy had by this time exercised a
potent influence over Mr. Spavinâs groom; but he had full confidence in
the manâs power to do what he wanted done. James Hawkins was gifted
with that low cunning which peculiarly adapts a small villain for the
service of a greater villain.
At nine oâclock on the following evening, the two met again at the
âGoat and Compasses.â This time their interview was very brief and
business-like.
âHave you succeeded?â asked Victor.
âI have, guvânor, like one oâclock. Mr. Spavin will take five-and-twenty guineas from my friend the jock; but wouldnât sell the âBuffaloâ
to a gentleman on no account.â
âHere is the money,â answered Victor, handing the groom five bank-notes
for five pounds each, and twenty-five shillings in gold and silver.
âHave you asked for a holiday?â
âNo, guvânor; because, between you and me, I donât suppose I should get
it if I did ask. I shall make so bold as to take it without asking.
Sham ill, and send my wife to say as Iâm laid up in bed at home, and
canât come to work.â
âHawkins, you are a diplomatist,â exclaimed Victor; âand now Iâll make
short work of my instructions. Thereâs a bit of paper, with the name of
the place to which youâre to take the animalâFrimley Common,
Dorsetshire. Youâll start to-morrow at daybreak, and travel as quickly
as you can without taking the spirit out of the horse. I want him to be
fresh when he reaches my friend.â
Mr. Hawkins gave a sinister laugh.
âDonât you be afraid of that, sir. âWild Buffaloâ will be fresh enough,
you may depend,â he said.
âI hope he may,â replied Carrington, calmly. âWhen you reach Frimley
Commonâitâs little more than a villageâgo to the best inn you find
there, and wait till you either see me, or hear from me. You
understand?â
âYes, guvânor.â
âGood; and now, good-night.â
With this Carrington left the âGoat and Compasses.â As he went out of
the public-house, an elderly man, in the dress of a mechanic, who had
been lounging in the bar, followed him into the street, and kept behind
him until he entered Hyde Park, to cross to the Edgware Road; there the
man fell back and left him.
âHeâs going home, I suppose,â muttered the man; âand thereâs nothing
more for me to do to-night.â
*
CHAPTER XXI.
DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE.
There were two inns in the High Street of Frimley. The days of mail-coaches were not yet over, and the glory of country inns had not
entirely departed. Several coaches passed through Frimley in the course
of the day, and many passengers stopped to eat and drink and refresh
themselves at the quaint old hostelries; but it was not often that the
old-fashioned bedchambers were occupied, even for one night, by any
one but a commercial traveller; and it was a still rarer occurrence for
a visitor to linger for any time at Frimley.
There was nothing to see in the place; and any one travelling for
pleasure would have chosen rather to stay in the more picturesque
village of Hallgrove.
It was therefore a matter of considerable surprise to the landlady of
the âRose and Crown,â when a lady and her maid alighted from the
âHighflyerâ coach and demanded apartments, which they would be likely
to occupy for a week or more.
The lady was so plainly attired, in a dress and cloak of dark woollen
stuff, and the simplest of black velvet bonnets, that it was only by
her distinguished manner, and especially graceful bearing, that Mrs.
Tippets, the landlady, was able to perceive any difference between the
mistress and the maid.
âI am travelling in Dorsetshire for my health,â said the lady, who was
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