A Bayard From Bengal<br />Being some account of the Magnificent and Spanking Career of Chunder Binda by F. Anstey (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖
- Author: F. Anstey
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"Where are his racing colours?" she demanded.
"Here!" cried Mr Bhosh, pulling forth the cream and sky-blue silken jacket and cap from his pockets, and, discarding his frock coat, he assumed the garbage of a jockey in the twinkle of a jiffy.
"I protest," then cried the undaunted Duchess, "against such cruelty to animals as racing an overblown mare so soon after she has galloped from London!"
"Your stricture is just, O humane and distinguished lady," responded the judge, who had conceived a violent attachment to Milky Way and her owner, "and I will willingly postpone the race for an hour or two until the horse has recovered her breeze."
"Quite unnecessary!" said Bindabun. "My mare is not such a weakling as you imagine, and will be as fit as a flea after she has imbibed one or two champagne bottles."
And his prediction was literally fulfilled,[97] for the champagne soon rendered Milky Way playful as a kitten. Mr Bhosh ascended into his saddle; the other horses were drawn up in single rank; the starter brandished his flag—and the curtain rose on such a race as has, perhaps, never been equalled in the annals of the Derby.
The rival cracks were named as follows:——Topsy Turvey, Poojah, Brandy Pawnee, Tiffin Bell, Tripod, Cui Bono, British Jurisprudence and Roseate Smell. The betting was even on the field.
Poojah was a large tall horse with a nude tail, but excessively nimble; Tripod, on the contrary, was a small cob of sluggish habits and needing to be constantly pricked; Tiffin Bell was a piebald of goodly proportions; and Roseate Smell was of same sex as Milky Way, though more vixenish in character.
Not long after the start Mr Bhosh was chagrined to discover that he was all behindhand, and he almost despaired of overtaking[98] any of his fore-runners. Moreover, he was already oppressed by painful soreness, due to so constantly coming in contact with the saddle during his ride from London—but "in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh," and he plodded on, and soon had the good luck to recapture some of his lost ground.
It was the old fabulous anecdote of the Hare and the Tortoise. First of all, Topsy Turvey was tripped up by a rabbit's hole; then Roseate Smell leaped the barrier and joined the spectators, while Tripod sprained his offside ankle. Gradually Mr Bhosh passed Brandy Pawnee, Cui Bono, and British Jurisprudence, until, on arriving at Tottenham Court Corner, only Tiffin Bell and Poojah remained in the running.
Tiffin Bell became so discouraged by the near approach of Milky Way that he dwindled his pace to a paltry trot, so Mr Bhosh was easily enabled to defeat him, after which by Cyclopean efforts he urged his mare until she and Poojah were cheek by jowl.[99]
For some time it was the dingdong race between a hammer and tongs!
Still, as the quadrupeds ploughed their way on, Poojah churlishly refused to give place aux dames, and Milky Way began to drop to the rear. Seeing that she was utterly incompetent to accelerate her speed and therefore in imminent danger of being defeated, Chunder Bindabun had the happy inspiration to make an appeal to the best feelings of the rival jockey, whose name was Juggins.
"Juggins!" he wheezed in an agonised whisper, "I am a poor native Indian, totally unpractised in Derby riding. Show me some magnanimous action, and allow Milky Way to take first prize, Juggins!"
But Mr Juggins responded that he earnestly desired that Poojah should obtain said prize, and applied a rather severe whipsmack to his willing horse.
"My mare is the favourite, Juggins!" pleaded Mr Bhosh. "By defeating her you[100] will land yourself in the bad odour of the oi polloi. Have you considered that, Juggins?"
Juggins's only reply was to administer more whip-smacks, but Chunder Bindabun persevered. "Consider my hard case, Juggins! If I am beaten, I lose both a placens uxor and the pot of money. If, on the other hand, I come in first at the head of the winning pole I promise to share my entire fortune with you!"
Upon this, the kind-hearted and venial equestrian relented, warmly protesting that he would rather be a proxime accessit and second fiddle than deprive another human being of all his earthly felicity, and accordingly he reined in his impetuous courser with such consummate skill that Milky Way forged ahead by the length of a nose.
Thus they galloped past the Grand Stand, and, as Mr Bhosh gazed upwards and descried the elegant form of the Princess Petunia standing upon the topmost roof, he was so exalted with jubilation that he[101] elevated himself in his stirrups; and waving his cap in a chivalrous salute, cried out: "Hip-hip-hip! I am ramping in!"
"Then," I hear the reader exclaim, "it is all over, and Milky Way is victorious."
Please, my honble friend, do not be so premature! I have not said that the race was over. There are still some yards to the judge's bench, and it is always on the racing cards that Poojah may prove the winner after all.
Such inquisitive curiosity shall be duly satisfied in the next chapter, which is also the last.[102]
CHAPTER XIVA GRAND FINISH
Happy Aurora is a happy Aurora!
Hip, Hip, Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hurrah!
Dr Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong).
ON the summit of the Grand Stand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish. Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia (most sumptuously attired) and her parent, Merchant-prince Jones; and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses.
"Poojah will prove to be the winner!... No, it is Milky Way!... They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat!" exclaimed the excited populaces.
And the beauteous Petunia was as if seated[103] upon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was a sine quâ non to their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million.
The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, and Poojah was correspondingly behind. "Macte virtute!" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"
And, as though in answer to this appeal (which he did not overhear), she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap.
Alack! it was the fatal piece of politeness; since, to avoid falling off, he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repenting[104] his good-nature, or unable any longer to restrain the impetuosity of Poojah, was carried first past the winning-pole, Mr Bhosh following on Milky Way as the bad second!
At this the Princess Petunia emitted a doleful scream; like Freedom, which, as some poet informs us, "squeaked when Kockiusko (a Japanese gentleman) fell," and suspended her animation for several minutes, while the Duchess "grinned a horrible ghastly smile," as described by Poet Milton in Paradise Lost, at Mr Bhosh's shocking defeat and her own gain of a million, though all true sportsmen present deeply sympathised with our hero that he should be thus wrecked in sight of port on account of an ordinary act of courtesy to a female!
But Mr Bhosh preserved his withers as unwrung as though he possessed the hide of a rhinoceros. "Honble Sir," said he, addressing the Judge, "I humbly beg permission to claim this Derby race and lodge an objection against my antagonist."[105]
"On what grounds?" was the naturally astonished rejoinder.
"On the grounds," deliberately replied Chunder Bindabun, "that he surreptitiously did pull his horse's head."
Juggins was too dumbfoundered to reply to the accusation, and several spectators came forward to testify that they had personally witnessed him curbing his steed, and—it being contrary to the lex non scripta of turf etiquette to pull at a horse's head when he is winning—Juggins was very ignominiously plucked by the Jockey's Club.
The Duchess made the desperate attempt to argue that, if Juggins was a pot, Mr Bhosh was a kettle of equally dark complexion, since he also had reined up before attaining the goal—but Chunder Bindabun was able easily to show that he had done so, not with any intention to forfeit his stakes, but merely to salute his betrothed, whereas Juggins had pulled to prevent his horse from achieving the conquest.
So, to Mr Bhosh's inexpressible delight,[106] the Derby Cup, full as an egg with golden sovereigns, was awarded to him, and the notorious blue ribbon was pinned by the judge upon his proud and heaving bosom.
But, as he was reverting, highly elated, to the side of his beloved amidst the acclamations of the multitude, the disreputable Juggins had the audacity to pluck his elbow and demand the promised quid pro quo.
"For what service?" inquired Chunder Bindabun in amazement.
"Why, did you not promise me the moiety of your fortune, honble Sir," was the reply, "if I allowed you to be the winner?"
Mr Bhosh was of an exceptionally mild, just disposition, but such a piece of cheeky chicanery as this aroused his fiercest indignation and rendered him cross as two sticks. "O contemptible trickster!" he said, in terrific tones, "my promise (as thou knowest well) was on condition that I was first past the winning-pole. Whereas—owing to thy perfidy—I was only the bad second. Do not [107]attempt to hunt with the hare and run with hounds. Depart to lower regions!"
THE NOTORIOUS BLUE RIBBON WAS PINNED BY THE JUDGE UPON HIS PROUD AND HEAVING BOSOM
And Juggins slinked into obscurity with fallen chops.
Benevolent and forbearing readers, this unassuming tale is near its finis. Owing to his brilliant success at the Derby, Mr Bhosh was now rolling on cash, and, as the prediction of the Astrologer-Royal was fulfilled, there was no longer any objection to his union with the Princess Jones, with whom he accordingly contracted holy matrimony, and now lives in great splendour at Shepherd's Bush, since all his friends earnestly besought him that he was not to return to India. He therefore naturalised himself as a full-blooded British, and further adopted a coat-of-arms from the Family Herald, with a splendidly lofty crest, and the motto "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche." ("Not being funky myself, I do not reproach others with said failing"—free translation.)
But what of the wicked Duchess? I have to record that, being unable to pay the welsher[108] her bet of a million pounds, she was solemnly pronounced a bankruptess and incarcerated (by a striking instance of the tit-for-tat of Fate) in the identical Old Bailey cell to which she had consigned Chunder Bindabun!
And in her case the gaoler's fair daughter, Miss Caroline, did not exhibit the same softheartedness. Mr Bhosh and his Princess-bride, being both of highly magnanimous idiosyncrasies, for some time visited their relentless foe in her captivity, carrying her fruit and flowers and sweets of inexpensive qualities, but were received in such a cold, standoffish style that they soon discontinued such thankless civilities.
As for Milky Way, she is still hale and flourishing, though she has never since displayed the phenomenal speed of her first (and probably her last) Derby race. She may often be seen in the vicinity of Shepherd's Bush, harnessed to a small basketchaise, in which are Mr and Mrs Bhosh and some of their blooming progenies.[109]
Here, with the Public's kind permission, we will leave them, and although this trivial and unpretentious romance can claim no merit except its undeviating fidelity to nature, I still venture to think that, for sheer excitement and brilliancy of composition, &c., it will be found, by all candid judges, to compare rather favourably with more showy and meretricious fictions by overrated English novelists.
End
of
A Bayard From Bengal.
N.B.—I cannot conscientiously recommend the Indulgent Reader to proceed any further—for reasons which, should he do so, will be obvious. H. B. J.
[110]
THE PARABLES OF PILJOSHFREELY RENDERED INTO ENGLISH FROM THE ORIGINAL STYPTIC WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
H. B. JABBERJEE, B.A.
INTRODUCTION
I shall begin by begging that it may not be supposed either that I am the Author or even the Translator of the appended fables!
The plain truth of the matter is that I am far indeed from standing agog with amazement at their literary or other excellences, and inclined rather to award them the faint damnation of a very mediocre eulogy.
But it so happens that the actual translator is the same young English friend who kindly furnished me with a few selected poetic extracts for my Society novel, and has earnestly entreated me (as the quid pro quo!) to compose an introduction and notes for his own effusion,[112] alleging that it is a sine quâ non nowadays for all first class Classics to be issued with introduction, notes and appendix by some literary knob—otherwise they speedily become obsolete and still-born.
Therefore I readily consented to oblige him, although I am no au fait in the Styptic dialect, and cannot therefore be held answerable for the accuracy of my friend's translation, which he
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