Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

But to come back to Mr. Burke. Having eyed me for a second or two, with a look of mingled distrust and impertinence, he unfolded my note, which he held beneath his fingers, and said —

‘I received this from you last night, Mr. – ’

‘Hinton,’ said I, assisting him.

‘Mr. Hinton,’ repeated he slowly.

‘Won’t you be seated?’ said I, pointing to a chair, and taking one myself.

He nodded familiarly, and placing himself on the window-sill, with one foot upon a chair, resumed —

‘It’s about O’Gradys business I suppose you’ve come down here. The Captain has treated me very ill.’

‘You are quite right,’ said I coolly, ‘in guessing the object of my visit; but I must also let you know, that in any observations you make concerning Captain O’Grady, they are made to a friend, who will no more permit his name to be slightingly treated than his own.’

‘Of course,’ pronounced with a smile of the most insulting coolness, was the only reply. ‘That, however, is not the matter in hand: your friend, the Captain, never condescended to answer my letter.’

‘He only received it a few days ago.’

‘Why isn’t he here himself? Is a gentleman-rider to be treated like a common jockey that’s paid for his race?’

I confess the distinction was too subtle for me, but I said nothing in reply.

‘I don’t even know where the horse is, nor if he is here at all. Will you call that handsome treatment Mr. Hinton?’

‘One thing I am quite sure of, Mr. Burke – Captain O’Grady is incapable of anything unworthy or unbecoming a gentleman; the haste of his departure for foreign service may have prevented him observing certain matters of etiquette towards you, but he has commissioned me to accept your terms. The horse is here, or will be here to-night; and I trust nothing will interrupt the good understanding that has hitherto subsisted between you.’

‘And will he take up the writ?’ ‘He will,’ said I firmly.

‘He must have a heavy book on the race.’ ‘Nearly a thousand pounds.’

‘I’m sorry for it for his sake,’ was the cool reply, ‘for he’ll lose his money.’

‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘I understand that you thought well of his horse, and that with your riding – ’

‘Ay; but I won’t ride for him.’

‘You won’t ride! – not on your own terms?’

‘No; not even on my own terms. Don’t be putting yourself into a passion, Mr. Hinton – you’ve come down to a country where that never does any good; we settle all our little matters here in a social, pleasant way of our own. But, I repeat it, I won’t ride for your friend; so you may withdraw his horse as soon as you like; except,’ added he, with a most contemptuous sneer, ‘you have a fancy for riding him yourself.’

Resolving that whatever course I should follow I would at least keep my temper for the present, I assumed as much calmness as I could command, and said —

‘And what is there against O’Gradys horse?’

‘A chestnut mare of Tom Molloy’s, that can beat him over any country. The rest are withdrawn; so that I’ll have a “ride over” for my pains.’

‘Then you ride for Mr. Molloy?’ said I.

‘You’ve guessed it,’ replied he with a wink, as throwing his hat carelessly on one side of his head he gave me an insolent nod and lounged out of the room.

I need not say that my breakfast appetite was not improved by Mr. Burke’s visit; in fact, never was a man more embarrassed than I was. Independent of the loss of his money, I knew how poor Phil would suffer from the duplicity of the transaction; and in my sorrow for his sake I could not help accusing myself of ill-management in the matter. Had I been more conciliating or more blunt – had I bullied, or bid higher, perhaps a different result might have followed. Alas! in all my calculations, I knew little or nothing of him with whom I had to deal. Puzzled and perplexed, uncertain how to act – now resolving on one course, now deciding on the opposite, I paced my little room for above an hour, the only conviction I could come to being the unhappy choice that poor O’Grady had made when he selected me for his negotiator.

The town clock struck twelve. I remembered suddenly that was the hour when the arrangements for the race were to be ratified; and without a thought of what course I should pursue, what plan I should adopt, I took my hat and sallied forth.

The main street of the little town was crowded with people, most of them of that class which, in Irish phrase, goes by the appellation of squireen – a species of human lurcher, without any of the good properties of either class from which it derives its origin, but abounding in the bad traits of both. They lounged along, followed by pointers and wire-haired greyhounds, their hands stuck in their coat-pockets, and their hats set well back on their heads. Following in the train of this respectable cortege, I reached the market-house, upon the steps of which several ‘sporting gentlemen’ of a higher order were assembled. Elbowing my way with some difficulty through these, I mounted a dirty and sandy stair to a large room, usually employed by the magistrates for their weekly sessions; here, at a long table, sat the race committee, an imposing display of books, pens, and papers before them. A short little man, with a powdered head, and a certain wheezing chuckle when he spoke that voluntarily suggested the thought of apoplexy, seemed to be the president of the meeting.

The room was so crowded with persons of every class that I could with difficulty catch what was going forward. I looked anxiously round to see if I could not recognise some friend or acquaintance, but every face was strange to me. The only one I had ever seen before was Mr. Burke himself, who with his back to the fire was edifying a select circle of his friends by what I discovered, from the laughter of his auditory, was a narrative of his visit to myself. The recital must have owed something to his ingenuity in telling, for indeed the gentlemen seemed convulsed with mirth; and when Mr. Burke concluded, it was plain to see that he stood several feet higher in the estimation of hie acquaintances.

‘Silence!’ wheezed the little man with the white head: ‘it is a quarter past twelve o’clock, and I’ll not wait any longer.’

‘Read the list, Maurice,’ cried some one. ‘As it is only “a walk over,” you needn’t lose any time.’

‘Here, then, No. 1 – Captain Fortescue’s Tramp.’ ‘Withdrawn,’ said a voice in the crowd. ‘No. 2 – Harry Studdard’s Devil-may-care.’

‘Paid forfeit,’ cried another.

‘No. 3 – Sir George O’Brien’s Billy-the-bowl.’ ‘Gone home again,’ was the answer. ‘No. 4 – Tom Molloy’s Cathleen.’

‘All right!’ shouted Mr. Burke, from the fireplace» ‘Who rides?’ asked the president.

‘Ulick!’ repeated half-a-dozen voices together.

‘Eleven stone eight,’ said the little man.

‘And a pound for the martingale,’ chimed in Mr. Burke.

‘Well, I believe that’s all. No; there’s another horse-Captain O’Grady’s Moddiridderoo.’

‘Scratch him out with the rest,’ said Mr. Burke.

‘No!’ said I, from the back of the room.

The word seemed electric; every eye was turned towards the quarter where I stood; and as I moved forward towards the table the crowd receded to permit my passage.

‘Are you on the part of Mr. O’Grady, sir?’ said the little man, with a polite smile.

I bowed an affirmative.

‘He does not withdraw his horse, then?’ said he.

‘No,’ said I again.

‘But you are aware, sir, that Mr. Burke is going to ride for my friend, Mr. Molloy, here. Are you prepared with another gentleman?’

I nodded shortly.’

‘His name, may I ask?’ continued he. ‘Mr. Hinton.’