George Fenn - Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“My dear fellow,” said the Captain, after a look of disgust at Sir Felix, “I really do not want to know the extent of your wardrobe. In fact, mine is at your service – my valet – er – I beg your pardon, Trevor.”

“I say, don’t take any notice of that solemn little humbug,” said Trevor, laughing; “you know what he always was. I – oh, my God!”

The exclamation was involuntary, for just at that moment a hansom cab was driven sharply out of the turning leading to Saint James’s Square, the horse shied – Pratt afterwards swore it was at Vanleigh’s eyes – and in another instant would have stricken down a faded-looking woman, who seemed to be crossing towards the club steps, but for the act of a passer-by.

The act was as quick as thought. With a bound he caught the woman, swung her round, and was struck by the horse full on the shoulder, to reel for a few yards with his burden, and then roll over and over in the muddy road.

The cabman pulled sharp up, and leapt off his perch with a face white as ashes, in an instant, while Trevor and Pratt ran to the fallen pair – the former to raise the woman, and carry her scared and trembling to the club steps, where Vanleigh stood looking as scared as the sufferer, while Pratt helped the gentleman to rise.

“Take me away, please; let me go – away,” said the woman, shivering with fear.

“Are you hurt?” said Trevor, with his arm still round her.

“No, no; not hurt – only let me go.”

“I couldn’t help it, gen’lemen,” began the cabman.

“No, confound you! – it was an accident, worse luck!” said the principal sufferer, “or you should have caught it sharply, Mr Nine-hundred-and-seventy-six. Here’s a pretty mess I’m in!”

“Very sorry, sir,” said the cabman, – “but – ”

“There, that’ll do. Is the lady hurt?”

“No, no,” said the woman, hastily, and she glanced timidly at Vanleigh, and then at Pratt, who was watching her keenly.

Just then a four-wheeler, which Trevor had hailed, came up, and he handed her in.

“Where shall he drive you?” said Trevor, as he slipped half-a-crown in the driver’s hand.

“Twenty-seven, Whaley’s Place, Upper Holloway,” said the woman, in an unnecessarily loud voice; and the cab was driven off.

“Thank you,” said the muddy stranger, holding out a very dirty hand to Trevor, who grasped it heartily.

“Worse disasters at sea,” he said, smiling.

“Yes,” said the other, looking hard in his face, “so I suppose; but then you do get an action for damages, or insurance money. I don’t insure my clothes,” he said, looking ruefully at his muddy garments, and then at those of the man who had served him. “I say, that was very kind of you, though.”

“Nonsense!” said Trevor, laughing in the bright, earnest, middle-aged face before him. “Come into the club, and send for some fresh things.”

“Thanks, no,” said the stranger, “I’ll get back to my rooms. I must have something out of somebody, so I’ll make cabby suffer.”

The cabman rubbed his ear, and looked blue.

“You’ll drive me home, cabby?” said the stranger.

“That I will, sir, for a week,” said the man, eagerly.

“We may as well exchange cards,” said the stranger, pulling out a case, and putting a muddy thumb upon the top card. “There you are – John Barnard, his mark,” he said, laughing. “Thanks once more. I’ll stick your card in here with mine; and now good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Trevor, frankly; and they shook hands.

“I shall know your face again.”

Saying which, after a curious stare in Trevor’s face, the stranger climbed into the cab, the driver touched up his horse, and the two street boys and the crossing-sweeper, who had been attracted to the scene, were about to separate, when the latter pounced upon something white and held it up to Pratt.

“Did yer drop this ’ere, sir?”

“No,” said Pratt, looking at the muddy note; “but here is sixpence – it is for one of my friends.”

Directly after, to the disgust of the two exquisites, Trevor, soiled from head to foot, was laughing heartily at the rueful aspect of Frank Pratt as he entered the hall.

“Look here,” he said, dolefully, as he held out his muddy gloves. “Two-and-three; and brand-new to-day. Van,” he added, with a peculiar cock of one eye, “have you a clean pair in your pocket?”

“No,” said Vanleigh, coldly. “You can get good gloves in the Arcade; but not,” he added, with a sneer, “at two-and-three.”

“Thanks,” said Pratt; “but I am not a simple Arcadian in my ideas. Oh, by the way, Van, here’s a note for you which somebody seems to have dropped.”

Vanleigh almost snatched the muddy note, which was directed in a fine, lady’s hand; and there was a curious pinched expression about his lips as he took in the address.

“Ah, yes; thanks, much,” he drawled. “Very kind of you, I’m shaw. By the way, Trevor, dear boy,” he continued, turning to his friend, “hadn’t you better send one of the fellows for some things, and then we might walk on to the Corner if you had nothing better to do? Try a suit of mine; those don’t fit you well.”

“No, I’ll keep to my own style,” said Trevor, laughing. “I don’t think I could quite manage your cut.”

Then nodding merrily in answer to the other’s rather disgusted look, he sent a messenger to his hotel, and strolled off to one of the dormitories, while Frank Pratt went into the reading-room, where the others had walked to the window, took up a newspaper, furtively watching Captain Vanleigh and his friend, in the expectation that they would go; but, to his great annoyance, they stayed on till Trevor reappeared, when Vanleigh, with his slow dawdle, crossed to him.

“What are you going to do this afternoon, dear boy?”

“Well, I was thinking of what you said – running down to the Corner to look at a horse or two. Things I don’t much understand.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Vanleigh. “You’ll come, won’t you, Flick?”

“Delighted, quite!” was the reply, very much to Pratt’s disgust – the feeling of disgust being equally shared by Vanleigh, when he saw “that gloveless little humbug” get up to accompany them.

No matter what the feelings were that existed, they sent for a couple of cabs, and a few minutes after were being trundled down Piccadilly towards what is still known as “The Corner” where that noble animal the “’oss” is brought up and knocked down day by day, in every form and shape – horses with characters, and horses whose morals are bad; right up through park hacks and well-matched high steppers, greys, chestnuts, roans and bays, well-broken ladies’ steeds, good for a canter all day, to the very perfection of hunters up to any weight – equine princes of the blood royal, that have in their youth snuffed the keen air of the Yorkshire wolds; mares with retrousse noses and the saucy look given by a dash of Irish blood. Racers, too, are there, whose satin skins, netted with veins, throb with the blue blood that has come down from some desert sire, who has been wont in fleet career to tear up the sand of Araby like a whirlwind, spurn it behind his hoofs, and yet, at the lightest touch of the bit, check the lithe play of his elastic limbs at the opening of some camel or goat-hair tent, where half a dozen swarthy children are ready to play with it, and crawl uninjured about its feet – the mother busily the while preparing the baken cakes and mares-milk draught for her Bedouin lord.

“Clean yer boots? Brush down, sir?”

“Why can’t yer leave the gent alone? I spoke fust, sir.”

“Here y’are, sir – out of the crowd, sir.”