Tracks Of A Rolling Stone - Henry J. Coke (novels in english .TXT) 📗
- Author: Henry J. Coke
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Soup And Fish Were Excellent, But We Were Young And Hungry,
And The Usual Leg Of Mutton Was Always A Dish To Be Looked
Forward To.
When Its Cover Was Removed By The Waiter We Looked In Vain;
There Was Plenty Of Gravy, But No Mutton. Our Surprise Was
Even Greater Than Our Dismay, For The Waiter Swore 'So 'Elp
His Gawd' That He Saw The Cook Put The Leg On The Dish, And
That He Himself Put The Cover On The Leg. 'And What Did You
Do With It Then?' Questioned My Host. 'Nothing, S'archibald.
Brought It Straight In 'Ere.' 'Do You Mean To Tell Me It Was
Never Out Of Your Hands Between This And The Kitchen?'
'Never, But For The Moment I Put It Down Outside The Door To
Change The Plates.' 'And Was There Nobody In The Passage?'
'Not A Soul, Except The Sentry.' 'I See,' Said My Host, Who
Was A Quick-Witted Man. 'Send The Sergeant Here.' The
Sergeant Came. The Facts Were Related, And The Order Given
To Parade The Entire Guard, Sentry Included, In The Passage.
The Sentry Was Interrogated First. 'No, He Had Not Seen
Nobody In The Passage.' 'No One Had Touched The Dish?'
'Nobody As Ever He Seed.' Then Came The Orders: 'Attention.
Ground Arms. Take Off Your Bear-Skins.' And The Truth -
I.E., The Missing Leg - Was At Once Revealed; The Sentry Had
Popped It Into His Shako. For Long After That Day, When The
Guard Either For The Tower Or Bank Marched Through The
Streets, The Little Blackguard Boys Used To Run Beside It And
Cry, 'Who Stole The Leg O' Mutton?'
Chapter 16 Pg 86
Probably The Most Important Historical Event Of The Year '49
Was The Discovery Of Gold In California, Or Rather, The Great
Western Exodus In Pursuit Of It. A Restless Desire Possessed
Me To See Something Of America, Especially Of The Far West.
I Had An Hereditary Love Of Sport, And Had Read And Heard
Wonderful Tales Of Bison, And Grisly Bears, And Wapitis. No
Books Had So Fascinated Me, When A Boy, As The 'Deer-Slayer,'
The 'Pathfinder,' And The Beloved 'Last Of The Mohicans.'
Here Then Was A New Field For Adventure. I Would Go To
California, And Hunt My Way Across The Continent. Ruxton's
'Life In The Far West' Inspired A Belief In Self-Reliance And
Independence Only Rivalled By Robinson Crusoe. If I Could
Not Find A Companion, I Would Go Alone. Little Did I Dream
Of The Fortune Which Was In Store For Me, Or How Nearly I
Missed Carrying Out The Scheme So Wildly Contemplated, Or
Indeed, Any Scheme At All.
The Only Friend I Could Meet With Both Willing And Able To
Join Me Was The Last Lord Durham. He Could Not Undertake To
Go To California; But He Had Been To New York During His
Father's Reign In Canada, And Liked The Idea Of Revisiting
The States. He Proposed That We Should Spend The Winter In
The West Indies, And After Some Buffalo-Shooting On The
Plains, Return To England In The Autumn.
The Notion Of The West Indies Gave Rise To An Off-Shoot.
Both Durham And I Were Members Of The Old Garrick, Then But A
Small Club In Covent Garden. Amongst Our Mutual Friends Was
Andrew Arcedeckne - Pronounced Archdeacon - A Character To
Whom Attaches A Peculiar Literary Interest, Of Which Anon.
Arcedeckne - Archy, As He Was Commonly Called - Was About A
Couple Of Years Older Than We Were. He Was The Owner Of
Glevering Hall, Suffolk, And Nephew Of Lord Huntingfield.
These Particulars, As Well As Those Of His Person, Are Note-
Worthy, As It Will Soon Appear.
Archy - 'Merry Andrew,' As I Used To Call Him, - Owned One Of
The Finest Estates In Jamaica - Golden Grove. When He Heard
Of Our Intended Trip, He At Once Volunteered To Go With Us.
He Had Never Seen Golden Grove, But Had Often Wished To Visit
It. Thus It Came To Pass That We Three Secured Our Cabins In
One Of The West India Mailers, And Left England In December
1849.
Chapter 16 Pg 87
To Return To Our Little Suffolk Squire. The Description Of
His Figure, As Before Said, Is All-Important, Though The
World Is Familiar With It, As Drawn By The Pencil Of A Master
Caricaturist. Arcedeckne Was About Five Feet Three Inches,
Round As A Cask, With A Small Singularly Round Face And Head,
Closely Cropped Hair, And Large Soft Eyes, - In A Word, So
Like A Seal, That He Was As Often Called 'Phoca' As Archy.
Do You Recognise The Portrait? Do You Need The Help Of
'Glevering Hall' (How Curious The Suggestion!). And Would
You Not Like To Hear Him Talk? Here Is A Specimen In His
Best Manner. Surely It Must Have Been Taken Down By A
Shorthand Writer, Or A Phonograph:
Mr. Harry Foker Loquitur: 'He Inquired For Rincer And The
Cold In His Nose, Told Mrs. Rincer A Riddle, Asked Miss
Rincer When She Would Be Prepared To Marry Him, And Paid His
Compliments To Miss Brett, Another Young Lady In The Bar, All
In A Minute Of Time, And With A Liveliness And Facetiousness
Which Set All These Young Ladies In A Giggle. "Have A Drop,
Pen: It's Recommended By The Faculty, &C. Give The Young
One A Glass, R., And Score It Up To Yours Truly."'
I Fancy The Great Man Who Recorded These Words Was More
Afraid Of Mr. Harry Phoca Than Of Any Other Man In The
Garrick Club - Possibly For The Reason That Honest Harry Was
Not The Least Bit Afraid Of Him. The Shy, The Proud, The
Sensitive Satirist Would Steal Quietly Into The Room,
Avoiding Notice As Though He Wished Himself Invisible. Phoca
Would Be Warming His Back At The Fire, And Calling For A
Glass Of 'Foker's Own.' Seeing The Giant Enter, He Would
Advance A Step Or Two, With A Couple Of Extended Fingers, And
Exclaim, Quite Affably, 'Ha! Mr. Thackry! Litary Cove! Glad
To See You, Sir. How's Major Dobbings?' And Likely Enough
Would Turn To The Waiter, And Bid Him, 'Give This Gent A
Glass Of The Same, And Score It Up To Yours Truly!' We Have
His Biographer's Word For It, That He Would Have Winked At
The Duke Of Wellington, With Just As Little Scruple.
Yes, Andrew Arcedeckne Was The Original Of Harry Foker; And,
From The Cut Of His Clothes To His Family Connection, And To
The Comicality, The Simplicity, The Sweetness Of Temper
(Though Hardly Doing Justice To The Loveableness Of The
Little Man), The Famous Caricature Fits Him To A T.
The Night Before We Left London We Had A Convivial Dinner At
The Garrick - We Three Travellers, With Albert Smith, His
Brother, And John Leech. It Was A Merry Party, To Which All
Contributed Good Fellowship And Innocent Jokes. The Latest
Arrival At The Zoo Was The First Hippopotamus That Had
Reached England, - A Present From The Khedive. Someone
Wondered How It Had Been Caught. I Suggested A Trout-Fly;
Which So Tickled John Leech's Fancy That He Promised To Draw
It For Next Week's 'Punch.' Albert Smith Went With Us To
Chapter 16 Pg 88Southampton To See Us Off.
On Our Way To Jamaica We Stopped A Night At Barbadoes To
Coal. Here I Had The Honour Of Making The Acquaintance Of
The Renowned Caroline Lee! - Miss Car'line, As The Negroes
Called Her. She Was So Pleased At The Assurance That Her
Friend Mr. Peter Simple Had Spread Her Fame All The World
Over, That She Made Us A Bowl Of The Most Delicious Iced
Sangaree; And Speedily Got Up A 'Dignity Ball' For Our
Entertainment. She Was Rather Too Much Of An Armful To Dance
With Herself, But There Was No Lack Of Dark Beauties, (Not A
White Woman Or White Man Except Ourselves In The Room.) We
Danced Pretty Nearly From Daylight To Daylight. The Blending
Of Rigid Propriety, Of The Severest 'Dignity,' With The
Sudden Guffaw And Outburst Of Wildest Spirits And Comic
Humour, Is Beyond Description, And Is Only To Be Met With
Amongst These Ebullient Children Of The Sun.
On Our Arrival At Golden Grove, There Was A Great Turn-Out Of
The Natives To Welcome Their Young Lord And 'Massa.' Archy
Was Touched And Amused By Their Frantic Loyalty. But Their
Mode Of Exhibiting It Was Not So Entirely To His Taste. Not
Only The Young, But The Old Women Wanted To Hug Him. 'Eigh!
Dat You, Massa? Dat You, Sar? Me No Believe Him. Out O' De
Way, You Trash! Eigh! Me Too Much Pleased Like Devil.' The
One Constant And Spontaneous Ejaculation Was, 'Yah! Massa Too
Muchy Handsome! Garamighty! Buckra Berry Fat!' The Latter
Attribute Was The Source Of Genuine Admiration; But The
Object Of It Hardly Appreciated Its Recognition, And Waved
Off His Subjects With A Mixture Of Impatience And Alarm.
We Had Scarcely Been A Week At Golden Grove, When My Two
Companions And Durham's Servant Were Down With Yellow Fever.
Being 'Salted,' Perhaps, I Escaped Scot-Free, So Helped
Archy's Valet And Mr. Forbes, His Factor, To Nurse And To
Carry Out Professional Orders. As We Were Thirty Miles From
Kingston The Doctor Could Only Come Every Other Day. The
Responsibility, Therefore, Of Attending Three Patients
Smitten With So Deadly A Disease Was No Light Matter. The
Factor Seemed To Think Discretion The Better Part Of Valour,
And That Jamaica Rum Was The Best Specific For Keeping His
Up. All Physicians Were Sangrados In Those Days, And When
The Kingston Doctor Decided Upon Bleeding, The Hysterical
State Of The Darky Girls (We Had No Men In The Bungalow
Except Durham's And Archy's Servants) Rendered Them Worse
Than Useless. It Fell To Me, Therefore, To Hold The Basin
While Archy's Man Was Attending To His Master.
Durham, Who Had Nerves Of Steel, Bore His Lot With The Grim
Stoicism Which Marked His Character. But At One Time The
Doctor Considered His State So Serious That He Thought His
Lordship's Family Should Be Informed Of It. Accordingly I
Wrote To The Last Lord Grey, His Uncle And Guardian, Stating
That There Was Little Hope Of His Recovery. Poor Phoca Was
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