Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

are to be found at the

‘Goat and Compasses’?”

 

“I mostly am, sir, after nine o’clock of an evening—summer and

winter—”

 

“That will do,” exclaimed Victor, with a quick glance at the door of

the counting-house. “I will see you at the ‘Goat and Compasses’ to-night, at nine. Hush!”

 

Eversleigh and his cousin were just emerging from the counting-house,

as Victor Carrington gave the groom a warning gesture.

 

“Mum’s the word,” 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 “Goat and

Compasses”—a 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.

 

“There’s no one in the parlour, sir,” said Hawkins, as he recognized

Mr. Carrington; “and if you’ll step in there, we shall be quite

private. I suppose there ain’t no objection to this gent and me

stepping into the parlour, is there, Mariar?” Mr. Hawkins asked of a

young lady, in a very smart cap, who officiated as barmaid.

 

“Well, you ain’t a parlour customer in general, Mr. Hawkins; but I

suppose if the gent wants to speak to you, there’ll be no objection to

your making free with the parlour, promiscuous,” answered the damsel,

with supreme condescension. “And if the gent has any orders to give,

I’m ready to take ‘em,” 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.

 

“Fill yourself a glass of brandy,” he said. And Mr. Hawkins was not

slow to avail himself of the permission. “Now, I’m a man who does not

care to beat about the bush, my friend Hawkins,” said Victor, “so I’ll

come to business at once. I’ve taken a fancy to that bay horse, ‘Wild

Buffalo,’ and I should like to have him; but I’m not a rich man, and I

can’t afford a high price for my fancy. What I’ve been thinking,

Hawkins, is that, with your help, I might get ‘Wild Buffalo’ a

bargain?”

 

“Well, I should rather flatter myself you might, guv’nor,” answered the

groom, coolly, “an 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

wouldn’t have him at no price—no, 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.”

 

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.

 

“The horse is a dangerous animal to handle, then?” asked Victor.

 

“When you can ride a flash of lightning, and hold that well in hand,

you may be able to ride ‘Wild Buffalo,’ guv’nor,” answered the groom,

sententiously; “but till you have got your hand in with a flash of

lightning, I wouldn’t recommend you to throw your leg across the

‘Buffalo.’”

 

“Come, come,” remonstrated Victor, “a good rider could manage the

brute, surely?”

 

“Not the cove as drove a mail-phaeton and pair in the skies, and was

chucked out of it, which served him right—not even that sky-larking

cove could hold in the ‘Buffalo.’ He’s got a mouth made of cast-iron,

and there ain’t a curb made, work ‘em how you will, that’s any more to

him than a lady’s bonnet-ribbon. He got a good name for his jumping as

a steeple-chaser; but when he’d 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 guv’nor, which

more fool my governor to take him at any price, says I. And now, sir,

I’ve stood your friend, and give you a honest warning; and perhaps it

ain’t going too far to say that I’ve saved your life, in a manner of

speaking. So I hope you’ll bear in mind that I’m a poor man with a

fambly, and that I can’t afford to waste my time in giving good advice

to strange gents for nothing.”

 

Victor Carrington took out his purse, and handed Mr. Hawkins a

sovereign. A look of positive rapture mingled with the habitual cunning

of the groom’s countenance as he received this donation.

 

“I call that handsome, guv’nor,” he exclaimed, “and I ain’t above

saying so.”

 

“Take another glass of brandy, Hawkins.”

 

“Thank you kindly, sir; I don’t care if I do,” answered the groom; and

again he replenished his glass with the coarse and fiery spirit.

 

“I’ve given you that sovereign because I believe you are an honest

fellow,” said the surgeon. “But in spite of the bad character you have

given the ‘Buffalo’ I should like to get him.”

 

“Well, I’m blest,” exclaimed Mr. Hawkins; “and you don’t look like a

hossey gent either, guv’nor.”

 

“I am not a ‘horsey gent.’ I don’t want the ‘Buffalo’ 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 week’s holiday to bring

him down to my friend’s place in the country, I’ll give you a five-pound note for your trouble.”

 

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.

 

“Well, you see, guv’nor, I don’t think Mr. Spavin would consent to sell

the ‘Buffalo’ yet awhile. He’d be afraid of mischief, you know. He’s a

very stiff ‘un, is Spavin, and he comes it uncommon bumptious about his

character, and so on. I really don’t think he’d sell the ‘Buffalo’ till

he’s broke, and the deuce knows how long it may take to break him.”

“Oh, nonsense; Spavin would be glad to get rid of the beast, depend

upon it. You’ve only got to say you want him for a friend of yours, a

jockey, who’ll break him in better than any of Spavin’s people could do

it.”

 

James Hawkins rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

 

“Well, perhaps if I put it in that way it might answer,” he said, after

a meditative pause. “I think Spavin might sell him to a jock, where he

would not part with him to a gentleman. I know he’d be uncommon glad to

get rid of the brute.” “Very well, then,” returned Victor Carrington;

“you manage matters well, and you’ll be able to earn your fiver. Be

sure you don’t let Spavin think it’s a gentleman who’s sweet upon the

horse. Do you think you are able to manage the business?”

 

The groom laid his finger on his nose, and winked significantly.

 

“I’ve managed more difficult businesses than that, guv’nor,” he said.

“When do you want the animal?”

 

“Immediately.”

 

“Could you make it convenient to slip down here to-morrow night, or

shall I wait upon you at your house, guv’nor?”

 

“I will come here to-morrow night, at nine.”

 

“Very good, guv’nor; in which case you shall hear news of ‘Wild

Buffalo.’ But all I hope is, when you do present him to your friend,

you’ll present the address-card of a respectable undertaker at the same

time.”

 

“I am not afraid.”

 

“As you please, sir. You are the individual what comes down with the

dibbs; and you are the individual what’s entitled to make your choice.”

 

Victor Carrington saw that the brandy had by this time exercised a

potent influence over Mr. Spavin’s groom; but he had full confidence in

the man’s 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 o’clock on the following evening, the two met again at the

“Goat and Compasses.” This time their interview was very brief and

business-like.

 

“Have you succeeded?” asked Victor.

 

“I have, guv’nor, like one o’clock. Mr. Spavin will take five-and-twenty guineas from my friend the jock; but wouldn’t sell the ‘Buffalo’

to a gentleman on no account.”

 

“Here is the money,” answered Victor, handing the groom five bank-notes

for five pounds each, and twenty-five shillings in gold and silver.

“Have you asked for a holiday?”

 

“No, guv’nor; because, between you and me, I don’t 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 I’m laid up in bed at home, and

can’t come to work.”

 

“Hawkins, you are a diplomatist,” exclaimed Victor; “and now I’ll make

short work of my instructions. There’s a bit of paper, with the name of

the place to which you’re to take the animal—Frimley Common,

Dorsetshire. You’ll 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.”

 

Mr. Hawkins gave a sinister laugh.

 

“Don’t you be afraid of that, sir. ‘Wild Buffalo’ will be fresh enough,

you may depend,” he said.

 

“I hope he may,” replied Carrington, calmly. “When you reach Frimley

Common—it’s little more than a village—go to the best inn you find

there, and wait till you either see me, or hear from me. You

understand?”

 

“Yes, guv’nor.”

 

“Good; and now, good-night.”

 

With this Carrington left the “Goat and Compasses.” 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.

 

“He’s going home, I suppose,” muttered the man; “and there’s nothing

more for me to do to-night.”

 

*

 

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 “Rose and Crown,” when a lady and her maid alighted from the

“Highflyer” 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.

 

“I am travelling in Dorsetshire for my health,” said the lady, who was