"Why so silent, Mr. Shrig?" inquired Barnabas as they crossed
Blackfriars Bridge.
"Because I'm vorking out a problem, sir. For some time I've been trying to add two and two together, and now I'm droring my conclusions. So you know Old Nick the cobbler, do you, sir?"
"I didn't—an hour ago."
"Sir, when you vos in his shop, I took the liberty o' peeping in at the winder."
"Indeed?"
"And I seen that theer 'andsome gal."
"Oh, did you?"
"I likewise 'eered her call your name—Beverley, I think?"
"Yes,—well?"
"Beverley!" repeated Mr. Shrig.
"Yes."
"But your name's—Barty!"
"True, but in London I'm known as Beverley, Mr. Shrig."
"Not—not—the Beverley? Not the bang up Corinthian? Not the
Beverley as is to ride in the steeplechase?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "the very same,—why?"
"Now—dang me for a ass!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and, snatching off the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and crammed it back upon his head,—all in a moment.
"Why—what's the matter?"
"Matter!" said Mr. Shrig, "matter, sir? Veil, vot vith your qviet, innocent looks and vays, and vot vith me a-adding two and two together and werry carefully making 'em—three, my case is spiled—won't come off,—can't come off,—mustn't come off!"
"What in the world do you mean?"
"Mean, sir? I mean as, if Number Vun is the murderer, and Number Two is the accessory afore the fact,—then Number Three—the unfort'nate wictim is—vait a bit!" Here, pausing in a quiet corner of Fleet Market, Mr. Shrig dived into his breast and fetched up his little book. "Sir," said he, turning over its pages with a questing finger, "v'en I borreyed that theer letter out o' young B.'s pocket, I made so free as to take a copy of it into my little reader,—'ere it is, —jest take a peep at it."
Then, looking where he pointed, Barnabas read these words, very neatly set down:
MY DEAR BARRYMAINE,—I rather suspect Beverley will not ride in the
race on the Fifteenth. Just now he is at Hawkhurst visiting Cleone!
He is with—your sister! If you are still in the same mind about a
certain project, no place were better suited. If you are still set
on trying for him, and I know how determined you are where your honor,
or Cleone's, is concerned, the country is the place for it, and I
will go with you, though I am convinced he is no fighter, and will
refuse to meet you, on one pretext or another. However, you may as
well bring your pistols,—mine are at the gun-smith's.—Yours always,
WILFRED CHICHESTER
"So you see, sir," sighed Mr. Shrig, as he put away the little book,
"my case is spiled,—can't come off,—mustn't come off! For if young
B. is Number Vun, the murderer, and C. is Number Two, the accessory
afore the fact, v'y then Number Three, the unfort'nate wictim is—you,
sir,—you! And you—" said Mr. Shrig, sighing deeper than ever,
"you 'appen to be my pal!"
CHAPTER LII
OF A BREAKFAST, A ROMAN PARENT, AND A KISS
Bright rose the sun upon the "White Hart" tavern that stands within Eltham village, softening its rugged lines, gilding its lattices, lending its ancient timbers a mellower hue.
This inn of the "White Hart" is an ancient structure and very unpretentious (as great age often is), and being so very old, it has known full many a golden dawn. But surely never, in all its length of days, had it experienced quite such a morning as this. All night long there had been a strange hum upon the air, and now, early though the hour, Eltham village was awake and full of an unusual bustle and excitement. And the air still hummed, but louder now, a confused sound made up of the tramp of horse-hoofs, the rumble of wheels, the tread of feet and the murmur of voices. From north and south, from east and west, a great company was gathering, a motley throng of rich and poor, old and young: they came by high road and by-road, by lane and footpath, from sleepy village and noisy town,—but, one and all, with their faces set towards the ancient village of Eltham. For to-day is the fateful fifteenth of July; to-day the great Steeplechase is to be run—seven good miles across country from point to point; to-day the very vexed and all-important question as to which horse out of twenty-three can jump and gallop the fastest over divers awkward obstacles is to be settled once and for all.
Up rose the sun higher and higher, chasing the morning mists from dell and dingle, filling the earth with his glory and making glad the heart of man, and beast, and bird.
And presently, from a certain casement in the gable of the "White Hart," his curls still wet with his ablutions, Barnabas thrust his touzled head to cast an anxious glance first up at the cloudless blue of the sky, then down at the tender green of the world about, and to breathe in the sweet, cool freshness of the morning. But longest and very wistfully he gazed to where, marked out by small flags, was a track that led over field, and meadow, and winding stream, over brown earth newly turned by the plough, over hedge, and ditch, and fence, away to the hazy distance. And, as he looked, his eye brightened, his fingers clenched themselves and he frowned, yet smiled thereafter, and unfolding a letter he held, read as follows:
OUR DEAR LAD,—Yours received, and we are rejoyced to know you so successful so far. Yet be not over confident, says your father, and bids me remind you as a sow's ear ain't a silk purse, Barnabas, nor ever can be. Your description of horse reads well, though brief. But as to the Rayce, Barnabas, though you be a rider born, yet having ridden a many rayces in my day, I now offer you, my dear lad, a word of advice. In a rayce a man must think as quick as he sees, and act as quick as he thinks, and must have a nice judgment of payce. Now here comes my word of advice.
1. Remember that many riders beat themselves by over-eagerness.
Well—let 'em, Barnabas.
2. Don't rush your fences, give your mount time, and steady him
about twenty yards from the jump.
3. Remember that a balking horse generally swerves to the left,
Barnabas.
4. Keep your eye open for the best take-offs and landings.
