Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One. Fenn George Manville

we were going to walk all round the course.”

      “No use to go houri hunting,” said Vanleigh, maliciously. “The barouche has gone.”

      Trevor coloured slightly, and then more deeply, as he saw a smile on the Captain’s lip.

      “We shall see you again, I daresay, by the stand,” he said, taking no notice of the allusion; and, laying a hand upon Pratt’s shoulder, he strolled away.

      “Well,” he said, after a few minutes, “the barouche had not quite disappeared, Franky.”

      “No,” said the other, shortly. “Better for its occupants if it had. I say, Dick, if I had sisters, it would make me feel mad every time that fellow looked at them.”

      “What – Landells?”

      “Oh no, Felix is a good sort of fellow enough; getting spoiled, but I don’t think there’s a great deal of harm in him. I’ve taken a dislike to Van, and I’m afraid I’m rather bitter, and – look, there goes, the barouche! Quick, lend me your glass!”

      “Thanks, no, Franky,” said Trevor, quietly, raising it to his eyes, and watching the carriage, which was going down a lane to their left, the owner having apparently given orders for the postboy to drive them from place to place, where they could get a view of the races, which had succeeded each other pretty quickly. “Thanks, no, I will keep it; but, for your delectation, I may mention that the ladies look very charming, the old gentleman very important; and – now they are gone.”

      He replaced the glass in its case, smiled good-humouredly at his companion, and they walked on.

      “Dick,” said Pratt, after a few moments’ silence, “if I were a good-looking fellow like you, I should get married.”

      “And how about yourself?” said the other, smiling.

      “Self? I marry? My dear old fellow, marriage is a luxury for the rich. I should be very sorry to starve a wife, and – I say, though, I’m as hungry as a hunter. Take me back to London, old fellow, and feed me, without you want to stay.”

      “Stay – not I!” said Trevor; “a very little of this sort of thing goes a long way with me. But about those two fellows?”

      “Let them try to exist without our company, for once in a way,” said Pratt, looking earnestly at his friend, who was busy once more with the glass; but, catching his companion’s eye, Trevor closed the binocular, and they left the course.

      The Writer of the Letter

      “Woa! d’ye hear? woa! I’m blest if I ever did see sich a ’oss as you are, Ratty, ’ang me if I did. If a chap could drive you without swearing, he must be a downright artch-angel. Holt still, will yer? Look at that now!”

      A jig here at the reins, and Ratty went forward; a lash from the whip, and the horse, a wall-eyed, attenuated beast, with a rat-tail, went backwards, ending by backing the hansom cab, in whose shafts he played at clay mill, going round and round in a perfect slough of a new unmade road, cut into ruts by builders’ carts.

      “Now, look’ee here,” said the driver, our friend of the Pall Mall accident; “on’y one on us can be master, yer know. If you’ll on’y say as yer can drive, and will drive, why, I’ll run in the sharps, and there’s an end on’t. Hold still, will yer? Yer might be decent to-day.”

      The horse suddenly stood still – bogged, with the slushy mud over his fetlocks, and the cab wheels half-way down to the nave.

      “Thenky,” said the driver, standing up on his perch; “much obliged. I’m blessed!” he muttered. “Buddy may well say as mine’s allus the dirtiest keb as comes inter the yard, as well as the shabbiest. ’Struth, what a place! Now, then, get on, will yer?”

      The horse gave his Roman-profiled head a shake, and remained motionless.

      “Just like yer,” said the cabman. “When I want yer to go, yer stop; and when I don’t want yer to go, off yer do go, all of a shy, and knocks ’alf a dozen people into the mud, and gets yer driver nearly took up for reckless driving, as the bobbies calls it. Come, get on.”

      Another shake of the head, but the four legs seemed planted as if they were to grow.

      “Well, there’s one thing, Ratty,” said the driver, “we’re about square, mate; for if ever I’ve give yer too much of the whip, yer’ve had it outer me with obstinacy. Look at this now, just when yer oughter be on yer best manners, seeing as I’ve come about the mischief as yer did; and then, to make it wus, yer takes advantage of yer poor master’s weakness, and goes a-leading of him inter temptation sore as can’t be bore, and pulls up close aside of a public.”

      For the spot at which the horse had stopped was at the opening of one of those new suburban streets run up by speculative builders – a street of six and seven-roomed houses, with a flaring tavern at the corner; and the houses, starting from the commencement of the street, in every stage from finished and inhabited, through finished and uninhabited, down to unfinished skeletons with the bricks falling out – foundations just above the ground, foundations merely dug, to end only with a few scaffold poles, and a brick-field in frill work.

      “Stops right in front of a public, yer do,” said the driver; “and me as thirsty as a sack o’ sawdust.”

      The cabman looked at the public-house, to read golden announcements of “Tipkin’s Entire,” of “The Celebrated Fourpenny Ale,” and the “Brown London Stout, threepence per pot in your own jugs,” and his whip-hand was drawn across his lips. Then the whip-hand was set free, and forced its way into his pockets, where it rattled some halfpence.

      “Must have ’alf pint now, anyhow,” he muttered, and he made as if to fasten the reins to the roof of the cab, but only to plump himself down into his seat again, jig the reins, and give his whip, a sharp crack.

      “I’ll tell the missus on you, Hatty, see if I don’t?” he said, “a-trying to get your master back into his old ways. Get on with yer, or yer’ll get it directly.”

      He gave his whip such a vigorous crack in the air that Ratty consented to go, and dragging the muddy cab partially down the new street, its driver pulled up by where a knot of shoeless boys were ornamenting, and amusing themselves with, the new ill-laid pavement. One was standing like a small Colossus of Rhodes, with his grimy feet at either corner of a loose slab, making the liquid mud beneath squirt out into a puddle, while a companion carefully turned a naked foot into a stamp, dipped it in the mud, and printed a pattern all along the pave, till a third smudged it out, and a fight ensued.

      “Hallo, yer young dogs,” roared the cabman, and his long whip gave a crack which stopped the fray; “a-fightin’ like that! Where’s Whaley’s Place?”

      “First turn to the left, and first to the right,” shouted two boys.

      “And is it all like this here?” said the cabman.

      “No; you should have gone round Brick Street. I’ll show yer.”

      “Hook on, then,” said the cabman, turning his horse; and, to the extreme envy of his companions, the little speaker “hooked on” behind, his muddy feet slipping about on the step; but he clung fast, shouting his directions till the driver reached the main road, made a détour, and arrived at last in Whaley’s Place, where the present of a copper sent the boy off in high glee to spend it in some coveted luxury.

      “Nice sorter cheerful spot this,” said the cabman, taking an observation of the street, which was of a similar class to the new one he had left, only that the houses had fallen into a state of premature decay; quite half, too, had declined from the genteel private and taken to trade, with or without the bow window of shop life. For instance, one displayed a few penny illustrated sheets and an assortment of fly-specked clay pipes, the glass panes bearing the legends, “Tobacco” and “Cigars.” Another house had the door wide open, and sundry squeaks issued therefrom – squeaks of a manufacturing tendency, indicative of grinding, the process being explained by a red and yellow board, having an artistic drawing of the machinery used, and the words, “Mangling