No. VII.—SELLING A HORSE.
SCENE I.—A Horse-Sale. Inexperienced Person, in search of a cheap but sound animal for business purposes, looking on in a nervous and undecided manner, half tempted to bid for the horse at present under the hammer. To him approaches a grave and closely-shaven personage, in black garments, of clerical cut, a dirty-white tie, and a crush felt hat.
Clerical Gent. They are running that flea-bitten grey up pretty well, are they not. Sir?
Inexperienced Person. Ahem! ye-es, I suppose they are. I—er—was half thinking of bidding myself, but it's going a bit beyond me, I fear.
C.G. Ah, plant, Sir—to speak the language of these horsey vulgarians—a regular plant! You are better out of it, believe me.
I.P. In-deed! You don't say so?
C.G. (sighing). Only too true. Sir. Why—(in a gush of confidence)—look at my own case. Being obliged to leave the country, and give up my carriage, I put my horse into this sale, at a very low reserve of twenty pounds. (Entre nous, it's worth at least double that.) Between the Auctioneer, and a couple of rascally horse-dealers—who I found out, by pure accident, wanted my animal particularly for a match pair—the sale of my horse is what they call "bunnicked up." Then they come to me, and offer me money. I spot their game, and am so indignant that I'll have nothing to do with them, at any price. Wouldn't sell dear old Bogey, whom my wife and children are so fond of, to such brutal blackguards, on any consideration. No, Sir, the horse has done me good service—a sounder nag never walked on four hoofs; and I'd rather sell it to a good, kind master, for twenty pounds, aye, or even eighteen, than let these rascals have it, though they have run up as high as thirty q——, ahem! guineas.
I.P. Have they indeed, now? And what have you done with the horse?
C.G. Put it into livery close by, Sir. And, unless I can find a good master for it, by Jove, I'll take it back again, and give it away to a friend. Perhaps, Sir, you'd like to have a look at the animal. The stables are only in the next street, and—as a friend, and with no eye to business—I should be pleased to show poor Bogey to anyone so sympathetic as yourself.
[I.P., after some further chat of a friendly nature, agrees to go and "run his eye over him."
SCENE II.—Greengrocer's yard at side of a seedy house in a shabby street, slimy and straw-bestrewn. Yard is paved with lumpy, irregular cobbles, and some sooty and shaky-looking sheds stand at the bottom thereof. Enter together, Clerical Gent and Inexperienced Person.
C.G. (smiling apologetically). Not exactly palatial premises for an animal used to my stables at Wickham-in-the-Wold! But I know these people, Sir; they are kind as Christians, and as honest as the day. Hoy! TOM! TOM!! TOM!!! Are you there, TOM? [From the shed emerges a very small boy with very short hair, and a very long livery, several sizes too large for him, the tail of the brass-buttoned coat and the bottoms of the baggy trousers alike sweeping the cobbles as he shambles forward]. (C.G. genially.) Ah, there you are, TOM, my lad. Bring out dear old Bogey, and show it to my friend here. [Boy leads out a rusty roan Rosinante, high in bone, and low in flesh, with prominent hocks, and splay hoofs, which stumble gingerly over the cobbles.] (Patting the horse affectionately.) Ah, poor old Bogey, he doesn't like these lumpy stones, does he? Not used to them, Sir. My stable-yard at Wickham-in-the-Wold, is as smoothly paved as—as the Alhambra, Sir. I always consider my animals, Sir. A merciful man is merciful to his beast, as the good book says. But isn't he a Beauty?
I.P. Well—ahem!—ye-es; he looks a kind, gentle, steady sort of a creature. But—ahem!—what's the matter with his knees?
C.G. Oh, nothing, Sir, nothing at all. Only a habit he has got along of kind treatment. Like us when we "stand at ease," you know, a bit baggy, that's all. You should see him after a twenty miles spin along our Wickham roads, when my wife and I are doing a round of visits among the neighbouring gentry. Ah, Bogey, Bogey, old boy—kissing his nose—I don't know what Mrs. G. and the girls will say when they hear I've parted with you—if I do, if I do.
Enter two horsey-looking Men as though in search of something.
First Horsey Man. Ah, here you are. Well, look 'ere, are you going to take Thirty Pounds for that horse o' yourn? Yes or No!
C.G. (turning upon them with dignity). No, Sir; most emphatically No! I've told you before I will not sell him to you at any price. Have the goodness to leave us—at once, I'm engaged with my friend here.
[Horsey Men turn away despondently. Enter hurriedly, a shabby-looking Groom.
Groom. Oh, look here, Mister—er—er—wot's yer name? His Lordship wants to know whether you'll take his offer of Thirty-five Pounds—or Guineas—for that roan. He wouldn't offer as much, only it happens jest to match—
C.G. (with great decisiveness). Inform his Lordship, with my compliments, that I regret to be entirely unable to entertain his proposition.
Groom. Oh, very well. But I wish you'd jest step out and tell his Lordship so yerself. He's jest round the corner at the 'otel entrance, a flicking of his boots, as irritated as a blue-bottle caught in a cowcumber frame.
C.G. Oh, certainly, with pleasure. (To I.P.) If you'll excuse me, Sir, just one moment, I'll step out and speak to his Lordship.
[Exit, followed by Groom.
Horsey Person (making a rush at I.P. as soon as C.G. has disappeared, speaking in a breathless hurry). Now lookye here, guv'nor—sharp's the word! He'll be back in arf a jiff. You buy that 'oss! He won't sell it to us, bust 'im; but you've got 'im in a string, you 'ave. He'll sell it to you for eighteen quid—p'raps sixteen. Buy it, Sir, buy it! We'll be outside, by the pub at the corner, my pal and me, and—(producing notes)—we'll take it off you agen for thirty pounds, and glad o' the charnce. We want it pertikler, we do, and you can 'elp us, and put ten quid in your own pocket too as easy as be blowed. Ah! here he is! Mum's the word! Round the corner by the pub! [Exeunt hurriedly.
Clerical Gent (blandly). Ah! that's settled. His Lordship was angry, but I was firm. Take Bogey back to the stable, TOM—unless, of course—(looking significantly at Inexperienced Person).
Inexperienced Person (hesitating). Well, I'm not sure but what the animal would suit me, and—ahem!—if you care to trust it to me—
Clerical Gent (joyously). Trust it to you, Sir? Why, with pleasure, with every confidence. Dear old Bogey! He'll be happy with such a master—ah, and do him service too. I tell you, Sir, that horse, to a quiet, considerate sort o' gent like yourself, who wants to work his animal, not to wear it out, is worth forty pound, every penny of it—and cheap at the price!
I.P. Thanks! And—ah—what is the figure?
C.G. Why—ah—eighteen—no, dash it!—sixteen to you, and say no more about it.
[Inexperienced Person closes with the offer, hands notes to Clerical Gent (who, under pressure of business, hurries off), takes Bogey from the grinning groom-lad, leads him—with difficulty—out into the street, searches vainly for the two horsey Men, who, like "his Lordship," have utterly and finally disappeared, and finds himself left alone in a bye-thoroughfare with a "horse," which he cannot get along anyhow, and which he is presently glad to part with to a knacker for thirty shillings.
