Probably the utmost ingenuity of the tailor’s art must have been exhausted in constructing trousers so tight as the pair which clung to that person’s legs. Not a crease had they, nor a fold anywhere; and, unless the man slept in them, it was difficult to conceive how they could conveniently be used as articles of daily apparel. The person’s boots, too, were neat, round-toed Wellingtons; his waistcoat descended far below his hips; and the waist-buttons of his grey-mixture coat were unusually low and wide apart. A cream-coloured silk neckcloth, secured by a horse-shoe pin, set off a pale, sharp-looking countenance, speaking of hot stables and dissipation, while the closest possible crop of hair and whiskers did justice to a shaved hat with an exceedingly flat brim. A few splashes of mud on the boots and trousers showed he had been lately on horseback; and he held up one of his thin little legs as he took his seat, and contemplated the stains with a grin of morbid satisfaction.
“Blessed if ever I see this country so deep!” he remarked, after a pull at the flip. “How my horses will stand it, I know no more than the dead, the way the governor rides. We’ve only nine this year; and he’s an awful hard man upon a horse.”
“Nine!” exclaimed old Isaac, smacking his lips after the draught, which warmed the very cockles of his heart; and being a man of few words, only added, “Well, now, to be sure!”
“He is awful hard upon ’em—that’s the truth,” continued the narrator. “It was only last week he says to me, ‘Tiptop,’ says he—my name’s Tiptop—‘what made Boadicea’ (that’s our bay mare by Bellerophon out of Blue Light)—‘what made Boadicea stop with me under Carlton Clump to-day? Either she wasn’t fit,’ says he, ‘or she isn’t worth five shillings.’ ‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘the mare’s a gross feeder,’ says I, ‘and you ride with rayther a slack rein.’ ‘slack rein be hanged!’ says he. ‘If ever such a thing happens again, you’ll get the sack,’ says he. So I up and told him I was ready to go whenever he could replace me; and the upshot of it was as he apologised quite like a gentleman; for, indeed, he wouldn’t know whatever to do without me. He’s a good man—my governor—enough; but he’s hasty—very hasty. Why, to see him coming over a gate into the turnpike-road, as I did t’other day, on Catamount—that’s our chestnut, as ran fourth for the Liverpool—you’d say he’d no discretion whatever; but they’ve all got their faults—all on ’em. What’s yours? Can he ride?”
Discreet Isaac answered with a counter-question. “What’s your governor’s name?” said he, peeping once more into the waning pewter measure.
“The Honourable Crasher,” replied Mr. Tiptop, not without an air of exultation. “A brother he is to the Hearl of Heligoland. Now I’ve told you all about it, old bloke. There—you ease your mind in return, and give us your name.”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve seen the register,” answered Isaac. “But it’s a long way to the parish as owes me a settlement; and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Mr. Tiptop, till I can communicate with you by post.” Saying which Isaac finished the flip at a gulp, and walked off to seven-o’clock stables without uttering another word.
CHAPTER V
“BOOTS AND SADDLES”
London is in the way to everywhere. I have an old friend,—an honest Lincolnshire squire,—who, paying his sister a visit in Norfolk, always goes and returns by London. I do not think it is necessary to traverse Oxford Street in order to proceed from the Old Country to Market Harborough; and yet on the day that witnessed his faithful groom’s introduction to Mr. Tiptop, John Standish Sawyer might have been, and indeed was, seen crossing that crowded thoroughfare, with hasty steps and air of considerable preoccupation.