The fact is, Mr. Sawyer was full of business. In the first place, it is needless to observe, he had been to have his hair cut—a rite seldom neglected by the true Englishman when entering upon a new phase in his career. Also he had to purchase many articles of wearing apparel, such as are only to be procured in the Metropolis. Since his rejection by Miss Mexico (for previous to that casualty he had been rather a gaudy dresser than otherwise), our friend, although preserving an equestrian exterior, had suffered his wardrobe to run considerably to seed. In truth, there was little temptation to extravagance on that score at The Grange. But now that he was about to take his place, as he observed, amongst the sporting aristocracy of Great Britain, it would be necessary to call in the aid of such artists as consider themselves the especial providers of boots, breeches, &c., for the first flight.
When I met him he was hurrying towards the well-known emporium of Messrs. Putty & Co., now universally acknowledged to be the only firm in London at which a truly workmanlike top-boot—combining, as their advertisement expresses it, “comfort to the wearer, with satisfaction to the looker-on”—is to be obtained. I could not resist my friend’s imploring request to accompany him into the shop, and favour him with my experience on a subject which cannot be mastered without considerable observation and reflection.
Like most people from the country, Mr. Sawyer feels somewhat shy in the presence of a fashionable London tradesman. When he entered the warehouse, a languid gentleman, with one shoeless foot placed on a square of brown paper, was drawling out his directions to Messrs. Putty’s foreman, an exceedingly smart and voluble disciple of St. Crispin.
“Not too thick,” said the languid man, in a tone of utter physical exhaustion. “Man can’t ride nicely, if he don’t feel his stirrup through his boot;” and Sawyer nudged my elbow with a delighted wink, that seemed to say—“This swell, too, is a votary of Diana!”
The languid man’s silk-stockinged foot having been re-shod, he rose with great difficulty, and moved feebly in the direction of his brougham, from the window of which he adjured the shopman, in a faint voice, to forward “the tops when finished to my address at Market Harborough,” and sank back amongst the cushions, completely overcome.
The talismanic syllables raised the curiosity of my friend. “Who is it?” he whispered eagerly to the returning shopman; and that worthy, placing a chair and a fresh square of brown paper for his new customer, replied somewhat condescendingly—“That, sir? That’s the Honourable Crasher, sir; hunting gentleman, and very particular about his tops. What can I do for you, sir?”
I had now an opportunity of observing the great warmth and thickness of the worsted stockings in which my friend kept his legs encased; also the stout proportions of those useful limbs, more adapted perhaps for the Highland kilt, than any other costume. Mr. Putty’s foreman saw at a glance the difficulties he would have to contend with, and prepared to subdue them.
“Very muscular gentleman!” said he; passing his tape round my friend’s calf. “Great pedestrian powers, I should say. Inconvenient in the saddle; but will endeavour to rectify that. Excuse me, sir: take the liberty of asking whereabouts you generally hunt.”
“Hunt?” repeated the customer. “Oh! Leicestershire—Northamptonshire—all about there—in the neighbourhood of Market Harborough.” Mr. Sawyer spoke in a vague general sort of way, as if he was in the habit of pervading the whole of the grazing districts.
A cloud gathered on the foreman’s brow.