Dark and grim on Mr. Sawyer’s mind rose many a vision of disappointment and discomfiture, and sporting casualties, such as come under the generic term “grief,” originating in Marathon’s incapacity; but he only replied—
“I’ve too few to keep any for show. I leave that to you swells with your large studs. All mine are forced to come out in their turn.”
The careful ambiguity of our friend’s answer put the whole company on the qui vive. There was evidently something about this nag that was to be kept dark. Even Struggles, the simplest and frankest of men, began to think Mr. Sawyer was what he called “a deep ’un.” The astute Savage now stepped in for cross-examination.
“Shall you enter one for our steeple-chase, Sawyer?” said he, with an off-hand air. “Anything that can really gallop would be sure to win; and as it is to be entirely amongst ourselves, and we shall all ride, it will be rather good fun.”
“When is it?” asked Mr. Sawyer, with admirable simplicity, as if this very steeple-chase, and a certain ball which he had made up his mind to attend, were not the two topics by which he had of late been chiefly engrossed.
Everybody now spoke at once. “Time not fixed,” said one. “Directly the weights are out,” said another. “Whenever we can find a handicapper to give universal satisfaction,” sneered a third; whilst the Honourable Crasher, turning once more in the rocking-chair, and losing a slipper in the effort, quietly remarked, he “would take ten to one even then that he named the winner.”
“Take him, Sawyer!” exclaimed Major Brush. “Take him at once! and enter the bay horse. Owners to ride, of course. He’s got nothing but Chance, now that Catamount’s lame,” added the gallant officer, in a stage whisper, and with a degree of friendly empressement born of rosy wine.
The Honourable smiled feebly, but vouchsafed no reply. It was indeed too true, and as he had rather set his heart on winning this steeple-chase, the truth was unacceptable, as usual. Mr. Sawyer seemed to ponder deeply on what he had heard.
“I should lose so much hunting,” said he, after a pause, during which he had smoked with considerable perseverance and an aspect of profound reflection. “Why, a horse would not have the ghost of a chance, would he, unless he was put to training?”
Doctors differ upon most subjects. “No training like regular hunting,” said Struggles, who meant to have nothing to do with it. “Take him out often, and send him home early,” advised Major Brush, who was generally of opinion that nothing more would be done after 1 P.M. “The half-bred ones seldom stand regular preparation,” opined Mr. Savage, “I should keep him here under my own eye;” while the Honourable Crasher murmured something about “Newmarket being the only place to get a donkey fit.”