With this startling exposition of his theory, Tips swallowed his gin-and-water at a gulp, and then looked anxiously at the door, seemingly for the reappearance of Mr. Naggett.
As that worthy, however, did not return, I could but entreat the rough-rider to allow Miss Lushington to replenish his glass at my expense; and lighting a cigar myself, by that lady’s permission, I begged Tips to take a chair, and proceeded with my inquiries.
“Is there no sort of horse then,” I asked, “that you consider dangerous? or do you believe that whenever an accident happens, collar-bones or otherwise, it must be the fault of the rider?”
“Plenty of dangerous horses about, sir,” answered Tips, preparing to make himself comfortable—“plenty of ’em, more’s the pity, even for horse-breakers and such-like, as I am myself. We never get no credit of them. Even if we get them pretty handy, and return them as quiet to ride or drive, why as soon as they’re back in their own stable, they begin at their old tricks again. There was one as I had from Mr. Mohair, the draper in Waterborough; a grey he was, and up to all manner of games. Wouldn’t go by the milliner’s shop in the High Street, not at no price. Mrs. Mohair was just mad about it, sir, I can tell you. Well, they sent him over to me to break; and says the missus to me, says she, when I took him away, ‘Break the spirit of him, Mr. Tips,’ says she, ‘if whip and spur will do it. And don’t let me see of him backing and sidling into the windows of them bold hussies again,’ says she, ‘not if you cut him into ribbons for it!’ You see the ladies is mostly for strong measures,—asking your pardon, Miss,—’specially where there’s other ladies concerned. Well, I didn’t cut him into ribbons, I didn’t, because it’s not my way; but I coaxed and humoured of him, and once or twice when we did have a tussle, I showed him pretty plainly who was master: and I rode him backwards and forwards into Waterborough and what not, and he passed the milliner’s windows and took no more notice than if there hadn’t been a pretty girl in the whole shop, front or back. So I takes him to Mr. Mohair, and says I, ‘You may ride him anywheres now, sir,’ says I, ‘for if you do but shake a whip at him, he goes as quiet as a lamb.’ And I charged him for the horse’s keep, and a sovereign besides, and so thought no more about it.
“Well, sir, in less than a fortnight, I happened to be in Waterborough on market-day; and as I came out of the horse-market, I see a crowd of foot-people running towards the High Street, and I hear a precious stamping and scuffling, and clattering of horses’ feet just round the corner where the milliner’s shop stands; so I walk on to see what the disturbance is. A precious shindy I found too. There was a donkey-cart drawed on to the pavement, and a hamper of greens upset on the door-step, and a old apple-woman cursing awful, and the foot-people flying into the middle of the street; and in the heart of them all, there was the grey horse right up against the milliner’s front-door, with his head going one way and his body another, and his tail tucked down in his quarters as if he meant mischief enough for a week; and Mr. Mohair (he’s a timid gentleman, Mr. Mohair), sitting on his back as white as a sheet, pulling of him by the bridle, and kicking of him in the ribs, afraid to quilt him as he should have done by rights; afraid to stick to him handsome, and yet more afraid still to get off his back, for there stood Mrs. Mohair in her best black satin gown, with a shawl pulled over her head, a rowing of him tremendous, and all the pretty girls in the milliner’s windows laughing fit to break their hearts. Well, I caught hold, and led him back to his own stable for pity’s sake; and Mr. Mohair behaved quite like a gentleman; but he sold him to run in the ’bus, and never got on his back again.”
“Very awkward for all parties,” observed Miss Lushington, probably following out a train of ideas of her own.
Tips stared at her for a considerable period, winked solemnly with his damaged eye, and then subsided once more into his gin-and-water.
“Do you think these vicious horses, then,” said I, “the most dangerous customers you have to deal with?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” was the reply; “vice in a horse is the most troublesome fault of all to cure, because it’s always breaking out again, and because a vicious beast is sure to be a sensible beast too. The horse-riders, you know, sir—them as teaches horses to fire pistols, and make tea, and dance on the tight-rope, and what not—they always give the preference to what they call a restive one, because you see it’s the beast’s sagacity that makes him so difficult to break, if so be the breaker has begun with him the wrong way. It’s all humbug, sir, is horsemanship, that’s what it is; and the easier a horse is humbugged, the pleasanter he is to ride and drive. Now a real knowing ’un won’t be humbugged at no price, and so we come to forcing of him, which is always a difficult business, and then it’s ‘pull devil, pull baker,’ and if the baker pulls hardest, why we call him vicious. But he’s always got his wits about him, he has. He may be aggravating, very: but you can’t call him dangerous. He won’t put himself into a mess, not if he knows it, and so he’s bound to take care of you, so long as you don’t part company. I recollect of a nag, a very neat one, as belonged to a friend of mine, who says to me one evening, ‘Tips,’ says he, ‘I’ll sell you my bay Galloway,’ says he, ‘for seventeen sovereigns, there, and a glass of gin-hot, for I dursn’t ride him, and that’s the truth.’ ‘I’ll give you three five-pun’ notes and a bottle of French brandy,’ says I, ‘if it’s all on the square.’ ‘Done!’ says he. ‘Done!’ says I; ‘and now what’s his little game?’ says I, when I’d ordered the brandy. ‘Well,’ says my friend, ‘whenever I ride down wharf-side to my business, he makes a dash for the canal, and tries to plunge over head in the deep water.’ ‘Has he ever been in with you?’ says I. ‘Never!’ said he, ‘and I’ll take care he never shall. I’m a family man, Mr. Tips, and plagued with the rheumatics besides.’”
“So I brought the little nag home: and next day I took a sharp pair of spurs, and an ash-plant, and rode him down wharf-side quite easy and confidential. Sure enough he takes the bit in his mouth, and away he goes best pace for the canal. We came at it so fast I thought we must both have been in; and he stopped so short on the edge, if I hadn’t been ready for him, I must have gone clean over his head. Well, he fought and fought, but I couldn’t force him into it, till at last I got his hind legs close to the brink, and I slipped off his back, and with a jerk of the bridle, tipped him over as neat as wax. He had to swim for a hundred yards and more alongside the towing-path afore he could get out, and he never tried on that game agin, you may take your oath. He was a sweet cob as ever you see to carry fourteen stone, and I sold him to an old gentleman at Croydon for five-and-forty sovereigns, money down. But he didn’t want to go into the canal, bless ye; though once he was in, he swam like an otter.”