“My daddy was stopping one night in a field, and before going to bed, he looked out and there was his white donkey—leastways so he fancied. It was roaming about, and he set off to catch and tether it, so as he shouldn’t lose it. But do whatever he would, he could never get up to the animal. The nearer he tried to come at it, the furder off it allus was, till at last he know’d that what he’d been chasing all night was not his donkey at all, but the Devil.”
Lounging on the grass, I noticed that the great event of the afternoon had arrived. Sleek, lean horses cantered along the course and passed out of sight. Amid a confused hubbub of voices, several moments went by. Now the glasses were levelled, and a profound silence settled on the crowd. All eyes were turned upon a little knot of horses appearing round Tattenham Corner. Then the sound of many voices swelled into a roar and died down again when the numbers went up.
Prominent at these races in days gone by was Matthias Cooper, a Gypsy to whom the late King Edward, when Prince of Wales, would toss a golden sovereign. A well-known figure was Matty, attired in white hat, yellow waistcoat, black cut-away coat, and white trousers. Hovering about this old Gypsy was an air of the Courts and the Wilderness, for had he not mingled with royalty nearly all his life, this old “Windsor Froggie”? It was from him that Charles G. Leland obtained most of the materials that went to make his work entitled The English Gipsies and their Language. Matty is now no more, but his sons, Anselo and Wacker, still attend the Epsom races year by year.
The great carnival was at last subsiding when I found myself in the tent of Anselo Cooper and his wife, with whom I took tea. I am not likely to forget my ride from the course to Epsom Town. As the Coopers were not leaving till the end of the week, they begged a lift for me from some friends of theirs who were going to the town. Our “carriage,” a two-wheeled affair, was drawn by a gaunt, long-legged horse, and along with some strange dark Gypsies I sat upon a pile of smoky tent-covers. We sped along the Down-land in a fashion which rocked us terribly. The very policemen laughed as we went by, but we reached the town in safety.
CHAPTER XV
TINKERS AND GRINDERS
A PLAGUE of an incline to joints stiffened by age, the Steep Hill at Lincoln is for me aureoled by all the fair colours of youth. Have I not more than once rent my nether garments in gliding down the adjacent hand-rail? Likewise in the time of snow have I not, defiant of police-notices, made slides where the gradient is sharpest?
Now it happened one day that under the shadow of the ancient, timbered houses just below the crown of the hill there stood at his workshop on wheels a Gypsy tinker whose wizened figure and general air of queerness would have charmed a Teniers, and I, a town boy with no small capacity for prying, hovered at his elbow, studying his operations. Suz-z-z-z-z went the tinker’s wheel, as the sparks scattered in a rosy shower from the edge of a deftly handled blade. Then of a sudden something happened, causing me to jump as one who had been shot. There was a dull thud of a falling body, followed immediately by a shrill cry issuing from the throat of a sprawling pedlar—
“Stop my leg, stop my leg!”
A glance at the poor fellow revealed the whole story. His wooden leg, having become detached from its moorings, was rolling down the paved incline. Several persons were passing at the time, and more than one made a dash to recover the defaulting limb, but, youth’s suppleness favouring me, I managed to capture the elusive treasure, and up the hill I bore it in triumph. With admirable agility the tinker reattached the limb, and the pedlar went on his way rejoicing.
“Gimme yer knife, boy,” said the tinker.