North and south, and east and west,
The ‘visitors’ came forth,
as though minded to give the Squire of Warbrok—a name by which Howard Effingham was commencing to be known in the neighbourhood—a substantial acknowledgment of the interest taken by the country-side in his highly commendable enterprise. The younger squatters, then, as now, the aristocracy of the land, mustered gallantly in support of the hereditary pastime of their order. A list might be attempted, were it only like the names of the ships in Homer’s Iliad, some day to be read to curious listening ears by one unknowing of aught save that such, in the dear past, were the names of heroes.
But no thought of the irony of fate fell darkly on the merry party issuing from The Chase to greet the Badajos and Benmohr contingents, as they came up from opposite directions. With Harry O’Desmond rode a tall man in a green hunting frock, whose length of limb and perfect seat showed off the points of an inestimable grey of grand size and power, whom all men saw at once to be The Caliph, well known on both sides of the Straits. It was in truth John Hampden’s famous hunter, a very Bayard among horses, at whom no horse-loving junior could look without tears in his eyes.
Of that party also were the Gambiers—Alick, Jimmy, and Jack—with their friend Willie Machell. A trio of cheerful hard-riding young squatters, having made names for themselves as leading dare-devils where anything dangerous was to be done with the aid of horse-flesh. Their ‘Romeo’ five-year-olds, with matchless shoulders, but imperfect tempers, carried them admirably. Will Machell was a tall, mild, gentlemanlike, musical personage, by no means so ‘hard’ as his more robust friends. He would be available as a chaperon for the feminine division, as he did not intend to do more than canter a mile or two after the throw-off.
Came from the broad river-flats and forest parks of the Murray, Claude Waring and his partner Rodder, the former tall, dark, jovial; the latter neat, prudent, and fresh-coloured.
Came from the volcanic cones and scoria-covered plateaus of Willaree the broad frame and leonine visage of Herman Bottrell. He was well carried by his square-built ambling cob, while beside him on a dark bay five-year-old, with the blood of Tramp in his veins, sat the well-known figure of ‘Dolly’ Goldkind, a man who in his day had shared the costliest pleasures of the haute volée of European capitals. Commercial vicissitudes in his family had forced him to importune fortune afresh in the unwonted guise of an Australian squatter. She had, in this instance, not disdained to ‘favour the brave,’ and Dolly was now in a fair way to see the pavement of the Faubourg St. Germain once yet again, and to bask amid the transient splendour of the Tuileries. He had faced gallantly his share of uncongenial solitude, unadorned Nature, and rude surroundings, always awaiting, with the philosophy born of English steadfastness, and Parisian insouciance, the good time coming.
Came Bernard Wharton, bronzed by the fierce unshadowed sun of that dread waste where clouds rarely linger or the blessed rains of heaven are known to fall. His last whoo-hoop had been heard in his own county, in the ancestral land. His blue eye was bright, and his smile ready, as though he had known naught but lightsome toil and the sport of his Northamptonshire forefathers.
Ardmillan, Forbes, and Neil Barrington, with all the ‘Benmohr mob,’ as they were familiarly called, were in the vanguard. Neil Barrington possessed one valuable attribute of the horseman, inasmuch as he was ready, like Bob Clarke, to ride anything and at anything. No man had ever seen Neil decline a mount or a fence, however unpromising. But his skill was inferior to his zeal, usually provoking comment from the bystanders.
On one of these occasions, when he had hit a top rail very hard in an amateur steeplechase, an expostulatory friend said, ‘Why don’t you lift your horse, Neil?’