“Women wrestle!” exclaimed one of the Honourable Charles Caddy's friends.
“Mr. Cuddle is quite correct, sir,” replied young Tom Horner, who had lately come into possession of a snug estate in the neighbourhood; “I have seen them wrestle, in various other parts of the county, as well as on our common.”
“Never heard of such savages since the day I drew breath! Egad!—never, I protest!” said the gentleman who had interrupted Caddy Cuddle.
“Why, it's bad enough, I must admit,” said Homer; “but I think I heard you boast that you were a man of Kent, just now, sir; and, as I am told, the women of that county play cricket-matches very frequently. Now, in my opinion, there is not a very great difference between a female match at cricket, on a common, and a feminine bout at wrestling, in a ring. In saying this, I beg to observe that I mean no offence.”
“I take none; I protest I see no occasion,—no pretence for my taking umbrage.—I am not prepared to question the fact,”—added the speaker, turning toward his host; “not prepared to question the fact, you observe, after what has dropped from the gentleman; although, with permission, on behalf of the women of Kent, I take leave to declare, that I never heard of their indulging in such an amusement, before the gentleman mentioned it.”
“Well, sir,” said Caddy Cuddle, who had been very impatient, all this time, to blazon the generosity and spirit of his friend, Caddy Caddy; “I was going on to state, that, after the gold-laced hat was grinned for, through a horse-collar; the pig was caught, and so forth,—the expense of all which pastimes Caddy Caddy bore;—the waggon-horse-race was run, for the whips and frocks.”
“A waggon-horse-race!” said the gentleman of Kent; “I beg pardon; did I hear you correctly?—Am I to understand you, as having positively said—a waggon-horse-race?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Tom Homer; “and capital sport it is: I have been twice to Newmarket, and once to Doncaster; I know a little about racing; I think it a noble, glorious, exhilarating sport; but, next to the first run I saw for the St Leger, I never was half so delighted with any thing, in the shape of racing, as when Billy Norman, who now keeps the west gate of Caddy Park here, exactly sixteen years ago, come August, won the whips on the common.”
“Indeed!” simpered the gentleman of Kent, gazing at Tom Horner, as though he were a recently imported nondescript “Billy, on that occasion, rode most beautifully;” continued Horner; “he carried the day in fine style, coming in, at least seven lengths, behind all his competitors.”
“If I may be allowed,” observed the gentleman of Kent, “you would say, before.”