CHAPTER LX

JOHN CROP

A REAL London groom is a gentleman of great pretension and powers of indolence. He can make less work serve him than almost any other description of servant. They are like the men of a hunting establishment without the exercise—they can dress and they can ride,—at least sit a horse in a walk; but as to dressing the horse or caring about him after they get off him, that is no part of their business—there are other people paid for doing that. So, as the huntsman comes shambling into the yard for his horse in the morning and returns him to the place from whence he came in the evening, do these natty elbow-squaring, neat neckcloth-tying grooms expect to be presented with their animals. The groom who does least is considered to be the greatest man. Between men of this description and the humble-minded individual who advertises his general willingness, there is indeed a great gulph. One is the show, the other the working partner in the great firm of Horse, Hound, and Man. Sometimes indeed the willing man includes matters not exactly within the scope of his jurisdiction, as, for instance, “groom and gardener, can wait well at table;” or, more humble still, “gardener and groom, who can milk and butcher if required.” Considering the number of works we have on the choice and management of horses, we wonder no master has ever favoured the public with a treatise on the choice and management of grooms, a subject of quite as much importance, seeing that the horse is of very little value without an efficient attendant. There are few but whose experience would supply a few wrinkles.

Mr. Bunting’s groom, John Crop, was a perfect model of the do-nothing order. Accustomed to the light, trim, drawing-room-like stables of the metropolis and great watering-places, he had an idea that there were helpers and men to do all the dirty work for the smart grooms in the country. He could cock his hat and button his coat and arrange his belt, and make his boots and breeches approximate becomingly; but as to anything useful, that was quite out of the question. He cleaned his own clothes and kept himself trim and smart to ride after his master, and what more could a good-looking, fresh-complexioned young fellow be expected to do?

When Peter Crankey’s emissary (for he did not go himself) arrived at Benson’s livery and bait stables in Haycock Mews, May Fair, to inspect our hero’s horses, Crop was waiting for orders at Mr. Bunting’s lodgings in Clarges Street; but the production of Mr. Bunting’s card enabled the party to see the horses, squeeze their wind-pipes, punch their ribs, and otherwise examine them under the auspices of the helper. That done, the man turned on his heel and walked deliberately out of the Mews without note or comment, followed by the usual ejaculation of “Ah, you’re a gemman, you are,” from his late assistant. But if the man was remiss, the master was prompt; for when Mr. Bunting arrived at the Polyanthus Club, the porter on handing him his letters announced that a party had been there to say he could have Captain—Captain—Captain somebody’s horse.

“Captain Cavendish Chichester’s,” interposed Mr. Bunting.

“That’s the name, sir,” replied the porter; whereupon our hero went bounding up stairs into the morning room, looking as happy as R—d—l P—lm—r when he has thrown his client’s case away.

His various notes, letters, cards, &c., hurriedly conned, he got into a Hansom cab and went rolling away to Rochester Square, there to bind the bargain. What a good thing it was, he thought as he galloped along, that he had given the fellow a sovereign. How foolish that finely-named Mr. Dobbin would look when he came, expecting to show off on the gray. And our hero thought if Owen Ashford and he did not captivate Miss Rosa, nothing would. Arrived at Sligo Mews, he presently thought the money might have been better bestowed; for Peter on appearing had evidently been basking in the sunshine of a gin-palace, and had dimmed his evil eye considerably. Still, as a man who is never exactly sober is never quite drunk, his indulgence had only the effect of engendering familiarity, causing him to receive our dandified friend with extended hand instead of giving him the cap or hat rap of servitude. Somehow or other, too, Peter had shaved off or forgotten his moustache.

“Ah, Captain!” exclaimed he, grasping our hero’s hand severely as he turned, or rather bundled, him into the stable; “Ah, Captain! you’ve got the two besht (hiccup) oshes that ever (hiccup) man laid (hiccup) leg over (lurch), don’t care where the two next (hiccup) besht are. Now when shall we shwop? When shall we shwop?” continued he, diving his hands into his dirty breeches pockets and making a rubbing-post of our friend as he spoke.

“Well, directly,” replied Mr. Bunting, wishing to be done with the nasty fellow, the return smell of Juniper being stronger than he liked.

“Di-rectly ish the word!” hiccuped Peter, nudging Bunting with his elbow.

“That’s to say, to-morrow morning,” qualified Mr. Bunting, thinking Peter was in no condition to deliver.

“Morrow mornin ish the word,” responded Peter; “morrow mornin ish the (hiccup) word, Equinocshal Gale, Esheware Road.”

“No, no, the Golconda Station—the Golconda Station,” frowned Mr. Bunting.

“Musht stop at the Nocshal Gale,” rejoined Peter, eyeing Bunting reproachfully.

“No, no, take it as you come back—take it as you come back—after you get my horses done up,” replied our friend snappishly.

“Well, Golconda Stashon ish the word—Golconda Stashon ish the word,” muttered Peter, adding, “What time?”

“Eleven thirty,” replied Mr. Bunting, sternly; “but the horses should be there before that to load—say eleven punctually.”

“Eleven punc ish the word—eleven punc ish the word,” assented Peter, drawing his dirty hands out of his greasy-topped pockets, adding, “You’ll get my oshes there, and I’ll get your oshes ere. No, I’ll get your oshes where?”

“Well, at my stable,” replied Mr. Bunting.

“No—’spose you bring ’em ere, gov’nor,” rejoined Peter, after a pause, lurching as he spoke, and fixing his evil eye steadily on our friend.

“Well, I have no objection to that,” assented our hero.

“You bring your oshes ere, and I’ll ave mine ready to schange,” said Peter, looking especially wise.

“Very good, very good,” replied Mr. Bunting, thinking they would be better without the monster.

“Shaddles, bridles, rollers, rugs, everything,” enumerated the man.

“Yes, and I get yours in exchange,” observed Mr. Bunting.

“In courshe—in courshe,” assented Peter.

“Then say at ten thirty in the morning—ten thirty in the morning punctually,” rejoined our hero.

“Ten thirty punc ish the word,” added Peter, keeping his eye steadily on Mr. Bunting’s hand, to see if it revisited his waistcoat pocket. But our friend had had enough of that game, and now beat a retreat without further beneficence.