A STORY-TELLING PARTY.
BEING A RECITAL OF CERTAIN MISERABLE DAYS AND NIGHTS PASSED, WHEREWITH TO WARM THE HEART OF THE CHRISTMAS SEASON.
We are six—seven would have made the announcement a poetical quotation; but one is wanting, and we remain a prosy half-dozen, not unwilling to be jolly, but waiting for the occasion.
We are at an inn, of course. Outside it is wintry weather, and a great log fire beams on us like a cheerful president.
Lawyer Spence and Mr. Selby belong to the neighbourhood. Of the other gentlemen, one speculates in hops, and has a fine appreciation of the punch; one is of the Indian Civil Service; the last is a servant of the public of Great Britain.
How we came together here, would interest you but slightly. People are always flying about at Christmas, and accidents will happen. Enough that we cry out with clown, “Here we are!”
Now Christmas is such a season for telling stories, that, I give you my word, and I am confirmed in my attestation of the fact by the after assurance of every gentleman present, we had no idea of amusing each other; we thought only of drinking our punch and toddling to bed: and to bed we should have gone, with nothing to laugh over, had not Mr. Lorquison said suddenly:
“Ha! ‘cold weather! We’re comfortable here, eh? How did you spend the autumn, sir?” And that began it.
H.E.I.C.S. was addressed, and replied:
“Oh, down in Scotland.”
The conversation was relapsing; we had almost lost it; when H.E.I.C.S. appeared to remember something, and laughed.
Mr. Lorquison immediately turned a conversational side-face to him: Mr. Spence lifted his head from his glass: Mr. Selby smacked his knee: and the dealer in hops inquired what tickled his fancy.
“Nothing particular,” said the Indian. “I was on the moors in a friend’s hut, and was only laughing at a miserable night I passed there.”
A DREADFUL NIGHT IN A HUT ON THE MOORS.
He paused, as if to hint there was really nothing remarkable in his experience, and pursued:
“My friend hires a shepherd’s hut for the shooting season. The shepherd’s wife is his cook, and does the work in primitive fashion. You shoot a blackcock—it’s presented to you boiled, a pheasant—boiled! everything’s boiled! I believe she would boil a boar’s head. I suffered a little, of course, but that was nothing. She made tolerable hare soup. The animal is skinned, and then stewed down—blood, entrails, and all. I once brought her a hare: she rejected it with scorn: there wasn’t ‘bluid enoo’.’ Well, we shot some game—blackcock rather plentiful this season—tried our hands at spearing salmon, and sought what amusement we could find among a scanty but lively population. One night my friend, who had established relations with some neighbouring Scotch—I suppose I must say farmers—invited them to dine with him; and as these gentry have to come some distance over the hills, an invitation of this sort involves the offer of a bed, or, at least, some place for them to stretch their limbs. I forget how many glasses of whiskey-toddy I consumed in their society. I was the first to move to bed; but my departure did not at all disturb them. In my first sleep I was aroused by the sound of a heavy fall on the floor. I rose in bed. My friend was at my feet, trying to open the window. ‘Only one of the Scotchees,’ he said, and informed me that it was impossible to quarter him down stairs, as the door would not shut, and the wind blew cold.
“ ‘There he is,’ he added, laughing “toddily,” if I may be allowed the word. ‘He said when be last spoke, that he preferred a good floor to a bed. You’ll find him strong; so I open the windows.’
“Complaint was of no use, so I lay down again: my friend went off to his Scotchee, and all seemed at peace. By and bye I felt the cold, and decided to rise quietly and exclude the wind. I had one foot out of bed, when a low growl suprised me, and made me draw it in again quickly. Looking over on one side, I perceived a dog. I have no doubt he was of the ordinary size of shepherds’ dogs in general, but to me he appeared enormous. He had evidently come to watch over his master, and was determined to tear the leg of any one moving in the room. I thought it better to try and bear the cold than come to a tussle with him, and rouse the savage nature of the beast. There’s something in presenting a naked leg to a dog, which is, I assure you, not pleasant. But the cold increased. I got out of bed. He growled a moment, and then up he jumped and made a rush at me. I’m not ashamed to confess that I was
beforehand with him, and sought ignominious
shelter in the sheets. He growled again, and I
heard him trot round to his original position at
the feet of his master. My case seems ridiculous,
but it was really desperate. The wind was blowing dead on me, and what with my Indian constitution and the draughts, I saw myself clearly
in for a long course of ills. But it was a full
hour before I could resolve what to do: a most
miserable hour, I can assure you. I jumped out of
bed with all the bed-coverings in my hand — met
the savage beast as he was about to spring, and
buried him under them. I had just time to shut
the window — I was hurrying back to my bed,
when I saw his tail emerge, and there was nothing
for it but to return to bed as rapidly as I could,
and leave him the sheets and blankets. There I
remained, as cold as ever, while he took his station on them. There never was such a dog in the
manger! If I got hold of the end of a blanket
and began to pull, he growled and made a dash at
my hand. The very movement of my leg caused
him to be up and alert for an encounter. Once I
pulled with all my might, and the beast seized
the blanket between his teeth and pulled against
me. I became enraged. I thought of my original
stratagem; and leaping out again, I flung the
blanket — or what portion of it was in my possession— straight at him. But this time I was not
so successful. I only contrived to blind his eye
for a moment — the next we were rolling together
over the recumbent Scotchman.
“Hech! is it the deil? I heard him say; and
he grasped my foot.
“I lashed out, and sent him roaring backward.
Presently he and I were engaged, and burst
through the door in our struggle, without much
difficulty, right on to the body of my friend’s
Scotchman, extended in the manner of his com-
rade. He uttered a similar inquiry about the
deil! and forthwith joined in the fray. My friend
was not long in adding a fourth to this curious
nocturnal engagement, the dog all the while barking furiously, and snapping at every leg but his
master’s. This lasted, 1 should think, about
twenty minutes, at the shortest calculation, when
the shepherd and his wife appeared with lights,
and I hope they were gratified. But their arrival
gave rise to the second case of dead-lock on
record. None of us would move till the dog was
secured. I held my Scotchman firmly; my friend
held me; his Scotchman held mine; and mine
had got hold of my friend — being tenacious of his
quarry, I suppose, for he had nothing to fear;
and so we continued till the dog was secured. It
was then close upon morning. We all went down
stairs, and drank in the day. Nothing extraordinary, you see, but something to laugh at.”
This unlocked us.
“I think I’ll take a little more of your punch, sir,” said Mr. Selby to Mr. Lorquison.
Mr. Lorquison filled Mr. Selby’s glass, and then
rubbed his hands, as one who has suddenly the
prospect of a good social evening before him.
A PARALLEL NIGHT IN A BED.
“Yes,” continued Mr. Selby. “This didn’t
happen to me, mind! But talking about miserable
nights, reminds me of a case. There was a fellow
on my uncle’s estate — you know it, Spence — at
Benlea. I made friends with him when I was a
boy, and such a fellow I think I never met. He
was a daring fellow, a determined poacher —
in short, a good-for-nothing; — what your Scotch
friends, sir, would call a ‘ne’er-do-weel: and he
went to the ‘ deil as fast as he could. His name
was Tom Clayper. We called him TomClaypipe,
because he always had one in his mouth. Well,
the fellow took a fancy to me, and taught me
some tricks, which I hope I have forgotten.
When we’re young we’re not very choice in our
friendships. But Tom really had some good
points. I have known him send a hare secretly
to a poor widow, who wanted a bit of something.
The hare, you say, cost him little. Perhaps he
did not reckon how much it did cost him. However, from poaching to highway robbery, and from
that to burglary, was but a step for Tom. He
found Benlea too hot for him, and disappeared.
I met him ten years afterwards. Looking in the
paper one day, I saw there was a trial of one with
many aliases, for feloniously entering a certain
house — Squire Pell’s, of Boddington — and stealing, &c., &c. Among the list of aliases stood the
name of Clayper. He was condemned, and sentenced to transportation for the term of his natural
life.
“The sight of the poor fellow’s name, and
his position, called up some boyish feelings of
mine, and I made up my mind to go and see him.
I was able to procure admission. Tom recognised
me at once, and held out his hand. He was never
ashamed of himself; which was one characteristic
he had. We talked over old times. I was capable
of appreciating what merits Mr. Clayper pos-
sessed, now that I had seen more of the world,
and he was certainly an extraordinary fellow. As
I was still young enough to be pleased at hearing
adventures; and as Tom, now that his career
seemed closed, was gratified in relating his, I
had Tom’s history before we parted. Its finale seems
to have been this: for Tom was rather shy of speaking about certain matters — a peculiarity I have
noticed in some of your rips. He had his feelings
of delicacy where women are concerned. A rather
pretty girl was in service at the Squire’s — Squire
Pell, I think T told you. To her Tom paid court.
He was richer in presents than in reputation. I
fancy the girl gave him reason to think she liked
him. At all events she did not return his fineries.
One evening, Mr. Tom met the Colonel in her
company — somewhere about the grounds. Tom
assured me that he passed them civilly; but the
next time he came across the Colonel he was surly,
and managed to insult him, and then to speak his
mind, winch was none of the cleanest. The Colonel, you must know, was engaged at the time to be married to Squire Pell’s only daughter —money, but no beauty. So he let Tom get the best of him; but from that day, Tom says, he felt he had an enemy, and knew who that enemy was. Wasn’t he a coward to hunt a poor devil like that in the dark?’ said Tom to me, and declared he knew the Colonel was a coward, and was determined to be revenged, and satisfied of it. “One night the Colonel was in bed, and heard
his door yield its lock, and open.
“You shall hear the rest in Tom’s words: —
“‘I knew that man was a coward, sir; so
once in the house, and sure of his room, I knew
I had him. I knew the bearings of the bed. I
watched how the light fell two or three nights before. The moment I opened the door, I threw the
light— carried a dark lantern — threw the light
slap on his face. I saw him start. Did that man
open his eyes? Deuce a bit J Slept as sound as
tenpence. I laughed to myself. Why, if he had
got up, it’d have been a fair struggle between us,
and nabbed I certainly should ’a been. But deuce
a bit did he stir. Colonel Badger, thinks I, I’ll
badger you! Well, I walked slow up to him,
with the lantern in one hand, and my pistol in
the other, levelled at his head. There was he
sleeping harder and harder. I couldn’t quite see
his heart beat, but I’ll lay my life it galloped.’
“I will spare you Tom’s oaths.
“‘Well sir,’ he went on. ‘I’d half a mind at
one moment, to do for him outright. For a
coward who’s nothing better than a villain, what
good’s he for, to live? Close down to his fore-
head I put the muzzle of the pistol. It was
tempting then. Just a hair, and he’d have had an
extinguisher on his small candle! Lor, sir, his
eyes was shut, but I’ll wager he saw it all as clear
as day. And there was the prespiration a burstin’
out of his forehead, and rollin’ down his cheeks.
I remember a large drop of prespiration on his
nose! And he pretendin’ to sleep hard all the
while! Why, the stoopid ass! did he think I
didn’t know that a chap never sweated in his
sleep? Leastways not natural sweat. Well! I
kept at that, drawing the pistol away, and puttin’
of it close, for, I should think, forty minutes or
more; but I took no account. I was cruel glad,
to be sure, and he prespiring harder and harder.
Not a move right or left. / didn’t speak. I
thought to myself, “Oh you villain! I dare say
you think yourself better than me, don’t you?
And if you had me in your power, now, wouldn’t
you let loose? But I ain’t such a coward as you!
You shall bleed, my fine chap — in the pocket.
That’ll do!” For, said Tom to me. I hadn’t come
there and run the risk, only to frighten the Colonel
Two birds at one blow was always my game. So
by-and-bye,’ Tom pursued, ‘ when I thought I’d
given my gentleman a pretty good sweat for the
benefit of his health, I began to ransack. I knew
the whereabouts of his desk, and things — collared
the desk entire, and made as if I’d walk away.
He had a chance then. The cowardly beast! There
he stuck. He’d have liked to snore, just to persuade me he was a snoozin’! And such a fellow as
that to go misleadin’ of young women! Ain’t it
disgustin’, sir?’
“Tom was a bit of a moralist, you see.
“Well, the end of it was that Tom, after giving
the Colonel another dose, made up his mind to
quit the premises. ‘And I went, sir,’ said Tom.
‘Got off scot free. I just spoke these -words in a
solemn voice. Colonel; whether you’re asleep,
or whether you’re awake, just you keep quiet the
next quarter of an hour, or you’re a dead man. I
ain’t going yet, but my comrades is (I was all
alone, sir, I never took a pal, if I could help it;
but I thought T’d tell him so, the coward!) and
I’ll stop outside the door, I says, till they’re safe.
So mind your eye, I says. I’m in earnest. And
then I touched his forehead with the cold iron and
moved back, pointin’ at him still, and his face
shinin’ with the cold sweat. He won’t forget that
hour I give him, in a hurry. I knew very well
he’d sleep on, bless you, and so he did, and I
never heard nothin’ till a month ago, when they
pounced on me for it, and here I am, goin’ to see
foreign lands, thanks to you, Colonel. But you
won’t forget me, so don’t try. And everybody’s
talking of the story, for I outs with it at the trial
neck and crop. I told it all about his sweatin’
and pretendin’ to sleep. I saw the people laugh.
I’ll swear the judge enjoyed it, for all he looked
that grave you’d think he was a owL Ha! ha!
Mr. Colonel! that’s what I calls strikin’ as you fly.
They’ll call you a coward in Old England; but
they won’t call me one in Van Diemen.
And with this consolation Mr. Tom Clayper
departed on his voyage. You will admit, gentlemen, that the Colonel’s night must have been sufficiently miserable.”
We all agreed that we did not envy the Colonel
his position. Mr. Spence approved his conduct.
The dealer in hops sided with Mr. Tom Clayper.
Mr. Lorquison thought he should have given the
alarm when the audacious burglar left the room.
The H.E.I.C.S. was of opinion that Tom’s judg-
ment on the Colonel was well grounded, and I
took the side of those who have not been tried as
the Colonel was.
Mr. Spence coughed — “Ahem!”
This, when stories are beginning to flow, is always
taken for a sign of one coming in sequence. We
were not disappointed.
A MOST EXCITING DRAMA.
“Well, gentlemen,” he commenced, without
any Apropos, “you’ve given me some amusement,
I’ll do my best in return. My story’s professional. You won’t object to that? In the law we
hear and come across queer things. I give you
warning I had nothing to do with this in question;
but my agents in London — a highly respectable
firm — were engaged in the inquiry. It was all
in the papers some years ago, but I dare say you
have forgotten it. And, after all, a story twice
told may pass on a winter’s night.”
We applauded the observation, and bade him
proceed.
“I’ll make it short,” said Mr. Spence. “It’s
a drama in three acts — there’s blood in it; but
don’t be alarmed, I beg.
“Act the First, then. I was fond of the play when I was a young man, articled in London. The scene opens in a dentist’s room in the West-End of London. Mr. Filey was a fashion- able dentist, with an exceedingly, what is called, gentlemanly appearance. You might have taken him for a baronet, and so might I. A carriage drove up to the house, and a lady carefully attired — West-End costume, and some of those women do look very captivating. I haven’t been in London now for four years, notwithstanding the railways; and when I do go it’s never to the West-End. But, well,—a lady, I said. She inquired for Mr. Filey. That gentleman made his bow.
“‘Mr. Filey,’ she said, “I have come to you on a sad case.’ She sighed. Of course Mr. Filey was full of sympathy—in his aspect, at all events.
“Yes,’ she said, ‘it is very sad. You are great in teeth, Mr. Filey. Do you remember me years ago?’
“Mr. Filey begged to be excused his forgetfulness, attributing it to his extended practice.
“‘Ah! I was then younger, Mr. Filey. I am now, as my card will have shown you, Lady Spriggs.’
“Mr. Filey bowed to the title.
“I have a nephew, Mr. Filey; the heir to a vast property. He has but one defect—his teeth! Oh! the trouble those teeth have given us! His timidity is such that he will never now approach a dentist’s shop—I mean house, and we are at our wit’s ends what to do with him. Do you think that if I contrived to lure him here, Mr. Filey, that you could so manage as to remove one or two of his—I think you call them grinders—without his being aware of it?’
“The proposition was rather startling, but Mr. Filey was an old hand, and an able.
“He said, he had no doubt that, if he had the young gentleman there, he would extract the teeth, and he should hardly know anything of it—so delicate and sudden would be the manipulation—till it was over.
“‘That will do,’ said the lady. ‘You will eternally oblige his family, Mr. Filey, and deeply shall I feel indebted to you, believe me. I will take the liberty of paying you in advance, if you please. May I know what it will be?’
“She drew forth her purse, and paid the sum Mr. Filey thought fit to demand.
“Arrangements were then made that the young gentleman should call on the morrow, at two o’clock P.M., precisely. Every device not to alarm his sensitiveness in the matter of his teeth was promised by Mr. Filey, who was forewarned that the young gentleman was eccentric, and dressed not quite in the fashion—in fact, commonly; so that, unless you knew it, you would not presume him to be heir to a vast estate.
“The scene closes on Mr. Filey bowing the lady into her carriage.
“Act the Second, displays a jeweller’s shop. West End. Messrs. Spitchcock and Co. A lady alights from her carriage, and enters. She desires to see some jewellery. A diadem set with diamonds fixes her eye. Her taste is pleased by a beautiful bracelet, and a pair of ruby ear-rings which suit her complexion, she thinks. She is assured that they suit her admirably. She hands her card:—Lady Spriggs; at present residing at Mr. Filey’s.
“‘You know Mr. Filey, the dentist?’
“‘Very well, indeed,’ she is told, ‘and Sir Sampson also, by name.’
“She then desires them to make out their bill, and tell her the amount of her purchases. Four hundred odd pounds the bill amounted to. And the shopman wasn’t astonished! But what a country this is, where women can lavish money on gimcracks—as I tell my wife. However! the lady said she would be infinitely obliged to them, if, within half an hour—that was, by two o’clock, precisely, and not a moment later—they would pack up the things, and despatch them and the bill, by one of their young men, to Mr. Filey’s, where Sir Sampson, her husband, would write out
a cheque, and liquidate the debt. Some woman’s rigmarole, I suppose. However! the request was readily assented to. She departed, and the scene closes with her being bowed into her carriage a second time. May the Lord have mercy on simpletons!
“Well, gentlemen, Act the Third. I contend that they are perfect acts, though they have but a scene a-piece.
“A young man with parcel calls at two o’clock, precisely, that afternoon, at Mr. Filey’s, and asks to see Sir Sampson Spriggs.
“‘Her ladyship is within,’ says the page.
“The young man says, she will do. He is ushered into a room where he sees the lady.
“Do you smell a rat, gentlemen?”
“Well, the lady affably took the parcel from the young man, and said:
“‘I will take it to show my husband up-stairs. He will be with you in five minutes, and hand you the cheque. You will excuse me? I must first satisfy him of the necessity I have for the articles.’
“Of course, the poor fellow thought that all was fair and straightforward. Ha! ha! He said, he would be happy to wait. Ha! ha! He took a chair. Ha! ha! ha!”
Mr. Spence lost himself in a fit of laughter. Just divining the catastrophe, we also laughed a laugh of eager expectation.
“Don’t you see it?” cried Mr. Spence. “But it’s really too bad to laugh. Well. He waited. The minute hands of the clock went round. He waited on. Before he had time to feel uncomfortable in his mind, the door opened, and a gentleman walked in who bowed to him, and made his mind quite easy.
“‘I brought the things,’ said the young man; ‘and am waiting—’
“‘To see me,” said Mr. Filey, admiring the stratagem of the lady immensely. ‘To see me. Yes. I’m aware. A beautiful day to-day, sir? Rather sultry. May I offer you a glass of wine?’
“Of course the young man didn’t object. Ha! ha! You know how they used to prepare victims for the sacrifice! Ha! ha!
“Well. They talked. Mr. Filey said:
“‘Pray take a chair, may I ask you?’ and the young fellow, warmed by his wine, was quite agreeable to anything.
“‘Will you open your mouth, may I ask?’ said Mr. Filey.
“‘What for?’ says the young fellow, amazed.
“‘Oh, nothing!’ says Mr. Filey. ‘I merely wished to inspect. The conformation of your tongue struck me as peculiar. Not that it affects your speech, sir. Not at all. But pray allow me.’
“The poor young fellow opened his mouth. Ha, ha! He opened his mouth, and gaped.
“‘Now draw back your tongue,’ said Mr. Filey.
“No doubt the young fellow thought him a very eccentric baronet, but he complied.
“In a minute one of his grinders was seized —
caught in a vice, wrenched, twisted, pulled.
Heaven spare us all the horrible agony! I can’t
laugh any more. The grinder came out at last, in
the midst of stifled screams, and I’m afraid, curses.
It came out, and the young man was guilty of an
assault on the body of the dexterous operator.
Mr. Filey went down.
“‘Where’s the lady? Where’s Sir Sampson
Spriggs? ’ roars the young man, with his hand on
his mouth.
“‘My dear sir,’ says Mr. Filey. You really
— you may be eccentric; but when one is doing
you a good, sir — doing you a service — ’
“‘ Service,’ splutters the wretched young fellow.
‘Service to pull out a tooth when I didn’t ask
you! ’
“‘Ask me, sir,’ says Mr. Filey. ‘ When I
tell you it has been arranged by your estimable
aunt, Lady Spriggs, and that it was paid for
yesterday — ’
“‘Paid for yesterday! ’ bawls the victim, starting back.
“‘This tooth, sir, was paid for yesterday,’
says Mr. Filey, impressively.
“‘Lady Spriggs — my aunt?’ exclaimed the
confounded youth.
“Come, sir,’ says Mr. Filey. ‘I think what-
ever your objection to part with it, you owe me
an apology. I will not say, in due form. I
expected caprice. But really such violence!’
“The young man deliberately asked for Sir
Sampson Spriggs, or the parcel of jewels which he
hail brought half an hour ago from the shop of
Messrs. Spitchcock and Co., whose servant he
distinctly proclaimed himself to be.
“‘ Bless me! ’ cried Mr. Filey, ‘is there some
mistake! Have I really? — on my honour, I — ’
“‘ If you will go up to Sir Sampson Spriggs,
and get that parcel of jewellery immediately — ’
said the young man.
“Mr. Filey started.
“‘I won’t prosecute you,’ the young man
added, washing his mouth out with water.
“‘You are not the nephew of Sir Sampson?’
said Mr. Filey.
“‘Don’t laugh at a chap, after what you’ve
done to him,’ growled the young man.
“‘There’s a mistake,’ said Mr. Filey. ‘Sir
Sampson is not here. It was an innocent stratagem— ’
“‘Innocent? ’ sneers the young man.
“‘To get you to submit to the operation — Lady
Spriggs — ’
“‘Will you ring for her, or not!’ cries the no
longer unsuspicious youth.
“The bell was rung. The ready page informed
them that Lady Spriggs had left the house shortly
after her brief interview with the young man.
By degrees the consummate confidence of Mr.
Filey in her ladyship was melted and dispersed.
He accompanied the young man to Messrs.
Spitchcock’s, relates his share in the adventure,
and made, let us hope, something like due reparation to the poor victim of the cleverest piece of
rascality I know of. The rest was in the hands
of the police and my agents in London.
“At any rate — you talk of miserable nights — I
think you’ll allow, gentlemen, that there was a
miserable day for any poor fellow under the
sun.”
On the whole, we certainly thought that this
young fellow was worse off than the Colonel.
“If comparisons were in good taste,” said Mr.
Lorquison, “I should request permission to
observe, that your day is more horrible than any
night I ever heard of. To lose a tooth for nothing,
egad! Allow me to fill your glass, sir. Bottom
of the bowl, by George I How say you, gentlemen?”
Oh, decidedly! we answer: a fresh bowl!
During the brew we conversed. Mr. Selby tried
us with a ghost. But there was no belief to be
had in it, though the wind did blow, and it was
Christmas. The dealer in hops laughed outright,
and struck his gaiters at the real climax of the
phantom. This gentleman had evidently something on his mind.
“Talking of miserable days,” said I, as I held
my glass to be replenished by Mr. Lorquison’s
second great triumph in the business of punch-brewing; “talking of miserable days, a friend of
mine passed one in a railway carriage, which is, I
think, almost unsurpassed.”
“Out with it! Let’s hear it!” cried the company, settling in semi-circle round the fire, glass
in hand.
A TERRIBLE DAY IN A RAILWAY CARRIAGE.
“But first, to appreciate the incident,” I began,
“you must know my friend. He is the most
bashful of men, and he stutters: under the influence of excitement, he can hardly speak. Afflicted
by a sense of shame, he would fain be dead and
buried. To such men life may be a daily tragedy.
My friend also is liable to misfortune; so that,
v’ith a light heart, and a great capacity for enjoyment, he is usually as miserable as any Manichaan
would desire. I seldom meet him but he has
some dire calamity to communicate to me. And,
as if by fatality, it is of a kind that reddens the
cheeks of a bashful man. I might tell you many
extraordinary adventures that have befallen him.
This was his last.
“My friend, you must know — we will call him
Harry Saxon — is a very amiable amateur- cricketer,
out of his bank. He will take the train at six
o’clock in the morning to be down a himdred
miles north or w’est, to a match. On the occasion
which led him to his disaster, he had journeyed
down north and played his game with success and
satisfaction. But the next morning he had to be
up in town in time for the first official hour at his bank, so he made short work of it over-night, and escaped to bed at half -past one a.m.; breakfasted hastily at half-past five, and hurried to the station as quick as he could, arriving there twenty minutes too early, which cooled him; so much so that, when he entered the carriage, he bethought him that he had on his light cricketing-trousers,
and might as well — since he had a warm pair, and
was alone in the carriage — change them and comfort his limbs. He remembered also that he could not appear at his bank in light flannels. I hope no one will see any harm in that resolve. If the
British public should suggest that there were modest
cows in the pasturages he was flying by, and
young corruptible heifers, I have only to remark
that Mr. Saxon was much above their level. As
it was day, moreover, he could not offend the
moon. Of course I share the popular belief that
we were born in trousers, and never get out of
them. I would merely observe that the case of
Mr. Saxon was an exception to the rigid rule.
Besides, since he was only relinquishing one pair
to assume another, the offence, however grievous,
was but momentary, you will admit. Bad he done
all the honours to the renowned modesty of this
island, he would have drawn the second pair over
the first. I can only excuse his not doing this
by the declaration that he did not think of it, and
absolutely saw no harm in what he was doing. So
far then we will exonerate him. Unfortunately the
thought of a change had not struck him till he
had shot ahead some miles. And, again, very un-
fortunately, as we say when he would cite
instances clearly fated, the young gentleman took
off his tight flannels before he opened his carpet-
bag to disengage his thick tweeds. Mr. Saxon is
of somewhat hasty temperament, slow to conceive
— quick to execute; a fine quality which occasion-
ally leads to trouble; for while he was unstrap-
ping his bag the train insensibly slackened speed,
and suddenly stopped. On perceiving this alarm-
ing fact, Mr. Saxon pulled at the straps with
tremendous vigour a second or so, and then
looked out of the window with a face outwardly
as composed as any ordinary traveller with no
burden on his mind and with clothing to his legs,
may wear. What the feelings of a bashful man
so placed, must have been, I need not tell you.
Analysis, if we wished to defend him before a
jury of prudes, might be justifiable; but you will
not require it. Mr. Saxon’s heart gave a bound.
There was a lady addressing the guard, who
pointed down in the direction of Mr. Saxon’s
head, and led her swiftly on. Mr. Saxon made a
final effort to array himself in one or the other
pair, gave it despairingly up, and thought it best
to block the window and look extremely unin-
viting. He could not believe that his fortune
could be so cruel as to send this lady straight to
him at a time when, without wishing to be un-
courteous, he profoundly devoted her to Jericho.
He was forgetful of his experience. Some men
have a great hoard of experience, and only see
it by the lurid light of new distresses. Now, Mr.
Saxon should, no doubt, have spoken and warned
the lady off. He stuttered, — I have told you.
He did speak, but he was unintelligible. The
guard wrenched at the door. Mr. Saxon had just
time to hide his nether-failings under a railway-
rug, which he had providentially with him, when
the door opened and the lady became his com-
panion. The train whistled blithely, and off
they went.
“Now my friend Harry Saxon tells me he con-
siders it a curious thing that the lady, after a
little while, began to regard him with something
like astonishment. But the fact does not sur-
prise me, who know him. Nervousness is a part of
bashfulness; and, affected by nervousness, we are; apt, without knowing it, to grimace strangely. To
speak metaphysically, and with enlightened obscurity, we think of ourselves to such an excess,
that we grow oblivious of our actions. I dare
say you all understand.
“M — adam! ’ said Harry, after several im-
potent efforts.
“The lady replied, ‘ Sir,’ or ‘ Yes.’ He chronicles it exactly, but I forget.
“Ha . . . ha — are you going the whole way to
T Town? ’ said Harry, gasping and
holding on his rug with both hands.
“‘No, sir,’ said the lady, haughtily, coldly, and
shortly.
“‘What a blessing! ’ thought Harry, sinking
back.
“The lady opened a book.
“At the next station, Harry looked at her im-
ploringly. She would not go. Perhaps, thought
Harry, she’s going on to the last station but one!
There he was sure the carriage would be filled.
“He begged politely of her to tell him when she
intended to quit the train.
“Really! ’ said the lady. May I inquire,
sir, why you are so anxious to know? ’
“‘Not at all,’ said Harry, speaking as enig-
matically as he looked.
“The lady resumed her reading. An old gentle-
man, with two young ladies, now entered the
carriage. Harry tightened and compressed the
rug, and sat glaring at them.
“‘At all events,’ thought Harry, ‘they can’t
make mo move.’ This consolatory notion had
hardly whispered its barren comfort to him, when i
a slight shock was felt. He saved himself from
going into the old gentleman’s arms. Happily, the
ladies were too much alarmed to notice his exces-
sive discomposure.
“‘ What’s the matter?’ said the old gentleman.
“The train had come to a stand.
“‘ Oh! what is it? ’ cried all the ladies.
“ Stop a minute, my dears,’ said the old gen-
tleman. Don’t be alarmed. Perhaps one of us
had better get out and speak to the guard.’
“‘ Oh, papa, you shall not go! ’ exclaimed the
young ladies: and the one who was alone ex-
claimed,
“‘ Perhaps we shall be safer out than in.’
“The young ladies reiterated that their papa
should not go. A common eye was directed to
Harry, who sat, with a fiery face, trying to appear
perfectly unconscious.
“‘Well, if I mayn’t go,’ said the old gentle-
man, ‘ perhaps this gentleman will? ’
“Here was a direct appeal. Harry pretended
not to hear.
“‘ Oh! it must be something dreadful! ’ cried
the ladies.
“‘Will you oblige us, sir?’ said the solitary
lady, ‘ by getting out and speaking to the
guard? ’
“She addressed poor Harry.
“ Mr. Saxon grimaced horribly. ‘ I should be
h – – – happy,’ he began.
“‘ Just ask him if there’s any apprehension of
danger,’ said the old gentleman, thinking that i
he spoke in the assenting tense. I
“‘ I k – – – I k – – – can’t! ’ says Harry.
“The ladies regarded him with wonder. All Harry’s hopes were that they would get out, and leave him. Danger, ruin, dreadful smashes, he was indifferent to: anything was better than his present torment.
“‘Can’t speak, sir?’ said the old gentleman.
“‘Can’t m – – – move,’ says Harry.
“‘No legs—eh? Dear me!’ the old gentleman observed. And yet the rug displayed a pair in outline. ‘Para1ysis—lower limbs? Dear me!’
“Several people were out of the train by this time. The old gentleman and all the ladies got out, too. Word was passed that there was a general order to evacuate the carriages.
“Harry heard the old gentleman say. ‘We mustn’t leave that poor fellow. We must help him out.’
“Meantime he was at his carpet bag again. One clear minute to himself, and Harry would be a man. He cared not to risk his life for one clear minute to himself. Before a quarter of the time had expired, and while the garments dangled unfilled, the old gentleman opened the door, and informed Harry that he was prepared to help him out. There also stood the ladies, looking most charitably.
“‘Do p— please shut the door,’ cried Harry.
“‘Come, sir,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you must come out. Give me your arm.’
“‘I k— can’t, I tell you,’ says Harry.
“‘But I will help you, sir,’ said the old gentleman.
“‘I won’t!’ says Harry.
“‘You must be mad, sir, you must be stark mad,’ said the old gentleman.
“Pushed to extremity, Harry answered. ‘So I am.’
“‘Then you must be dragged out, sir, dragged out by force, main force, sir.
Guard!’ shouted the old gentleman.
“The guard came up, but only to say it was a false alarm. The train had shaken off one of the carriages, and turned a few sheep into mutton—all was right now, and everybody was to step in.
“Off they went once more.
“It is really cruel to dwell on Mr. Saxon’s miseries, and the incidents which were perpetually aggravating them and driving him to frenzies of distraction. At one place a lady entered, who could not ride with her back to the engine. He was positively—being the only gentleman facing it—asked to favour her by changing seats; and, gallant by nature, courteous, obliging, he had to stutter a downright refusal. But realise his position, and I think you will admit that, for a bashful man, Mr. Harry Saxon endured four hours of mortal misery that it would be hard to match. Excessive civilisation, you see, has its troubles. It may seem rather unkind to leave him in the state I have left him in. I will justify this artistic stroke, by assuring you that Mr. Saxon is, I have no doubt whatever, at the moment I speak to you, perfectly prepared to make his bow in the most exquisite society.”
The gentlemen discussed what might have happened to Mr. Saxon.
“For a bashful man,” said Mr. Lorquison, “that certainly was about as unfortunate a dilemma as I remember to have heard of.”
Mr. Spence conceived that he should have made a confidante of the first lady, remarking that women, in such cases, when appealed to, are, as a body, considerate, and not wanting in gentle excuses.
“That’s what I should have done,” said Mr. Spence. “She would have looked out of the other window, and all would have been over in a trice.”
The H.E.I.C.S. thought so too; and cited the indifference of ladies in India to those garments.
Mr. Lorquison excused himself from any recital, seeing that he knew not one. But the punch was a performance far excelling our flimsy efforts to amuse: and I only wish every good man and true may drink as good this Christmas season.
T.
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