Part 7

"Sorry, Tabby, but we're all pals here, these fellows won't give it away, I know, especially if they want to back Grandee, and, if they take my tip, they will."

"Of course not," from all, and "Thank ye, Jackie. I'll bear it in mind," from Major Ramp, who, knowing the pair, made a mental note to leave that particular race alone.

"Matador's a certainty for your race, I suppose, Bob?" said Captain Brass.

"Moral, if he stands up, and he's never fallen yet. Got a pot on him, advise you fellows to do the same."

"Who's riding him, Bob?"

"Having a go myself. Must be one of the regiment, you know, which gives me rather a pull; give most of 'em seven pounds at least."

"I see old Cyclops is running, Bob; queer old devil, used to belong to us till Stainforth sold him to Carson. New game for him, racing, though, ain't it?"

O'Hagan looked round the room before answering. Strangely enough, he was frightened of Carson, though not in the least of Graeme. Seeing no sign of Peter, however, he replied boldly:

"Cyclops is not going. I stopped it. A race full of amateur jockeys is dangerous enough, without a one-eyed brute of a pony no one can hold joining in. So I just told Carson I wouldn't have it, and there was an end of it."

"Why ain't Graeme performing, Bob?" asked Brass. "He used to go like smoke at home with the Bicester."

"Captain Graeme don't ride now, except on parade, when he has to," answered O'Hagan, again glancing towards the corner and meeting Hector's eyes over the top of the paper. This was instantly raised, however, and encouraged by the surrender O'Hagan continued:

"What do you do with unsporting fellows in your regiment, Ramp?" he observed.

"Show 'em we don't want 'em," was the answer.

"But if they won't go, what then?"

"Get the Colonel to report badly on them, but surely Graeme..."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about him, of course, brother officer, you know, Ramp, and all that. Still," lowering his voice, though speaking very distinctly, "as you are aware, every regiment has its undesirables, useless fellows no one likes; one doesn't talk about it, of course, but there it is."

"He's a devilish good shot, is Graeme," said Brass, "best I ever saw, I think."

"Cavalry fellows ought to be fond of riding," squeaked Jackie, "that's their game, not shooting."

"Or go to the infantry," said O'Hagan.

"What the devil d'ye mean, O'Hagan?" said Legge, who belonged to that branch of the Service.

"I really beg your pardon, old chap. I always forget you ain't a cavalry man or a gunner"--remembering Ramp--"you're such a sporting cove. Have another brandy?"

"No, thank you, and I don't see why a fellow shouldn't care for shooting even if he is in the cavalry; it's sport just the same as racing. Besides, Graeme plays polo, don't he?"

"Oh yes, in a way. His real hobby's clothes and cats, though."

"Cats?"

"Yes, sleeps with a cat, I'm told. Jolly for his wife, eh what? Hullo," suddenly breaking off, with a look of well-feigned surprise and concern on his face, for Graeme had risen, and, apparently unconscious of his or the others' presence, was now making his way to the door, "there's the man himself," he added, Hector having disappeared, "now I have done it."

"Good Lord, O'Hagan, why the devil didn't you tell us he was there?" said Brass indignantly. "He must have heard every word."

"Well, if he did, he only knows what all of us think, and..."

"I think we ought to be making a move, O'Hagan," said Legge shortly; "it's past one now, and I'm riding in the first race. Come on, Jackie, you're always an hour decorating."

He rose, and, the others following his example, the party departed to their different quarters to dress.

Meanwhile Hector was walking rapidly away from the Mess on his way to Carson's bungalow. At the compound entrance he paused, and for a moment stood leaning against the gate, as if reflecting; then once more moved on, and, entering the house, came upon Peter engaged in the sorting of fishing-tackle.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said, "you're just the man I want. Help me to straighten this out, will you? it's kinked like blazes," whereupon, without answering, Hector sat down on the bed, and, taking up one end of the line, proceeded to disentangle it.

"Hands very shaky this morning, Graeme," said Carson. "Why the dickens don't you give up those infernal cigarettes and take to an honest pipe, like me? You look pretty seedy too; what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, want of exercise, I suppose. Think I'll go for a ride this afternoon."

"Can't. The regiment's At Home, and we've got to be there. Pity you didn't enter one of your ponies for the Cup, as I wanted you to; you'd have had your ride then."

"I wish I had now, I'd give something for a mount. I envy you old Cyclops, even."

"Cyclops is not going."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't want to break my neck, that's why."

"Break your neck be hanged. Cyclops is a devilish good jumper."

"All right, you ride him then; you're welcome."

"Thank you, Peter, I will. I'll go now and tell the sais to have him down on the course."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. I was only joking. D'you think I'm going to have your missus..."

"Where shall I find the sais?"

"I won't lend him, I tell you."

"Oh, want to back out of it, do you?"

"I never back out of anything; you know that perfectly well, Graeme."

"I used to think so."

"But..."

"Ah!"

"Oh, take the pony and be hanged to you. I don't want to lend him, I tell you that straight; but, since like a fool I offered the brute, you can have him. Break his neck if you like, your own too."

"Thank you very much, Peter, and will you or shall I have him sent down?"

"I will."

"Right, good-bye, you're coming yourself, I suppose?"

"Yes, with the ambulance for you."

"Good. I'll be off to dress," and Graeme, leaving Peter frowning at his knots, returned to his own bungalow, where he found Lucy awaiting him in the verandah.

"Where on earth have you been, Hector," she said, "and what's the matter?" staring at him.

"Nothing. I've been given a mount for the Regimental Cup, Lucy, just what you wanted, aren't you pleased?"

Lucy, however, did not look pleased. She stood, with her eyes still fixed on her husband's face.

"Why have you done this, Hector," she said after a pause, "rather a sudden idea, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know it seems changeable, Lucy, but I've been thinking about what you said last night, about its being unsporting not to ride, and so on. I'm really doing it more to please you than myself. Where are my things? I must hurry," trying to pass her as he spoke.

Lucy stopped him.

"Wait a minute, Hector," she said; "if it's only to please me you're riding, you needn't do it. I too have changed my mind; I'd rather now you didn't."

"And why not?"

"I don't think I quite know, but I don't wish you to. Let me send a note to Captain Carruthers, please, Hector, I'm sure he won't mind."

"This is absurd, Lucy; only last night you begged me to ride, and now that I've done what you ask, you----"

"I know it seems silly. Oh, Hector, I can't explain, but something tells me you ought not to. Please let me write that note."

"I certainly won't. I'm not going to be made a fool of like this," snatching at the chance of losing his temper, "and it's no good writing to Carruthers; it's Cyclops I'm riding, not Hermes."

"Cyclops," echoed Lucy, who knew the animal as she knew every pony, dog or child in the regiment. "Cyclops, oh, you can't mean it, Hector?"

"I do, though. Peter offered me the mount, and I've accepted. Oh, for goodness' sake be reasonable, Lucy; it's done now. Come and dress. Where are my things?"

"And you care so little for me as to ride a one-eyed bolting brute in a steeplechase," began Lucy furiously; then suddenly her anger passed, and coming close to her husband she laid her hand on his arm. "Hector, won't you for my sake give this up? It isn't often I ask anything of you, but now I do. Oh, dearest, please--please."

"And have Peter and the rest think I'm afraid? No, thank you."

"Hector, you know you don't care what they think. It's something to do with O'Hagan."

"Perhaps it is, Lucy; he called me 'unsporting' just now, and I'm going to show him I'm not. Once more, please tell me where my things are?"

"Hector, I implore you," began Lucy, and then, seeing his face, stopped. "You won't give this up then," she said, "whatever I say?"

"No; where are----"

"I don't know," she said violently, "and I don't care, find them yourself," and she left him, banging the door behind her as she went off to her room.

Here for an hour she remained, dawdling over her dressing, to the just indignation of Halling, her maid, who also proposed to go racing that afternoon under the escort of the regimental sergeant-major and his wife, and who, for the first time in her experience, found her mistress both trying and inconsiderate, and also for the first time sympathised with her master, stamping up and down the verandah outside.

At length, just as Hector had made up his mind to send for a horse and ride on without her, she emerged from her seclusion, and coldly asking him if he meant to come to the races that afternoon entered the waiting buggy, seized the reins, and drove off, Hector scrambling in after her. In silence they rattled down the broad mall, Lucy looking straight ahead and declining to answer Hector when he spoke, and after some narrow escapes from collision with passing gharries--for the lady was not driving with her customary skill--arrived on the scene of action.

To those accustomed to the greensward and trees of a British racecourse, that of Riwala would have come as a rather doleful surprise. Facing a great open stretch of dusty maidan, around which ran the track, rose the grand stand, a bare-looking edifice of wood and corrugated iron, surrounded by iron railings, forming the enclosure, where the various regiments of the garrison dispensed hospitality. For some hundred yards to the right and left of the stand the course, unmarked save by rows of whitewashed stones and a few flags, was shut in by a double row of wooden railings, the stand side and enclosure being reserved for the _elite_, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloi] and such natives of the lower order as cared to attend.

The second race had just finished when Lucy and her husband arrived, and a babel of voices was rising on the air, bookmakers shouting their anxiety to pay on the winner, and spectators chattering to the accompaniment of brassy and somewhat unpleasing music from the band of the Queen's Own Purple Fusiliers.

All the notabilities of Riwala--almost, it might be said, of the Punjaub--were here assembled, mostly of military status, it is true, but nevertheless comprising a few civilians of importance, such as Mr. Timothy Qui Hye, the Commissioner, and, greater still, Sir Backshish Gussle Khana, Lieut.-Governor of the Punjaub--a very big man, and one conscious of his eminence, though, like some other great men, a little careless in his attire; his boots, of the kind known as "Jemima," and a "made-up" tie marring an otherwise irreproachable costume of decent black.

Many others were there too, though not of such eminence as his. Lady Pompom, for instance--the wife of Sir Julius Pompom, commanding the station of Dam Kot--a regal-looking lady, in a dress of imperial purple, surmounted by a white solar topee tastefully decorated with yellow flowers. A crowd of youths were about her, for Lady Pompom was fond of boys, designating them "young people of my own age." Some of these young people, it is true, looked as though they would like to be elsewhere, but no such defection was possible, as well they knew, for that would mean the official displeasure of Sir Julius, with, possibly, consequent stoppage of leave, and even--such things had been known--nasty remarks in confidential reports.

Those two ladies yonder, who were so warmly yet carefully embracing--a loving handclasp, a peck on the right place, a "How sweet you look!" and the thing was done--were Mrs. Warmon, the wife of Major Warmon of the 250th Mesaltchis, and her friend and foe, Mrs. Charpoy, better half of Colonel Charpoy, commanding the Purple Fusiliers. Rival beauties of Riwala, they hated each other right well, hence the warmth of the embrace; and both being a trifle touched up, this accounted for their care in bestowing the kiss, which operation completed they parted and spoke to each other no more that day.

Forlorn and unattended, on the steps of the grand stand, sat the two Game girls, their eyes roving in search of male recognition. This was their third year in the country, but, though hitherto unappropriated, hope was far from dead in their somewhat flat bosoms. Possibly the net may have been spread a little too openly in the sight of the bird, but, be this as it may, gamebag and creel were still empty, and the Misses Game remained, and were likely to remain, the Misses Game.

Into this throng walked Lucy, Hector following. She was all smiles, now that there were others to see--a trim, sporting-looking figure in brown, with a hat of the same colour, touched with vermilion, and smart, laced-up patent-leather boots. Not for long, however, was she suffered to remain with her husband, a cluster of young men soon surrounding her, all anxious to give her tea, show her their ponies, any pretext to draw her away for a little private conversation. For Lucy, unlike Hector, was a popular person with all, from the great Sir Backshish himself to little Tickler Macpherson, the dusky daughter--one of fourteen--of Dugald Macpherson, Assistant Commissioner of Riwala, Highland of name though _cafe au lait_ in hue.

Reputed inaccessible to lovemakers, too, was Mrs. Graeme, which quality, and the ready sympathy she showed with their various husband, lover, and servant troubles, endeared her to the women, in spite of her looks and clothes; while at the same time it rendered her conquest incumbent on all self-respecting shikaris of ladies.

Eventually Captain Knowles, proficient at the game of love-making, wrested the prize from the other competitors, somewhat to his own surprise, for, though for some time he had done his best, he could not pretend that that best had been crowned with any measure of success. To-day, however, there was a welcome change in the lady's manner--she no longer chilled but smiled upon his efforts, ignoring her husband, to whom the gay captain, as she knew, was anathema. To her annoyance, Hector showed none of his usual signs of restiveness at the other's presence; on the contrary, he rather abetted his endeavours to please, and, on Knowles suggesting tea, handed her over willingly, and, turning away, was soon lost to view in the crowd. For a moment Lucy stood looking blankly after him, but, speedily rallying, expressed a desire for shelter from the sun, and Knowles, instantly responding, led her away in triumph, and was shortly afterwards comfortably seated beside his booty in the darkest corner of one of the big marquees.

"Thank Heaven," muttered Hector, "I'm alone at last, now, what's to be done to pass the time? Confound this waiting, my nerves are all anyhow. Hullo, there's Cyclops, I'll go and have a look at him." He walked away to where a native was standing holding a pony, a dun-coloured beast, rusty-coated and hideous. One of his eyes was gone, the result of a blow from the fork of a revengeful sais, whose arm Cyclops had playfully chawed; the other was small, and, as usual, vindictive-looking.

Not an engaging-looking mount for a steeplechase, it must be admitted, though the look of the brute appeared at the present moment to give satisfaction to Graeme, particularly the red eyeless socket, at which he attentively gazed. Nevertheless, despite his unengaging appearance, Cyclops had his good points, being hard as nails, a perfect fencer, and possessing the pluck of the devil with the temper of a fiend.

"Khabadar,[#] sahib," said his guardian, as Hector came up. "Ai bainchute,"[#] jerking at the bridle just in time to save Graeme's arm from bared yellow teeth, "Hamesha aisa hai, sahib, bot bobbery bainchute wallah."[#]

[#] Look out.

[#] An untranslatable term of abuse reflecting on female relations.

[#] "Always like this, sir, a violent..."

"Horrid beast," muttered Graeme, looking at him. "I'll take the steam out of you, my friend; there won't be much bobbery about you when I've done." He walked away, and stood for a moment leaning over the enclosure rails. As he did so, a thunder of hoofs struck on his ears, and Tabby Legge flew past, his mount, a splendid chestnut Arab, fighting for his head as he went.

"Grandee," said Graeme, "that's the certainty, is it? Hum, and here's Tinker, Jackie up too, 'tisn't often he rides. Betty still to come--oh, here she is. Lord, what a commoner, different class altogether. I wonder what they're up to, some silly knavery, I suppose, from the way they talked in the Mess. It can't be Grandee, or they wouldn't have said so; still, that might be part of the swindle, for they know no one would believe them. All the same, I don't think it's Grandee, but Tinker, especially as Jackie's riding, they know they'd get a better price with him up. Hope to goodness they get done, though I don't see how they're going to, unless Betty wins, and she can't if the others stand up. Hullo, they're off, and one left at the post, which is it, Grandee, I suppose? No, it isn't; it's Tinker, then they do mean Grandee, after all. Funny, I could have sworn it was the other.

"Lord, it's a procession," looking through his glasses at the chestnut, who was leisurely cantering ahead of the already labouring Betty. "Well, that's over," lowering his glasses and turning away. "Why, what's up?" a sudden roar from the crowd rising on the air. "Good Lord," his eyes turned once more on the course, "Good Lord," for passing him was Betty, alone; some distance away, off the track, being Grandee, plunging and fighting with his rider. The favourite had run out. "Now, what the devil have they been up to?" muttered Hector. "Betty wasn't backed, I know. Aha, I have it, Tabby thought it was Jackie behind him, not knowing that rascal had been left, and pulled out to let him win"--which was the exact situation.

"Splendid that is, quite bucked me up; and now to dress, my race is next. I wish I didn't feel so shaky, though; my heart's going like a dynamo, and I can hardly breathe. Curious, what a nerve-ridden beggar I am, always like this beforehand, though once I'm started I don't care twopence. Anyone to look at me would say I was in a blue funk, and so I am really, or rather one part of me is; the other's right enough 'You tremble, carcass,'" he quoted half aloud, "'you'd tremble still more if you knew where I was going to take you.' Gad, you would. Ah, here's the tent. Lord, what a crowd! Most of them too, from the look of them, in a worse funk than I am. Got the colours, Abdul?" to his bearer, "All right, leave them here. I can dress myself," and Graeme, sitting down, proceeded to array himself in Peter Carson's chocolate and blue, after which he put on his overcoat, and, having been duly weighed, set off for Cyclops' stall, where he found Lucy and Carson surveying that ill-favoured beast.

"Oh, here you are at last, Graeme," said Peter; "we've been looking for you everywhere. Thought you'd given it up and gone home. I should, if I were you, Cyclops is not quite at his best to-day."

"What's the matter with him? He looks all right, anyway he's got to go."

"Hector, I wish you'd give it up," said Lucy, laying her hand on his arm; "for my sake, please do."

"Nonsense, Lucy, it's all right. Cyclops won't fall, will he, Peter?"

"I wouldn't bet about it; he might; I wouldn't trust him."

"You see, Hector, even his owner doesn't think it safe. Besides, you're not fit to ride; you look so white and strange, doesn't he, Captain Carson?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Graeme, a bit pale perhaps, but that doesn't go for much." Then aside to Hector. "You look like a ghost, man, don't be a fool, give it up, as your wife wants you to. It's not the game to frighten her like this."

"There's the bell," answered Hector. "Give me a leg up, Peter. Hold his head, confound you," to the sais. "All right, I'm up. Chor do.[#] Steady, you brute," and Graeme rode away, Cyclops now as quiet as a lamb.

[#] Let go.

"Oh, Captain Carson, I do hate it so," said Lucy, looking after him, "I feel certain something's going to happen."

"Not it, Mrs. Graeme, see how nice and quiet the pony's going."

"But he'll bolt as soon as they start, and Hector has no experience of race-riding."

"Nor have the rest; he's as good as most of them, anyway. Don't worry, Mrs. Graeme, but come and watch the race. Where would you like to see it from, the grand stand?"

"No, I'll stay here, I think. Don't let me keep you, though, Captain Carson, I shall be all right."

"I'd rather remain with you if I may. Hullo, there's the trumpet; they're off. Here they come. Cyclops leading."

"Surely he's bolted, oh, he has--he has."

"Not he, always goes a bit free to start with: he'll soon settle down, you'll see. Ah, well over, did you see that, Mrs. Graeme, yards to spare?"

"Where's Matador?"

"Behind, Lord, what a mover he is, only cantering."

"Who's that down, surely it's my husband?"

"No, it isn't, it's Falconer on Sultan; but he's up again now and on. Look how well Cyclops is going, a good twenty lengths ahead, if only he could keep it up."

"Where's Matador now?"

"Still behind; O'Hagan will leave it too long if he don't take care. Ah, there he is coming up now, leaving the rest standing; by Jove, he and Cyclops are almost abreast, both going for the open ditch. Good--good God! ... It's all right, Mrs. Graeme, it's all right, I tell you. Your husband's up and walking about. Take my glasses and look for yourself, they're better than yours."

"But the other--the other, is he up too?"

"Can't see yet, these glasses are so infernally bad. Mrs. Graeme, do you mind if I leave you?"

"No, no, go quickly; get there first before them," pointing to a stream of people flowing across the maidan towards the open ditch. "Bring him straight back to me. I'll have the buggy waiting there by those trees. Oh, my God, what a fool I was not to have understood, you too, Captain Carson, it's as much your fault ... Why didn't you refuse?"

"Because I was a blind idiot. Hi you," advancing on a sais holding a pony hard by, "give up that ghora[#] at once."

[#] Horse.

"Smit sahib's pony," said the man, not moving.

"Don't care who's it is; let go, I say, or----" raising his stick.

He snatched the reins from the terrified native, and flinging himself into the saddle galloped away, belabouring the pony as he went. It was a race, but Carson won, and reaching his goal, a good hundred yards abreast of the leading man, sprang to the ground and ran up to where Graeme was standing, looking down on a huddled heap of white and scarlet at his feet. A few yards away lay Cyclops, his neck outstretched and one eye sightlessly staring, while away in the distance, with reins trailing and stirrups flapping, Matador could be seen, galloping gaily homeward. Seeing Peter, Hector turned and hurried to meet him.

"Can't get rid of him, can't we, Peter?" he cried. "Well, I have, I've done what you couldn't do, old man, he's gone now, right enough, he and Cyclops together, come and see."

Carson seized him by the shoulder, crushing it in his grip.

"Hold your tongue, you fool," he whispered, "look behind you; they'll be here in a minute. D'you want to hang? Oh yes, I'll come and see. God help you," and, still holding him fast, he hurried on to where O'Hagan was lying.