CHAPTER VII

GETTING ON

Outside the theatre the pavement was dry, the air seemed frosty, and the moon shone bright and cold. With head down, hands in pockets, and a large cigar in his mouth, Daisy meditated gravely enough on the untoward changes a lowered temperature might produce in his own fortunes. Hard ground would put a stop to Satanella's gallops, and the horses trained in Ireland--where it seldom freezes--would have an unspeakable advantage. Thinking of the black mare somehow reminded him of Miss Douglas, and pacing thoughtfully along Pall Mall, he recalled their first meeting, tracing through many an hour of sunshine and lamplight the links that had riveted their intimacy and made them fast friends.

It was almost two years ago--though it seemed like yesterday--that, driving the regimental coach to Ascot, he had stopped his team with considerable risk at an awkward turn on the Heath, to make room for her pony-carriage; a courtesy soon followed by an introduction in the enclosure, not without many thanks and acknowledgments from the fair charioteer and her companion. He could remember how she kept him talking till it was too late to back Judæus for the Cup, and recalled his own vexation when that gallant animal galloped freely in, to the delight of the chosen people.

He had not forgotten how she asked him to call on her in London, nor how he went riding with her in the morning, meeting her at balls and parties by night, inaugurating a pic-nic at Hampton Court for her especial benefit, while always esteeming her the nicest girl out, and the best horse-woman in the world. He would have liked her to be his sister, or his sister-in-law; but of marrying her himself, the idea never entered Daisy's head. Thinking of her now, with her rich beauty, and her bright black hair, he neither sighed nor smiled. He was calculating how he could "put her on" for a good stake, and send her back their mutual favourite none the worse in limbs or temper for the great race he hoped to win!

All Light Dragoons are not equally susceptible, and Mr. Walters was a difficult subject, partly from his active habits of mind and body, partly from the energy with which he threw himself into the business of the moment whatever it might be.

Satanella's work, her shoeing, her food, her water, were such engrossing topics now, that, but for her connection with the mare, the lady from whom that animal took its name would have had no chance of occupying a place in his thoughts. He had got back to the probability of frost, and the possibility of making a tan-gallop, when he turned out of St. James's Street into one of those pleasant haunts where men congregate after nightfall to smoke and talk, accosting each other with the easy good-fellowship that springs from community of tastes, and generous dinners washed down with rosy wine.

Notwithstanding the time of year, a member in his shirt-sleeves was sprawling over the billiard-table; a dozen more were sprinkled about the room. Acclamations, less loud than earnest, greeted Daisy's entrance, and tumblers of cunning drinks were raised to bearded lips, in mute but hearty welcome.

"You young beggar, you've made me miss my stroke!" exclaimed the billiard-player, failing egregiously to score an obvious and easy hazard. "Daisy, you're always in the way, and you're always welcome. But what are you doing out of the Shires in such weather as this?"

"Daisy never cared a hang for _hunting_," said a tall, stout man on the sofa. "He's only one of your galloping Brummagem sportsmen, always amongst the hounds. How many couples have you scored now, this season--tell the truth, my boy--off your own bat?"

"More than _you_ have of foxes, counting those that were fairly killed," answered Daisy calmly. "And that is not saying much. Seriously, Jack, something must be done about those hounds of yours. I'm told they've got so slow you have to meet at half-past ten, and never get home till after dark. I suppose if once you began to draft there would be nothing left in the kennel but the terrier!"

"You be hanged!" answered the big man, laughing. "You conceited young devil, you think you're entitled to give an opinion because you're not afraid to ride. And, after all, you can't half do that, unless the places are flagged out for you in the fences! If you cared two straws about the _real_ sport, you wouldn't be in London now."

"How can I hunt without horses?" replied Daisy, burying his fair young face in an enormous beaker. "_All_ hounds are not like yours, you know. Thick shoes and gaiters make a capital mount in some countries; but if I _am_ to put on boots and breeches I want to go faster than a Paddy driving a pig. That's why I've never been to pay _you_ a visit."

"D--n your impudence!" was all the other could find breath to retort, adding, after a pause of admiration, "What a beggar it is to chaff! But I won't let you off all the same. Come to me directly after Northampton. It's right in your way home."

"Nothing I should like better," answered Daisy. "But it can't be done. I'm due at Punchestown on the seventeenth, and I ought to be in Ireland at least a fortnight before the races."

"At Punchestown!" exclaimed half-a-dozen voices. "There's something up! You've got a good thing, cut and dried. It's no use, Daisy! Tell us all about it!"

Walters turned from one to another with an expression of innocent surprise. He looked as if he had never heard of a steeple-chase in his life.

"I don't know what you fellows call 'a good thing,'" said he. "When I drop into one I'll put you all on, you may be sure. No. I must be at Punchestown simply because I've got to ride there."

"I'm sorry for the nag," observed the billiard-player, who had finished (and lost) his game. "What is it?"

"She's a mare none of you ever heard of," answered Daisy. "They call her Satanella. She can gallop a little, I think."

"Is she going for this new handicap?" asked a shrill voice out of a cloud of tobacco smoke in the corner.

"It's her best chance, if she ever comes to the post," replied Daisy. "They're crushing weights, though, and the course is over four miles."

"Back her, me boy! And I'll stand in with ye!" exclaimed an Irish peer, handsome in spite of years, jovial in spite of gout, good-hearted in spite of fashion, and good-humoured in spite of everything. "Is she an Irish-bred one? Roscommon did ye say? Ah, now, back for a monkey, and I'll go ye halves! We'll let them see how we do't in Kildare!"

Daisy would have liked nothing better; but people do not lay "monkeys" on steeple-chases at one o'clock in the morning. Nevertheless curiosity had been excited about Satanella, and his cross-examination continued.

"Is she thorough-bred?" asked a cornet of the household cavalry, whose simple creed for man and beast, or rather horse and woman, was summed up in these two articles--blood and good looks.

"Thoroughbred?" repeated Daisy thoughtfully. "Her sire is I'm sure, and she's out of a 'Connemara mare,' as they say in Ireland, whatever that may be."

"_I know_," observed the peer, with a wink. "Ah, ye divil, ye've got your lesson perfect annyhow."

"Do you want to back her?" asked a tall, thin man, who had hitherto kept silence, drawing at the same time a very business-like betting-book from his breast-pocket.

"You ought to lay long odds," answered Daisy. "The race will fill well. There are sure to be a lot of starters, and no end of falls. Hang it! I suppose I am bound to have something on. I'll tell you what. I'll take twelve to one in hundreds--there!"

"I'll lay you ten," said the other.

"Done!" replied Daisy. "A thousand to a hundred." And he entered it methodically in his book, looking round, pencil in mouth, to know "if anybody would do it again?"

"I'll lay you eight to one in ponies." Daisy nodded, and put down the name of the billiard-player. "And I in tens!" exclaimed another. "And I don't mind laying you seven!" screamed a shrill voice from the corner, "if you'll have it in fifties." Whereat Daisy shook his head, but accepted the offer nevertheless ere he shut up his book, observing calmly that "he was full now, and must have something more to drink."

"And who does this mare belong to?" asked a man who had just come in. "It's a queer game, steeple-chasing, even with gentlemen up. I like to know something about owners before I back my little fancy, for or against."

"Well, she's more mine than anybody else's," answered Daisy, buttoning his overcoat to depart. "There's only one thing certain about her, and that is--she'll start if she's alive, and she'll win if she _can_!"

With these words he disappeared through the swing-doors into the empty street, walking leisurely homeward, with the contented step of one who has done a good day's work, and earned his repose.

In Piccadilly he met a drunken woman; in Curzon Street, a single policeman; by Audley Square a libertine cat darted swiftly and noiselessly across his path. Working steadily northward, he perceived another passenger on the opposite side of the way. Passing under a lamp, this figure, in spite of hat pushed down and collar pulled up, proved to be none other than St. Josephs, wrapped in a brown study, and proceeding as slowly as if it was the hottest night in June.

"Now what can _he_ be up to?" thought Daisy, deeming it unnecessary to cross over at so late an hour for polite salutation. "Ought to have had his nose under the blankets long ago. It must be something _very_ good to take an old duffer like that out in an east wind at two in the morning. Might have sown his wild oats by this time, one would think! Well, it's no business of mine, only I hope he wears flannel next his skin, and won't catch cold. It would almost serve him right, too, if he did!"

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Daisy shook his head in virtuous disapproval of his senior, never dreaming that a man of the General's age could be fool enough to pace a wind-swept street under a lady's window for an hour after she had retired to bed.