Happy-go-lucky

  CHAPTER VIII

  A RELAPSE

  The most unpopular man in the group which we now rejoined wasundoubtedly Mr. Crick, a blind faith in whose prescience had inducedMiss Beverley and Sylvia Mainwaring to adventure an aggregate sum of tenshillings upon Mustard Seed. Ranking a good second in the order ofodium came Dicky, who had executed the commission. The fact that he haddone so under protest was deemed to have no bearing on the case.

  Miss Damer said nothing about our little triumph, and I was wellcontent. There is something very intimate and comfortable about asecret of this kind.

  The great race of the day, the Laxley Cup, was now imminent, and, withthe exception of Lady Adela, who issued to me from the depths of thevictoria a distinctly somnolent injunction to persevere in my support ofthe property of the Earl of Moddlewick and Mr. Hector McCorquodale, wedeparted in a body to back our respective fancies.

  "Miss Beverley seems a bit put out about something, my son Richard," Iobserved, as The Freak and I strolled along in the rear of the party.

  Dicky nodded.

  "Yes," he said, "she is. She is a dear, but she hates losing moneyworse than an eye-tooth. I must find a winner for her this time, or Ishall have to listen to a song and chorus. You noticed it, too, then?"

  "Yes. But it was before she lost money. Do you think she disapprovesof--"

  "Of the way I trot around after Connie--eh? No, to do her justice, Idon't think she minds that a bit. She knows that Connie and I have beenpals ever since we were quite small nippers. Besides," concluded myfriend with an entirely gratuitous chuckle, "everybody trots aroundafter Connie, don't they?"

  I admitted briefly that this was so.

  "No; it is the loss of cash chiefly that makes her fractious," continuedDicky. "That, and my want of dignity and repose on public occasions."

  "What sort of exhibition have you been making of yourself this time?" Ienquired gruffly. Dicky's last remark still rankled.

  "Nothing to signify. Hilda and I were taking a stroll on the coursetogether, before you arrived, and I stopped to have a brief chat with anaged Irish beggar-woman. The old dame had a shilling out of me in notime, and we departed under a perfect blizzard of benediction. Hildaseemed rather miffy about it: said I was making her and myselfconspicuous. For the Lord's sake, put me on to a winner for her, oldsoul!"

  "Ask Miss Damer," I said. "She is the member of this party who picks upreliable information."

  But Miss Damer was nowhere to be seen.

  "She is somewhere in that seething mob, backing horses on her ownaccount," explained Sylvia later. "She said she was n't going to botherany of the men this time. Do you think it is quite safe?"

  "Connie knows her way about," said Dicky. "But perhaps we had better goand have a look for her. Do you know which bookie she has beenpatronising, Tiny?"

  "Yes; that gentleman by the railings, with the gamboge waistcoat," Ireplied. "But she is n't going to him any more. She has taken moneyoff him twice, and considers it unfair to fleece him again. We shallfind her looking for a man with a large bank-balance and no children."

  "How will she be able to tell?" enquired that simple soul, Mr. Crick.

  "From what I know of her," I said, "she will ask him."

  Loaded with injunctions and commissions from the other two ladies, Dickyand I pushed our way once more into the crowd of speculators. Findingthat the Earl of Moddlewick's Ginger Jim figured upon the programme andwas actually proposing to run, I backed that animal on Lady Adela'sbehalf, blushing painfully before the thinly veiled amazement andcompassion of the bookmaker and his clerk. Myself, I supported thefavourite, for reasons of my own. Dicky moved feverishly up and downthe line, putting money on horse after horse. Apparently Miss Beverleywas to back a winner this time.

  As I concluded my business, I caught sight of Miss Damer's lilac frockand big black hat in the paddock. She was engaged in an ardentconversation with a group of three--two girls and a man--and I rememberwondering whether they were actual friends of hers or acquaintances ofthe moment, drawn unwittingly but perfectly willingly into the smallsiren's net. (As it turned out, they were old friends, but I think Imay be excused for not feeling certain.) I was a little disappointed ather preoccupation, for I had been hoping for another deed ofpartnership.

  But the starting-bell had rung, and people were clambering on to thestands.

  "Which is my horse, Dick?" enquired Hilda Beverley, as we took ourplaces.

  This was an obvious poser for my friend.

  "I'll tell you in a minute," he said, gazing diligently through hisbinoculars. "Yes, yes!" He coughed with intense heartiness. "It isdoing very well--very well, indeed!"

  "But which one is it?" asked Miss Beverley impatiently.

  "The one in front," replied The Freak, with perfect truth.

  The finish was imminent. A hundred yards from the post the favouritecracked, and his place was taken by a raking black horse with a pinkjockey, which ultimately won the race with a length in hand.

  The bulk of the crowd naturally received the defeat of the favouritewithout enthusiasm, but a small section near the judge's box raised aloud and continuous yell of jubilation. Evidently some particularstable had "known something" and kept it dark.

  "What is the name of that black animal?" I enquired of Dicky.

  "Malvolio."

  "Did you back him?" I enquired loudly.

  "Rather!" yelled Dicky. "Come with me and help me to collect Hilda'swinnings for her. Back directly, dear!"

  "How many horses did you back in that race?" I enquired, as we elbowedour way to the ring.

  "Seven," said Dicky. "Expensive game, executing commissions for yourbest girl--what?"

  "Let us hope this little victory will have the desired effect," I saidpiously.

  "It will be cheap at the price," replied Dicky with fervour.

  At the foot of the stand we found Miss Damer taking leave of her threefriends. She joined us.

  "Will you chaperon me into the ring, please?" she asked of me politely.

  I stopped short and gazed at her.

  "Do you mean to tell me," I said, "that you have won again?"

  Miss Damer nodded brightly.

  "Yes," she said.

  "You backed Malvolio--that outsider?"

  Miss Damer smiled seraphically. "Yes."

  "And where did you get the tip this time?" I enquired.

  "I asked the bookmaker," replied Miss Damer simply. "I thought he wouldknow."

  "And he gave you Malvolio?"

  "Yes. I had thought of backing the favourite, but he would n't let me.He said Malvolio was 'a real snip,' but very few people knew about him.He was a kind man. Come and help me to find him."

  We duly discovered her altruistic friend, who smiled at me over hisclient's head in a resigned and humorous fashion, as if to imply thatthere are occasions upon which Homer may be excused from nodding. "Ifthis be Vanity," his expression seemed to ask, "who would be wise?"Who, indeed?

  Of all Constance Damer's achievements in the matter of undulyinfluencing her fellow-creatures, I hold--and always have held--thatthis was the greatest. I have been present at many of her triumphs. Ihave seen her tackle a half-drunken ruffian who was ill-treating hiswife, not merely subjugating him, but sending the pair away reconciledand arm-in-arm; I have seen her compel crusty and avaricious oldgentlemen to pay not only largely, but cheerfully, for bazaar-goods forwhich they could have had no possible use, and the very purchase ofwhich implicated them in the furtherance of a scheme of which theyheartily disapproved; and I have seen her soothe a delirious child intopeaceful slumber by the mere magic of her touch and voice. But tointerrupt a hard-working, unsentimental, starting-price bookmaker at thebusiest moment of his day, for the purpose of eliciting from himinformation as to the right horse to back, and to receive from him--aman whose very living depends upon your backing the wrong one--notmerely reliable but exclusi
ve information, strikes me as a record evenfor Miss Constance Damer.

  Presently Dicky rejoined us.

  "Collected your winnings?" I enquired.

  "Yes--and handed them over. There are only two runners in the nextrace. Come and have a look at the merry-go-rounds. I know you lovethem, Connie."

  Miss Damer admitted the correctness of this statement, but declined tocome.

  "I see Lady Adela over there," she said--"all alone. That's not fair.She has a new toque on, too, poor thing! I will go and take her for awalk round the enclosure. You two can come back presently and give ustea. If you discover anything really exciting in the way of side-showsI will come and see it before the last race."

  She flitted away. Two minutes later we saw her, looking like a neatlittle yacht going for a walk with a Dreadnought, carefully convoyingLady Adela across the course into the enclosure.

  "What about Miss Beverley and the others, Freak?" I asked, as we turnedaway.

  "Oh, they are all right," said Dicky shortly. "Leave them alone for abit longer."

  From which I gathered that Miss Beverley was still suffering from whatis known in nursery circles as "a little black dog on her back."

  A large section of the crowd evidently shared our opinion that the nextrace would be a tame affair, for the merry-go-rounds and otherappurtenances of the meeting were enjoying abundant patronage as weapproached. We passed slowly along the fairway, where hoarse personsimplored us, _inter alia_, to be photographed, win cocoanuts, andindulge in three rounds under Queensberry Rules with "The HoundsditchTerror."

  Dicky, suddenly throwing off his low spirits, won two cocoanuts;insisted upon being photographed with me upon the beach of a_papier-mache_ ocean, and, although he drew the line at The HoundsditchTerror, submitted his palm to an unclean and voluble old lady whodesired to tell his fortune.

  He was cautioned by the beldame against a fair man with a blackheart--"That's you, old son!" he remarked affectionately to me--andreceived warning of impending trouble with a dark lady. ("Thanks; Iknow all about that," he assured her feelingly.) On the other hand, hewas promised two letters, a journey across the ocean, and a quantity ofgold--precise amount not specified--within a short period of time.

  "You have a very peculiar nature," was the next announcement. "You havepaid attention to many ladies, but you have never really loved any ofthem. Your heart--"

  "I beg your pardon; I have loved them all!" replied The Freakemphatically.

  "Don't be angry with Gipsy, pretty gentleman!" pleaded the aged Sibyl."Gipsy knows best. Gipsy only says what she reads in the hand. So--butwhat is this?" She bent closer. "Ah! Very soon, sir, you will meet thelady of your dreams, and you will love her as you have never lovedbefore."

  "No, really?" exclaimed Dicky, deeply interested. "Tell me, shall Imarry her?"

  "Many difficulties and obstacles will be placed in your path," chantedthe prophetess. "You will be misunderstood; you will have to deal withpeculiar people. Many times you will be tempted to give up in despair.But persevere, and you will triumph in the end. Now, gentleman, crossGipsy's palm with silver--"

  Here high prophetic frenzy tailed off into unabashed mendicancy, and theinterview dropped to a purely commercial level. My attention wandered.Not far away a ring of people had collected round some fresh object ofinterest. I could hear the sound of a woman's voice singing, and thethrumming of a harp. I could even distinguish the air. A fresh numberwas just beginning. It was "Annie Laurie"--the most beautifullove-song, in my humble opinion, ever written.

  "Maxwellton's braes are bonny, Where early falls the dew--"

  Then the voice quavered and ceased, and I found myself wondering whathad happened.

  "And now, would the other handsome gentleman like to show his palm toGipsy?" enquired an ingratiating croak at my side.

  Realising with difficulty that I was the individual referred to, Iturned, to find that our aged friend, having satisfactorily arrangedDicky's future, was now soliciting my patronage.

  "No, thanks," I replied. "Come and see what is going on over there,Freak."

  "Ah, but Gipsy will tell the gentleman _all_," promised the old lady."He has a wicked eye," she added, alluringly but incorrectly.

  We escaped at last, at a price, and presently found ourselves upon theoutskirts of the little crowd which I have already mentioned.

  "What is going on inside here?" enquired Dicky of his nearest neighbour.

  "Gel singin' to the 'arp," replied the gentleman addressed. Hesupplemented this information by adding that the lady was no class, andhad a nasty cough.

  He was right. As he spoke, the voice of the singer broke again, and wecould hear the sound of a spasm of coughing.

  We elbowed our way into the crowd, which had grown with the easyfacility of all race-course crowds into quite an assemblage; andpresently found ourselves in the inmost ring of spectators.

  In the centre of the ring sat an old man on a camp-stool, cuddling a bigbattered harp to his shoulder. Beside him stood a tall tired-lookingwoman, very handsome in a tawdry fashion, of about thirty-five. She wasdressed as a Pierrette. Her right hand rested upon the old man'sshoulder, her left was pressed hard against her chest. She was coughingviolently, and her accompanist's hands lay patiently idle in his lapuntil she should be ready to continue. On the grass beside the old mansat a hollow-eyed little boy, also in regulation Pierrot costume.

  I heard Dicky draw his breath sharply. Don Quixote was astir again.

  Presently the singer recovered, stood bravely erect, and preparedherself for another effort. The old man's hands swept over the strings,and the harp emitted a gentle arpeggio.

  "Like dew on the gowans lying Is the fall of her fairy feet, And like winds in summer sighing Her voice is low and sweet. Her voice is low and sweet, And she's all the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie--"

  The song floated up into the blue summer sky, carrying me withit--possibly in pursuit of the fairy feet (for which I had already foundan owner). Exposure, rough usage, mayhap gin-and-water--all these hadrobbed the singer's notes of something of their pristine freshness; butthey rang out pure and limpid for all that. It was a trained voice, andmust once have been a great voice. The crowd stood absolutely still.Never have I beheld a more attentive audience.

  "Grand opera, once," said Dicky's voice softly in my ear. Then--"Oh,you poor thing!"

  I recalled my thoughts from their sentimental journey, to realise thatthe verse had broken off before the end and that the woman was once morein the throes of another attack of coughing, the black pompoms on herlittle white clown cap vibrating with every spasm. Impatient spectatorsbegan to drift away.

  I was conscious of a sudden movement beside me, and Dicky's voiceexclaimed, in the hoarse whisper which I knew he reserved forconversations with himself:--

  "Go on! Be a man!"

  Next moment he had left my side and was standing in the centre of thering, addressing the crowd. He was quite cool and self-possessed, but Isaw his fingers curling and uncurling.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted.

  "Git out of the ring, Elbert!" suggested a voice, not unkindly.

  But The Freak continued:--

  "I know we all sympathise with the plucky attempt this lady is making toentertain us under very difficult circumstances."

  The crowd, suspicious of a hoax of some kind, surveyed him dumbly.

  "I am sure," Dicky went on, "you will agree with me that with such a badcough our entertainer has no right to be working so hard this afternoon;and I therefore propose, with your kind permission, in order that shemay have a rest and get her voice back, to sing you one or two songsmyself. I can't sing for toffee; but I will do my best, and I know thatyou, being sportsmen all, will assist me by singing the choruses!"

  He took off his hat, bowed genially, and turned to the harpist. Therewas a buzz of appreciation and anticipation among the crowd. EvidentlyDicky had touched the r
ight note when he appealed to them as sportsmen.

  "Can you vamp a few chords, do you think?" I heard him say to theaccompanist.

  "Yes, sir," replied the old man quickly. "Go on: I'll follow you."

  The tired woman sank down upon the trampled grass beside the little boy;The Freak, hat in hand, struck an attitude; and the entertainment began.

  I do not know how many songs he sang. He passed from one to anotherwith amazing facility, discoursing between the verses upon topics wellsuited to the taste and comprehension of his audience. His songs werenot new, and the tales that he told were neither true nor relevant; butthey served their purpose. He uplifted his voice and carried us all offour feet. He conducted us over the whole of that field of Music Hallhumour which is confined within the following limits:--

  (1) Alcoholic excess.

  (2) Personal deformity (e.g., Policemen's feet).

  (3) Conjugal infelicity; with which is incorporated Mothers-in-law.

  (4) Studies of insect life (e.g., Seaside lodgings).

  (5) Exaggerated metaphor (e.g., "Giddy kipper").

  He enlarged upon all these, and illuminated each. He was unspeakablyvulgar, and irresistibly amusing. The crowd took him to their bosoms.They roared at his gags; they sang his choruses; they clamoured formore.

  I shouted with the rest. This was the real Dicky Mainwaring--theunregenerate, unrestrained Freak of our undergraduate days--my friendgiven back to me in his right mind after a lamentable period of eclipse.My heart swelled foolishly.

  "Chorus once more, please, gentlemen!" shouted Dicky. "Last time!"

  "CHORUS ONCE MORE, PLEASE, GENTLEMEN!"]

  The refined and elevating paean rolled forth, Dicky conducting:--

  "Beer, Beer, glorious Beer! Fill yourself right up to here! (_Illustrative gesture._) Take a good deal of it, Make a good meal of it--"

  With head thrown back and mouth wide open, I shouted with therest--and--caught the eye of Miss Hilda Beverley! She was standingexactly opposite to me on the other side of the circle. Next moment shewas gone.

  ----

  It was the accompanist who gave in first. For nearly half an hour hisaged but nimble fingers had followed the singer's most extravagantflights, and he now began obviously to falter.

  Dicky seized this opportunity to conclude his performance.

  "That is all, gentlemen," he said, with a flourish of his hat. "I knowno more. Thank you for your kind attention and assistance. But don'tgo away. I am going to ask the Colonel here to carry his hat round."

  He signalled to the small pale-faced boy to take up a collection, butthe child hung back shyly. Evidently he was not accustomed toenthusiastic audiences. Dicky accordingly borrowed his cone-shapedheadpiece and set to work himself.

  Touch your neighbour's heart, and his pocket is at your mercy. The bellwas ringing for the last race, but not a man in that crowd stirred untilhe had contributed to Dicky's collection. Silver and copper rained intothe cap. I saw one sturdy old farmer clap Dicky upon the shoulder witha "Good lad! good lad!" and drop in half-a-crown.

  Then the audience melted away as suddenly as it had collected, and wefive were left--Dicky, myself, the old man, his daughter, and therecently gazetted Colonel. The daughter still sat limply upon thegrass. Dicky crossed over to her and emptied the collection into herlap.

  "You had better tie that up in a handkerchief," he said. He spokeawkwardly. He was no longer an inspired comedian--only a shy andself-conscious schoolboy. My thoughts flew back to a somewhat similarscene in a third-class carriage on the Great Eastern Railway many yearsbefore.

  The woman was crying softly. Her tears--those blessed faith-restoringtears that come to people who encounter kindness when they thought thatthe world held no more for them--dropped one by one upon the pile ofcoins in her lap. She caught Dicky's hand, and clung to it. The Freakcleared his throat in a distressing manner, but said nothing. Far awaywe could hear the roar of the crowd, watching the last race.

  "I must be going now," said Dicky at length. "I hope you will soon getrid of your cough and have good luck again. We all get under theweather sometimes, don't we? Good-bye! Good-bye, Colonel!"

  The officer addressed fixed round and wondering eyes upon the eccentricstranger, but made no remark.

  "Good-bye, sir," said the woman. "God--"

  Dicky released his hand gently and turned deferentially to the oldgentleman, who was still sitting patiently at his harp.

  "Thank you very much, sir," he said, speaking like a politeundergraduate to an aged don who has just entertained him to dinner,"for your splendid accompaniments. I can't imagine how you contrived tofollow me as you did. I'm a pretty erratic performer, I 'm afraid.Good-bye!"

  He held out his hand.

  The old man struggled to his feet, and gave a little old-fashioned bow,but disregarded Dicky's proffered hand.

  "Good-bye, sir," he said, "and thank you kindly for what you have donefor us."

  "Would you mind putting your hand in his, sir?" said the woman to Dicky."He can't see it. He's blind," she added apologetically.

  Five minutes later we found ourselves back at the railings. The motorwas already purring, and Romulus and Remus had been put into thevictoria.

  Miss Damer hastened up to us. Her brown eyes looked very soft.

  "Dicky dear," she said tremulously, "we all saw you, and I think you area brick. But keep away from Hilda for a bit."