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Bayard from Bengal

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<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> TRUST HER NOT! SHE IS FOOLING THEE! <div class="inset28"> As the Sunset flames most fiery when snuffed out by sudden night; As the Swan reserves its twitter till about to hop the twig; As the Cobra's head swells biggest just before he does his bite; So a feminine smiles her sweetest ere she gives her nastiest dig. Satirical Stanza (unpublished) by H. B. J. </div> Now that our hero had obtained that the name of Milky Way was to be inscribed on the Golden Book of Derby candidates, his next proceeding was to hire a practical jockey to assume supreme command of her. And this was no simple matter, since practical jockeys are usually hired many weeks beforehand, and demand handsome wages for taking their seats. But at last, after protracted advertisements, Mr Bhosh had the good fortune to pitch upon a perfect treasure,[71] whose name was Cadwallader Perkin, and who, for his riding in some race or other, had been awarded a whole year's holiday by the stewards who had observed the paramountcy of his horsemanship. No sooner had Perkin inspected Milky Way than he was quite in love with his stable companion, and assured his employer that, with more regular out-of-door exercise, she would be easily competent to win the Derby on her head, whereupon Mr Bhosh consented that she should be galloped after dark round the inner circle of Regent's Park, which is chiefly populated at such a time by male and female bicyclists. But in order to pay Perkins charges, and also provide a silken jockey tunic and cap of his own racing colours (which were cream and sky-blue), Mr Bhosh was compelled to borrow more money from Mr McAlpine, who, as a Jewish Scotch, exacted the rather exorbitant interest of sixty per centum. It leaked out in some manner that Milky[72] Way was a coming Derby favourite, and the property of a Native young Indian sportsman, whose entire fortunes depended on her success, and soon immense multitudes congregated in Regent's Park to witness her trials of speed, and cheered enthusiastically to behold the fiery sparks scintillating from the stones as she circumvented the inner circle in seven-leagued boots. Mr Bhosh of course asseverated that she was a very mediocre sort of mare, and that he did not at all expect that she would prove a winner, but connoisseurs nevertheless betted long odds upon her success, and Bindabun himself, though not a speculative, did put on the pot himself upon the golden egg which he was so anxiously hatching. One evening amongst those who were gathered to view the nocturnal exercises of Milky Way there appeared a feminine spectator of rather sinister aspect, in a thick veil and a victoria-carriage. It was no other than Duchess Dickinson,[73] who had somehow learnt how courageously Mr Bhosh was endeavouring to fulfil the Astrologer-Royal's prediction, and who had come to ascertain whether his mare was indeed such a paragon of celerity as had been represented. The very first time that Milky Way cantered past with the gait of a streak of lightning, the Duchess realised with a sinking heart that Mr Bhosh must indubitably succeed at the Derby—unless he was prevented. But how to achieve this? Her womanly instinct told her that Cadwallader Perkin was far too inexperienced to resist for long such mature and ripened charms as hers—even though the latter were unfortunately discounted by the accidental nose-flattening. So, lowering her veil till only her eyes were visible above, she waited till he passed once more, then flung him such a liquid and flashing glance from her starry and now no longer discoloured optics that the young jockey, who was of an excessively susceptible disposition,[74] all but fell off the saddle with emotion, like a very juvenile bird under serpentine observation. "He is mine!" said the unscrupulous Duchess internally, laughing up her sleeve at such a proof of her fascinations, "mine! mine!" She had too much intelligence and mother-wit, however, to take any steps until Mr Bhosh should be safely out of the way—and how to accomplish his removal? As an acquaintance with the above-mentioned usurer, McAlpine, she was aware that he had advanced large loans to Mr Bhosh, and so she laid her plans and bided her time. There soon remained only one day before that carnival of all sporting saturnalians, the Epsom Derby day, and Bindabun formed the prudent resolution to avoid any delays or crushings by putting Milky Way into a railway box, and despatching her to Epsom on the previous afternoon, under the chaperonage of Cadwallader Perkin, who was to engage suitable lodgings for her in the vicinity of the course.[75] But just as Bindabun was approaching the booking hole of Victoria terminus to take a horse-ticket, lo and behold! he was rapped on the shoulder by a couple of policemen, who civilly inquired whether his name was not Bhosh. He replied that it was, and that he was the lucky proprietor of a female horse who was infallibly destined to win the Derby, and that he was even now proceeding to purchase her travelling ticket. But the policemen insisted that he must first discharge the full amount of his debt and costs to Mr McAlpine, who had commenced a law-suit. "It is highly inconvenient to pay now," replied our hero, "I will settle up after receiving my Derby Stakes." "We are infernally sorry," said the constables, "but we have instructions to imprison you until the amount is stumped up, and anything you say now will be taken down and used against you at your trial." Mr Bhosh remained sotto voce; and as he[76] was being led off with gyves upon his wrists, like Aram the usher, whom should he behold but the Duchess of Dickinson! Like all truly first-class heroes, he was of a generous, confiding nature, and his head was not for a moment entered by the suspicion that the Duchess could still cherish any ill feelings towards him. "I am sincerely sorry," he said with good-humoured gallantry, "to observe that your ladyship's nose-leather is still in such bad repair. I was riding a rather muscular steed that afternoon, and could not thoroughly control my movements." She suavely responded that she was proud to have been the means of breaking his fall. "Not only my fall—but your own nose!" retorted Mr. Bhosh sympathetically. "A sad pity! Fortunately, at your time of life such disfigurements are of no consequence. I, myself, am now in the pretty pickle." And he explained how he had been arrested for debt, at the very moment when he had an[77] appointment to meet his mare and jockey and see them safely off by the Epsom train. "Do not trouble about that," said the Duchess. "Hand me your purse, and I myself will meet them and do the needful on your behalf. I have interest with this Mr McAlpine and will intercede that you are let out immediately." Mr Bhosh kissed her hand as he handed over his said purse. "This is, indeed, a noble return for my coldheartedness," he said, "and I am even more sorry than before that I should have involuntarily dilapidated so exquisite a nose." "Pray do not mention it," replied the Duchess, with the baleful simper of a Sphynx, and Mr Bhosh departed for his durance vile with a mind totally free from misgivings.[78] <hr class="chapter" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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