CHAPTER XXVI

THE ORDINARY

HOWEVER bad a day may be for anything else, it is never too bad for dining; and accordingly about half-past five the usual heterogeneous assemblage—roughs and smooths, half roughs and half smooths—of a race-ordinary began to congregate and obstruct the doorway and passages of the Flying Dutchman Hotel in Shark-street, being the sporting rendezvous that Mr. Boldero patronised, and where a gentleman could be accommodated with the odds, or anything else in the sporting way. To it came appetites in various degrees of vigour and ripeness, some that dined at one o’clock, others that dined at two; some that could put off till four, some that dined at sunset; others that dined whenever their owners could get a dinner. And again the confusion of tongues arose, “ar’ll lay” this, “ar’ll take” that: Yorkshire bellowing against Lancashire, Manchester pitting itself against Leeds. Each race was run over again, and the cause of defeat explained, including that of Nobbler on behalf of the Forty Thieves. And as the plot thickened, and people began to growl and talk about their stomachs, thinking their throats were cut, and so on, up drove Mr. O’Dicey in a smart Queen’s coloured brougham—O’Dicey got up on the Shaksperian principle,

“Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,”

velvet and silk, and chains and lockets, and puffy pink-tinted shirt, presenting a strange contrast to the coarse hard-featured herd by whom he was surrounded, from which, however, he quickly disentangled himself, and skipped up stairs to secure a becoming seat at the table. “Waitor!” exclaimed he, swinging hastily up the long room (two bed-rooms and a billiard-room laid together); “Waitor, where can I sit?” and the waiter (a retired gentleman’s butler, whose little “discrepancy” with his late master’s plate caused by his too great love for the turf kept him out of place), thinking O’Dicey looked like a tip, put him second from the chair, next Sir Stephen Sappey, who of course was coming to support his brother Bart.: a place that O’Dicey immediately secured by placing his thin glazed card on the plate. He then confirmed the waiter’s estimate of his quality by chucking him half-a-crown for himself.

Next, Sir Felix Flexible whipped up in his smart dress chariot, the cockaded coachman making as much fuss with his tightly curbed horses as he could, and seeming to think himself rather demeaned by having to drive up such a narrow greengrocerish sort of street. Reader, if you live in the country and value the peace of mind of your horses, never engage a town coachman—that is to say, a man who has driven in town. They think of nothing but bitting and bearing and cutting round corners. One of these elbow-squaring gentlemen will spoil the best tempered horse in a week, and declare he is vicious. If Mr. Rarey would teach them the real nature and character of the animal, it would be a great blessing to masters; only most of them are so self-sufficient that they will most likely say they have forgotten more than Rarey ever knew. As Sir Felix’s coachman stops with a sudden jerk, the well-powdered footman rather ponders on the board, thinking perhaps “Chorles” has made a mistake, and is only asking his way; but a “Now then!” over the aiguilletted shoulder, accompanied by the letting down of the carriage window, announces “all right,” and “Jeames” jumps nimbly down to unfold the door-steps and exhibit the great man inside. Sir Felix then descends in due state, letting the assembled outsiders see the brightness of his huntclub buttons and the glorious amplitude of his well-starched white vest; and preceded by Tom Boozeyworth the landlord, and a flight of those rusty-coated waiters that turn up on all public occasions from no one knows where, explores the intricacies of the long low passage, amid cautions of “Mind, here’s a step down, Sir Felix,” and “there’s a step up, Sir Felix,” and “Mind your head, Sir Felix,” until he reaches the creaking old stairs that lead up to the extemporised long room, where he finally lands amid a great display of white ware and sundry huge joints of beef and mutton, forming with cheese what the sailor described as all the delicacies of the season. If not very fine, however, it is substantial, and the ornamental centre basket of the prize candelabrum makes a grand plateau for the usual group of calves’ feet jelly-glasses.

Sir Felix has hardly contemplated the room and the semicircular chair, from which he has to deliver his classical eloquence, ere Sir Stephen Sappey is borne in by the pushing, rushing crowd, all clamorous for places and anxious to be at the viands. Seeing the style of men, and feeling pretty sure that if one of them was to choose to occupy the chair, he would not perhaps get him out again, Sir Felix immediately takes possession, his brother Baronet squats in the seat of honour on his right, Mr. O’Dicey seats himself on his left, and the thirty or forty sportsmen—or sporting men—composing the body of the party fall into place as best they may. An immediate onslaught commenced upon the food, and the joints and the pies and the potatoes were pulled and rolled and pushed about the table in a most promiscuous, every-man-for-himself, sort of way. Munch, crunch, munch, crunch, patter clatter, patter clatter, waiter, beer, spoon, salt, pepper, fork, knife, plate, are the only intelligible sounds that escape. Presently the less voracious of the appetites begin to be appeased, and as the noise somewhat subsides Mr. O’Dicey’s voice is heard storming the waiters, and demanding all sorts of unheard-of and impossible things. First he wants some Gorgona anchovies, and is furious, or pretends to be, at not getting them. “What! no Gorgona anchovies! Never heard of such a thing! Where’s the man of the house? Send the man of the house here!” But the man of the house is far too busy drawing old bottled sherry—rich, dry, and full of character—out of the cask to attend to any such summons, and our friend’s wrath is diverted at the absence of French mustard for his cold beef; so sending his plate away he demands some plovers’ eggs, then some Bombay mangoes, and last some Emmenthaler cheese, which latter is offered to him in the shape of a great leathery-looking slice of strong-smelling Cheshire. Scorning the substitute, he sends his plate away, and balancing himself on the hind legs of a somewhat ricketty rush-bottomed chair, proceeds to twirl his moustache and contemplate the company. There are a good many fellows there that he knows, legs, levanters, and lame ducks of all sorts, but none that he cares particularly about. If they can blow him, he can return the compliment and the reciprocity system is well understood among them. So amid the process of identifying faces, now seen without their familiar hats, the last sounds of mastication gradually die out, and a short grace is now listened to that was not waited for at the opening. Plates, bread, sweepings generally, disappear; and two long lines of variously-shaped wine-glasses range from end to end of the narrow table, guarding, as it were, sundry pyramids of very teeth-trying biscuits, placed on the well-known old green-coloured dessert plates. Mr. Boozeyworth then furnishes material for the coming conviviality by placing “ports and sherries” at either end of the table, while his coadjutors take orders for rum, gin, hollands, brandy, whatever the parties prefer to wine. These in their various forms of hot with and cold without, cold with and hot without, being at length distributed according to each man’s behest, and an approving sip taken, eyes began gradually to turn towards the chair, and Sir Felix, after a good prefatory “Hem!” arose and calling for a bumper-toast gave “the health of Her Majesty the Queen” in a very laudatory, word-dwelling manner; after which he complimented the Prince Consort, the Prince of Wales, and the rest of the Royal family, in a similar strain, and again resumed his seat, feeling pretty comfortable as to voice, provided he could bring out the book-learning when he wanted it. After a proper pause he again rose, and gave “the Army and Navy” in highly eulogistic terms, when, true to his morning spurs, and greatly to the surprise of Sir Felix, up jumped Mr. O’Dicey to return thanks on behalf of the army. A buzz of applause welcomed the change of voice, and assured our not over-diffident friend of a favourable reception.

“Sir Felix Flexible, Sir Stephen Sappey, and gentlemen,” said he, looking down the table, “I thank you most cordially for the compliments you have paid that branch of the service to which I had the honour to belong. (O’Dicey had been turned out of the Fandango Huzzars for turning up the King too often at écarté.) I need not say, gentlemen, that under all times, all climes, all circumstances, the army will ever be found true to those illustrious antecedents that have procured us honour abroad, and comfort and tranquillity at home. (Applause.) Gentlemen, I agree with my Lord Palmerston, that a foreign foe would bitterly rue the day he ever set his presumptuous foot on our shores, for the country would rise to a man, and show that we are as great in the strength of war as we are in milder pursuits of peace. (Renewed applause, during which the grog-drinkers took courage out of the varied contents of their glasses, and felt very brave.) And let me observe, gentlemen,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, addressing himself to the legs, “that these race-meetings are intimately connected with the best interests of the army, fostering and encouraging that unrivalled breed of horses for which our glorious country has so long been justly famous. (Applause.) I need not observe to this meeting, presided over by a gentleman of the high classical knowledge and acquirements of the worthy Baronet, that in all times, and all ages, the improvement of its breed of horses has been an object of care and solicitude to every paternal government.”

“Very true! very true!” assented Sir Felix, tickled by the compliment paid to himself, which he did not expect from our friend.

“We know,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, twirling his moustache, “We know how all-absorbing were the Olympic games, and that racing was considered in Greece a matter of the highest national importance.”

“Holloa!” muttered Sir Felix, pricking his ears.

“We can almost realise the glorious spectacle of Philip of Macedon, and Hiero, King of Cyracuse, contending in person for the prize.” (“The deuce!” exclaimed the Baronet, starting up in his seat.) “And to come nearer home,” continued Mr. O’Dicey, taking a sip of his sloe juice port wine, “history tells us how in the ninth century, Hugh Capet sent a present of race-horses to Athelstane.” “Oh, the deuce!” groaned the Baronet, sinking back in despair, and covering his face with his kerchief, in which position he had the mortification to hear Mr. O’Dicey run glibly through the very speech he had taken such pains to prepare for himself, and finish with a well-rounded eulogium on the Turf, which drew forth the general applause of the company. Mr. O’Dicey having resumed his seat, then presently arose, and sweeping his wine-glasses on to the floor with his brown dress-coat tails, swung carelessly out of the room—chuckling at having paid the old boy (as he called Sir Felix) off for his former interference. He then ordered a fly, and drove away to tell his friend Curlew, who lived in the adjoining rooms to the Baronet in the too thinly walled Minerva mansion, how he had stolen the speech they had jointly heard Sir Felix concocting, and anticipated its delivery at the ordinary. O’Dicey also recounted his own observations on the race-course; how Miss Rosa had looked sweet on young Fatty, as they called Jasper, and Mamma rather sour on himself; and being presently joined by their confederate, Mr. Wanless, whose acquaintance the reader will presently make, they resolved themselves into a committee of management, to consider what was best to be done under the circumstances. Meanwhile Sir Felix floundered on as best he could with the court card taken out of his hand, and when, after speech, song, and sentiment, subscription to this, that, and t’other, Mr. Boozeyworth again steered him down stairs, and along the dark intricate passage; “A step down here, Sir Felix,” “A step up here, Sir Felix,” “Mind your head, Sir Felix,” he felt he had been made a tool of, and resolved that he wouldn’t be caught that way again. And so he drove home in the dumps, and when he awoke the next morning, with a dry tongue and feverish head, instead of pleasant applause and tinkling of spoons in the toddy-glasses, he was very ill-pleased to find that, one way and another, he had been let in for some five-and-twenty pounds. While Sir Felix was acquiring all these desagrémens, O’Dicey and Co. were settling their course of procedure towards our friend Mr. Jasper.