The Young Stagers/Bobball
IV.
BOBBALL.
As Boodle rode her sturdy little Arab pony down on to the beach that evening, her face lit upwith pleasure when she caught sight of the beloved and admired Bobball.
Chacun à son goût. The face of Colonel Jones of the Rutlands never lit up with pleasure when he caught sight of Bob 'All, but then he neither loved nor admired Private Robert Hall. He gave him more C.B. than affection.
Bobball was a garrulous, plausible blackguard—but not the Compleat Blackguard, for he loved children. That he had won the devotion of Boodle and her brother, should stand him in good stead when his last Account is being made up. . . .
"Hullo, Bobball, dear," quoth the young lady, riding up to where Bobball, seated pensive, pondered the seldomness of beer, the frequency of Sergeants, the condemnabllity of India, and the ruddiness of things in general.
The Vice, aided by Ayah and Mowlah, toiled through the loose sand and joined the President, the servants retiring to a discreet distance.
Bobball arose, stiffened to attention, and saluted.
"Yore a soight fer sore heyes," quoth he.
"Have you got sore eyes, Bobball?" asked the President. "I am sorry. You ought to go to the chemist, and"
"No, Missy. I'll go to the Canteen an' wash away all sech sorrers, byembye. Better'n the chimist," interrupted Bobball.
"Oh? I didn't know you could get eye-wash at the Canteen," was the reply.
"Lots of heye-wash in the harmy, Missy," laughed Bobball, patting Jock. "Lemme lift you dahn orfen yore charger, an' you two 'ave a buck wiv' ole Bobball—and then 'e'll go an' get dr—er—get some heye-wash. . . . Nice liddle 'oss that," and he lifted the President to the ground, and signed to Mowlah to come and take the pony.
"Pukkaro 'im," quoth he, "an' lead 'im upar an' niche so as 'e don' get tundah. Naow!—don' baitho 'ere, jao upar an' niche, I tell yer, yer silly poggle"
"Don't you love horses, Bobball?" asked Boodle, as the three seated themselves on the sand, "I do."
"I loved one 'oss, Missy," replied Bobball. "I worshipped the graound as it trod on.
"It trod on me toe, once," he added reminiscently.
"Was it your horthe, Bobball?" asked the Vice.
"It were not, me lord," was the reply. "Not iggsackly mine. It were a race-'oss, an' it belonged to my Capting. . . . Ah! 'Ow I loved that 'oss! 'E won me a fi'-pun-note 'e did, and I 'ungered not, nor thirsted I, for a munf. . . . I didn't thirst any'ow. . . ."
"Tell us all about it," commanded the President, scenting a story.
Bobball removed the cutty clay from the midst of the thicket of his vast red moustache, screwed up his tiny grey eyes till they almost disappeared, wrinkled his sharp short nose, and, so far as a recumbent person may, struck an attitude.
"Kissin' Cups Last Rice," he ejaculated, and then in a falsetto, mincing voice continued:—
"You'd hask of the great rice, Sir,
When Kissin' Cup saved our 'Ouse?
As I stood in the Grand Stand that day, Sir,
I felt like a bloomin' l—no—mouse!"
"Wath its name 'Kiththing Cup'?" inquired the Vice.
"It were not," replied Bobball, "that spasim of po'try were what is called a proluminary canter. No—its nyme were Bill, an' a nice Christian sort of nyme too. Kissin Cup! 'Nough to make an 'oss feel faint. . . .
"’Ow I loved that oss, Bill! And ’ow Bill loved me! Wotsmore, Bill could unnerstand every word wot I said to 'im—an' when 'e was agoin' to run in a rice as the Capting wanted 'im to win, I allus 'ad to go to 'is stall, put my arms around 'is bloomin' neck an' say, 'Bill, I've backed yer 'eavy! You carries my little all,' like that—all pathetic, wiv' a break in me little voice. An' Bill—e'd give a 'iccup of onderstanding and let a neigh which meant, 'Dear Master, back your little Bill, an' 'e'll be there or thereabahts.' An' 'e would too. . . . Then come the grite day when the Capting 'ad to win a pot o' money or send in 'is pipers, and 'e fair put 'is shirt on Bill, 'e did. . . ."
"Did he tie it round his neck?" inquired the enthralled Boodle, visualising the strange proceeding. "Was it a sort of—gage of battle, like?"
"It's a manner o' speakin', Missy," explained Bobball. "If yore Papa or Mamma goes racin', an' backs a 'orse 'eavy-like, they says they put their last shirt on 'im—see? On'y a manner o' speakin', o' course. . . . Well, the Capting 'e sends fer me and says, '’All, me faithful ole friend,' 'e says, 'go an' do yore best with Bill. Make 'im onnerstand that I'm broke to the world, stony to the wide, onless 'e wins terday. I'm done,' he says, 'an' if Bill fails me now, I shall make a beastly mess in my bedroom wi' my brains to-night.' Seizin' 'im by the 'and, I wrung it till 'e owled, an' orf I goes to the stables.
"‘Bill,' I says to 'im, 'you carries the Capting's las' shirt termorrer, an' Bill—you carries my little hall as well,' I says."
"Your little haul?" inquired Boodle.
"Yes, Missy, my little absoberlutely hall, an' b'lieve me or b'lieve me not—I stood to win a fi'-pun-note!"
"How much is that in rupees?" mused the President.
"I don' rightly know—but gittin' on fer an 'underd, anyhow," was the reply, "an' that little 'oss won it fer me! Saved the Capting's honner—an' pervided, me with the biggest drunk of a long and 'appy life. . . .
"Ah! Wot a rice that wos! I kin see it naow. . . . The flag fell. The 'osses lep forward. Neck an' neck they ran twice raound the course, an' you could acovered 'em with an 'ankerchief Then, suddingly, hout shot two 'osses from the ruck, Kissin' Cup—I mean Bill—an' a rakin', hugly roan. Neck an' neck they run fer miles. Nearer an' nearer they droo to the winnin' post, neck an' neck, level as an arrer, an' then a few yards from 'ome, one of them drew six hinches a'ead o' the other. Which was it?"
"Bill," breathed both the thrilled, enraptured children, as they hung upon the words of this Ancient Mariner.
"No! It were not! That rakin', hugly roan 'ad forged a'ead. 'E was good at forgin', I reckon, and there 'e was, winnin' by a short 'ead,—by a bare six hinches. There was Bill, six hinches be'ind, strivin' 'is huttermost, doin' 'is damdest, an' never a hinch could 'e gain! 'Ruined,' I cries. 'Ruined! An' the 'omes of me fathers alaid in the dust—not ter mention the 'omes o' the Capting's fathers.' In another second they would sweep past the winnin'-post with that rakin', hugly roan six an' three quarter hinches in front. I was jest about ter close me eyes an' breathe a prayer for 'elp—when be'old, wot did I see? Bill shoved 'is bloomin' tongue out seven hinches, and won the rice by a quarter hinch! There's sense for yer!"
••••• Slowly returning homeward the children pondered the sagacity of animals and the depth of the incumbency upon mankind to treat them kindly, to love them, to understand and cherish them even as Bobball did.