Читать книгу Waif of the River - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 18

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Robin was looking about for the best and most conspicuous place in which to affix his newly painted sign, when from a narrow by-street nearby that long ago had been a bowery lane but whose trees and hedges had been ousted by grimy bricks and mortar, rose sound of approaching hoofs with a cheery voice hailing:

"Tantivvy, tally-ho, yoicks, hark forrard! Robin, Robert the Devil? Oh, Dev, where are you?" And into the courtyard pranced a horse bestridden by a slim young gentleman beautifully turned out from jaunty hat to glittering boots and spurs, a rider elegant as his steed and as high-bred, whose pleasant, nearly handsome face was adorned by a pair of whiskers so small, fluffy and pale as to be almost invisible. Such, briefly, was Viscount Ragworth, only son and heir to that somewhat formidable nobleman, my lord the Earl of Storringdean.

"Oho, Robin, where the——?"

"Hal-lo, old Rags and Bones! It's good to see you! But what brings you hereabout so unexpectedly?"

"Clia's infant, of course, the new baby. Didn't we arrange to ride over and pay our united respects to parents and—the offspring?"

"Did we, damme?"

"Demme if we didn't, old boy! So jump into your riding toggery and let's be off. I'll lend you a hand if John'll come and hold my horse."

"Another, eh, Rags?"

"Yes; what do you think of him? I had him only two——" Here the animal in question attempted to stand on his head, and, being checked in masterly fashion, reared in protest, and, checked again, snorted, capered, shivered and finally subsided. "Two days," the Viscount continued serenely. "How d'you like him, old fellah?"

"I don't!"

"Eh, you don't? Why the dooce not?"

"Because he isn't a horse."

"Oh? Well, what is he?"

"A tempest on hoofs."

"Ha, by jove, the very thing! I've been ditched for a suitable name and you've hit it first shot! 'The Tempest' he shall be! Oh, John, Black John, show a leg——"

"Here, my lord."

"And in prime condition as usual, eh, John! I'll shake hands if you'll favour me by holding my Tempest; he's feeling his oats, a trifle fresh and playful this morning."

"Playful?" repeated Robin. "He's a menace!"

"No more so than your Cannonball! However, cut off now and get ready; make the best of yourself for Clia's lovely sake, not to mention Sir Oliver." To the which purpose indoors went Robin forthwith, while the Viscount and John strolled to and fro with Tempest, which highly sensitive creature, soothed and gentled by Black John's voice and touch, had become the most docile of creatures—to his owner's profound admiration.

"Marvellous!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Look at him now, meek and mild as a confounded lamb! You've a wonderful way with all animals, John, especially horses and dogs! Can't think how or why! Must be sheer magic. Can you explain it?"

"P'raps because I'm fond of 'em, sir."

"So am I, and so is Robin, but we haven't your power over 'em. Yes, demme, all creatures seem to acknowledge your mastery."

"Except women!" sighed John, shaking his black head mournfully. "And most especially one, my lord, as you know."

"Meaning Jemima."

"No other, my lord, and never will be. Y'see, she still thinks of me as 'The Terror' and hardly looks my way, though no sucking dove could be softer nor yet milder than I am when we meet. Yet it don't seem to serve; she hardly troubles to notice me."

"Then why not terrify her till she does?"

"Terrify ... Jemima?"

"Certainly; gently, of course! A little terror properly used, John, would at least attract her notice. By the way, how's the farm doing?"

"Prime, my lord! We can sleep a hundred and two at a pinch. But Master Robin has turned us into a club to be called the Gamecock's Roost."

"And, b'jingo, that's prime, too! Couldn't be bettered!"

"And your hundred pound, my lord, did a power o' good and was truly and gratefully appreciated."

"Well, there's more when wanted, John old boy. Grand idea—sleep the homeless, feed the hungry and so on! Whenever funds are short, let me know; Dev's a bit shy that way, so you must keep me informed, John."

"Yessir. And I've often wondered, my lord, why you sometimes call him 'Dev'?"

"Short for Robert the Devil, John, because he was, especially when we were younger, fight, swim, row, shoot, climb—anything and anybody, for ever daring Old Nick. And talking of the Devil, here he is!"

Thus presently these two young men, but old friends, astride their horses Cannonball and Tempest, set forth on this ride which was to prove momentous to both and fateful for one.