A Bayard From Bengal. Being some account of the Magnificent and Spanking Career of Chunder Bindabun Bhosh…

And to the Princess he said, stroking the long and silvery hairs of his beard, "My daughter, I foresee many calamities which will inevitably befall thee shouldest thou marry before the day on which the bridegroom wins a certain contest called the Derby with a horse of his own."

The gentle Petunia departed melancholy as a gib cat, since Mr Bhosh was not the happy possessor of so much as a single racing-horse of any description, and it was therefore not feasible that he should become entitled to wear the cordon bleu of the turf in his buttonhole on his wedding day!

With many sighs and tears she imparted her piece of news to the horror-stricken ears of our hero, who earnestly assured her that it was contrary to commonsense and bonos mores, to attach any importance to the mere ipse dixit of so antiquated a charlatan as the Astrologer-Royal, who was utterly incapable – except at very long intervals – to bring about even such a simple affair as an eclipse which was visible from his own Observatory!

However, the Princess, being a feminine, was naturally more prone to puerile credulities, and very solemnly declared that nothing would induce her to kneel by Mr Bhosh's side at the torch of Hymen until he should first have distinguished himself as a Derby winner.

Whereat Mr Bhosh, perceiving that the date of his nuptial ceremony was become a dies non in a Grecian calendar, did wring his hands in a bath of tears.

Alas! he was totally unaware that it was his implacable enemy, the Duchess Dickinson, who had thus upset his apple-cart of felicity – but so it was, for by a clandestine bribe, she had corrupted the Astrologer-Royal – a poor, weak, very avaricious old chap – to trump out such a disastrous prediction.

Some heroes in this hard plight would have thrown up the leek, but Mr Bhosh was stuffed with sterner materials. He swore a very long oath by all the gods that he had ceased to believe in, that sooner or later, by crook or hook, he would win the Derby race, though entirely destitute of horseflesh and very ill able to afford to purchase the most mediocre quadruped.

Here some sporting readers will probably object! Why could he not enlist his unwieldy gifthorse among Derby candidates and so hoist the Duchess on the pinnacle of her own petard?

To which I reply: Too clever by halves, Misters! Imprimis, the steed in question was of far too ferocious a temperament (though undeniably swift-footed) ever to become a favourite with Derby judges; secondly, after dismounting Mr Bhosh, it had again taken to its heels and departed into the Unknown, nor had Mr Bhosh troubled himself to ascertain its private address.

But fortune favours the brave. It happened that Mr Bhosh was one day promenading down the Bayswater Road when he was passed by a white horse drawing a milk chariot with unparalleled velocity, outstripping omnibuses, waggons, and even butcher-carts in its wind-like progress, which was unguided by any restraining hand, for the milk-charioteer himself was pursuing on foot.

His natural puissance in equine affairs enabled Mr Bhosh to infer that the steed which could cut such a record when handicapped with a cumbrous dairy chariot would exhibit even greater speed if in puris naturalibus, and that it might even not improbably carry off first prize in the Derby race.

So, as the milk-charioteer ran up, overblown with anxiety, to learn the result of his horse's escapade, Mr Bhosh stopped him to inquire what he would take for such an animal.

The dairy-vendor, rather foolishly taking it for granted that horse and cart were gone concerns, thought he was making the good stroke of business in offering the lot for a twenty-pound note.

"I have done with you!" cried Mr Bhosh sharply, handing over the purchase-money, which he very fortunately chanced to have about him, and galloping off to inspect his bargain, which was like buying a pig after once poking it in the ribs.

In what condition he found it I must leave you to learn, my dear readers, in an ensuing chapter.

CHAPTER IX

THE DARK HORSE

Full many a mare with coat of milkiest sheen,Is dyed in dark unfathomed coal mines drab;Full many a flyer's born to blush unseen,And waste her swiftness on a hansom cab.Lines to order by a young English friend, who swears they are original. But I regard them as an unconscious plagiarism from Poet Young's "Eulogy of a Country Cemetery." H. B. J.It is a gain, a precious, let me gain! let me gain!Oh, Potentate! Oh, Potentate!The shower of thine secret shoe-dustOh, Potentate! Oh, Potentate!Dr. Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong).

WE left Mr Bhosh in full pursuit of the runaway horse and milk-chariot which he had so spiritedly purchased while still en route. After running a mile or two, he was unspeakably rejoiced to find that the equipage had automatically come to a standstill and was still in prime condition – with the exception of the lacteal fluid, which had made its escape from the pails.

Bindabun, however, was not disposed to weep for long over spilt milk, and had the excessive magnanimity to restore the chariot and pails to the dairy merchant, who was beside himself with gratitude.

Then, Mr Bhosh, with a joyful heart, having detached his purchase from the shafts, conducted it in triumph to his domicile. It turned out to be a mare, white as snow and of marvellous amiability; and, partly because of her origin, and partly from her complexion, he christened her by the appellation of Milky Way.

Although perforce a complete ignoramus in the art of educating a horse to win any equine contest, Mr Bhosh's nude commonsense told him that the first step was to fatten his rather too filamentous pupil with corn and similar seeds, and after a prolonged course of beanfeasts he had the gratification to behold his mare filling out as plump as a dumpling.

As he desired her to remain the dark horse as long as possible, he concealed her in a small toolshed at the end of the garden, ministering to her wants with his own hands, and conducting her for daily nocturnal constitutionals several times round the central grass-patch.

For some time he refrained from mounting – "fain would he climb but that he feared to fall," as Poet Bunyan once scratched with a diamond on Queen Anne's window; but at length, reflecting that if nothing ventures nothing is certain to win, he purchased a padded saddle with appendages, and surmounted Milky Way, who, far from regarding him as an interloper, appeared gratified by his arrival, and did her utmost to make him feel thoroughly at home.

The next step was, of course, to obtain permission from the pundits who rule the roast of the Jockey Club, that Milky Way might be allowed to compete in the approaching Derby.

Now this was a more delicately ticklish matter than might be supposed, owing to the circumstance that the said pundits are such warm men, and so well endowed with this world's riches that they are practically non-corruptible.

Fortunately, Mr Bhosh, as a dabster in English composition, was a pastmaster in drawing a petition, and, sitting down, he constructed the following: —

To Those Most Worshipful Bigheads In control of Jockeys Club

Benign Personages!

This Petition humbly sheweth:

1. That your Petitioner is a native Indian Cambridge B.A., a Barrister-at-law, and a most loyal and devoted subject of Her Majesty the Queen-Empress.

2. That it is of excessive importance to him, for private reasons, that he should win a Derby Race.

3. That such a famous victory would be eminently popular with all classes of Indian natives, and inordinately increase their affection for British rule.

4. That for some time past your Petitioner has been diligently training a quadruped which he fondly hopes may gain a victory.

5. That said quadruped is a member of the fair sex.

6. That she is a female horse of very docile disposition, but, being only recently extracted from shafts of dairy chariot, is a total neophyte in Derby racing.

7. That your lordships may direct that she is to be kindly permitted to try her luck in this world-famous competition.

8. That it would greatly encourage her to exhibit topmost speed if she could be allowed to start running a few minutes previously to older stagers.

9. That if this is unfortunately contrary to regulations, then the Judge should receive secret instructions to look with a favourable eye upon the said female horse (whose name is Milky Way) and award her first prize, even if by any chance she may not prove quite so fast a runner as more professional hacks:

And your Petitioner will ever pray on bended knees that so truly magnificent an institution as the Epsom Derby Course may never be suppressed on grounds of encouraging national vice of gambling and so forth. Signed, &c.

The wording of the above proved Mr Bhosh's profound acquaintance with the human heart, for it instantaneously attained the desired end.

The Honble Stewards returned a very kind answer, readily consenting to receive Milky Way as a candidate for Derby honours, but regretting that it was ultra vires to concede her a few minutes' start, and intimating that she must start with a scratch in company with all the other horses.

Bindabun was not in the least degree cast down or depressed by this refusal of a start, since he had not entertained any sanguine hope that it would be granted, and had only inserted it to make insurance doubly sure, for he was every day more confident that Milky Way was to win, even though obliged to step off with the rank and file.

CHAPTER X

TRUST HER NOT! SHE IS FOOLING THEE!

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.

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, 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 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, 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, 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.

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 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 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.

CHAPTER XI

STONE WALLS DO NOT MAKE A CAGE

Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone!Or tell me where my Beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown.'Twas here she arched her glossy back, beside the fountain's brink,And after that I know no more – but I came off, I think.More so-called original lines by aforesaid young English friend. But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere. – H. B. J.

AND now, O gentle and sympathetic reader, behold our unfortunate hero confined in the darkest bowels of the Old Bailey Dungeon, for the mere crime of being an impecunious!

Yes, misters, in spite of all your boasted love of liberty and fresh air, imprisonment for debt is still part of the law of the land! How long will you deafen your ears to the pitiable cry of the bankrupt as he pleads for the order of his discharge? Perhaps it has been reserved for a native Indian novelist to jog the elbow of so-called British jurisprudence, and call its attention to such a shocking scandal.

Mr Bhosh found his prison most devilishly dull. Some prisoners have been known to beguile their captivity by making pets or playmates out of most unpromising materials. For instance, and exempli gratia, Mr Monty Christo met an abbey in his dungeon, who gave him a tip-top education; Mr Picciola watered a flower; the Prisoner of Chillon made chums of his chains; while Honble Bruce, as is well-known, succeeded in taming a spider to climb up a thread and fall down seven times in succession.

But Mr Bhosh had no spider to amuse him, and the only flowers growing in his dungeon were toadstools, which do not require to be watered, nor did there happen to be any abbey confined in the Old Bailey at the time.

Nevertheless, he was preserved from despair by his indomitable native chirpiness. For was not Milky Way a dead set for the Derby, and when she came out at the top of the pole, would he not be the gainer of sufficient untold gold to pay all his debts, besides winning the hand of Princess Petunia?

He was waited upon by the head gaoler's daughter, a damsel of considerable pulchritude by the name of Caroline, who at first regarded him askance as a malefactor.

But, on learning from her parent that his sole offence was insuperable pennilessness, her tender heart was softened with pity to behold such a young gentlemanly Indian captive clanking in bilboes, and soon they became thick as thieves.

Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, her thoughts were entirely engrossed with the approaching Derby Race, and she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge that a notorious grandame, to wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, had backed heavily that Milky Way was to fail like the flash of a pan.

Whereupon Mr Bhosh, recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare with her concomitant jockey to the mercy of this self-same Duchess, was harrowed with sudden misgivings.

By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated that Mr McAlpine was a pal of the Duchess, which she had herself admitted at the Victoria terminus, and thus by dint of penetrating instinct, Mr Bhosh easily unravelled the tangled labyrinth of a hideous conspiracy, which caused him to beat his head vehemently against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality.

Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Caroline was transfixed with passionate adoration for Bindabun, whom she regarded as a gallant and illused innocent, and resolved to assist him to cut his lucky.

To this end she furnished him with a file and a silken ladder of her own knitting – but unfortunately Mr Bhosh, having never before undergone incarceration, was a total neophyte in effecting his escape by such dangerous and antiquated procedures, which he firmly declined to employ, urging her to sneak the paternal keybunch and let him out at daybreak by some back entrance.

And, not to crack the wind of this poor story while rendering it as short as possible, she yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him to the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5 A.M.

Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird!

It was the dawn of the Derby Day, and Mr Bhosh precipitated himself to his dwelling, intending to array himself in all his best and go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Heyday! What was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approach with streaming eyes, fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful!

"How comes it, Cadwallader," sternly inquired Mr Bhosh, "that you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes?"

"I do not know," was the whimpered response.

"Then pray where is my Derby favourite, Milky Way?" demanded Bindabun.

"I cannot tell," wailed out the lachrymose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the Duchess had met him at the station portals, and, on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of Refreshment-room.

There she plied him with a stimulant which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist, viz., brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became catalyptic in a corner.

When he returned to sobriety neither the Duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, and he had been searching in vain for them ever since.

It was the time not for words, but deeds, and Mr Bhosh did not indulge in futile irascibility, but sat down and composed a reply wire to the Clerk of Course, Epsom, couched in these simple words: "Have you seen my Derby mare? – Bhosh."

After the suspense of an hour the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, upon which Mr Bhosh thus addressed the abashed Perkin: "Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of riding her. Strip off your racing coat and cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian."

The lad handed over the toggery, which Bindabun stuffed, being of very fine silken tissue, into his coat pocket, after which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries.

There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, and he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation, when, mirabile dictu! all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-known sound of a whinny, and he recognised the beloved voice of Milky Way!

But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound. There was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms, but at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the Left-Luggage department, and, summoning a porter, Mr Bhosh had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped Derby favourite Milky Way!

CHAPTER XII

A RACE AGAINST TIME

There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,If you'd beat him – although he is bald,And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.Stanza written to order by young English friend, but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.

AH! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!

Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without – the probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and destroying the ticket-receipt.