Mr. Sawyer waxed indignant. “That’s my business,” said he; “yours is to get the horse fit. I tell you I’ve entered him—Wood-Pigeon by Wapiti. He’ll be first favourite the day of the race. Do you hear? I depend upon you to get him thoroughly fit.”
Isaac scratched his head. “Fit!” he repeated. “Yes—I’ll get the _horse_ fit: you get the _rider_. If you _must_ have a turn at it, take my advice, master. You get yourself in good wind; keep your head clear; jump off at the moment the flag drops; never let his head go; and, above all, _sit still_.”
After this, Isaac could never again be brought to open his mouth on the subject.
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WHEN a man has not been provided by Nature with more than an average share of personal advantages, that same process of dressing for a ball _after_ a bachelor’s dinner-party is an affair of considerable trouble and dissatisfaction. To devote those minutes, that are wont to pass so pleasantly in the enjoyment of conviviality or repose, to the cares of the toilet, is in itself a sufficient infliction; but the contrast is rendered all the more aggravating by abortive efforts to eradicate the effluvia of tobacco-smoke, to disguise the appearance of satiety, not to say repletion, attendant on four courses and a dessert, with champagne and claret at discretion, and to achieve that general aspect of light and airy gaiety which even middle-aged gentlemen of spherical proportions consider most captivating in the eyes of the fair.
All these difficulties had Mr. Sawyer to encounter on the night of the Harborough Ball.
Yes, the important event had arrived at last, after much discussion by stewards and lady patronesses, and general differences of opinion amongst all concerned. After protestations from some that they could by no means fill their houses, and assurances from others that nothing would induce them to travel such distances by night in bad weather, and declarations from all that, for their own part, they voted the whole thing a bore, the day was at length fixed, the musicians engaged, the supper ordered, and the room prepared.
“It was to be a capital ball,” said one, “comprising the _élite_ of three counties, and at least as many beautiful _débutantes_.” “There would be nobody there,” vowed another, “but the M.F.H., and the M.P., and old Mrs. Halfcaste, with a bevy of the townspeople.” The room would be cold, prophesied the malcontents; the supper scanty, the roads slippery, and the moon obscured. Miss Cecilia Dove, in talking the matter over with her mamma, inclined first to one, and then the other of these opinions; supporting each in turn with vigour and tenacity. Under any circumstances, however, she had determined to go.