Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar — John Shaqi
Market Harborough, and Inside the BarWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Country life -- England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Fox hunting -- Fiction
“I think I see you arrive yesterday, with two or three nags,” continued
this affable functionary, “when I was out a hairin’ some o’ mine; and
you’re puttin’ up close by my place. Come in, governor, and take
something hot, to keep the cold off till we become better acquainted.”
With this hospitable offer, Isaac found himself following his new friend
into a cosy little tap-room, with red curtains and a sanded floor, which
apartment they had all to themselves; and whilst “something hot”—a
delicious compound of yolk of egg, brown sugar, warm beer, and cordial
gin—was being got ready, he had time to study the exterior of his new
acquaintance.
Probably the utmost ingenuity of the tailor’s art must have been
exhausted in constructing trousers so tight as the pair which clung to
that person’s legs. Not a crease had they, nor a fold anywhere; and,
unless the man slept in them, it was difficult to conceive how they
could conveniently be used as articles of daily apparel. The person’s
boots, too, were neat, round-toed Wellingtons; his waistcoat descended
far below his hips; and the waist-buttons of his grey-mixture coat were
unusually low and wide apart. A cream-coloured silk neckcloth, secured
by a horse-shoe pin, set off a pale, sharp-looking countenance, speaking
of hot stables and dissipation, while the closest possible crop of hair
and whiskers did justice to a shaved hat with an exceedingly flat brim.
A few splashes of mud on the boots and trousers showed he had been
lately on horseback; and he held up one of his thin little legs as he
took his seat, and contemplated the stains with a grin of morbid
satisfaction.
“Blessed if ever I see this country so deep!” he remarked, after a pull
at the flip. “How _my_ horses will stand it, I know no more than the
dead, the way the governor rides. We’ve _only_ nine this year; and he’s
an awful hard man upon a horse.”
“Nine!” exclaimed old Isaac, smacking his lips after the draught, which
warmed the very cockles of his heart; and being a man of few words, only
added, “Well, now, to _be_ sure!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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