The Romany Rye: A Sequel to 'Lavengro'Borrow, George
General
The Romany Rye: A Sequel to 'Lavengro'
Borrow, George
Adventure stories; England -- Fiction; Romanies -- Fiction
I informed the landlord that he was right in supposing that I came for
the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish to prove his
capabilities. 'With all my heart,' said the landlord. 'You shall mount
him this moment.' Then, going into the stable, he saddled and bridled
the horse, and presently brought him out before the door. I mounted him,
Mr. Petulengro putting a heavy whip into my hand, and saying a few words
to me in his own mysterious language. 'The horse wants no whip,' said
the landlord. 'Hold your tongue, daddy,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'My pal
knows quite well what to do with the whip; he's not going to beat the
horse with it.' About four hundred yards from the house there was a
hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level;
towards the foot of this hill I trotted the horse, who set off at a long,
swift pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour. On
reaching the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal round, and trotted
him towards the house--the horse sped faster than before. Ere he had
advanced a hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice
which Mr. Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding it
over the horse's head, commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of
the whip; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering
himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the
public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed
out of the house to be spectators of what was going on. 'I see now what
you wanted the whip for,' said the landlord, 'and sure enough that
drumming on your hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was
quiet or not. Well, did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better
trotter?' 'My cob shall trot against him,' said a fellow dressed in
velveteen, mounted on a low powerful-looking animal--'my cob shall trot
against him to the hill and back again--come on!' We both started; the
cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half the way to the
hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about
fifteen yards behind. Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him. We
then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at
least twenty yards behind when I reached the door. This running of
horses, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were
being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the
ancient horse-races of the heathen north. I almost imagined myself
Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of--.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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