The Scouring of the White Horse; Or, The Long Vacation Ramble of a London ClerkHughes, Thomas
General
The Scouring of the White Horse; Or, The Long Vacation Ramble of a London Clerk
Hughes, Thomas
White Horse, Vale of (England)
In good time up gets an old gamester, who looks like the man to do
credit to the royal county. It is Harry Seeley, of Shrivenham, the only
Berkshire man in; for there has been some difference between Berks and
Wilts, and Harry’s two mates haven’t entered at all. So he, being one
of the true bull-dog breed, is in for his own head, against all odds,
and is up to play the next Somersetshire man.
Harry is a fine specimen of an Englishman. Five feet eight high, with
a bullet head, and light blue eye; high-couraged, cool, and with an
absolutely imperturbable temper. He plays in a blue shirt, thin from
age and wear, through which you may see the play of his splendid arms
and chest. His opponent is a much younger man, about the same size; but
a great contrast to Harry, for he has a savage and sly look about him.
They shake hands, throw themselves into position, and the bout begins.
Harry is clearly the finer player, and his adversary feels this at
once; and the shouts of anticipated victory, in the Berkshire tongue,
rouse his temper.
Now comes a turn of the savage play, which ought never to be seen on a
stage. The Somerset man bends far back, and strikes upper cuts at the
face and arms, and then savagely at the body. He is trying to maim and
cow, and not to win by fair brave play. The crowd soon begin to get
savage too; upper-cutting is not thought fair in Berks and Wilts; a
storm begins to brew, hard words are bandied, and a cry of “Foul,” and
“Pull him down,” is heard more than once, and the Committee man, who
watches from below, is on the point of stopping the bout.
But nothing puts out old Harry Seeley; no upper cut can reach his face,
for his head is thrown well back, and his guard is like a rock; and
though the old blue shirt is cut through and through, he makes no more
of the welts of the heavy stick than if it were a cat’s tail. Between
the bouts his face is cheery and confident, and he tells his friends to
“hold their noise, and let him alone to tackle the chap,” as he hands
round his basket for the abounding coppers.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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