CHAPTER I.
An Introduction to Billy Platt.
It was the eve of the Wincastle races which were first started in that period so fruitful of duchesses—the reign of old Rowley. Historians differ as to whether the Merry Monarch did or did not, on a certain occasion, actually patronise this meeting in person, accompanied by a notorious play actress; but that does not matter.
Historians, as well as doctors, agree to differ. The quaint country town of Wincastle was full to the over-flowing, and the oldest inhabitant pledged his word at the bar of the Black Bull that he had never set eyes on such a big crowd.
It was a motley assemblage, at any rate, peculiar about the shape of its coat, and the cut of its trousers; not too particular as to the delicacy of its language, but much exercised in its mind where it was going to sleep.
The old-fashioned inns and lodging-houses had, early in the day, let their last bed, and were now asking and getting exorbitant prices for the sofas, tables, and chairs. Later on there will be eager bidders for the right to spend the night on the bare floor. Thoroughbred horses, worth small fortunes, accustomed to all the refinement and luxury of a Newmarket stable, had to be contented with the miserable shelter of a cow-byre or a cart-shed.
It was no doubt Mr. Strathill, the energetic clerk of the course, who had been instrumental in drawing the additional bipeds and quadrupeds to Wincastle this autumn. According to his specious advertisements his annual gathering was the very paradise of all race-goers, and he dwelt impressively on a new contest, of singular interest, to be decided on the first day, called the Silver Gauntlet.
This extra attraction was first mooted by the Duchess of Wincastle—a fascinating widow of twenty-five—and the trophy was subscribed to by her Grace and all the unmarried belles of the neighbourhood.
The Gauntlet was an imitation of a lady's glove in silver, and was a masterpiece of Hunt and Roskell. The fingers were so arranged that this beautiful and expensive work of art (it cost £200) when filled with flowers could appropriately be used to decorate a table.
The new race was to be run over three miles of a fair hunting country, gentlemen riders.
At this palpable challenge of beauty every eligible man in the country, who had a decent horse, was eager to try his fortune.
The large field of fifteen or sixteen competitors was expected, and already there had been some heavy wagering at the clubs.
Nothing worthy of note occurred in connection with any of the other races at Wincastle; but the unfortunate and peculiar circumstances surrounding the battle for the Silver Gauntlet soon became the all-absorbing topic of conversation.
The race was a success in a monetary sense, but the clerk of the course would sooner cut off his right hand than include it in his programme a second time.
It was the first and last Silver Gauntlet ever contested for on the Wincastle Downs.
Amongst the surging crowd at the entrance to the Black Bull might have been seen two men in deep conversation; they were a strange contrast to each other. One was a tall, handsome, devil-may-care-looking fellow about thirty, who owned an estate in the neighbourhood, and who, from a disappointment in love or something else, was said to be going headlong to ruin. Yet his comrades would tell you that a more open-handed and steadfast friend than Ivan Moordown did not exist.
The other man, who was making Moordown wince at his coarse and cutting remarks, was a noted member of the betting ring—Billy Platt. Billy's appearance was not in his favour; it was of the costermonger order of beauty, and his vocabulary would have furnished an important addition to a new slang dictionary.
His disgraceful language and revengeful disposition made the ex-vendor of cauliflowers generally feared and detested. Emanating from the lowest rung of the ladder, and encountering unpleasant difficulties in his way, such as being half-murdered at Ascot, and nearly drowned at Hampton, it was believed that he now laid himself open to get the "swells" into his toils.
It was well known that the Marquis of H——, Lord W——, and Mr. B——, were all obliged to discontinue attending race meetings because Billy declined to give them a few weeks' grace to square their accounts.
When spoken to on the subject, he would abruptly answer, "Dong it, mon, moind yer own bissness; think ye the swells wud hav' waited for my brass?"
The conversation between Mr. Moordown and Billy had continued but a short time, when the latter said (we omit the oaths, and put his hybrid language into English)—
"I cannot hear myself speak with this infernal clatter. Come upstairs to my sitting-room."
"Later on would suit me better. I have an appointment," replied Moordown, edging away.
"The wench, or whoever it is, must wait. It is high time we had an understanding. I have come to Wincastle on purpose to see you."
"It is now seven; I will come back at nine if it is important."
"This present moment, or not at all," was the polite answer of Platt. "If it was even the Duchess herself who was going to meet you, business must be attended to first."
"Lead the way then," said Moordown, evidently anything but pleased at his capture.