# A Bayard From Bengal/Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII
A RACE AGAINST TIME
There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen, If you'd beat him—although he is bald, And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine. On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.
Stanza written to order by young English friend, but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.
AH! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!
Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without—the probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and destroying the ticket-receipt.
​But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contents were rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director, politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.
What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until all Derby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubility he pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insisted on, Milky Way would infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too late to compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morally victorious—until at length the official relented, and agreed to do the job for valuable consideration in hard cash.
Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero could only fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket for himself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel as baggage in the guard's van.
I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were all in the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant to ​advance so serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but it is nem. con. that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled in highly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended to walk himself and his horse off the platform.
Que faire? How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derby race without putting in an appearance? And how was Milky Way to put in her appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A less wilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainly succumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouse Bindabun's monkey.
"How far is the distance to Epsom." he inquired.
"Fourteen miles," he was answered.
"And what o'clock the Derby race?"
"About one p.m."
"And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Very well, since it seems Milky Way is not to ride in the railway,
THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCE
AUTHOR'S NOTE ON ILLUSTRATION No. VII.
I earnestly implore my benevolent publishers to suppress at all events this illustration—as much for the sake of Mr Birnadhur Pahtridhji (who, if it appears, will be the jesting-stock of every cultivated young Indian with any acquaintance at all with English life) as on my own poor account.
I ask anyone endowed with common sense—could there be a more preposterously grotesque misrepresentation than this of such a well-known scene as the annual pilgrimage to the Derby Race?
It is true that I wrote "every description of conveyance"—but how was I, being "Davus non Œdipus," to anticipate that Mr Pahtridhji would interpret the phrase as including such nondescript vehicles as a hansom cab propelled by a bullock, and a kind of palkee borne by two members of the flunkey caste?
He further displays his colossal ignorance by the introduction of a snake charmer—a character who, even assuming that he ever made his début on a London roadway, would be speedily run in, with all his serpents, for obstructing traffic.
Moreover, where is his authority for representing an adjutant bird as an ordinary London fowl?
Time and patience fail me to indicate the countless and howling croppers which Mr Pahtridhji has achieved in the space of this single picture.
But I say once more: unless it is possible to provide a novel of this calibre with congenial and appropriate drawings by an artist who is acquainted with what is what, it is infinitely preferable to dispense with illustrations altogether than to disfigure such a work with mediocre and puerile pictures!
H. B. J.
​she shall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsom in propriâ personâ!"
So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders, who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mounted his mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.
I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen from depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say that the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, and that Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that he might meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the day after the fair.
As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of the occupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby, and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness the spectacle he was to buck himself up.
​Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before the clock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of Epsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.
Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear of Milky Way: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our bacons!"
But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs of Milky Way were already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.
And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourself on the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What a marvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing together higgledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins; counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on through the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages; ​others on terra firma; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tents rearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazing with smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged in running them in.
Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see if they are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and each horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible, commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.
(N.B.—The writer of above realistic description has never been actually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely from assiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving of recognition from a generous public!)
Now follows a period of dismay—for Milky Way, the favourite of high and low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The only person who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makes her entrance ​into the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting a leading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to a monkey against Milky Way!"
Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake and earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager, but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a trembling hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.
No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a joyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions. "Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and three cheers for Milky Way!"
The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along the course, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered with perspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had been mislaid among the left luggage!