The
curricle with its oddly matched
pair swung out of the inn-yard as the moon rose above the poplars. Sir Turnour was in the best Four-in-Hand Club style, head
erect, shoulders squared, hands well down, elbows close to his side; but though immobile as a
Buddha, his delicate fingers were testing the
mouths of the cattle. Beside him Harry Belses was buried in the folds of his great-coat, and in the narrow space at his
feet, his head against Sir Turnour’s apron, lay the spaniel Benjamin.
They
passed through a
sleeping hamlet, and debouched from the narrow parish into the broader Lynn highway. Here Sir Turnour gathered up the ribbons and proceeded to try the quality of his
horses. In a trot their paces did not match, and
the curricle swayed unpleasantly, but when he sprung them into a short gallop,
they went better together.
‘John was
right,’ said Sir Turnour. ‘There’s blood in both of them, and willing
blood. No need for fanning or
towelling or chopping ‘em. But they’re not a sweet pair to drive, and I don’t know how the chestnut will
last the course. He has come down too
often over the sticks, I’ll swear, and his off fore-leg may give out before
we’re done with him. The bat-eyed bay is right enough. As they say on the road, he’ll go through to hell or Hackney.’
Note:
“The Free Fishers,” one of
John Buchan’s late novels, is another peculiar, particular example of
what made this polymath
genius's works exceptional and unique.
We once
had a good friend from
Hackney. (Sounds like the beginning of a limerick, but it
isn't.)
He spoke
in the distinctive accent of
that borough. He sang like a tortured angel.
From:
John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.
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