Hymeneal Hoofs

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIII, Issue 20669, 6 March 1937, Page 9 (Supplement)

Hymeneal Hoofs

By

ILLUSTRATED BY BERT QUINN

Douglas Eppes

Nathaniel proudfield swept aside the neat pile of correspondence, which his secretary had placed on his mahogany desk, with a petulant gesture of his podgy hand. In the past summer he had taken on 20 pounds and now weighed perilously close to 300, despite the heroic measures he had adopted in his losing fight against the demon obesity. As a last resort he had confided his woes to a business associate. George Cordray hadn't laughed as Proudfield, whose pomposity was one of his weak points, had dreaded he might. Instead, he remarked: “Buy a horse, and ride it every day. In three months, you’ll bless me.” The telephone at his elbow purred. He lifted the receiver. "Hello, dad,” said a musical voice, “have you made up your mind yet?” "Yes, my dear. I’m going to buy that horse. I’ll have him sent up this afternoon.” “How perfectly lovely. I’m just dying to see you in hunting ‘pink’.” “Now, Joan,” he remonstrated, "remember your promise not to make a joke of this business. By the way, how about driving down and having lunch with me?” “I should love to,” his daughter answered hesitatingly, “but Arthur I mean Mr Chesbroke—and I have just finished a couple of sets and we’re going to play the conqueror as soon as I get through phoning." “Joan!” he finally exploded. “Haven't I told you I won’t have that young roustabout at the house? Send him about his business as soon as you can. Have you seen the noon edition of his infernal paper? Well, it’s positively disgraceful. Disgraceful, I said. Libellous!”

He listened to the protests of che voice at the other end of the wire and then repeated his command. The phone suddenly went dead. That Fateful Day Nathaniel Proudfield hadn’t reached his present eminence in the world of finance without making enemies, and not the least of these was the Merehampton Chronicle, which had been one of his bitterest assailants for more years than he cared to remember. It had castigated him in countless editorials, jeered at him in daily news reports and ridiculed him in scores of cartoons. And it was on this paper that Arthur Chesbroke worked as a sports writer. Joan had met him at a tennis tournament a year ago and had Invited him to the house. At the outset, her father had taken a fancy to the fairhaired, athletic youngster, and had encouraged his visits until he’d learned that he was on the editorial staff of the detested Chronicle. From that fateful day, young Chesbroke had been forbidden the house and Joan had keen ordered to drop his acquaintance. Seemingly she has acquiesced, so that this sudden disregard of his instructions came like a bolt from a serene sky.

In a seat alongside an idle tennis court, a pretty dark-haired girl reached out and ruffled the closecropped amber curls of the young man lying at her feet. "Wake up, dopey. It’s time for another set.” Dad’s Horse Arrives Joan picked up a couple of balls and ran to the base line. Suddenly she lowered her racket and turned her head. She curled a beckoning finger and he Jumped the net and rejoined her. “Dad’s new horse has arrived,” she whispered. “Let’s take a peek.” j Behind an intervening laurel grove 'a huge bay horse stood placidly, flicking his bushy tail against his rounded flanks. Close to the horse were three

figures—those of Nathaniel Proudfield; O’Brien, the horse dealer; and Stigglns, the chauffeur. “He’s a massive-looking beast," Mr Proudfield announced sententiously. "And that’s a good fault, sor,” quickly rejoined the dealer. "For youse want a real weight-carrier, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. And he’s as quiet as a lamb. Why, bless you, sor, youse could slape alongside him in his stall, he’s that sweet o’ temper.” Mr Proudfield closely surveyed the giant steed, which returned his gaze with eyes as benevolent and placid as a pet rabbit’s. “What’s the price?” Mr Proudfield demanded.

“He’ll cost you an even foive hundred, sor, and youse nor any other man never made a better buy.” “Done,” said Mr Proudfield. "Send you a cheque in the morning.” He turned to his chauffeur. “Stlggins, put him in the stable and look after him till I get a groom.” Joan touched Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on, and see the horse before he’s led away. “No, no,” he disputed. She put an end to the argument by grabbing his hand and pulling him from the shelter of the laurels. “Oh, Stiggins!” she cried. “Wait till we've had a close up.” She ran forward, dragging her reluctant lover with her. "Why,” she commented roguishly, “he's as big as a*, elephant. You’ll need a step-

ladder, dad, to get on his back.” A scowl overshadowed Proudfield’s ruddy face as he glimpsed Arthur Chesbroke. Deliberately he turned his back to the young man. Affecting not to notice this rebuff, his daughter said coaxingly: “What are you going to call him?” “Haven’t given it a thought,” he answered curtly. She clapped her hands. “Splendid! Then I’ll do the christening. Big boy, now and henceforth you’ll be known as Eclipse. That was the name of a famous racehorse, wasn’t it, Arthur?” she said, turning to him. “A very famous one,” Chesbroke affirmed. Then he leaned towards her. “Look here, honey,” he whispered, “I'm going. By-by.” He turned to her father, a glint of

mirth in his eyes. “I hope you’ll give me a chance some other time, sir, of seeing your horsemanship." Mr Proudfield scorched him with a Jovian glance. Arthur, racquet swinging, disappeared down the drive. Gay Cavalcade As father and daughter sauntered towards the house, the former broke into a furious diatribe, “Insolent young devil,” he fumed. He brandished a copy of the Chronicle. “Look at that—that infernal libel. Look at it! Right on the front page.” Her glance fell on a cartoon in which a huge porker was depicted feeding from a trough labelled “Public Utilities.” Around the pig’s exaggerated neck was a collar inscribed, “Nathaniel P.”

Joan bit her lip. “It is pretty ghastly,” she admitted. “But Arthur has nothing to do with drawing cartoons.” “That’s beside the point,” he answered warmly. “That is why I will not have your name coupled with his, tennis or no tennis.” Joan withdrew her hand from his arm and looked at him reproachfully. “After all, dad," she said slowly, “I’m not exactly a baby. I'm twenty-two and I know my own mind.” "You don’t,” he interrupted her sharply. “And,” she continued resolutely, “I’ve made up my mind to marry Arthur Chesbroke.” “What!" he spluttered. “You actually tell me you intend to marry this nobody? Marry film without my consent?”

"Yes,” she said with finality, then uttered a half sigh. “But so far I

can’t bring Arthur up to scratch. He’s what your horsey friends probably would call a baulker. The poor dear’s so ferociously Victorian that he won’t go through with it. Insists on the parental approval and blessing.” She threw her dumbfounded father an elfish glance and ran ahead of him into the house. Even as it took more than one day to construct ancient Rome, so it required several for Mr Proudfield to imbibe the elementary princip’es of the equestrian art. But he was a dogged student and after a couple of weeks had elapsed since the purchase of Eclipse he felt sufficiently advanced to test the hefty steed outside his own private domain.

To the northeast of his estate stretched a vast expanse of fallow land, unfenced for the greater part, and here this particular afternoon Mr Proudfield urged his patient steed at a steady jog trot towards the summit of a slight hill. Reaching his destination, he halted Eclipse and gazed curiously towards a farmhouse, nestling in a clump of vari-tinted elms and beeches, outside which a coterie of red-coated riders moved restlessly to and fro. Occasionally the eager yelp of a hound floated on the wings of the pleasant autumnal breeze. Mr Proudfield rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle and watched the gay cavalcade suddenly stream off towards a dense patch of bush a mile beyond the farmhouse. The Call of the Horn He remained oblivious of the fact that his mount was equally as interested as he was. For Eclipse was pricking his ears and pawing the ground with a petulant hoof. A shrill yelp came from a questing hound deep

in the shadows of the wood, and the huge horse executed a sudden side step.

“Whoa there! Stand still!” ordered his rider, now alive to the uneasiness of his usually placid mount.

Eclipse’s answer to the admonition was to throw forward his long hammer head with such energy that he almost tore the reins from the grip of his disconcerted owner. And now there came a shrill blast from the huntsman’s horn and the pack of hounds began to give tongue like forty viragos in a Shoreditch lane. That instantly decided Eclipse’s future actions. As the trumpet call is to the old cavalry charger, so is the hunting horn’s summons to the veteran hunter; and in his younger days the big horse had carried a heavyweight sporting farmer over the countryside of North York. With another terrific lunge of his head he wrenched the mastery of the bit from Proudfield’s unskilful fingers and sped directly downhill towards the bush. No easy jog trot now. The big bay dashed after the rapidly disappearing riders and hounds at a furious gallop and only by a supreme effort could the horribly scared Proudfield maintain his balance. Where and when the end of this mad Odyssey would come, he had not the faintest idea as he swerved from side to side like a sailor on a swinging spar in an ocean gale. His knee-grip long had failed him. All that kept him on Eclipse’s elongated back was his hold on the saddle, and no drowning man clutched a rescuing rope with intenser grip than Proudfield clasped this friendly piece of leather. His brain reeled and his vision dimmed, but through all his confusion of mind and body he had time to bestow several hearty curses on his unruly steed and the dealer he’d bought it from. The chase had vanished from view and the bruised and shaken financier began to pluck up hope. But it instantly died when a shrill blast from a horn proclaimed that the hounds were now on his left. Eclipse cocked an attentive ear and wheeled towards the sound, heading for a hedge bordering a sunken road. “Good Godfrey! He’s never going to try to jump that,” moaned the unhappy Proudfield. “The mad devil will smash us both up.” Panic-Stricken Despairingly he reached down with both arms and circled his mount’s neck. He shut his eyes. # He opened them with a convulsive shudder after the horse soared over th? hedge and came down squarely on all four feet like a huge cat in the centre of the road. As a man sees objects at night when lightning rips the inky sky, so also the panic-stricken equestrian saw that Eclipse had narrowly missed alighting on the front ot a motor car out of which a young man was hurriedly jumping. The young man’s face was familiar, but Mr Proudfield had no further time for observation for the horse was now scrambling up the opposite bank. That gave the rider an opportunity to raise himself gradually and once again secure a grip on the saddle. And then he clawed feverishly for the reins, for less than a hundred yards straight ahead was a yawning ditch that measured a full twenty feet from bank to bank. The best of horses can’t run forever. With this formidable obstacle in full view, maybe, Eclipse, his flanks heaving and his nostrils distended, was not sorry to relinquish control of his future actions to his rider. But before he did, he dashed with unabated speed to the very brink of the wide ditch and then stopped as suddenly as a trained soldier does on the command of halt.

Tli inevitable happened. It would have happened to the best crosscountry rider in the world, which Mr Proudfield decidedly was not.

He was catapulted from his precarious seat, describing a perfect parabola before cleaving the slimy surface of the water-filled channel. His next recollection came when he found himself being hauled up the bank by the young man whose motor

car Eclipse had nearly wrecked. Drenched from head to foot, wate: oozing from his riding boots, his fact partially obscured by slime and due*, weed, the leading financial pillar Merehampton presented a sorry si>ht. His rescuer w’hipped off his overeqat, enveloped the shivering Proudfield ip its folds and half led, half supported him to his car. At 10 o’clock the following mom ing, Arthur Chesbroke called up Joai* “How’s poppa to-day, honey-bunchi “Doing very nicely, kind sir. H* wants to see you.” Her voice sobered. “Now go through with what we planned. No reneging.” “Okay,” he said hesitatingly, “but I feel kind of mean.” “Nonsense,” she chided. “Don’t be Victorian all your life.” Man's Best Friend Mr Proudfield was in bed when Chesbroke was ushered in to his presence. He motioned the visitor to a chair and then regarded him with a friendly eye in which lurked an uneasy gleam. “I want to thank you for your good services, young man,” he began pompously. Then inquired suddenly: “I suppose your paper will be full of my er—unfortunate accident.” “The Chronicle knows nothing of it. So far, I haven’t told a soul.” The huge face propped between two pillow's beamed like a noon sun. “Humph! That indicates you have some sense.” “I’m glad you think so,” rejoined the younger man, slowly bringing to view an envelope. “I thought you’d like to look these over, Mr Proudfield,” he went on a little shakily. “They came out beautifully.” From the envelope he extracted three photographs and handed them to his host. “You can’t beat ’em for action, can you?” With boggling eyes, Mr Proudfield stared at each picture in turn. The first depicted a corpulent horseman, both eyes closed, hands reaching desperately for a safe grip of his mount's neck—the very acme of equestrian extremity. The second showed the same rider in the act of diving into a ditch. The third, a dripping, forlorn figure blindly endeavouring to find an escape from its watery Waterloo. “I snapped that last one,” remarked Chesbroke, calmly, “just before I hauled you up the bank.” Mr Proudfield’s features purpled, paled and then purpled again. “Look here, Chesbroke,” he went on after a while. “I can see you’re not a bad sort of a youngster. I’ll give you a couple of hundred for each of these pictures—and the plates, of course—and w’e’ll call it a deal.” Arthur shook his head firmly. “Sorry, sir, but I couldn’t entertain a proposition like that.” “Then what proposition will you entertain?” A knock sounded on the door and Joan entered. Her father hurriedly hid the photos beneath the eiderdown. “I’m very busy just at the moment, my dear,” he explained. “Is there anything particular you want?” She walked over to Arthur’s chair and placed her arm around his neck. “This,” she said, kissing him. “It’s no good, father,” she continued, “and so you may as well give us your paternal blessing. Arthur’s too darned good a tennis partner to be allowed to run around loose. I decided that long ago. And, incidentally, I love him.” “You little . . .” He stopped and a grim smile chased across his massive Jowl. “I believe you were in league with him about those pictures.” “Pictures!” she exclaimed with an innocent air. “Have you some? Can I see them?” In the hall Arthur retrieved his hat and walked towards the front door. “Why the hurry?” Joan asked. "Where d’you think you’re going?” “To find old Eclipse, or whatever his name is, and give him the swellest feed of oats he ever had in his long life.” His hand on the door knob, he grinned. “Say, Joan, that old Greek philosopher knew his onions when he called the horse ‘man’s best friend’.”