“I’m asking fifty for him—and he’d probably make a bit more than that at Tatt’s. But I’m awful keen to find the old chap a really good home, and I’d be glad to let you have him for forty-five,” Mr. Gaffikin assured me, adding, “Forty-five guineas: it’s very little for a horse of his class, and he’s got many a hard season in him yet.” I agreed that the price was extremely moderate. “Well, you must come in and have a bit of lunch, and then we can talk it over.” But it was obvious that the transaction was as good as concluded, and Dixon had already made up his mind to put a bit more flesh on the old horse before he was much older.
That evening I composed a mildly defiant letter to Mr. Pennett, explaining that I had found it necessary to buy a horse, and asking him to provide me with an extra fifty pounds.
The arrival of Harkaway was a red-letter day for our uneventful household. Dixon and I had agreed to say nothing about it to Aunt Evelyn, so there was a genuine surprise when we were finishing our lunch two days later and Miriam almost fell through the dining-room door with a startled expression on her face and exclaimed, “Oh, sir, your horse has come, and he don’t half look a beauty!”
“Good gracious, George, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve bought a horse?” said Aunt Evelyn, fluttering up out of her chair and hastening to the window.
Sure enough, there was Harkaway with Dixon on his back, and we all three went outside to admire him. Aunt Evelyn accepted his advent with unqualified approval, and remarked that he had “such a benevolent eye.” Dixon, of course, was beaming with satisfaction. Miriam hovered on the doorstep in a state of agitated enthusiasm. And altogether it seemed as if I had accomplished something creditable. Self-satisfied and proprietary, I stroked the old horse’s neck, and felt as though in him, at least, I had an ally against the arrogance of the world which so often oppressed me with a sense of my inferiority. But the red-letter day was also a lawyer’s letter day. My complacency was modified by Mr. Pennett’s reply, which arrived in the evening. When I had carried it upstairs and digested it I had an uncomfortable feeling that the schoolroom was still the schoolroom in spite of its new and more impressive name. In fairness to the writer I must again quote his letter in toto, as he would have phrased it.
“Dear George, I confess I am disappointed with your letter. £450 a year is a big sum and should be more than ample for all your requirements. I do not propose to comment on the fact that you have found it necessary to buy a horse, although I am not surprised that you find that time hangs heavy on your hands. When I last saw you I told you that in my view the best thing you could do would be to qualify to be called to the Bar, that you should go into a barrister’s chambers and work there steadily until you were called. The training is excellent, it gives you an insight into business matters, and enables you to acquire the power of steady concentration. I have also intimated to you as strongly as I could that you are wasting your time and energies in pursuing a course of desultory reading. I consider it a shame that a young fellow with your health and strength and more than average amount of brains should be content to potter around and not take up some serious calling and occupation. I venture to prophesy that this will one day be brought home to you and perhaps too late. My view is, ‘Don’t ride the high horse.’ He won’t carry you across country and the chances are you will come a cropper at your fences. Yours sincerely, Percival G. Pennett. P.S.—£50 is a large sum to spend for the object you propose. I am therefore paying into your account £35, which sum will be deducted from the next instalment of your income.”
Dismissing the idea of working steadily in a barrister’s chambers, which was too unpalatable to be dwelt on, however briefly, I wondered whether the truth of Mr. Pennett’s prophecy would ever be “brought home to me.” It was a nuisance about the money, though; but Harkaway had been brought home to me, anyhow. So I consolidated my position by writing out a cheque to Cosmo Gaffikin, Esq., there and then. After that I erected an additional barrier against the lawyer’s attack on my liberties by settling down to a steady perusal of Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour, which I had brought up from the drawing-room. And while I relished Mr. Sponge’s desultory adventures I made up my mind to go out with the Dumborough Hounds as soon as I felt myself qualified to appear in public on my exceptionally brilliant performer.
If Mr. Pennett could have prevented me from purchasing Harkaway (or any other quadruped) he would have done so. It was his mundane duty as my ex-guardian and acting trustee. Nor can it be denied that
