They Hanged My Saintly Billy (28 page)
Cook
sighed,
and
said:
'I'm
afraid,
Dr
Savage,
your
advice comes
a
little
too
late.
You
don't
know
the
worst,
and
I
can't
tell it
you.'
'But,
John,'
Dr
Savage
expostulated,
'why
act
like
a
beast? You
were
always
a
good-hearted,
sensible
lad
until
you
inherited that
accursed
money.
I
felt
ashamed
for
your
family's
sake
a
week ago
when
I
saw
you
riding
back
from
the
Derby!
I
happened
to be
close
behind
your
dray,
and
watched
the
disgraceful
proceedings
from
the
very
edge
of
the
racecourse
onwards.
You
th
rew
a pin-cushion
at
the
head
of
a
solemn-looking
gentl
eman
in
his
four-wheeler,
and
caused
him
severe
pain.
When
he
quite
naturally resented
the
assault,
your
ruffians
discharged
a
volley
of
musical pears,
snuff-boxes,
dolls,
china
ink-wells
and
coloured
balls
at
him —the
whole
range
of
"knock-'em-down"
prizes
won
at
the Epsom
sideshows.
Next,
you
stormed
a
van
of
cheap
crockery, and
occasioned
the
wretched
owner
many
shillings
worth
of loss.
Then
out
came
the
pea-shooters,
and
every
carriage,
cab,
or omnibus
that
you
overtook
was
assailed
with
your
chaff,
obscene vituperation
and
peas.
You
bombarded
the
windows
of
Cheam and
Sutton
with
further
peas.
Your
post-horns,
which
had
been turned
into
goblets
that
day
by
the
insertion
of
a
cork
in
each mouthpiece,
were
now
post-horns
again,
and
blew
defiant,
sentimental
or
drunken
notes.
'You
pulled
up
at
The
Cock
in
Sutton
High
Street,
and
so much
brandy
went
down
during
your
short
stay
that
even
the driver
lost
his
head.
I
halted,
too,
in
my
gig,
determined
to
keep an
eye
on
you
in
case
of
accidents.
Off
you
drove
once
more,
and close
by
Kennington
Gate
my
presentiments
were
justified.
You ran
into
a
fly
containing
an
elderly
tallow-chandler
and
his
wife, and
"upset
the
whole
biling'',
as
I
heard
one
of
your
elegant
comrades
exult.
You
drove
away,
half
a
minute
later,
as
if
nothing
had happened;
leaving
me
to
take
care
of
the
tallow-chandler,
whose scalp
was
cut
open,
and
his
badly
bruised
wife,
who
had
fainted.'
Cook
looked
abashed.
'Yes,
we
were
all
intoxicated,'
he
confessed.
'
It
had
been
a
good
day
for
us.
I
hope
you
found
nothing wrong
with
the
old
gentleman's
head
that
vinegar
and
brown paper
couldn't
cure?
Dr
Palmer,
at
any
rate,
handed
him
his
card and
offered
to
pay
the
damage
done
to
the
fly.'
'Dr
Palmer
gave
him
a
card,
as
you
say’
continued
Dr
Savage, 'but
not
his
own!
It
was
th
e
Marquess
of
Anglesey's
card,
and
his lordship
angrily
rejected
the
imputation
that
he
had
been
in
any way
responsible
for
the
accident.'
'Palmer's
always
a
fellow
for
larks,'
said
Cook
sheepishly,
'but he's
very
good-hearted.
I'm
sure
he
proffered
the
wrong
card
by mistake.'
'Dr
Palmer's
a
calculating
rogue,'
pronounced
Dr
Savage,
'to which
I
may
add
that
it
does
you
no
credit
to
be
known
as
the intimate
of
a
reputed
horse-poisoner;
a
man
who
defaulted
in
the payment
of
a
bet
five
years
ago,
and
was
consequently
refused admission
to
Tattersall
's
Ring;
who
defaulted
again
the
following year,
and
was
forbidden
by
the
stewards
of
the
Jockey
Club
to
run Ins
horse
Goldfinder
in
any
race
they
managed
until
he
had
paid up.
None
of
the
first-class
betting-men,
several
of
whom
are
my patients,
will
receive
him.'
'All
this
I
have
heard,
and
more
besides,'
answered
Cook,
with a
gloomy
frown,
'but
one
judges
of
a
man
as
one
knows
him,
and he's
been
very
kind
to
me.'
After
this,
Cook
continued
to
visit
Dr
Savage
every
few
weeks; the
last
occasion
being
a
fortnight
before
his
death.
The
tonics which
the
doctor
prescribed
had
by
that
time
improved
his
health and
dispersed
the
sores
in
his
mouth.
The
Attorney-General's
opening
speech
for
the
Prosecution
was fairly
temperate,
later
he
developed
a
marked
prejudice
against Dr
Palmer,
as
a
result,
we
believe,
of
what
he
heard
casually
on the
second
day
of
the
trial,
from
Frank
Swindell,
his
Turf-agent.
Swindell
is
a
man
of
humble
origin;
he
began
as
a
cleaner
of engines
in
a
Derby
firearms
factory,
but
by
judicious
betting gathered
together
enough
money
to
buy
himself
a
well-placed public
house.
Dissatisfied
with
a
life
of
perpetually
serving
beer by
day,
and
making
books
at
night,
he
determined,
since
he
could not
be
one
of
the
'nobs',
that
he
would
at
least
sun
liimself
in
their society,
and
become
necessary
to
them.
He
has
now
amassed
a sizeable
fortune
by
bookmaking,
and
moved
into
a
pleasant
small house
on
th
e
east
side
of
Berkeley
Square,
between
Hay
Hill
and Bruton
Street.
There
his
shrewd
wit,
his
independence
of
mind, combined
with
politeness,
and
his
honesty—as
honesty
is
understood
on
the
Turf,
where
no
strictly
honest
man
can
ever
prosper —have
won
him
many
friends.
I
daresay,
being
born
a
Swindell,
he
finds
more
call
to
guard
his
reputation
than
some
of
his
less invidiously
named
competitors:
such
as
Bob
Playfair,
Jack
Good-fellow,
Harry
Trueman,
and
Sam
Shillingsworth.
He
has
a
wonderful
fund
of
humorous
stories,
and
we
hear
that
no
Diocesan Conference
could
remain
unmoved
by
laughter
were
he
to
deliver his
monologue
about
wedding
customs
at
Oldham,
or
describe his
accidental
visit
to
the
British
Museum
which,
on
first
corning to
London,
he
mistook
for
another
sort
of
establishment
altogether.
Swindell
used
to
back
horses
on
Dr
Palmer's
behalf,
but never
forgave
him
for
one
day
repudiating
a
gambling
debt
made verbally
and
not
supported
by
a
signed
commission.
