F. Anstey

STONE WALLS DO NOT MAKE A CAGE

Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone!
Or tell me where my Beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown.
'Twas here she arched her glossy back, beside the fountain's brink,
And after that I know no more—but I came off, I think.

More so-called original lines by aforesaid young English friend. But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere.—H.B.J.

AND now, O gentle and sympathetic reader, behold our unfortunate hero confined in the darkest bowels of the Old Bailey Dungeon, for the mere crime of being an impecunious!

Yes, misters, in spite of all your boasted love of liberty and fresh air, imprisonment for debt is still part of the law of the land! How long will you deafen your ears to the pitiable cry of the bankrupt as he pleads for the order of his discharge? Perhaps it has been reserved for a native Indian novelist to jog the elbow of so-called British jurisprudence, and call its attention to such a shocking scandal.

Mr Bhosh found his prison most devilishly dull. Some prisoners have been known to beguile their captivity by making pets or playmates out of most unpromising materials. For instance, and exempli gratia, Mr Monty Christo met an abbey in his dungeon, who gave him a tip-top education; Mr Picciola watered a flower; the Prisoner of Chillon made chums of his chains; while Honble Bruce, as is well-known, succeeded in taming a spider to climb up a thread and fall down seven times in succession.

But Mr Bhosh had no spider to amuse him, and the only flowers growing in his dungeon were toadstools, which do not require to be watered, nor did there happen to be any abbey confined in the Old Bailey at the time.

Nevertheless, he was preserved from despair by his indomitable native chirpiness. For was not Milky Way a dead set for the Derby, and when she came out at the top of the pole, would he not be the gainer of sufficient untold gold to pay all his debts, besides winning the hand of Princess Petunia?

He was waited upon by the head gaoler's daughter, a damsel of considerable pulchritude by the name of Caroline, who at first regarded him askance as a malefactor.

But, on learning from her parent that his sole offence was insuperable pennilessness, her tender heart was softened with pity to behold such a young gentlemanly Indian captive clanking in bilboes, and soon they became thick as thieves.

Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, her thoughts were entirely engrossed with the approaching Derby Race, and she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge that a notorious grandame, to wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, had backed heavily that Milky Way was to fail like the flash of a pan.

Whereupon Mr Bhosh, recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare with her concomitant jockey to the mercy of this self-same Duchess, was harrowed with sudden misgivings.

By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated that Mr M^cAlpine was a pal of the Duchess, which she had herself admitted at the Victoria terminus, and thus by dint of penetrating instinct, Mr Bhosh easily unravelled the tangled labyrinth of a hideous conspiracy, which caused him to beat his head vehemently against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality.

Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Caroline was transfixed with passionate adoration for Bindabun, whom she regarded as a gallant and illused innocent, and resolved to assist him to cut his lucky.

To this end she furnished him with a file and a silken ladder of her own knitting—but unfortunately Mr Bhosh, having never before undergone incarceration, was a total neophyte in effecting his escape by such dangerous and antiquated procedures, which he firmly declined to employ, urging her to sneak the paternal keybunch and let him out at daybreak by some back entrance.

And, not to crack the wind of this poor story while rendering it as short as possible, she yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him to the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5 A.M.

Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird!

It was the dawn of the Derby Day, and Mr Bhosh precipitated himself to his dwelling, intending to array himself in all his best and go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Heyday! What was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approach with streaming eyes, fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful!

"How comes it, Cadwallader," sternly inquired Mr Bhosh, "that you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes?"

"I do not know," was the whimpered response.

"Then pray where is my Derby favourite, Milky Way?" demanded Bindabun.

"I cannot tell," wailed out the lachrymose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the Duchess had met him at the station portals, and, on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of Refreshment-room.

There she plied him with a stimulant which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist, viz., brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became catalyptic in a corner.

When he returned to sobriety neither the Duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, and he had been searching in vain for them ever since.

It was the time not for words, but deeds, and Mr Bhosh did not indulge in futile irascibility, but sat down and composed a reply wire to the Clerk of Course, Epsom, couched in these simple words: "Have you seen my Derby mare?—Bhosh."

After the suspense of an hour the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, upon which Mr Bhosh thus addressed the abashed Perkin: "Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of riding her. Strip off your racing coat and cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian."

The lad handed over the toggery, which Bindabun stuffed, being of very fine silken tissue, into his coat pocket, after which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries.

There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, and he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation, when, mirabile dictu! all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-known sound of a whinny, and he recognised the beloved voice of Milky Way!

But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound. There was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms, but at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the Left-Luggage department, and, summoning a porter, Mr Bhosh had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped Derby favourite Milky Way!