A GRAND FINISH

ON the summit of the Grand Stand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish. Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia (most sumptuously attired) and her parent, Merchant-prince Jones; and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses.

"Poojah will prove to be the winner!... No, it is Milky Way!... They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat!" exclaimed the excited populaces.

And the beauteous Petunia was as if seated upon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was a sine qu non to their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million.

The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, and Poojah was correspondingly behind. "Macte virtute!" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"

And, as though in answer to this appeal (which he did not overhear), she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap.

Alack! it was the fatal piece of politeness; since, to avoid falling off, he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repenting his good-nature, or unable any longer to restrain the impetuosity of Poojah, was carried first past the winning-pole, Mr Bhosh following on Milky Way as the bad second!

At this the Princess Petunia emitted a doleful scream; like Freedom, which, as some poet informs us, "squeaked when Kockiusko (a Japanese gentleman) fell," and suspended her animation for several minutes, while the Duchess "grinned a horrible ghastly smile," as described by Poet Milton in Paradise Lost, at Mr Bhosh's shocking defeat and her own gain of a million, though all true sportsmen present deeply sympathised with our hero that he should be thus wrecked in sight of port on account of an ordinary act of courtesy to a female!

But Mr Bhosh preserved his withers as unwrung as though he possessed the hide of a rhinoceros. "Honble Sir," said he, addressing the Judge, "I humbly beg permission to claim this Derby race and lodge an objection against my antagonist."

"On what grounds?" was the naturally astonished rejoinder.

"On the grounds," deliberately replied Chunder Bindabun, "that he surreptitiously did pull his horse's head."

Juggins was too dumbfoundered to reply to the accusation, and several spectators came forward to testify that they had personally witnessed him curbing his steed, and—it being contrary to the lex non scripta of turf etiquette to pull at a horse's head when he is winning—Juggins was very ignominiously plucked by the Jockey's Club.

The Duchess made the desperate attempt to argue that, if Juggins was a pot, Mr Bhosh was a kettle of equally dark complexion, since he also had reined up before attaining the goal—but Chunder Bindabun was able easily to show that he had done so, not with any intention to forfeit his stakes, but merely to salute his betrothed, whereas Juggins had pulled to prevent his horse from achieving the conquest.

So, to Mr Bhosh's inexpressible delight, the Derby Cup, full as an egg with golden sovereigns, was awarded to him, and the notorious blue ribbon was pinned by the judge upon his proud and heaving bosom.

But, as he was reverting, highly elated, to the side of his beloved amidst the acclamations of the multitude, the disreputable Juggins had the audacity to pluck his elbow and demand the promised quid pro quo.

"For what service?" inquired Chunder Bindabun in amazement.

"Why, did you not promise me the moiety of your fortune, honble Sir," was the reply, "if I allowed you to be the winner?"

Mr Bhosh was of an exceptionally mild, just disposition, but such a piece of cheeky chicanery as this aroused his fiercest indignation and rendered him cross as two sticks. "O contemptible trickster!" he said, in terrific tones, "my promise (as thou knowest well) was on condition that I was first past the winning-pole. Whereas—owing to thy perfidy—I was only the bad second. Do not attempt to hunt with the hare and run with hounds. Depart to lower regions!"

And Juggins slinked into obscurity with fallen chops.

Benevolent and forbearing readers, this unassuming tale is near its finis. Owing to his brilliant success at the Derby, Mr Bhosh was now rolling on cash, and, as the prediction of the Astrologer-Royal was fulfilled, there was no longer any objection to his union with the Princess Jones, with whom he accordingly contracted holy matrimony, and now lives in great splendour at Shepherd's Bush, since all his friends earnestly besought him that he was not to return to India. He therefore naturalised himself as a full-blooded British, and further adopted a coat-of-arms from the Family Herald, with a splendidly lofty crest, and the motto "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche." ("Not being funky myself, I do not reproach others with said failing"—free translation.)

But what of the wicked Duchess? I have to record that, being unable to pay the welsher her bet of a million pounds, she was solemnly pronounced a bankruptess and incarcerated (by a striking instance of the tit-for-tat of Fate) in the identical Old Bailey cell to which she had consigned Chunder Bindabun!

And in her case the gaoler's fair daughter, Miss Caroline, did not exhibit the same softheartedness. Mr Bhosh and his Princess-bride, being both of highly magnanimous idiosyncrasies, for some time visited their relentless foe in her captivity, carrying her fruit and flowers and sweets of inexpensive qualities, but were received in such a cold, standoffish style that they soon discontinued such thankless civilities.

As for Milky Way, she is still hale and flourishing, though she has never since displayed the phenomenal speed of her first (and probably her last) Derby race. She may often be seen in the vicinity of Shepherd's Bush, harnessed to a small basketchaise, in which are Mr and Mrs Bhosh and some of their blooming progenies.

Here, with the Public's kind permission, we will leave them, and although this trivial and unpretentious romance can claim no merit except its undeviating fidelity to nature, I still venture to think that, for sheer excitement and brilliancy of composition, &c., it will be found, by all candid judges, to compare rather favourably with more showy and meretricious fictions by overrated English novelists.

End
of
A Bayard From Bengal.

N.B.—I cannot conscientiously recommend the Indulgent Reader to proceed any further—for reasons which, should he do so, will be obvious. H.B.J.