Free Derby Day by D.J. Taylor

us. Not at all. Four hundred pounds – well, four hundred and fifty, say – would settle this, and old Loveday bow him into his shop next week as if nothing had happened. Thin memories those shopkeepers have, you know. Even that lawyer might take a note of hand at three months if it was managed right. But there’s a gentleman in London been buying up his paper, sir.’
    ‘Which gentleman is this?’
    ‘Mr Hipperton. Poppleton. Some such name.’ Mr Jones looked as if he had something to say, but, seeing the look on his superior’s face, meekly subsided.
    ‘But why should he want Mr Davenant’s paper? If what you say about his position is true, there would be no advantage in owning it.’
    ‘Indeed there wouldn’t – Jones, I’ll thank you to stop fidgeting. No, you see, it’s the horse he wants.’
    ‘Davenant’ll not give that up.’
    ‘He may have to, sir, if this Mr Hipperton is on his track. You see, you may not know it – for all that friendship blossoms in life’s stagnant garden, as the poet says – but Mr D. here’s an embarrassed man. There’s the money he borrowed to buy that horse that broke its leg, and the money he owes to the lawyer, and half a dozen other things besides. And what’s he got in the way of assets?’ Still the clerk was making agitated motions with his forefinger. ‘Why, there’s this house, in which we sits today, drinking this uncommon good sherry, which is mortgaged, sir, up to four-fifths of its value, and there’s that horse sitting in its stable, which may win the Two Thousand or the Derby or then again may not. Why, if it wasn’t for me not wishing to disturb a gentleman’s comfort, the bailiffs would be in here tomorrow taking away the furniture. What is it, Jones? Anyone would think you were a jack-in-the-box, the way you jump up and down so.’
    ‘His name is Happerton,’ Mr Jones squeaked out.
    ‘There you are, Happerton. Why didn’t you say so?’ Mr Silas turned solemnly to Mr Glenister. ‘The man’s name is Happerton. And he ain’t buying up Mr Davenant’s bills so he can discount them, that’s for sure.’
    Mr Glenister thought about the information that had been vouchsafed to him. He could do nothing about Mr Happerton and his schemes, but he thought he might arrange the present business.
    ‘Four hundred and fifty, you say, would settle this morning’s affair?’
    ‘Well, four hundred and seventy. That Loveday, you know, is so very wearing. Let us say four hundred and seventy-five.’
    ‘You would take my note of hand? To be drawn on Messrs Gurney in Lincoln?’
    Mr Silas thought about this. Mr Glenister was a bachelor with a substantial estate, none of whose stamped paper or other evidence of his indebtedness had ever been seen anywhere inside the borders of Lincolnshire, and who was assumed to lead a thoroughly blameless life.
    ‘I think we could see our way to accommodating you, sir,’ he remarked. ‘Jones, have a paper drawn up, would you? Here, let us mark it on the schedule. It would be in Lincoln you saw Lady Mary, I don’t doubt, sir, for she goes there often I hear.’
    And so the business was done. Mr Glenister signed his name on various documents produced by Mr Jones from out of his coat pocket (‘No need for stamps,’ Mr Silas graciously conceded. ‘This ain’t a bill in the regular way of things’), the clerk packed up his paper in various pocketbooks and ledgers that had come in from the gig, and the party debouched into the hall. Here Mr Silas became more affable still. He complimented the maid who held open the door on her complexion, remarked the deer’s antlers that hung over the door-frame and shook his head over a crack in the window pane. Shaking Mr Glenister’s hand on the doorstep, which he did with the air of one who had sealed an eternal friendship, he murmured:
    ‘They do say the horse will be entered for the Derby.’
    ‘Very probably he will be,’ Mr Glenister said, thinking that the horse might very