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Roy Glashan's Library
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YOU might have heerd me speak about a chap name of Baker (said the Old Man as he held a hopelessly outdate and very villainous sulphur match between his hands waiting for the flame)—name of Hinery Baker. A mate of mine in our young days, this here Baker was, and he was a very wise kind of a man. His 'eadpieee was remarkable for the idees and things he got out of it. Where you or me would be sort of dull like, this Baker would 'ave a idee ready as quick as flashes, if not quicker. Somehow or t'other sittin' here talkin' to you reminds me of Baker's goat. A goat he gave eighteenpence for, I mind, at Salsbry Market. A very good goat it was, and worth more, because of its looks. It was the prettiest goat as ever I did see, exceptin' that it only had one harn. I mind Baker asked the man he bought it from what had 'appened to the t'other harn. But the man he didn't know—likely been bit off by dogs, the man said. That was the on]y fault this here goat had, the man said—fightin' with dogs. That was that was the reason he was sellin' the goat so cheap, he told Baker.
Well, when they made the deal the man said he wouldn't mind payin' for one round for luck—it used to be a kind of a custom for fold to wet a deal for luck, and that's why more people used to go to market in them days than goes now—and so we went across to the "Farmers' Rest," Baker leadin' the goat by a bit of rope.
Now this "Farmers' Rest" was a niceish place that was kept by a sportin' sort of a man name of Bailey. He was a rare one for a bet, I mind, this Bailey was, and a 'astier-tempered man I can't call to mind, which made it sort of awkward to deal with 'im. You'd go in and have a glass of beer and you'd very likely say, friendly, "Sheep's sellin' remarkable dear to-day, Mr Bailey—they tell me Woolley, the auctioneer, jest sold a lot wethers for sixty-four shillin's a-piece," or something like that, and this here Bailey he'd take you up that sharp. "Ho! Well, I'll bet a pound they'll be sellin' a lot dearer next Tuesday."
Well, you mightn't be inclined to take his bet on. But next Tuesday you'd remind 'im that if you had bet with him he'd have lost—sheep bein' a lot cheaper. Then he'd rip it out at you, bein' 'asty, as I said, and dam' you up hill and down dale for bein' such a fool as not to take the bet when you had the chance. If you did bet and won he'd do the same because you took the bet; and if you lost he'd talk that onpleasant about fools and their money bein' soon parted. He was a 'ard man to get on with, this Bailey was.
Well, me and Baker and the goat, and the man Baker bought the goat from, goes in and orders a little drop of something, quite quiet and gentlemanly, jest the same as you might order one now, and this Bailey is jest goin' to serve us when he catches sight of Baker's goat.
"What's that—a uneecarn?" he asks, starin'.
"Yes," ses Baker, winkin' at me.
This Bailey gives an inquirin' sniff or two. It was a closeish summer day—there was thunder about, I mind.
"Ho!" he ses. "Well, it might look like a uneecarn, and it might be a uneecarn, but." he ses, "it smells too much like a goat to suit my fancy. And now he'd called it to mind, I'm bound to say you couldn't mistake that goat for lilies-of-the-valley—not that weather, you couldn't. Then I seen this Bailey's face git red, and I knowed he was workin' 'isself up.
"And another thing," he ses; "what the blazes do you mean by bringin' that pizenous animal into my nice bar? I keeps this 'ouse for 'uman bein's," he ses, "not for a lot of goats. I shall 'ave people complainin' about the taste of the beer if I don't look out. Take it out!" he shouts. "Take it away and put us out of our misery! D'ye 'ear? 'Ere, Bob, Bob!" and he started callin' his dog. He had a big black retriever, I mind, a savageish sort of dog. Well, before Baker and us hardly knowed what was up in comes this dog full split, with his teeth showin' 'orrible, and Bailey, who had got the full flavour of the goat by now, started a-sickin' the dog on to us as though we was 'is wust enimies.
"Look out!" ses the man Baker bought the goat from.
We stood back and watched. It was too late to git out.
Well, I've saw some rum things in me time, the sight of that goat beats all I ever seen. He stiffened out his laigs, and sort of swelled his body all up, and his eyes turned as red as fire. He takes one look at the dog and humped his back up, and the dog jumped for 'im just about the same minit he jummped for the dog. They jined heads in the middle of the bar with a slap what shook the place. The dog shot t'other side of the bar as if he'd run into a train. He lands into a corner just as though he was a wet dish-cloth, and there he lays all twisted up for a second, or mebbe more.
Then he gets up gets up, slow an ordinary-lookin', and takes a careful look at the goat, 'oo stood in the middle of the bar, shakin' his head his 'ead and smellin' like all-possessed. And, mister, if you ever wanted to see a dumb animal thinkin', you ought to 'ave saw Bailey's dog that day.
After a bit, he sort of put one paw up to 'is 'head, very tender. Then he turned round sort of giddy and went out into the street remarkable modest and quiet for sich a savage dog.
Well, this Bailey, he couldn't believe his eyes. He was as proud of his dog as he was of his wife—prouder, so folk said. I dunno meself, for I don't remember ever seein' his wife. He didn't speak for a minit. He turned round and poured hisself a liddle drop of brandy, and stood there, thinkin'.
All at once he out with it:
"Take that object outer my 'ouse!" he says.
"I will so," ses Baker. "I will so—when I been served with a glass of beer for meself an' a biskit for me goat, he ses. "This here is an inn, Mister Bailey, licensed to supply a man and his beast. And it's the law," ses Baker. And I thought this here Bailey would 'ave gone clean crazy. 'E couldn't speak—which was a good job, I reckon, because ho would 'ave been sure to 'ave offended any of 'is customers who didn't 'appen to hold with strong language.
"Biskit?" he ses, bimeby.
"Yes," ses Baker. "A soft biskit with carraway seeds inside of it. If you 'aven't got none, a sponge-cake'll do."
Well, this Bailey didn't seem to understand. He comes round the counter and calls out to his son.
"Willy, come and 'tend the bar," he shouts, kind of weary. "I'm goin' out for a walk."
He goes t'ord the door, and in passin' the goat he manages to kick it. Not hard, Mister; but hard or soft, it made no difference to the goat, you onderstand. He give a hasty snort and landed Bailey on the spine as pretty as a picture. It was a real good job for Bailey the door was open, or else he would 'ave sure to 'ave broke it with the force he went through. His dog was waitin' outside, kind of onhappy, and the two of 'em went off up the street together.
The folk in the bar laffed rather hearty at first, but gradually they sort of died out, and one or two asked Bailey's son to serve 'em with the strongest cigars he had in stock.
He was a smartish boy, and he was a bit of a scholard, too—spoke very clever, I mind—and he seen folk had enjoyed their joke and didn't want no more of it. So he ses to Baker, "Thats a good, strong goat of yours, Mr. Baker, he ses, "and I don't mean no offense, but don't you reckon he's jest a liddle bit too strong to associate with folk. Most of the customers is farmers and used to farm perfumes," he goes on, "but they reckons market day to be a sort of holiday from farmin'. But your goat, he ain't doin' nothin' to encourage the idee that this is a holiday. I'll open all the windows if you or anybody wants 'em, but to get the atmosphere of this 'ouse comfortable again we shall either 'ave to shift the goat, or else we shall 'ave to shift the 'ouse; and I put it to you, Mr Baker, that the 'ouse was 'ere fust, and has got the right to stop 'ere."
Well, Baker was never a one to overdo a joke, and he wasn't enjoyin' the goat any more than anybody else, and so he acknowledges Bailey's son s claim, and got a boy in to take the goat out and walk him up and down until he was ready to go 'ome.
Bimeby we parts with the man 'oo sold Baker the goat—he didn't 'ave much of the eighteenpence left neither, mister, you onderstand me—and off we comes back to this villidge—us and the goat.
In about two day's time Baker's goat had mastered every dog in the place, and Baker was prouder of 'im than anybody'd think a man could get of a goat. Me and Baker used to sit on the fence of his father's garden, with the goat at t'other end of the garden, and talk about 'im for hours together, us bein' out of work at the time, I mind.
On the follerin' Tuesday we goes into Salsbry Market like we always did, and afore we come 'ome we called in at the "Farmers' Rest," and seen Bailey. We 'ad an 'ard job to get him to command hisself when he seen us, but he did at last, and all at once he turned rather pleasant.
"Well, 'ow's that dam' goat of yourn's?" he asks Baker, presently. "They tell me that he's a match for any dog ever heard of."
"So he is," ses Baker. "He's got more spirit in 'is one harn than that dog of yourn's got in his whole body."
Bailey grins at this ruther cunnin'.
"Ho!" he ses. "Well, that's accordin' to what folks think. I don't deny the animal made me look kind of foolish t'other day, and I don't deny he beat my retriever holler, but I got a dog now that would kill and devour 40 goats like it and still be hungry for more. And I'll bet £5 on it," he ses, in a nasty kind of a voice.
"You 'ave, 'ave you?" ses Baker, gettin hot. "Well, one goat'll be enough. I 'aven't got five pound—no more ain't my partner"—that was me, mister, you onderstand—me and Baker was partners—"but," Baker goes on, "we got two pound ten, and it you'll bet five pound to two pound ten that your dog can make my goat do what he don't want to do—and that's run—I'll bet with ye."
Well, this Bailey, he was jest delighted to bet. There was a lot of people in the bar, and one of 'em—Walter Tiggman, a dealer we all knowed—agreed to hold the stakes, and Dowjy Barrow agreed to hold Walter Tiggman, without bein' asked. Dowjy got one in the earhole from Walter for makin' uncalled for remarks, I mind.
After a lot of talk and remark it was agreed that Bailey and his dog should meet Baker and his goat on the downs just outside of this villidge next day, and settle it there. Anybody could come 'oo wanted to, and everybody in the bar reckoned they'd look along and see the end of it. I mind the man 'oo sold Baker the goat was there at the time, and he said he should come. He said it would be a sight worth seein'.
"I'm leavin' this part of the country on Thursday," he said, "and all my life I've been wantin' to see a good stand-up scrap between a dog and a goat." He laffed uncommon hearty, I mind, when he spoke.
"But ain't it croolty to animals?" ses somebody 'oo ought to 'ave 'ad more sense.
"No," ses the man 'oo 'ad sold Baker the goat. "You'll see there ain't no croolty in this. It's a good powerful goat. 'T'ain't like one of these ornamental goats that draws liddle carridges for children."
Well, when it was all settled it occurs to Baker that we ain't seen the dog yet.
'Let's 'ave a look at this new dog of your'n, Mr Bailey," he ses, and Bailey goes out to his backyard and fetches in the biggest dog I iver set eyes onto.
"Lumme!" ses Baker, "is it a dog or a lion?" This here dog stood half as high again as Baker's goat, and his mouth was more like a tiger's than a dog's. He was a rid-coloured dog—rid and black, like a brindled cow—and he was bigger'n a donkey.
"No," ses somebody, "there won't be no more croolty than a man eatin' a winkle—not with a dog this size. 'E'll eat your goat in one bite, Baker."
"All right," ses Baker. "We shall see. I'm tired of the goat, whatever 'appens." But I could see he wished he 'adn't betted.
Well, me and Baker drawed off pretty soon, and feelin' pretty foolish, you onderstand, We brightened a liddle when we got 'ome and saw the goat drive the squire's grey'ound over a fence for all the world like a cat. Partikler when the squire het at the goat with a dog-whip, and the goat drove him over the fence into the cricket ground, too. But, all the same, we wasn't feelin' very hearty next day when we got up to the downs.
There was a lot of folk there, formed into a sort of ring they'd made with some hurdles. Bailey 'adn't arrived yet, and so we turned the goat into the hurdles and waited. The man 'oo 'ad sold Baker the goat was there on one of them bicycles. The policeman was there too.
"Now mind, Hinery Baker," he ses, "I don't object to a bit of a scrap, but there ain't goin' to be no croolty,"' he ses. "If there's anything of that kind you and Mr. Bailey'll get locked up. And that's fair' warnin'. Take it and abide by it."
I noticed the man 'oo sold Baker the goat give a sort of chuckle, and I asked 'im what he was laffin' at. "Nothin'," he said. "That's a big dog of Bailey's," he ses, "ain't it?"
"'T'is that," I ses. "You don't 'appen to know where he got it, I s'pose?" I asked, careless.
"Yes," ses the man, "off of me! He gave me two pound for the dog."
"Oh!" I ses. "Well, I don't think much of that." and more I didn't, you onderstand, mister. If me and Baker'd knowed the dog cost two pound we shouldn't have been fools enough to have matched a goat that only cost eighteenpence against it. But just then Bailey drives up, and we all rushes to the ring.
"All ready," ses Bailey, holding his dog by the collar. "Where s that dam' goat ? In the ring ? All right. Stand clear!"
He takes a liddle run with the dog t'ords the hurdles, sicking the animal on. Then he lets go, and the dog jumps the hurdles into the ring, growlin' something 'orrible ! I never seen a dog worked up to sich a state of rage in me life. Over the hurdles he bounds, and there was the pore goat in the middle waitin' for 'im, feedin' on a tuff of grass.
The goat looks up and sees the dog jest about the same instant as the dog sees what he's supposed to kill and devour, and then—I niver seen nothin' like it afore or since, mister—they seemed to recognise each other, all at once. The dog stopped in sich a hurry as I couldn't describe, and lets out a sudden yelp of surprise, and then all at once he turns round, his tail glued down between 'is legs, and makes one bound for the open. Outer that ring he scratches, mister, flinging up bits of turf be'ind 'im, and away he goes all acrost the downs like a fire ingine!
Lumme! What a sight that was! Talk about foxes or hares! Nothin' in the world could 'ave caught that dog, mister, not after he set eyes on Baker's goat. By the time Bailey 'ad got to the ring his dog was out and gone.
"Why, what is it? Where's the dog he ses," sort of wild.
"The dog," ses Baker. "Why, there he goes! All acrost the downs! See 'im ? Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi!"
And to see that fine dog put on steam when Baker shouted would have made a judge laugh, mister.
'Course Walter Tiggman handed over the stakes to me and Baker, and declared the goat the winner. It was minutes before Bailey could speak a word. Folks thought he was chokin'. Dowjy Barrow patted him on the back, and Bailey patted him in the eye a good 'un for doin' so.
But when everybody had paid their bets, and there was a good bit of money changed hands—mostly in the direction of the man who sold Baker the goat—Bailey he turns onto the man.
"Why, when you sold me the dog you said you reckoned he could kill that goat with a muzzle on!"
The man put his foot on his bicycle step and begun hoppin', like they do afore they gets on.
"Yes," ses the man, "I did. But after what I've jest seen I'll own to it fully and freely that I reckoned wrong. The last time them two 'ad a scrap the goat won. But I put it down to the dog bein' out of condition. 'Owever, it seems that I was all wrong. I've made a mistake, and I don't mind admittin' it."
He'd got a good start down hill by now, and before Bailey got the real meanin' of what he said the man was very near out of sight. I never heerd of the man since. But Baker and me done very well out of it, and we never bore 'im no grudge. Baker 'ad the goat six months after that. Then he tell in with the fox-hounds one day. They was in full cry, and the fox went to earth just near where the goat was standin'. The goat tried to butt the leadin' hound just in front of the fox's earth. The 'untsmen was a long way be'ind—there was only a slip of a girl up with the 'ounds—and by the time the 'untsmen got up there wasn't much more than his one harn left of Baker's goat.
There was a long pause, broken at last by the Old Man.
"But Baker got compensation," he said. "He claimed four pound ten."
"And—er—how much did he get?" I inquired, for I knew the Old Man, by now.
"Eighteenpence," answered the Old Man with a wan smile.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.