from far away
However he won’t live long
But to bury him before he died would be very wrong.
No one understood horses
more than Reuben Smith. There could not have been a more faithful or valuable
man. Some valued him at over £100. He could walk on his hands, waggle his ears,
and juggle coconuts, of which he had a lovely bunch. With four in hand and two
in the other he was the complete piss artist. When he was pissed, his favourite
trick was to urinate through people’s letter boxes. He was a terror to his
wife; his underpants took the brunt of it.
York had hushed the matter
up, at the same time rendering him unconscious with an iron bar: one night, he
had to drive a party home; he was so drunk, he couldn’t hold the reins and fell
off the driving seat and into the gutter, where he became covered in it. This
affair could not be hidden, but you could smell it on him. He was dismissed;
his poor wife and little children were turned out of the cottage they lived in,
so he booked them into the Savoy Hotel in London and put it on Lord Grey’s
bill. But Lord Grey forgave him on the understanding that he would never taste
another drop as long as he lived.
Colonel Blantyre had to
return to his regiment. At the station, he pressed a penny into Smith’s hand.
‘The mean bastard,’ said Reuben Smith, and bid him goodbye.
Then he drove to the White
Lion and told the ostler to have me ready at four o’clock. But it came four
o’clock, and five, and then he shouted not till six, as he’d met with some old
friends. Finally, he appeared at nine o’clock, pissed out of his mind and sick
all down the front.
The landlord stood at the
door and said, ‘Have a care, Mr Smith!’
‘Fuck off!’ said Mr Smith.
He was forced to gallop at
my utmost speed, 150 miles per hour. ‘Faster, 160 miles per hour!’ I stumbled and
fell with violence on both my knees. Smith was flung off by my fall, and owing
to the speed I was going at, he must have fallen with great force. The moon had
just risen above the hedge, and by its light I could see Smith lying a few
yards beyond the hedge with sick all down the front. He did not rise, he made
one slight effort to do so, and then there was a heavy groan. I could have
groaned too, so I did. I groaned and he groaned, and then we took it in turns
to groan. Finally, we heard the sound of horse’s hooves. It was a lovely summer
night and I could hear the nightingale, only interrupted now and then by the
sound of Smith being sick.
26
HOW IT ENDED
One night I heard horse’s feet
They came from the street
Then, oh, woe is me
There happened a tragic tragedy
They found a dark figure on the ground
From which there came not a sound
One man turned him over
‘’Tis Reuben Smith,’ he said
‘And what’s worse, he’s dead’
So he died from alcohol
And Aids he caught from Deptford Mall
He will be greatly missed
One blessing was, never again would he be pissed.
It must have been nearly
midnight when I heard, at a great distance, the sound of horse’s hooves. They
came slowly, and stopped at the dark figure that lay on the ground.
One of the men jumped out.
‘It is Reuben!’ he said, ‘and he does not stir.’
They raised him up, then
they laid him down again, and then for fun they picked him up and laid him down
again.
‘I have just seen your cut
knees,’ they said.
‘Yes, nasty aren’t they?’ I
said.
Robert attempted to lead me
forward. I made a step but almost fell again, so he tried leading me backwards.
‘Hallo! He’s bad in his
foot as well as his knees — his hoof is cut all to pieces! I tell you what!’
‘Tell me what?’ said Ned.
‘I tell you what — either
Reuben or the horse was pissed.’
Reuben was now breathing
his last, and they all gathered round so as not to miss any of it. It was
agreed that Robert, as the groom, should lead me, and that Reuben would be put
in the dogcart. This wasn’t easy; they had to double him up with his
However he won’t live long
But to bury him before he died would be very wrong.
No one understood horses
more than Reuben Smith. There could not have been a more faithful or valuable
man. Some valued him at over £100. He could walk on his hands, waggle his ears,
and juggle coconuts, of which he had a lovely bunch. With four in hand and two
in the other he was the complete piss artist. When he was pissed, his favourite
trick was to urinate through people’s letter boxes. He was a terror to his
wife; his underpants took the brunt of it.
York had hushed the matter
up, at the same time rendering him unconscious with an iron bar: one night, he
had to drive a party home; he was so drunk, he couldn’t hold the reins and fell
off the driving seat and into the gutter, where he became covered in it. This
affair could not be hidden, but you could smell it on him. He was dismissed;
his poor wife and little children were turned out of the cottage they lived in,
so he booked them into the Savoy Hotel in London and put it on Lord Grey’s
bill. But Lord Grey forgave him on the understanding that he would never taste
another drop as long as he lived.
Colonel Blantyre had to
return to his regiment. At the station, he pressed a penny into Smith’s hand.
‘The mean bastard,’ said Reuben Smith, and bid him goodbye.
Then he drove to the White
Lion and told the ostler to have me ready at four o’clock. But it came four
o’clock, and five, and then he shouted not till six, as he’d met with some old
friends. Finally, he appeared at nine o’clock, pissed out of his mind and sick
all down the front.
The landlord stood at the
door and said, ‘Have a care, Mr Smith!’
‘Fuck off!’ said Mr Smith.
He was forced to gallop at
my utmost speed, 150 miles per hour. ‘Faster, 160 miles per hour!’ I stumbled and
fell with violence on both my knees. Smith was flung off by my fall, and owing
to the speed I was going at, he must have fallen with great force. The moon had
just risen above the hedge, and by its light I could see Smith lying a few
yards beyond the hedge with sick all down the front. He did not rise, he made
one slight effort to do so, and then there was a heavy groan. I could have
groaned too, so I did. I groaned and he groaned, and then we took it in turns
to groan. Finally, we heard the sound of horse’s hooves. It was a lovely summer
night and I could hear the nightingale, only interrupted now and then by the
sound of Smith being sick.
26
HOW IT ENDED
One night I heard horse’s feet
They came from the street
Then, oh, woe is me
There happened a tragic tragedy
They found a dark figure on the ground
From which there came not a sound
One man turned him over
‘’Tis Reuben Smith,’ he said
‘And what’s worse, he’s dead’
So he died from alcohol
And Aids he caught from Deptford Mall
He will be greatly missed
One blessing was, never again would he be pissed.
It must have been nearly
midnight when I heard, at a great distance, the sound of horse’s hooves. They
came slowly, and stopped at the dark figure that lay on the ground.
One of the men jumped out.
‘It is Reuben!’ he said, ‘and he does not stir.’
They raised him up, then
they laid him down again, and then for fun they picked him up and laid him down
again.
‘I have just seen your cut
knees,’ they said.
‘Yes, nasty aren’t they?’ I
said.
Robert attempted to lead me
forward. I made a step but almost fell again, so he tried leading me backwards.
‘Hallo! He’s bad in his
foot as well as his knees — his hoof is cut all to pieces! I tell you what!’
‘Tell me what?’ said Ned.
‘I tell you what — either
Reuben or the horse was pissed.’
Reuben was now breathing
his last, and they all gathered round so as not to miss any of it. It was
agreed that Robert, as the groom, should lead me, and that Reuben would be put
in the dogcart. This wasn’t easy; they had to double him up with his
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