Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “There!” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, “there!” repeated he, as he lay among the rotten fragments. “Fallen a ‘underd feet from the grund! Broke every bone in my skin, I do believe. Bet a guinea ‘at to a ‘alfcrown gossamer I ‘aven’t a ‘ole bone i’ my body.” So saying our master having carefully shaken first one limb and then another, to ascertain the amount of the mischief, rose slowly from the wet ground, and after anathematising the deceptive unfriendly tree, resumed the tracking of his horse up the hill. His boots were now well “salivated” as he would say, and the cold bog-water poached and churned as he went. But if his feet were cold, his temper was warm, and various were the recreations he promised Arterxerxes. He would ride “his tail off,” then recollecting how little he had, he “would ride him till he dropped.” Then he would “skin him alive, and make his hide into a hair trunk” — then he would cut it into whip thongs — next into shoe-strings — finally he would give him to “the first mugger he met.”

  As Mrs. Glasse would say, however, “first catch your horse,” and this seemed a remote possibility, for though our master in the course of a two miles tramp, which he called ten, did get a view of him once, the grass was of too coarse and uninviting a character to induce the animal to take more than a passing snatch as he went, which he did at a pace that seemed well calculated to last for ever. At length our Master was fairly exhausted, and coming to a part of the forest that ran out into rocks and sandy heathery hills, he threw himself upon his back on a large flat stone, and kicking up first one leg and then the other, to let the bog-water out of his boots, moaned and groaned audibly. Beginning at a guinea, he bid up to a hundred and twenty, to be back at Handley Cross, and two hundred and fifty to be back in Great Coram Street, clear of the ‘ounds and all belonging to them. And he vowed that if Diana would only ‘ave the kindness to come to his assistance that once, he would never trouble her with any more of his vagaries. No, indeed he wouldn’t, he would sell his ‘ounds and his ‘osses, burn his boots and his Beckford, and drive about in a pill-box the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER XLV. A FRIEND IN NEED, &C.

  OUR MASTER WAS interrupted in the midst of his groans and lamentations by a low voice dropping down upon him with a “are you hurt, sir?” and starting up, he encountered the sinister gaze of a haggard-looking man, dressed in a cap and complete suit of dirty grey tweed.

  “Are you hurt, sir?” repeated the man, not getting an answer to his former inquiry.

  “Hurt, sir!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him as though he expected an immediate stand and deliver; “Hurt, sir! No, sir!” clutching his formidable hammer-headed whip, “I’ve lost my ‘oss.”

  “Oh, that’s all, is it?” sneered the man.

  “D’ye call that nothin’?” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, bridling up.

  “My little gal said she thought you’d broke your back by the noise you were makin’,” replied the man.

  “Did she?” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, feeling he had been making a great fool of himself. “Did she? Then tell your little gal she’d made a mistake.”

  “Then I can’t do nothin’ for you?” observed the man, after a pause.

  “In course you can,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “you can catch my ‘oss for me.”

  “Is he near at hand?” asked the man.

  Mr. Jorrocks.— “That I don’t know. Far or near, I’ll give ye ‘alf-a-crown for bringin’ ’im to me.”

  “Doubt I daren’t ventur,” replied the man reluctantly.

  Mr. Jorrocks.— “Huts, there’s nobody to ‘urt ye.”

  “Can’t go so far from home,” rejoined the man.

  Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up— “Wot! you live near ’ere, do ye?”

  “Not far off,” replied the man, with a jerk of his head, as much as to say “I’m not going to tell you.”

  Mr. Jorrocks.— “Well, but p’raps you could get me summut to drink, for my ‘oss has run away with my monkey, and I’m fit to die of habsolute unquenchable thirst.”

  The man eyed him suspiciously, and at length drawled out, “What, you’ve been hunting, have you?”

  “‘Deed, ‘ave I,” replied our Master; “started afore daylight.”

  “It ‘ill be Mr. Jorrocks, I dessay,” observed the man, with an air of enlightenment.

  “Wot, you knows me, do ye!” exclaimed our Master, brightening up.

  “Yes, sir — no, sir — that’s to say, sir, I know your huntsman, sir — Mr. Pigg, sir.”

  “Indeed,” mused Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Mr. Pigg and I are very old friends, sir,” continued the man, “very old friends, indeed — most respectable man, Mr. Pigg, sir — most fortunate in having such a servant.”

  “Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, not being quite so sure of that.

  “Finest sportsman in the world, sir,” continued the man— “finest sportsman in the world, sir — can do a’most anything — sing a song, dance a jig, grin for baccy, play dominoes, prick i’ the belt, or thimble-rig. If that man could have got a spirit license he’d ha’ made a fortin. He’d ha’ bin the first man o’ the day.”

  “In-deed,” mused our Master.

  “Most accomplished gentleman,” continued the speaker— “most accomplished gentleman. I’d rayther have James Pigg for a partner than any man I ever saw.”

  “And pray may I ax your name?” inquired our Master, curious to know something more of his huntsman’s friend.

  “O, my name’s Turveylow, Tom Turveylow, but he won’t know me by that name. Whiskey Jim,” added he, dropping his voice with a knowing leer, “is the name he’ll know me by.”

  “I twig,” winked our Master. “You ‘aven’t a drop o’ the cretur with ye, ‘ave ye?”

  “Hard-bye,” replied the man, “hard-bye,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Let’s at it,” said Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up.

  “You’re safe, I s’pose,” hesitated the man.

  “Honour bright,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “wouldn’t peach if it was ever so—”

  “Well, I don’t think any friend of Pigg’s would,” said the man, gaining courage; so saying, he wheeled about, and beckoning Jorrocks to follow him, led the way, across the sharp sandy heath, towards a precipitous range of rocks, whose heights commanded an extensive view over the forest and surrounding country. It was towards their rugged base that they now directed their steps. Passing some large upright stones, that guarded the entrance to a sort of outer court, they came all at once upon the smuggler’s cave.

  “Bow your head and bow your body,” said the man, turning and suiting the action to the word as he reached the frowning portcullis-like rock that guarded the entrance.

  “Come on! come on! you’ve nothin’ to fear,” cried he, seeing Jorrocks stood irresolute, “there’s no honester man in the world than your humble servant.”

  “Self-praise is no commendation,” muttered our Master, going down on all-fours preparatory to creeping under the beetling rock. This let him into the smuggler’s ante-room, a cold, damp, dropping den, formed from a natural cavity in the rock. Beyond was a larger, loftier cave, and over a bright wood fire, illuminating the hard walls, was a fine Venetian-shaped girl, in a tight blue bodice and red flannel petticoat, chucking the savoury contents of a frying-pan up in the air.

  Her back being turned, she was not aware of the enterers, until her temporary lord and master exclaimed, “Sally! here’s old keep-the-tambourine-a-roulin’s master.”

  “Lawk, Jim! ’ow could you bring a gent when I ‘aven’t got my stockin’s on?” exclaimed the lady, whisking round and showing the beautiful symmetry of her delicate white legs. She then turned her lustrous eyes upon our friend and basilisked him with a smile. Mr. Jorrocks stood transfixed. He thought he had never seen a greater beauty. Sir Archy Depecarde’s housekeeper was nothing to her.

  “Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” said the smuggler, sweeping a bundle of nets and snares off a stool — for of course he combined the trade of poacher with that o
f smuggler — and placing it behind our Master. Mr. Jorrocks did as he was bid, and sat lost in the novelty of the scene, the beauty of the lady, and the savouriness of the pig’s-fry she was cooking.

  “You’ll take your dinner with us, sir, I hope,” said the smuggler, possessing himself of our Master’s hat and whip. “You’ll take your dinner with us, sir, I hope,” adding, as he chucked them into a corner, “any friend of Pigg’s is welcome here.”

  “Much plissur,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, who all of a sudden waxed “uncommon hungry.”

  “Get the gent a plate and things, Ann,” said the smuggler to the little girl who had reported J.’s vagaries on his back.

  The implements of eating were quickly placed on the already set-out table, and our party were presently at work at the fry, which was followed by roast potatoes and a jugged hare, late a tough old denizen of the forest; oat-cake, cheese, and bottled ale completed the repast. Mr. Jorrocks played a most satisfactory knife and fork, declaring, as he topped up with a heavy cannonade of whiskey, that he couldn’t have dined better with the Grocers’ Company.

  “Good stuff that,” said the smuggler, with a knowing wink at the bright sparkling whiskey.

  “Capital,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, replenishing his glass.

  “I toast you, sir,” said the smuggler, bowing, glass in hand to our master.

  “You do me proud,” said Mr. Jorrocks, returning the salute.

  “Not at all, sir,” replied the condescending host. “I believe you to be a most respectable man.”

  Mr. Jorrocks next looked towards the lady, who acknowledged the compliment with a sweet glance.

  The smuggler then, as in duty bound, gave the health of his royal partner, the Queen, after which other loyal and patriotic toasts followed, and Mr. Jorrocks gave the ladies generally, adding, as he leered at his hostess, that he “liked a fine well-flavoured ooman.” He then began to get noisy. It was the old story.

  “You must (hiccup) with my ‘ounds (hiccup), best ‘ounds goin’ (hiccup), best ‘ounds in (hiccup) England. Best ‘ounds in (hiccup) Europe — best ‘ounds in (hiccup) Europe, Hasia, Hafrica, ‘Merica — (hiccup).” Then, as he rolled about on his stool, forgetting there was no back to it, he lost his balance, and kicking up the ricketty table with his toes, came heavily down on his back. What happened after, is matter of uncertainty, for the next thing our Master remembers was finding himself getting transferred from a light-tilted cart on a bright frosty night into a Handley Cross fly, at Rosemary-lane gate; but when he came to pay the man his fare, he found his purse was gone, which he might have thought had dropped out of his pocket into the cart, were it not that his watch was wanting too. However, being at home, he just told Betsy to pay the fare, and clambered up-stairs to bed as if nothing “‘ticklar” had happened. And next day Pigg gave such a wonderful account of the run, and how he would have killed the fox half-a-dozen times if he had only had Jorrocks to help him, that our Master, forgetting all his promises to Diana, very soon had another turn at the forest.

  CHAPTER XLVI. THE SHORTEST DAY.

  MR. JORROCKS’S NEXT adventure in the hunting line originated in a very furious letter from a gentleman, signing himself “John Gollarfield, farmer, Hardpye Hill,” complaining bitterly of the devastation of his henroost, and calling loudly for vengeance against the foxes. Accordingly our Master made a meet for Hardpye Hill, instead of Langton Pound, as he intended.

  The road to the hill lying through some roomy inclosures, and Christmas having let loose its enterprise upon the country, great was the spurting and racing that marked the line there. Mr. Jorrocks, arrayed in his best pink, jogged pompously on with his cavalcade, receiving the marked attention of the country. Arrived at the hill, he turned into a grass field to give his hounds a roll and hear the news of the day — how Miss Glancey was after Captain Small — how Mrs. Buss had captivated old Frill. Then, when the cantering, smoking cover hack swells came up, they resolved themselves into a committee of taste, scrutinising this hound and that, passing their opinions on the pack generally, and on the Bugginson hounds in particular. Some thought they were coarse, some thought they were common, but when they heard they were drafts from the Quorn, they were unanimous in thinking they must be good — especially when Mr. Jorrocks broadly hinted he had given Day ten guineas a couple for them. The noise the party made prevented their hearing sundry ominous moans and lows in the neighbourhood, which gradually rose to a roar, until a simultaneous crash, and cry of “Mind the bull!” drew all eyes to the bank of the adjoining fence, where, with head down and tail up, a great roan bull was seen poising himself preparatory to making a descent upon the field. Down he came with a roar that shook the earth to the very centre, and sent the field flying in all directions. Mr. Jorrocks, who was on foot among his hounds, immediately rushed to his horse, which Ben had let loose, but making a bad shot at the stirrup, he became a point d’ appui for the bull, who after him with a vigour and determination that looked very like a finisher. Our Master was carried, clinging to the neck, half across the field in a “now on, now off” sort of way that would have made any one feel very uncomfortable who had an annuity depending on his life. At last he got fairly into his saddle, and setting himself down to ride, he threw his heart boldly over a stiff “on and off,” and shoved Xerxes at it in a way that proved too many for the bull. Ploughing up the pasture with his feet, in his effort to stop himself as he neared it, he tossed his great wide-horned head in ‘the air, and uttering a frightful bellow that thundered through the valley and reverberated on Hardpye Hill, he turned, tail erect, to take a run at some one else. And having succeeded by the aid of gates in placing a couple more inclosures between them, Mr. Jorrocks sought a rising ground from which he thought over the magnitude of his adventure, and how he would like to have Leech to draw him taking the leap. And having gained breath as he magnified it, and having duly congratulated himself upon his escape, he out with his horn and blew his hounds together, leaving Hardpye Hill as he came, and entering among the anathemas in his Journal the following: —

  “Con-found all farmers say I, wot don’t tie up their bulls!”

  A bad beginning in this case did not make a good ending, for though our Master drew on till dark, which it was at half-past two, he never had a touch of a fox, and he sent word to Gollarfield, by the mole-catcher, that he was a “reg’lar ‘umbug,” and Pigg desired the man to add that he would fight him for what he pleased.

  CHAPTER XLVII. JAMES PIGG AGAIN!!!

  THE SMUGGLER WAS right in his estimate of Pigg’s abilities, for, in addition to his great talents for hunting, he had a turn for low gambling, which the uninitiated sometimes confuse with legitimate sporting. Among other things, he was in the habit of betting on the weight of people’s pigs, backing his own opinion as to what they were, or would feed up to, against the opinions of others; quite as useful and praiseworthy a pursuit, by the way, as people backing horses they have never seen, and over whose running they can exercise no control: be that as it may, however, Pigg was in the habit of exercising his judgment in that way, and had been highly successful at Handley Cross. He had come nearer the weight of Giles Jollyjowle’s pig than eleven others, and had completely distanced all competitors in his estimate of Blash, the barber’s, Hampshire hogs. He had also carried off the sweepstakes at two goose clubs, and received the second prize in a race for a hat. In addition to all this, his “cousin,” Deavilboger, who, notwithstanding their little differences about hunting, had still a sort of sneaking regard for “wor James,” had marked his appreciation of the festive season of the year, by sending him a large grey hen of whiskey, so that, what with his winnings and it, James was generally in a state of half fuddle. He would take as much as he could manage if kept quiet, and more than he could manage if put into motion. Now, as bad luck would have it, our uneasy, insatiable Master, wishing to retrieve his blank day before the usual stoppage of the season, thought to get something out of the fire, by a quiet “bye” at Newtimber Forest, t
he scene of his former misfortunes. Pigg, who had just paid his second morning visit to the hen, did not make any decided objection to the proposal, backed as it was by Mr. Jorrocks’s plausible observation, that at that critical season of the year it “be’oved them to get every day they possibly could,” and it was not until they reached the Copperchink Gate, and Pigg pressed a sovereign on the woman’s acceptance for the toll, desiring her, when told to wait for his change, to “keep it,” adding, that their “‘ard maister had plenty o’ brass,” that Jorrocks was aware how matters stood. Recollecting, however, the “Cat and Custard-pot” scene, Mr. Jorrocks did not make any observation, but quietly getting his silver, trotted on as if it was “all right,” hoping Pigg would sober as he went. When they got to Foggythorpe Green, where the road diverges through the fields, another scene occurred. Pigg wanted to pay the field-gates, and holloaed at a woman who happened to be passing, to “tak’ her money,” tendering a shilling, as if he had been kept waiting at a turnpike-gate for an hour. Next, as he was making, as he thought, a most sagacious steer through a gate, his eye deceived him as to the number of posts, and, catching by his toe, he was swept head foremost off into a complete hip-bath of mud. He was too wise, however, to let go his hold of the bridle, and as the horse kept smelling at him as he lay under his nose, Pigg kept vociferating, “Sink, they dinna mak their yets hafe wide enough! They dinna mak their yets hafe wide enough, ar say!” At length Mr. Jorrocks got him raised and scraped, and stuck straight on his horse, and they proceeded on their course together. Arrived at the wood, Mr. Jorrocks, thinking the best plan would be to humour him, said if Pigg would go one way, he would go the other, which James assenting to, the hounds dashed into cover, and master and man proceeded to “yoicks” and crack their whips, having the hounds in a widening space between them. The wood was thick and rough, and as Jorrocks proceeded, Pigg’s unearthly notes gradually died out, and our Master had all the noise to himself. Being fond of the sound of his own voice, he proceeded, yoicking and cracking his whip, exhorting the hounds to “find ’im,” and keeping a good lookout a-head, when, to his surprise, at a cross ride, Pigg’s horse came snorting and cantering towards him. Pigg, feeling uncomfortable, had laid down to sleep, and left his horse to his own devices. “W-o-a-y, my man! W-o-a-y!” cried Jorrocks, fishing at him with his whip as he approached, which only caused the horse to start and rush past him at a gallop. “W-h-o-a-y, my man,” roared Jorrocks, as the horse went scuttling down the ride without rhyme or reason. “Con-found the hanimal,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, as he eyed him staring about from side to side with the reins all dangling about his feet. “Con-found the hanimal,” repeated he, “was there ever sich a daft divil as that? — was there ever sich a misfortunit indiwidual as John Jorrocks? Cus that Pigg, I wish I’d never seen ’im — worst warmint I ever knew. Yoicks, Lavender, good betch! Bet a guinea ‘at we find a fox, and the ‘ounds run clean away from me. Lose either them or my dinner, or both. Well,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, spurring on to where Lavender was feathering,— “well, needs must when a certain old gen’lman drives, but if I ‘ad my own way, it would be ‘‘ome, sweet ‘ome,’ for me. Dublin bay ‘addocks, with appropriate sauce, goose, and happle pye. Oh dear! A fox! for a ‘underd, a fox! for anything that any body likes to say,” continued our Master, staring his eyes out as he gets his horse short by the head. “Now for ten miles as the crow flies with ten bottomless brucks, and Berwickshire doubles without end. Ah! thank ‘eavens its not!” continued he, as a great banging hare bounced out of the wood, and took down the ride with Lavender full cry after her, and Jorrocks cracking his whip full cry after Lavender. At length he stopped her, and taking advantage of the partial scoring to cry off the hounds, he out with his horn and blew a shrill reverberating blast that drew out the rest, and away he rode with the hounds all clustering about his horse’s heels as if he was going to lay them on to a scent, but in reality to get them out of cover. The horn operated doubly, for a smock-frocked countryman, having caught Pigg’s horse, came cantering up to its sound, and Jorrocks and he were presently on the Woodford and Handley Cross road. Promising the man half a crown and his dinner for seeing him safe home, Mr. Jorrocks started away at a brisk trot, hoping he was getting rid of Pigg for good. And when “wor James” awoke, and learnt from a tape-selling tramp what had happened, he was very wrath, and vowed “he wadn’t stand such work — he wadn’t be robbed in that sort of way — no, he wadn’t. He’d hev redress. He’d hev justice — yis, he’d hev justice — he wadn’t be treated in that sort of way;” and he talked and fretted himself into believing that he had been most infamously used. Finding there was a magistrate in the neighbouring village of Yelverton, thither he directed his steps, and gaining an audience, boldly accused his master of stealing his horse, and applied for a warrant for his apprehension. The justice, seeing the maudlin state he was in, humoured the application, but pretending it would be necessary, in consequence of a recent decision, that a man may help himself to a horse to forward him on a journey, to see that Mr. Jorrocks had not taken it for that purpose, he got Pigg into his dog-cart and had him driven over to Handley Cross.