Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Accordingly our friend crept stealthily round the hill, keeping under the walls and the hedges, taking an occasional peep to see that he was going in the line of the objects he had seen. At length he reached the adjoining field. He buttoned his coat, drew his breath, and availing himself of a deep ditch on his side, passed quickly along.

  “Crikey, but here’s a plummy one!” from a shrill voice, told him that he was close upon the delinquents, and starting up by the side of a big tree, Mr. Jorrocks came upon Benjamin just as be was wringing the neck of a partridge that Josbua Sneakington bad banded him from the net.

  Benjamin stared like one possessed, for the fumes of the Donkeyton Castle drink were still upon bim, and be gave a half-frigbtened idiotic sort of laugh, as tbough be didn’t know wbe’tber to cry or be pleased. Josbua Sneakington turned deadly pale, his compressed lip quivered, and his band shook so that the unslaugbtered partridges availed themselves of the commotion, and slipt out of the net.

  “You INFERNAL WILLAINS!” roared Mr. Jorrocks with doubled fists from the top of the hedge, “I’LL TRANSPORT YOU ALL AND ‘ANG THE REST,” a declaration that bad the effect of sobering Benjamin, who dropped on his knees, and with clasped bands began clamouring for mercy—” Mercy! mercy! mercy!” exclaimed be; “it was all this infernal willain wot forced me to it — there weren’t a better-disposed bye in all the world afore I got acquainted with this great hugly thief,” casting an indignant glance at the still trembling Josbua.

  “You warmint,” grinned Mr. Jorrocks, still standing with clenched fists, gasping for rage, and meditating whether to jump atop of Benjamin or not.

  “Indeed I’m innocent, sir,” continued Benjamin, looking imploringly at his master. “There weren’t a more wirtuous amiable bye than I was afore I got corrupted by that amazin’ great willain. He’s enough to ruin a county.”

  Josbua now began to recover his senses, and looking beseechingly up at the still bristling, eye-glistening Squire, was beginning, “Oh, your worship!”

  “Don’t vorship me!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, “you unmitigated scamp. No wonder my partridges are few, and the fizzants don’t crow as they used. Get out o’ my sight, you double-distilled essence of roguery, or assuredly I’ll murther you; I’ll ram your ‘at down your puritanical throat, and stuff a stockin’ arter it.”

  Josbua took the bint and strode quickly away, cursing his unlucky stars for having embarked in such a speculation, and wondering what would come of it all.

  Benjamin, like a licked cur, then came to “heel,” and followed Mr. Jorrocks, exonerating himself and inculpating Joshua as he went. Benjamin had had enough of Joshua, and wasn’t sorry to get rid of him. First he told all about the netting, and how Joshua had a pheasant call that would draw all the pheasants out of the covers, and how he had been making pies of the young ones already.’ He also showed Mr. Jorrocks where he had fed the partridges, and the sticks and furze bushes he had-used to prepare them for the mysteries of the net, and how Joshua took them, and all how and about it in fact.

  Mr. Jorrocks having learnt all he could, put Dickey Cobden to his carriage immediately after breakfast, and drove himself and Benjamin over to his friend Captain Bluster’s, where, after a full disclosure by Benjamin of all, and perhaps a little more than he knew, they concocted a three months’ committal for Joshua, which our friend thought it better to put up with than risk a severer sentence at sessions. So great was his popularity, that half the village of Hillingdon visited the prison during the time he was there, for the pleasure of seeing Joshua in gaol.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  SOON AS THE morning trembles o’er the sky,

  And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day,

  Before the ripened field the reapers stand,

  In fair array, each by the lass he loves,

  To bear the rougher part, and mitigate

  By nameless gentle offices her toll.”

  — THOMSON’S SEASONS.

  JOSHUA SNEAKINGTON being comfortably provided for in gaol, Mr. Jorrocks bad an inward inquiry as to bow it was that be, a sharp London merchant, bad been done by such a country lout as Joshua — Jorrocks, who bad once got to the windward of Rothschild in a deal, and who was reckoned the second-best judge of treacle in the trade. To carry the inquiry out, our friend called in the assistance of his neighbours, who, as usual, “knew it all before.”

  “Oh, they knew all about it! Didn’t he know? Well, now, that was odd! If they’d only thought that, they’d have told him directly. Joshua was the greatest rogue in the country; Joshua had cheated everybody — had cheated them, had cheated Brown, had cheated Green, had cheated Brown Jones, had cheated White Jones — would rob a church — should have been transported long since;” in short, gave Mr. Jorrocks such information as caused him to doubt whether all the knavery was really settled in London, and all the honesty in the country.

  An Uxbridge, a Watford, or a Twyford waggoner, in his gosling-green embroidered breasted frock, round-crowned ticketed hat, clumsy packthread-pointed whip, and enormous hob-nailed highlows, wending his way along Holborn or Oxford Street, with his rough-coated, mud-stained team, and a rickety wain, had always appeared to Mr. Jorrocks the impersonification of simplicity and rural honesty. If he had wanted his washing sent into the country, or a goose brought from it, he felt as if he could have trusted one ‘ of these simple-looking chawbacons, without “noting” the contents of the bundle, or limiting him as to price for the goose. Far otherwise did he feel with regard to any of Meux’s, or Barclay and Perkins’s “hey the whays!” with their red nightcaps, plush breeches, dirty cotton stockings, and bluchers. They, he felt certain, would put the bundle “up the spout,” or make purl or “half-and-half” of the goose money.

  Such were the ideas with which Mr. Jorrocks had emigrated into the country — ideas not uncommon, we believe, among those whose lives, like his, have been spent in the great city of London; and now, at his age, to awake to the unpleasant conviction that there were as big thieves in the country as in London, was rather startling and unpleasant; worse still to think that he had been victimised by one of the fraternity. Joshua had had a fine time of it. His respectable appearance, his plausible tongue, his subtle management, aided by Mr. Jorrocks’s unsuspecting confidence and self-sufficiency, had afforded him opportunities that his able mind knew well how to make the most of. He had bit him.

  Joshua had certainly been of use to Mr. Jorrocks — but for him, our worthy friend would have paid about double for everything that he bought, and been desperately cheated in bulls, and all farming transactions; and now that Joshua was on the “mill,” Mr. Jorrocks began to feel the loss of his managing mind. Benjamin was of no use whatever out of doors; indeed, he candidly told his master one day, when he wanted him to lead ashes out with Dickey Cobden, that “he didn’t profess to be a farmer.”

  Plenty of people offered for the vacant situation, but Mr. Jorrocks was afraid and durst not venture. His time and thoughts were divided between his bull, and the question who should be Joshua’s successor. The bull was very expensive. Before Mr. Jorrocks had had him a week, he had been the means of consuming half-a-dozen of sherry and a suitable quantity of seed-cake, everybody that called being supposed to have come to see the quadruped. Indeed, he was the cause of a sore disappointment to Mrs. Flather. “You must come and see the Markis,” said Mr. Jorrocks in an offhand sort of way to her, coming out of church on the Sunday after the bull’s arrival; and, accordingly, Emma and she arrived, tricked out in their very best, and found that the “Markis” he meant was the bull.

  The factotum question was very perplexing. Mr. Jorrocks thought over everybody, from Bill Bowker downwards, and could not hit upon any one qualified for the post. The farmer’s instructor was floored. In truth, it was rather a difficult office to undertake, having to lead the blind leader of the blind. Mr. Jorrocks began to suspect that he was not quite so wise as he thought. That, however, he kept to himself.

  It was on a bright summer aft
ernoon, when the harvest was at its height, and joyful cheers rang ever and anon on the surrounding landscape, denoting that now another and another farmer’s fears were over, by the last of his corn getting cut, that Mr. Jorrocks, still meditating and uncertain, sauntered from his house by the more unfrequented paths, and sought the sweet communion of nature, without the interruption of mankind. The country was in full beauty. The green grass shot forth vigorously, obliterating the scythe marks of the mower; the clover presented a fragrant second crop; turnip fields were unfolding their leafy honours; and all these, commingled with the waving corn, or dotting stooks of golden grain with the purple heather of the higher lands, or sky-line breaking larch or pine of the hill-tops, presented a rich mixture of primeval nature and agricultural improvement. The trees were still in full leaf, and though autumn’s later tints were wanting, still there was a goodly mixture of foliage, by the dotting of the gay larch, or sombre spruce, or darker pine, among the masses of oak wood, while the white birch stood outside in gay relief against the rest. The loaded corn-fields scattered here and there among the woods diversified the landscape, and presented a rich picture of bounteous plenty.

  Mr. Jorrocks sauntered on, now across the green sward, now hip-high in waving corn through the field path, now forcing a way through the rank grass and concealing brambles of the wood track, and now roaming again upon the wilder turf, sprinkled with heather and field flowers. At length he got into one of those now rarely met with passages, a green lane. It was a real green lane. Scarce a cart-rut broke its even surface, and its verdure was kept so close nipped by cattle, that the traveller had not sufficient temptation to keep in any track, so as to form one decided foot-way. It was one of those continuous lines of by-roads frequented chiefly by cattle-drovers. The woodbine-entwined and rose-bending bushes of the high hedges in the narrow parts formed a cool shade, while broader places, widening into patches of common towards the hill-tops (over which these roads always pass), furnished cheap pasture for the loitering cattle.

  As luck would have it, just as our Squire got to the, narrowest part of this green lane, and within a hundred yards of where he meant to turn off, to make a circuit back to Hillingdon Hall, he encountered a large drove of Scotch kyloes, picking their way as they went. There might be fifty or sixty of them, duns, browns, mottles, reds, and blacks, with wildness depicted in the prominent eyes of their broad faces.

  “Hup! how! how!” cried our Squire, throwing up his arms to get them to clear a passage for him, a movement that only threw confusion into the herd, and caused them to butt and run foul of each other. They didn’t seem to care twopence for the Justice.

  “Had bye, ar say, there!” holloaed a voice from behind, accompanying the demand with a crack of his stick on the quarter of the hindmost kyloe.

  “You get out o’ the vay, I say!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, indignant at being spoken to in such a manner.

  “Grod smash! how can ar get out o’ the way?” replied the same voice, again visiting the hindmost kyloe with a crack. “De ye think a kyley’s like a huss, that yean (one) can pull about by the gob?” —

  Mr. Jorrocks again raised his arms, and by dint of shew! shew! shelving! and keeping close to the hedge, succeeded in forcing his way through the herd.

  He now got a sight of the drover, as the latter rose a short hill that had kept him below the level of the cattle. He was a tall ungainly-looking man, in a Scotch cap, with the lower part of his face muffled up in a plaid, which, spreading in ample fold across his chest, was confined by the fringed end under the right arm. A rudely-cast brass shamrock and thistle decorated the red and grey border of the woollen cap, in which was stuck a splendid eagle’s feather, that stood boldly above the crown. Long, straggling, iron-grey locks escaped from below the cap’s close-fitting sides, making the aquiline nose and bright hazel eyes of the wearer more conspicuous.

  The upraised arms, now employed in frightening, now in beating the cattle, displayed the dark green tartan, of which the wearer’s little butler’s-pantry sort of jacket was made; while a very short, much-stained, red waistcoat kept at a very respectful distance from a pair of very baggy, drab, shag breeches, confined at the knees with buttons of various colours and patterns. First, on the right leg came a large white one, with a fox, and an L below it; then a black horn one; then a large yellow one with a fox and an N; then a button with a coronet and a bunch of hieroglyphics; followed on by a white button with a fox’s mask. On the left leg the row began again with a large button of the fox and L pattern, followed on by a black horn one, then a gilt one, with a ducal coronet and a B below; then came another yellow one, with another bunch of hieroglyphics; and the bottom one was a gilt one, with a fox’s mask, and three letters.

  The jean gaiters, which were uncommonly tight, as if to show the spindleness of the wearer’s shanks and the profuseness of his breeches, were decorated, if possible, with a greater variety of buttons, there being, in addition to the yellow and white ones, some of a mixed species, and some few non-sporting ones, of coloured glass.

  “Vy don’t you get out o’ the way with your nasty lousy Scotch cattle?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as he neared the uncouth figure.

  The eagle-plumed hero stood transfixed.

  “Don’t you hear vot I said, man?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, speaking louder, and standing on a-green hillock, as if to increase his importance by height.

  “God smash, if it ar’nt the ard Squire!” exclaimed the figure; “why, dinnut ye ken yean?” added he, taking off his Scotch bonnet, and lowering the plaid from before a very tobacco-stained mouth. —

  “Vy, it’s James Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, jumping down and running towards him. “James, my good frind, ’ow d’ye do?”

  “Nicely, thank ye; how’s theesel?” replied James, pulling off a greasy old glove, and offering his hand, saying, “Give us a wag o’ thy neif.”

  Mr. Jorrocks and he then shook hands.

  “D — n, but ar’s glad to see thee,” said James, as soon as their hands were released. “Ah, God, what a belly thou’s getten,” added he, eyeing his late master’s corporation.

  “And vot are you arter now, James?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, without noticing the observation.

  “Ah, ar’s getten a livin’ just how ar can — whiles yean thing, whiles another. Ar’s travellin’ beast enow. Ye dinna want ne beast ar’s warn’d, de ye?” added he, pointing to the drove.

  “Vy, no, I thinks not, James,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “but vere do you come from now — vere are you livin’, in fact?”

  “Ah, ar’s livin’ aside canny Newcassel. You ken canny Newcassel, where the coals come frae?”

  “Ah, the Vallsenders,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “then you’ve left your uncle, Deavilboger, ‘ave you?” added he, remembering his late huntsman’s former locality.

  “Why, no, ar’s not; ar’s drivin’ for the ard Deavil enow. He’s mar coosin, not my uncle.” —

  “Veil, but tell us all about it. Here, set down on this bank,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, pointing to a hillock under the high hedge near where they stood. “Take off that rambustical thing,” added he, touching Pigg’s plaid, “and let’s sit on it.”

  “Ay, to be sure,” said Pigg, unfolding it from his chest. “It’s mar plaide: ar’s getten mar frilled sark, everyday breeks, and Sunday shun (shoes) in it,” pointing to a bump at the sewn-up end of the plaid, which he placed for himself to sit down by.

  “Yell, now,” said Mr. Jorrocks, adjusting himself comfortably, “tell us all how and about it — the cattle’ll pick quietly along the green lane, and a rest’ll do you no ‘arm this ‘ot day. Tell us now, vot ‘ave you been a doin’ since we parted?— ’ow does the world use you? Wot’s there a goin’ on in Scotland? How’s Deavilboger?’Ave you got a wife yet?”Ow are the markets with you?”

  “Ay, the Deavil’s gay and well,” interrupted Pigg, knowing his late master’s propensity for stringing on questions; “how’s theesel? ye did not chew neane, ar’s warn�
��d,” added he, producing a japanned tobacco-box, and offering Mr. Jorrocks a quid.

  Mr. Jorrocks declined.

  Having replenished his own mouth, James clasped his hands upon his rugged oak staff, and sticking out his legs, leant forward upon it.

  “Yot a lot o’ rum battons you’ve got on your breeches and gaiters,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at Pigg’s legs.

  “Ay,” replied Pigg, cocking up one of his spindle shanks, “the breeks is a pair o’ yeer ard ‘uns; they’re what ye had on the day t’ ard huss coup’d ye into the bog.”

  “I minds it, James Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up at the recollection. “I minds it,” repeated he, taking hold of the old shags— “many a good Tun I’ve seen in them breeches, many a one again in Surrey and elsewhere — dear old things,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, rubbing his hand down them as he would down a horse. “You’ve done them justice in the batton line, I’m glad to see,” observed he. “Lots o’ foxes! lots o’ fine things! Coronets, and I don’t know wot!”

  “Ay, lots” replied Pigg, with an emphasis. “Sink it, ar’s glad ar put them on to-day. They’re mar lucky breeks. Ah, they’re a grand sight o’ buttons! Ah, they’re worth a vast o’ money! Ah, they’re good for sore eyes! That yean,” putting his thumb on the white button, and polishing it up a little, “was Squire Lambton’s. Ah, a grand man! Sic a man for the hoont. Ah, as canny Codlin used to say, ye may get prime beef, and prime mutton, and prime ministers, but ye’ll niver get sic a prime sportsman as Ralph Lambton again. Ah, he was a grand ‘un,” added Pigg, polishing it again. “The next yean’s Sir Matthew’s, a fox and a B for Blagdon,” continued Pigg, putting his thumb on the yellow button; “grand man, Sir Matthew, grand kennel, grand stable.”