Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “You’ve a fine roomy saddle,” observed the stranger, laying hold of the pommel of one of “Wilkinson and Kidd’s” biggest.

  “You can’t put a round of beef on a plate,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, adding, “vish I could say as much for yours, my frind,” as he eyed the little old flat-flapped jockey-looking thing he had got in exchange, and began to fumble at the stirrups. Ere he got them adjusted, the man had stuck his little sharp-rowelled wiry-looking spurs into Dickey Cobden’s sides, and got him away in a canter.

  “Yot a rambustical apology for a saddle,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, hoisting himself on to the little pony, with a swag that nearly sent it over. “Vish I mayn’t lame myself trying to ride in it.”

  With this prudent reflection, our friend thrust his feet into the rusty old stirrups, and turned the pony round by the thick weather-bleached reins, just in time to see Dickey Cobden’s stumpy tail disappear at a bend in the road a long way further on. A high wall hid all from view, except the dish-crowned hat of the rider, which kept bobbing up and down in a way that satisfied Mr. Jorrocks Dickey Cobden was cantering.

  “I vish that chap mayn’t be priggin’ the agitator,” observed he, eyeing the hat.

  Another moment, and he had his heels in his new mount’s sides, and was whacking him along with his hazel.

  Away he went, as hard as ever he could lay legs to the ground. —

  Whether the man had overrated Dickey Cobden, or underrated his own nag, or may be underrated Mr. Jorrocks’s equestrian powers, we know not; but, certainly, a looker-on would have thought the stranger had the worst of the game. Mr. Jorrocks sat like a jockey, and hustled the shambling little beggar of a pony along in a way that perfectly astonished him. The dust rose, and the loose stones flew, and the dogs barked, and the country lads and lasses jumped aside, as our eager-eyed friend pressed onward in the chase.

  “It’s a race! it’s a race!” exclaimed some. “Bay for a shilling!”— “Black for a guinea!”— “Go along, guts!”

  “Lawk, what a man for a jockey!”

  Whack, whack, whack, Mr. Jorrocks’s stick went into the pony, then elbows and legs went working away, and the unbuttoned Jorrockian jacket-flaps flew about, exposing a flgure that fully justified the last ejaculation. “Cuss me if - I’ll be done by a fisherman,” said he to himself, hustling along à la Chifney.

  The road was undulating — not exactly hilly, but up and down, up and down for the first half mile or so, and there was little diminution in the space between the parties at the end of that distance; but after that it became more level, and also took a straight line up the valley, instead of winding round the hillsides. —

  On making the last turn, Mr. Jorrocks espied Dickey in the distance, lobbing along amidst a terrible dust, and the view lent impetus to his energies. He put on all the steam he could raise, declaring as he went that “it must be a werry bad nag wot couldn’t beat Dickey Cobden.”

  Droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, coming from the fair, now occasionally intercepted the view; but every time our worthy friend got a fresh glimpse, he thought he saw Dickey’s “galloping-dreary-done” sort of action more and more distinctly.

  The white tents, with their many-coloured flags floating in the sunshine on a flat by the moor edge in the distance, roused the last spark of latent fire, and caused him to press forward ere the crowd of the fair baffled the pursuit.

  The fugitive saw how things stood, and made play too. With steady legs he kept his spur-rowels digging into Dickey’s sides, and urged him by every appliance of the bit, and every noise he could make with his mouth, to the utmost. Thus they clattered along, the thief riding in a most comfortable home seat in Mr. Jorrocks’s capacious saddle, while our worthy friend was constrained to stand up in his stirrups, every now and then, to ease himself in his little apology for one.

  What vows of revenge Mr. Jorrocks made as he went! He’d skin him alive! he’d transport him! he’d sus per col.; tuck him up short! He’d grind his bones to make him bread. —

  The foot people mistook his energy for zeal, and shouted and applauded “fatty” as he went. They now understood why the man on the black rode so hard; it was a race, though why he should get the start they could not conjecture; all the way behind people were running and straining their eyes to try and see the result of the race. Betting at this time two to one on the black. Some few backed “ fatty” for his pluck, but these bets were chiefly in kisses with their sweethearts, and would not have been quoted in the regular odds at the “corner.”‘

  “Whack, whack, whack,” went Mr. Jorrocks, his eagerness increasing as he drew sufficiently near to descry the fugitive looking over his shoulder to see where he was; “S-t-o-r-p t-h-i-e-f!” gasped Mr. Jorrocks, grinning and hustling along as he found he was drawing upon the runaway: “s-t-o-r-p t-h-i-e-f,” repeated he, hitting and holding for hard life.

  Another glance and the thief saw the game was up. Dropping his hands and his heels at the same time, he coolly settled into a walk, while he listened for Mr. Jorrocks coming up. Presently he heard the clatter of his pony, and Mr. Jorrocks gasping and ejaculating, “You willain! you waggabone! you unmitigated thief!”

  The pony stopped short so suddenly on overtaking Dickey Cobden as to ‘start Mr. Jorrocks on to its neck; betting, three and four to one that our friend came off.

  “He’s off! no, he’s on! he holds by the mane!”

  “Take care, sir! take care, sir!” exclaimed the man with the greatest effrontery; “you’ll be hurting yourself!”

  “‘Ur tin’ myself!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, hugging at the neck; “take care I doesn’t ‘urt you,” added he, balancing himself on the withers. He then got back into the saddle.

  “He’s a niceish cob this of yours,” observed the man very coolly; “but hasn’t quite pace enough for me.”

  “I thinks not!” screamed Mr. Jorrocks, “I thinks not!” repeated he, dismounting and seizing the man by the collar.

  “A fight! a fight!” exclaimed the astonished fair goers, stopping short “A thief! a thief!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, pulling him off Dickey Cobden.

  “Lawk, it’s Tom the Tinker!” shouted one—” he that stole my brother’s mare.”

  “So it is,” roared another; “I didn’t know him in that hat.”

  “Duck him,” cried several, pointing to a pea-green souplooking pond.

  “Have at him!” screeched Mr. Jorrocks, as if he was worrying a fox.

  Up they took the little vagabond, and, throwing him high in the air, down he splashed over head into the stagnant filth.

  “Now again!” cried another, seizing him as he crawled out.

  “There’s nothin’ like sammary conwiction,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, as he disappeared a third time, adding, “who the deuce would le done by a fisherman!”

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  THESE TIDINGS NIP me; and I hang the head

  As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.”

  — SHAKSPEARE.

  left our respected friend just as he had overtaken the horse-stealer, and was witnessing his submersion in the horse-pond. Having mopped and cooled himself after his unwonted exertion, Mr. Jorrocks readjusted his wig, and proceeded to recover Dickey Cobden, who was now grazing quietly by the roadside, having had quite enough galloping.

  “Confound him,” observed Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, eyeing first his own quadruped and then the other; “if it hadn’t been for the saddle, I really believes the bay’s the best of the two.” So saying, he hoisted himself on to Dickey Cobden, and plumped down in the capacious saddle.

  He then “moved on,” as the old watchmen used to say.

  The crowd of foot people going, and cattle coming from the fair, would have prevented any great activity in the way of pace, even had our friend been desirous of using it; but having ridden such an uncommon race, on such a tremendously sultry day, made Mr. Jorrocks well inclined to take the thing quietly at the end; accordingly he let Dickey Cobden poke alo
ng at his own pace, while his master kept peeping under the girls’ bonnets.

  Mr. Jorrocks was a long way behind time for the show. The foot people were all for the dance and the gingerbread stalls, having enough of cattle and sheep at home; but Mr. Jorrocks seeing they were in no hurry, thought there was no occasion for him to be in any either. Dilatoriness is very catching. If you see a man in scarlet going quietly, you are very apt to go quietly too; whereas, if you see one blazing along as hard as ever he can clatter, you are very apt to clap on too, and perhaps find the wearer is going to breakfast with a friend on his way. The same with a railway, a coach, or anything tied to time.

  “Vich vay’s the cattle show?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks of the first countryman he could get to look at him, at the junction of the roads between the village and tent-covered plain.

  “Up there,” replied the man, pointing towards the southern hills, “but the show’s over.”

  “Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, stopping his cob against the stream of population, thinking what he should do. Presently the boom of a drum and the twang of a trumpet fell upon his ear; and sundry blue and white flags emerged in sun-bright splendour from among the tents. A large double-poled flag, borne by two men, with an inscription in gilt letters on a white ground, came first; followed by the “band, consisting of some half-dozen performers; and then divers trades’ banners, mingled with an old Union Jack, and sundry smaller insignia, preceded a long-drawn line of pedestrians walking two and two; most of them with very blotched and pimpley noses, and white cheeks.

  “Vot’s all this about? Vot’s all this about?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, keeping Dickey Cobden’s head towards the music, in spite of all his efforts to turn tail.

  “You’re just in time, sir, you are just in time!” cried a man in advance, who acted as a sort of drum-major, having a broad blue rat-catcher-looking band over his shoulder, and a constable’s staff in his hand. “We’re just going to sit down,” added he, waving his hand for Mr. Jorrocks to turn and head the procession.

  Accordingly our worthy friend did, riding in front, the band playing, “See the conquering hero comes!”

  Thus they proceeded from the moor edge towards the little town, the rush of spectators increasing as they neared the bridge. The procession made the angle of descent, and the music sounded among the crowds who surrounded the shows and stalls of the itinerant dealers, The hardware auctioneer stopped his eloquence, the teachers of the noble art of self-defence stood in their gloves, the wonderful conjuror ceased his exhortations to the gaping clowns to enter his magnificent pavilion, and the musicians belonging to the respective establishments of the five-legged horse, the fat boy, the learned pig, the white-haired lady, the American savages, &c., ceased their clamour to witness the grand procession of the day.

  “A God’s wuns! what’s happened now?” exclaimed a voice, rushing out of a stable, as Mr. Jorrocks rode most consequentially past the bridge end, prior to entering the town.

  “A dear! a dear!” exclaimed Pigg, wringing his hands in despair. “Wot’s happened now? here’s wor ard ancient gouk gean and joined the Tea-to-tallers! Why, ye ard fondey!” exclaimed Pigg, forcing his way, bare-armed, bareheaded, and coatless, through the crowd, “what’s come o’er ye now? Sink, if ar wasn’t afear’d of boggin mar neif, ar’d give ye seek a crack in the guts,” added he, seizing Dickey Cobden by the head to arrest his master’s further progress.

  “Vot’s ‘appened now, James Pigg? vot’s ‘appened now?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, astonished at his bull-keeper’s impetuosity.

  “MATTER!” roared Pigg, “why, what are ye disgracin’ yoursel’ for? Ye join the Tea-to-tallers! Sink, but ar’d niver ha’ hired mysel’ if ar’d ha’ thout sich a thing!”

  “Tea-to-tallers!” screamed Mr. Jorrocks, in horrified amazement, looking back at the flag with “ST. BOSWELL TEMPERANCE SOCIETY” glittering across the street.

  “Ay, tea-to-tallers!” repeated Pigg, pulling Dickey Cobden across the road by the head, so as to let the now impeded procession get on, adding, as he led his rescued master along—” Sink, if thou’s fit to be trusted frae heam by thysel’!”

  “God sink, but thou’s parfectly disgracin’ thysel’,” observed Pigg, as he got his master off the cob and hustled him into the stable alongside the bull. “Get in there and hide thysel’,” added he, pushing his master into the next stall.

  “Vy, James,.they told me it was the dinner band, or I never would have thought of joinin’ them,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, anxious to explain.

  “Dinner band!” exclaimed Pigg; “couldn’t thou read ‘ TEMPERANCE’ on the colours? What’s the use of all thy grand lamin’, ar wonder?”

  “Yell, never mind; they haven’t cotched me, at all events,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “Tell me, now, all how and about it; wot do they say about my ball; am I to have the prize?”

  “Thou get thysel’ dusted over,” replied Pigg, giving Mr. Jorrocks’s back a crack that sent a volley of dust out of it, “and gan to the dinner, and they’ll tell ye all about it; it’s ne use axin’ me, ar’s not the judge.”

  No sooner had the band — which was “open to all and influenced by none” — deposited the teetotallers in their Temperance Hall, than off they set again to the moor, to escort the diners to the tent. The same sort of procession, with a change of flags, marked the progress of the farmers: “Speed the Plough” usurped the place of the great Temperance banner; while “Live and let live,” and similar mottoes, floated on smaller flags. Perched on the hillside, by a belt of wood, and commanding an uninterrupted view over the village below, was a spacious tent, whose patched and tattered canvas bespoke it better adapted for a sultry sun-bright day, like the present, than an exposure to those ruder elements with which the place was frequently visited. The interior was in keeping with the canvas: rude benches formed of planks nailed upon posts driven into the ground, ranged by the side of long, uneven deal tables, covered with snow-white linen. The cross-table at the head of the tent was a good deal elevated; and a venerable, carved, black oak chair stood in the centre, ensconced amid a profusion of dahlias, sunflowers, evergreens, and heather, giving the chairman’s seat somewhat the appearance of the tenements that in former days used to be occupied by Jack-in-the-green. The seats on the right and the left were reserved for the big-wigs — Jorrocks, and such like. The tables were also decorated with bouquets, and wreaths and crowns of flowers dangled from the roof. There had been great anxiety all the morning for the arrival of our worthy friend. His acquaintance were desirous of his company, while those who had not seen him were anxious to have a sight of him. His bull, too, had created no small sensation, and it was strongly suspected by those who had watched the countenances and manoeuvres of the judges, as they moved, mysteriously and solemnly, from animal to animal, that Jorrocks’s bull stood a very good chance of a prize. The bull-show had been rather deficient, and Jorrocks’s, though not a first-rate animal — or most likely the Duke of Donkeyton would not have given him it — cut a very good figure among the inferior animals by which it was surrounded. Whether the deficiency in the bull department had been caused by Mr. Pigg’s repeated assertion that his was Sir Robert Peel’s bull (as in the case of Mr. Cheesecake), is not material to inquire — the fact is as we state it.

  Pigg having rubbed his master over, and Mr. Jorrocks having righted his wig, combed his whiskers, and flopped his Hessian boots over with his handkerchief, reached the tent just as the band and its followers, headed by Captain Bluster, rounded the turn of the road above, and Mr. Fortescue, the intended chairman of the day, dismounted from his horse, and gave him to his groom. At the same moment a rush of blooming damsels came scuttling up from the town, bearing smoking dishes on their heads or in their hands, with which they hurried into the tent, where they were judiciously interspersed by the landlord of the inn among the cold joints, salads, and sweets, that had for some time been attracting the attention of the flies on the flowerdecked tables. —

  The cha
irman, a neighbouring squire of large estate, combined the polished manners of the modern school with the sterling characteristics of the old-fashioned English gentleman. He was at home everywhere, from the palace of the sovereign to the cottage of the labourer. Liberal, high-minded, and gentlemanly, he was looked up to and respected by all. The fair and cattle show of St. Boswell mainly owed its existence to him; and being held in the autumn, when London no longer possesses attractions, he seldom missed the opportunity of meeting his friends and neighbours by presiding.

  Having passed up the tent to his seat, the places on his right and left at the cross-table were immediately filled by the foremost of the procession, and the last comers crowded the tent up to the very entrance. The band having deposited the party, then sheered off, to divide themselves into parties, to open the dances at the various public-houses.

  It being an hour or two after most of the farmers’ usual dinner-time, and their appetites being whetted by the fine mountain air they had been inhaling as they wandered about among the cattle show, or stood making their bargains, there was little mercy shown the viands when they once sat down; and grace had hardly escaped the clergyman’s lips ere the clatter of knives and forks commenced. It was a half-crown ordinary, and each person called for and drank what he liked. Londoners who order dinner at two guineas a head for half-fledged appetites, would wonder how such ravenous maws could be appeased on the best roast and boiled at half-a-crown a head. There were capons, and ducks, and hams, and tongues, and boiled legs of mutton, and roast legs of mutton, and boiled beef, and roast beef, and trembling jellies, and decorated tarts, with the finest vegetables that had been exhibited for prizes at the flower and vegetable show of the morning. Talk of the cheapness and plenty of a French ordinary! it’s not to be compared to that of an English one — a good English farmer’s ordinary.

  It used to be an old school recommendation, to “let one’s meat stop one’s mouth;” and most assiduously the farmers acted up to the injunction. After they once set to, there was little heard but clatter, clatter, clatter; varied by an occasional request for another slice of beef or ham, or another piece of bread. Then the fluids began to be called for; wine was only seen at the cross-table, and a very short way down the centre one; most of them indulged in ale or bottled porter. At length the most ravenous appetites were appeased, and eyes gradually began to wander from the plates to the surrounding faces. Friendly nods of recognition took place. “How is’t, Jack?”