by R S Surtees
“Well, that’s the stupidest thing I ever did in my life,” exclaimed he, dropping the rein, and giving his thigh a hearty slap. “I thought I knew him because he knew me, and I have no more idea who he is than the man in the moon.”
Scott then went back to the turn of the road to see if any of the field were behind, but they had all dispersed on their different routes — the horsemen by the roads, the foot people by the mountain tracks.
“Well, never mind,” said he, turning short round again, “I can describe him — round-faced, ginger hair, rather stout, hunts, says he lives near Sludgington. Oh, Cake, or the saddler, or the postmaster, or the blacksmith, or any of the wise men of the place will be able to tell me who he is.” So saying, he relapsed into enjoyment of the scenery, until the road at length opened upon the vale.
Sludgington formed a not unpleasing feature in the landscape now that Scott regarded it with an unprejudiced eye. Its church tower, its clump of trees, its white dovecote to the right, the now sun-glittering mill-pond on the left, even the very smoke and outline of the houses, made an agreeable break on the tame monotony of the flat vale beyond. The cold, black, whinstone mud made him shudder, though, as he got into the street again; nor were his feelings soothed by having to ride on the rough M’Adam to make way for a long line of slate carts passing through with the produce of the neighbouring quarries.
“Who is it that lives near here, and hunts with the Stout-as-Steel hounds?” asked he of the hostler, as he gave him the mare to be fed while he packed up his traps; “who is it that hunts and rides a clipped horse, and wears black boots, not fishermen’s boots like Captain Cashbox’s, but Bishop’s boots coming up to the knee-pan?” touching the whereabouts on his own leg.
“Who is it that h-o-u-n-t-s and rides Bishop’s boots,” drawled out the muzzy idler.
“No! no! rides in Bishop’s boots, black jacks,” retorted Scott; “rides a clipped horse, and lives somewhere about here.”
“Why, I should say that would be Mr. Jenkins Jones,” replied the man; “he has a clipped horse.”
“But can’t you be sure? a gentleman with gingery hair. Has Mr. Jenkins Jones gingery hair?”
“Why y-e-a-s; I should say he has,” replied he, “and rides a clipped horse.”
“Where does he live?” asked Scott.
“At Down House, about six miles from here,” replied the man.
“‘Ay, that’s him,” said our friend, leaving the stable, and running into the house. “Jenkins Jones, of Down House, is the man;” indeed, I fancied I heard somebody call him Jones out hunting. —
What with the bother of packing, waiting for the bill, and then for the horse, the limited allowance of a winter’s day began to give indications of declining ere Scott got sufficiently near the residence of which he was in quest, to gain any decided information from the few country people and mountaineers he met as to its precise distance and locality. One man told him it was three miles, another that it was two; and an old woman that he overtook, driving a flock of geese, and who said she had lived in the country all her life, didn’t know where it was at all — had never heard of Down House before, or of Mr. Jenkins Jones either. — had heard of a Mr. Thomas Jones, but he lived at Frengford, at the back of the hills, but he had been dead many years, and “of course,” she said, “it couldn’t be him.”
A woodman, however, that Scott next met, was better informed, and after running the words “Jenkins Jones, Jones Jenkins, Jenkins Jones,” backwards and forwards on his tongue, as a lady runs up and down the notes of a piano, he directed him through a pass at the low end of the mountain-range.
Having trotted through it just as night began to close in, he came upon a wild, undulating down country — open, spacious, and far-stretching. Here and there dark patches, occasionally indicated by the fitful gleam of a passing light, denoted human habitations, but the extreme distance was completely lost in the clouds.
To heighten the confusion of the scene, the road, as he had been warned by the woodman, resolved itself into a mere race-course sort of track, whose line was marked by little chalk heap mounds thrown up on the turf.
The springy down, so tempting under ordinary circumstances for a canter, was now traversed slowly for fear of losing the thread of the heaps, and having to pass the night on the wide dreary waste.
“It must be a primitive place, indeed,” thought Scott, riding close inside the line of chalk heaps, “where a track like this serves alike for carriage, cart, and bridle road. No fear of having one’s rest disturbed by the rumbling of carts, the yells of drivers, or the music of cats, as it was last night.”
A bigger wave of land that the mountain throe had rolled further inwards, obtruded just as the fastfalling shades of night began to make him wish to he at his journey’s end; on reaching the top of which the lights from a house ensconced among trees appeared within a couple of hundred yards, and the quick eye of the mare presently caused her to halt at a light iron gate, dividing the lawn from the downs.
The clatter the gate made in swinging to and fro, caused an outburst of barking and yelling from the kennel, while the raising and hurried dropping of the curtain of a low-windowed room on the ground floor showed that the inmates were aroused, and ere he had dismounted at the sash-windowed door, a shirt-sleeved groom had rushed round from the back of the house to take his horse.
A glass door, while it is pleasant and cheerful in summer, has the advantage in winter of letting a guest see who is coming, and the bright burning oil lamp discovered our friend’s host, now attired in a comfortable suit of plaid instead of the cloth and leather of the fox-hunter.
How we pity people who lived before “tweeds,” railways, and writing directions on newspapers, were invented!
The gentleman shaded his eyes with his hand and shut them, as some people do who want to have a good look at one; but a momentary glance produced an “Oh, Mr. Scott, is it you?
I’m glad to see you,” confirmed by a cordial shake of the hand.
Scott then proceeded to “hang up his hat.”
“You’ve brought your nightcap, I hope,” observed the gentleman as he helped Scott off with his paletot.
While this was going on in the passage Scott overheard the following nursery dialogue in the parlour: —
“Little Jack Horner Sat in the — ?”
“Where did little Jack sit, my pet?”
“Pie,” lisped the child.
“No, my darling, not in the pie” responded the questioner.
“Let me introduce my friend Mr. Scott, my dear,” interrupted the host, throwing open the door of a cheerful-looking room, and disclosing a beautiful dark-eyed lady, with a lovely little child half on her lap, half on the table, studying the interesting career of the gentleman aforesaid.
An attempted rise, with a sweet smile mingling with a half-suppressed laugh, at Jack Homer’s novel position, made Scott feel quite at home, and he readily accepted his host’s offer of an arm-chair by the brightly burning fire.
As Scott looked at him he thought it was lucky he had been able to give some other account of him beyond a mere description of his person, for hunting things make such a difference in men’s appearance that it is not always easy to recognise them in others. The gentleman, however, speedily touched on the grand icebreaker of conversation “the run of the morning,” and his wife having gathered up the child’s toys, consisting of a jumping mouse, a Macassar oil bottle, a tin kettle, a tatter’d doll, and an illuminated copy of “Jack Horner,” departed with her treasure in her arms.
Scott soon found he was in capital quarters. Indeed he recollected to have heard from some of “their hunt” who had strayed so far out of the world as Mr. Neville’s men consider the hill country, that there were some “capital fellows” in it, which, in current sporting phraseology, means, men who are glad to see their friends without any fuss; or, as in Scott’s case, men who are glad to see fox-hunters at any time.
There certainly is a wonderful
freemasonry among fox-hunters. There is no letter of introduction equal to the few words, “This man’s a sportsman.” It is far superior to any formal application to be allowed to recommend one’s particular friend Mr. Augustus Fitznoodle, eldest son of Sir Augustus and Lady Fitznoodle, who was a daughter of Hugh fifth Earl of Bigacres, to their attention in the way of a “ticket for soup,” as these unfortunate documents are sometimes termed. But we are getting off the line, and must be running into our subject. They had a capital dinner, some famous mutton broth, with meat in it, thick and strong; a well-crimped piece of cod with oyster sauce, a leg of dark-gravied four-year-old Welsh mutton, followed by a woodcock and a dish of nice hot mince pies, assisted by sherry and iced champagne at dinner, and a bottle of fine old port and a devilled biscuit after.
The next morning, as they sat at an equally good breakfast, Scott saw a fustian-clad groom arrive on a horse at exercise, and presently a note was brought in, which his host, after perusing, presented to him with a smile, saying, “This refers to you.” Thus it ran: —
“DEAR JONES,
“Have you seen any thing of Mr. Scott of Hawbuck Grange? He promised to come to me yesterday, and has never cast up.
“Yours truly,
“JONES JENKINS.”
“Good God, ain’t I at Mr. Jones Jenkins’s now?” exclaimed our friend.
“Why, no,” replied his host, laughing; “my name is Jenkins Jones, his is Jones Jenkins. I saw you had made the common mistake last night when you came, but was not going to deprive myself of the pleasure of your society by telling you.”
“You are extremely kind, I’m sure,” replied Scott. “I did think, when I saw you, that your hair had got darker, but I attributed it to the shade of the lamp, or to not having seen you with your hat off.”
“Oh, I assure you, it’s nothing uncommon,” replied his host, “nothing uncommon at all; we get each other’s letters and parcels, and papers, and all sorts of things. A Frenchman brought a bill for a musical clock here the other day, and insisted upon my paying it. ‘It was directed ‘à Monsieur Jones Jenkins.’ In vain I protested that my name was Jenkins Jones. ‘Vel, sare,’ said he, ‘it shall be all de same — dey have jost put de Jones before de Jenkins, you are de man.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said I, sporting the old joke, ‘there’s just as much difference between Mr. Jenkins Jones and Mr. Jones Jenkins, as there is between a chestnut horse and a horse chestnut.’”
CHAP. X.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
TAKING LEAVE OF his kind host and hostess at the Down House, Tom Scott again mounted the old mare, “homeward bound,” as Captain Cashbox would say.
He had not got above a couple of miles on the high road before he was overtaken by a man on foot, going at a pace known only to fugitives, servants who have been loitering at public-houses, or people in pursuit of sport. Urgent or exciting must be the cause that spurs a pedestrian past a horse. Nevertheless the individual shot ahead, and that without look or observation.
“He’s a good’un to go,” said Scott to himself, eyeing the quick short steps with which he got away from the old mare. He was a square-built, bowlegged, stiff little fellow, not at all of the cut that one would imagine a “Hookey Walker.” His dress was puzzling, as well as his pace. It consisted of a brown duffle frock coat, black and white plaid trousers, with drab gaiters, and he carried an oilskin-covered umbrella under his arm; quite a town turn-out — at all events, not a “week-day” one in the country.
“I wonder what the buffer is,” said Scott, watching him as he stepped along. “I’ll be bound to say he can’t keep that pace up long,” continued he. Still he trudged on, and Scott followed, thinking, as he rode, that he had the best of it.
Presently the pedestrian began to look about him, first over one hedge, then over another, as though he wanted his nurse, or an excuse for bolting.
“What now, old boy?” said Scott, eyeing the proceeding; “you surely have no business in the fields.”
He seemed to be of a contrary opinion though, and, coming to a weak place in the hedge on the left, he popped over the rail that protected it, and forthwith commenced a rapid ascent of the hill.
He was quickly out of sight, leaving Tom to pursue his road and ruminations together.
About a mile further on, where a mountain pass runs into the Netherdew turnpike, our traveller was struck with a vast concourse of people coming down, some on foot, some on horseback, some in gigs, some on mules. “A foot-race,” said he to himself, eyeing the numbers; “the Llandogget Stag against the Bob-Daniel Flyer, or some such fun;” and he fancied he saw the poles and ropes with which they were going to stake off the turnpike.
“Or’d, hang it, no! they are a set of dancing-dogs or monkeys,” exclaimed he, as the red and gaudy jackets of the animals and the yellow flag of one of the leaders became apparent. “What queer creatures they must be in these parts!” continued he “only fancy a bevy of great men turning out after such animals!”
Notwithstanding this denunciation, he pulled up to have a look at them himself, and he was so lost in astonishment at seeing that the whole party were English, instead of the white-teethed, olive-complexioned Italians, the general attendants of monkeys and dancing-dogs, that he was right in the middle of the cavalcade before he saw the animals were greyhounds — greyhounds in all the pomp and paraphernalia of race-horses, coloured hoods, quarter-pieces, and bottle-carrying leaders. “Gad,” thought he, “what ‘ago’ it would be if they were to bring a pack of foxhounds to the cover side in clothing!”
It’s odd if a fox-hunter gets into a crowd of sportsmen, within half a hundred miles of home, without being recognised by some one; and from the heterogeneous assemblage of shooting-jacketed, and great-coated, and duffle-coated, and cloaked, and shawled, and paletoted, and trousered, and Taglionied, and jack-booted, and overalled, and fiddle-case booted, and gambadoed, and umbrellahanded horsemen, a voice from a complete mountain of mackintosh exclaimed, “Halloa, Tom Scott! is that you?”
“It’s me! sure enough,” exclaimed our friend; “but who the deuce you are beats my comprehension?” —
“Don’t you remember Charley Travis?” replied the questioner, lowering his comforter, and raising a puddingy plaid cap off his brow, so as to display a pair of large boiled-gooseberry-looking eyes staring out of agreat red harvest-moon of a face.
“Charley, my boy!” exclaimed Scott, starting at the familiar name and the change that time had effected on its bearer. “Charley, my boy, how are you? I’m delighted to see you,” and thereupon they rung a requiem over the twenty years that had elapsed since they met, and aroused the spirits of no end of “larks” that had flown with the time.
Upon the evidence of so much cordiality, divers of the sporting gents lifted their hats and caps to the stranger, indicating that our traveller’s friend Charley was “somebody,” and that a portion of his greatness was reflected upon Tom.
“I shouldn’t have known you,” said Scott, looking at the man mountain he now rode beside, and recalling the smart slim youth he had parted with.
“Nobody does,” replied he, “nobody does — my leg’s as big as my whole body used to be,” shoving out a great woollen-clad mackintosh-cased limb, terminating in a black and red list slipper. “Do you remember when I squeezed through the pot of Miss Gammon’s chimney, and descended amongst all the bread and butter misses at their tea?” asked he. “Couldn’t do that now, by jingo; no, nor ride 8 st. 7 lb as I used to do. However, never mind; I am delighted to see you again, old fellow. Tell me now what’s brought you into this part of the world?”
“Ah! still as fond of hunting, still as fond of hunting as ever, are you?” observed he, after listening to a narrative of where Scott had been.
“Just the same,” replied Scott, “just the same. If any thing, the older I get, the bigger fool I get. I should think hunting couldn’t do you any harm,” added he, looking at his friend’s puffy face.
“Bless you, my dear Scott,” shivered he,
“would kill me. Consider, my dear fellow, what a mass of complaints, what a lump of corruption I am. Look at the chalk stones in my hands,” continued he, pulling off a sable glove. “It takes two men to put me on horseback. Hunt! Suppose I should be spilt! I should never get up again — I should lie kicking on the broad of my back like a sheep or a bull frog!”
“But what’s made you gouty, old boy?” asked Scott. “Your parents were healthy, and you had nothing of that sort in your youth.”
“Had I!” exclaimed he, earnestly, “you know I hadn’t — never a moment’s illness of any sort. As long as I was starving on a hundred a year I was the healthiest and happiest mortal alive; but the moment the money came, down came a whole bevy of ills, and I became one mass of disorders. Stevens!” exclaimed he, “is it time to take my pills?”
While the individual thus appealed to was supplying his wants, it flashed across Scott’s mind that the hero he was addressing had been changed into a baronet, and that Charley Travis of former days was now Sir Charles Munchington, having been most unexpectedly metamorphosed one morning while shaving by a fourpenny glass in a barrack-room at Gibraltar.
“I’m afraid you live too well, Sir Charles,” said Scott, as the Baronet gulped down the last of the pills.
“Live! my dear fellow, I wish you saw me live; if rice puddings and soda water are living, then I do live. But, talking of that, come to me to-day after coursing.”
“Thank you,” said Scott, “but I’m expected at home.”
“What, you’re married, are you?” asked he.
“Why, no! yes! no! not exactly; but the fact is, I’m out of linen — got my last shirt on.”
“Oh, I’ll find you linen, and be shot if I don’t take a glass of wine, too, for ‘auld lang syne.’ I’ll lend you shirts and shoes, and every thing, for I have them of all sizes since I began to magnify, till I think Daniel Lambert and I might now go partners in a wardrobe.”—’
