by R S Surtees
If you listen to their conversation, it is generally a dissertation on the previous day’s sport, with inquiries as to the nearest way to cover the next. Sometimes it is seasoned with censure of some other pack they have been seeing. These men are mounted and appointed in a manner that shows what a perfect profession hunting is with them. Of course, they come cantering to cover, lest any one should suppose they ride their horses on.
The ‘Cross-roads’ was like two hunts or two circuits joining, for it generally drew the picked men from each, to say nothing of outriggers and chance customers. The regular attendants of either hunt were sufficiently distinguishable as well by the flat hats and baggy garments of the one, as by the dandified, Jemmy Jessamy air of the other. If a lord had not been at the head of the Flat Hats, the Puffington men would have considered them insufferable snobs. But to our day.
As usual, where hounds have to travel a long distance, the field were assembled before they arrived. Almost all the cantering gentlemen had cast up.
One cross-road meet being so much like another, it will not be worth while describing the one at Dallington Burn. The reader will have the kindness to imagine a couple of roads crossing an open common, with an armless sign-post on one side, and a rubble-stone bridge, with several of the coping-stones lying in the shallow stream below, on the other.
The country round about, if any country could have been seen, would have shown wild, open, and cheerless. Here a patch of wood, there a patch of heath, but its general aspect bare and unfruitful. The commanding outline of Beechwood Forest was not visible for the weather. Time now, let us suppose, half-past ten, with a full muster of horsemen and a fog making unwonted dulness of the scene — the old sign-pole being the most conspicuous object of the whole.
Hark! what a clamour there is about it. It’s like a betting-post at Newmarket. How loud the people talk! What’s the news? Queen Anne dead, or is there another French Revolution, or a fixed duty on corn? Reader, Mr. Puffington’s hounds have had a run, and the Flat Hat men are disputing it.
‘Nothing of the sort! nothing of the sort!’ exclaims Fossick, ‘I know every yard of the country, and you can’t make more nor eight of it anyhow, if eight.’
‘Well, but I’ve measured it on the map,’ replied the speaker (Charley Slapp himself), ‘and it’s thirteen, if it’s a yard.’
‘Then the country’s grown bigger since my day,’ rejoins Fossick, ‘for I was dropped at Stubgrove, which is within a mile of where you found, and I’ve walked, and I’ve ridden, and I’ve driven every yard of the distance, and you can’t make it more than eight, if it’s as much. Can you, Capon?’ exclaimed Fossick, appealing to another of the ‘flat brims,’ whose luminous face now shone through the fog.
‘No,’ replied Capon, adding, ‘not so much, I should say.’
Just then up trotted Frostyface with the hounds.
‘Good morning, Frosty! good morning!’ exclaim half-a-dozen voices, that it would be difficult to appropriate from the denseness of the fog. Frosty and the whips make a general salute with their caps.
‘Well, Frosty, I suppose you’ve heard what a run we had yesterday?’ exclaims Charley Slapp, as soon as Frosty and the hounds are settled.
‘Had they, sir — had they?’ replies Frosty, with a slight touch of his cap and a sneer. ‘Glad to hear it, sir — glad to hear it. Hope they killed, sir — hope they killed!’ with a still slighter touch of the cap.
‘Killed, aye! — killed in the open just below Crabstone Green, in your country,’ adding, ‘It was one of your foxes, I believe.’
‘Glad of it, sir — glad of it, sir,’ replies Frosty. ‘They wanted blood sadly — they wanted blood sadly. Quite welcome to one of our foxes, sir — quite welcome. That’s a brace and a ‘alf they’ve killed.’
‘Brace and a ha-r-r-f!’ drawls Slapp, in well-feigned disgust; ‘brace and a ha-r-r-f! — why, it makes them ten brace, and six run to ground.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ retorts Frosty, with a shake of disgust; ‘don’t tell me. I knows better — I knows better. They’d only killed a brace since they began hunting up to yesterday. The rest were all cubs, poor things! — all cubs, poor things! Mr. Puffington’s hounds are not the sort of animals to kill foxes: nasty, skirtin’, flashy, jealous divils; always starin’ about for holloas and assistance. I’ll be d —— d if I’d give eighteenpence for the ‘ole lot on ’em.’
A loud guffaw from the Flat Hat men greeted this wholesale condemnation. The Puffington men looked unutterable things, and there is no saying what disagreeable comparisons might have been instituted (for the Puffingtonians mustered strong) had not his lordship and Jack cast up at the moment. Hats off and politeness was then the order of the day.
‘Mornin’,’ said his lordship, with a snatch of his hat in return, as he pulled up and stared into the cloud-enveloped crowd; ‘Mornin’, Fyle; mornin’, Fossick,’ he continued, as he distinguished those worthies, as much by their hats as anything else. ‘Where are the horses?’ he said to Frostyface.
‘Just beyond there, my lord,’ replied the huntsman, pointing with his whip to where a cockaded servant was ‘to-and-froing’ a couple of hunters — a brown and a chestnut.
‘Let’s be doing,’ said his lordship, trotting up to them and throwing himself off his hack like a sack. Having divested himself of his muddy overalls, he mounted the brown, a splendid sixteen-hands horse in tip-top condition, and again made for the field in all the pride of masterly equestrianism. A momentary gleam of sunshine shot o’er the scene; a jerk of the head acted as a signal to throw off, and away they all moved from the meet.
Thorneybush Gorse was a large eight-acre cover, formed partly of gorse and partly of stunted blackthorn, with here and there a sprinkling of Scotch firs. His lordship paid two pounds a year for it, having vainly tried to get it for thirty shillings, which was about the actual value of the land, but the proprietor claimed a little compensation for the trampling of horses about it; moreover, the Puffington men would have taken it at two pounds. It was a sure find, and the hounds dashed into it with a scent.
The field ranged themselves at the accustomed corner, both hunts full of their previous day’s run. Frostyface’s ‘Yoicks, wind him!’ ‘Yoicks, push him up!’ was drowned in a medley of voices.
A loud, clear, shrill ‘TALLY-HO, AWAY!’ from the far side of the cover caused all tongues to stop, and all hands to drop on the reins. Great was the excitement! Each hunt was determined to take the shine out of the other.
‘Twang, twang, twang!’ ‘Tweet, tweet, tweet!’ went his lordship’s and Frostyface’s horns, as they came bounding over the gorse to the spot, with the eager pack rushing at their horses’ heels. Then as the hounds crossed the line of scent, there was such an outburst of melody in cover, and such gathering of reins and thrusting on of hats outside! The hounds dashed out of cover as if somebody was kicking them. A man in scarlet was seen flying through the fog, producing the usual hold-hardings. ‘Hold hard, sir!’ ‘God bless you, hold hard, sir!’ with inquiries as to ‘who the chap was that was going to catch the fox.’
‘It’s Lumpleg!’ exclaimed one of the Flat Hat men.
‘No, it’s not!’ roared a Puffingtonite; ‘Lumpleg’s here.’
‘Then it’s Charley Slapp; he’s always doing it,’ rejoined the first speaker. ‘Most jealous man in the world.’
‘Is he!’ exclaimed Slapp, cantering past at his ease on a thoroughbred grey, as if he could well afford to dispense with a start.
Reader! it was neither Lumpleg nor Slapp, nor any of the Puffington snobs, or Flat Hat swells, or Puffington swells, or Flat Hat snobs. It was our old friend Sponge; Monsieur Tonson again! Having arrived late, he had posted himself, unseen, by the cover side, and the fox had broke close to him. Unfortunately, he had headed him back, and a pretty kettle of fish was the result. Not only had he headed him back, but the resolute chestnut, having taken it into his head to run away, had snatched the bit between his teeth; and carried him to the
far side of a field ere Sponge managed to manœuvre him round on a very liberal semi-circle, and face the now flying sportsmen, who came hurrying on through the mist like a charge of yeomanry after a salute. All was excitement, hurry-scurry, and horse-hugging, with the usual spurring, elbowing, and exertion to get into places, Mr. Fossick considering he had as much right to be before Mr. Fyle as Mr. Fyle had to be before old Capon.
It apparently being all the same to the chestnut which way he went so long as he had his run, he now bore Sponge back as quickly as he had carried him away, and with yawning mouth, and head in the air, he dashed right at the coming horsemen, charging Lord Scamperdale full tilt as he was in the act of returning his horn to its case. Great was the collision! His lordship flew one way, his horse another, his hat a third, his whip a fourth, his spectacles a fifth; in fact, he was scattered all over. In an instant he lay the centre of a circle, kicking on his back like a lively turtle.
‘Oh! I’m kilt!’ he roared, striking out as if he was swimming, or rather floating. ‘I’m kilt!’ he repeated. ‘He’s broken my back — he’s broken my legs — he’s broken my ribs — he’s broken my collar-bone — he’s knocked my right eye into the heel of my left boot. Oh! will nobody catch him and kill him? Will nobody do for him? Will you see an English nobleman knocked about like a ninepin?’ added his lordship, scrambling up to go in pursuit of Mr. Sponge himself, exclaiming, as he stood shaking his fist at him, ‘Rot ye, sir! hangin’s too good for ye! you should be condemned to hunt in Berwickshire the rest of your life!’
CHAPTER XXX
BOLTING THE BADGER
WHEN A MAN and his horse differ seriously in public, and the man feels the horse has the best of it, it is wise for the man to appear to accommodate his views to those of the horse, rather than risk a defeat. It is best to let the horse go his way, and pretend it is yours. There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse.
Mr. Sponge, having scattered Lord Scamperdale in the summary way described in our last chapter, let the chestnut gallop away, consoling himself with the idea that even if the hounds did hunt, it would be impossible for him to show his horse to advantage on so dark and unfavourable a day. He, therefore, just let the beast gallop till he began to flag, and then he spurred him and made him gallop on his account. He thus took his change out of him, and arrived at Jawleyford Court a little after luncheon time.
Brief as had been his absence, things had undergone a great change. Certain dark hints respecting his ways and means had worked their way from the servants’ hall to my lady’s chamber, and into the upper regions generally. These had been augmented by Leather’s, the trusty groom’s, overnight visit, in fulfilment of his engagement to sup with the servants. Nor was Mr. Leather’s anger abated by the unceremonious way Mr. Sponge rode off with the horse, leaving him to hear of his departure from the ostler. Having broken faith with him, he considered it his duty to be ‘upsides’ with him, and tell the servants all he knew about him. Accordingly he let out, in strict confidence of course, to Spigot, that so far from Mr. Sponge being a gentleman of ‘fortin,’ as he called it, with a dozen or two hunters planted here and there, he was nothing but the hirer of a couple of hacks, with himself as a job-groom, by the week. Spigot, who was on the best of terms with the ‘cook-housekeeper,’ and had his clothes washed on the sly in the laundry, could not do less than communicate the intelligence to her, from whom it went to the lady’s-maid, and thence circulated in the upper regions.
Juliana, the maid, finding Miss Amelia less indisposed to hear Mr. Sponge run down than she expected, proceeded to add her own observations to the information derived from Leather, the groom. ‘Indeed, she couldn’t say that she thought much of Mr. Sponge herself; his shirts were coarse, so were his pocket-handkerchiefs; and she never yet saw a real gent without a valet.’
Amelia, without any positive intention of giving up Mr. Sponge, at least not until she saw further, had nevertheless got an idea that she was destined for a much higher sphere. Having duly considered all the circumstances of Mr. Spraggon’s visit to Jawleyford Court, conned over several mysterious coughs and half-finished sentences he had indulged in, she had about come to the conclusion that the real object of his mission was to negotiate a matrimonial alliance on behalf of Lord Scamperdale. His lordship’s constantly expressed intention of getting married was well calculated to mislead one whose experience of the world was not sufficiently great to know that those men who are always talking about it are the least likely to get married, just as men who are always talking about buying horses are the men who never do buy them. Be that, however, as it may, Amelia was tolerably easy about Mr. Sponge. If he had money she could take him; if he hadn’t, she could let him alone.
Jawleyford, too, who was more hospitable at a distance, and in imagination than in reality, had had about enough of our friend. Indeed, a man whose talk was of hunting, and his reading Mogg was not likely to have much in common with a gentleman of taste and elegance, as our friend set up to be. The delicate inquiry that Mrs. Jawleyford now made, as to ‘whether he knew Mr. Sponge to be a man of fortune,’ set him off at a tangent.
‘Me know he’s a man of fortune! I know nothing of his fortune. You asked him here, not me,’ exclaimed Jawleyford, stamping furiously.
‘No, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford mildly; ‘he asked himself, you know; but I thought, perhaps, you might have said something that—’
‘Me say anything!’ interrupted Jawleyford. ‘I never said anything — at least, nothing that any man with a particle of sense would think anything of,’ continued he, remembering the scene in the billiard-room. ‘It’s one thing to tell a man, if he comes your way, you’ll be glad to see him, and another to ask him to come bag and baggage, as this impudent Mr. Sponge has done,’ added he.
‘Certainly,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford, who saw where the shoe was pinching her bear.
‘I wish he was off,’ observed Jawleyford, after a pause. ‘He bothers me excessively — I’ll try and get rid of him by saying we are going from home.’
‘Where can you say we are going to?’ asked Mrs. Jawleyford.
‘Oh, anywhere,’ replied Jawleyford; ‘he doesn’t know the people about here: the Tewkesbury’s, the Woolerton’s, the Brown’s — anybody.’
Before they had got any definite plan of proceeding arranged, Mr. Sponge returned from the chase. ‘Ah, my dear sir!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, half-gaily, half-moodily, extending a couple of fingers as Sponge entered his study: ‘we thought you had taken French leave of us, and were off.’
Mr. Sponge asked if his groom had not delivered his note.
‘No,’ replied Jawleyford boldly, though he had it in his pocket; ‘at least, not that I’ve seen. Mrs. Jawleyford, perhaps, may have got it,’ added he.
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Sponge; ‘it was very idle of him.’ He then proceeded to detail to Jawleyford what the reader already knows, how he had lost his day at Larkhall Hill, and had tried to make up for it by going to the cross-roads. ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, when he was done; ‘that’s a pity — great pity — monstrous pity — never knew anything so unlucky in my life.’
‘Misfortunes will happen,’ replied Sponge, in a tone of unconcern.
‘Ah, it wasn’t so much the loss of the hunt I was thinking of,’ replied Jawleyford, ‘as the arrangements we have made in consequence of thinking you were gone.’
‘What are they?’ asked Sponge.
‘Why, my Lord Barker, a great friend of ours — known him from a boy — just like brothers, in short — sent over this morning to ask us all there — shooting party, charades, that sort of thing — and we accepted.’
‘But that need make no difference,’ replied Sponge; ‘I’ll go too.’
Jawleyford was taken aback. He had not calculated upon so much coolness.
‘Well,’ stammered he, ‘that might do, to be sure; but — if — I’m not quite sure that I could take any one—’
‘But if you’re as thick a
s you say, you can have no difficulty,’ replied our friend.
‘True,’ replied Jawleyford; ‘but then we go a large party ourselves — two and two’s four,’ said he, ‘to say nothing of servants; besides, his lordship mayn’t have room — house will most likely be full.’
‘Oh, a single man can always be put up; shake-down — anything does for him,’ replied Sponge. ‘But you would lose your hunting,’ replied Jawleyford. ‘Barkington Tower is quite out of Lord Scamperdale’s country.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ replied Sponge, adding, ‘I don’t think I’ll trouble his lordship much more. These Flat Hat gentlemen are not over and above civil, in my opinion.’
‘Well,’ replied Jawleyford, nettled at this thwarting of his attempt, ‘that’s for your consideration. However, as you’ve come, I’ll talk to Mrs. Jawleyford, and see if we can get off the Barkington expedition.’
‘But don’t get off on my account,’ replied Sponge. ‘I can stay here quite well. I dare say you’ll not be away long.’
This was worse still; it held out no hope of getting rid of him. Jawleyford therefore resolved to try and smoke and starve him out. When our friend went to dress, he found his old apartment, the state-room, put away, the heavy brocade curtains brown-hollanded, the jugs turned upside down, the bed stripped of its clothes and the looking-glass laid a-top of it.
The smirking housemaid, who was just rolling the fire-irons up in the hearth-rug, greeted him with a ‘Please, sir, we’ve shifted you into the brown room, east,’ leading the way to the condemned cell that ‘Jack’ had occupied, where a newly lit fire was puffing out dense clouds of brown smoke, obscuring even the gilt letters on the back of Mogg’s Cab Fares, as the little volume lay on the toilet-table.
‘What’s happened now?’ asked our friend of the maid, putting his arm round her waist, and giving her a hearty squeeze. ‘What’s happened now, that you’ve put me into this dog-hole?’ asked he.
