by R S Surtees
He’s on! no, he’s off, he hangs by the mane!
At last he got shuffled back into the saddle, and the cry of hounds in cover attracting the outsiders back, the scene quickly changed, and the horsemen were again overhead in wood. They now swept up the grass ride to the exposed part of the higher ground, the trees gradually diminishing in size, till, on reaching the top, they did not come much above a horse’s shoulder. This point commanded a fine view over the adjacent country. Behind was the rich vale of Dairylow, with its villages and spires, and trees and enclosures, while in front was nothing but the undulating, wide-stretching downs, reaching to the soft grey hills in the distance. There was not, however, much time for contemplating scenery; for Wily Tom, who had stolen to this point immediately the hounds took up the scent, now viewed the fox stealing over a gap in the wall, and, the field catching sight, there was such a hullabaloo as would have made a more composed and orderly minded fox think it better to break instead of running the outside of the wall as this one intended to do. What wind there was swept over the downs; and putting himself straight to catch it, he went away whisking his brush in the air, as if he was fresh out of his kennel instead of a sack. Then what a commotion there was! Such jumpings off to lead down, such huggings and holdings, and wooa-ings of those that sat on, such slidings and scramblings, and loosenings and rollings of stones. Then the frantic horses began to bound, and the frightened riders to exclaim:
‘Do get out of my way, sir.’
‘Mind, sir! I’m a-top of you!’
‘Give him his head and let him go!’ exclaimed the still drunken brother Bob Spangles, sliding his horse down with a slack rein.
‘That’s your sort!’ roared Sir Harry, and just as he said it, his horse dropped on his hind-quarters like a rabbit, landing Sir Harry comfortably on his feet, amid the roars of the foot-people, and the mirth of such of the horsemen as were not too frightened to laugh.
‘I think I’ll stay where I am,’ observed Mr. Bugles, preparing for a bird’s-eye view where he was. ‘This hunting,’ said he, getting off the fidgety Arab, ‘seems dangerous.’
The parties who accomplished the descent had now some fine plain sailing for their trouble. The line lay across the open downs, composed of sound, springy, racing-like turf, extremely well adapted for trying the pace either of horses or hounds. And very soon it did try the pace of them, for they had not gone above a mile before there was very considerable tailing with both. To be sure, they had never been very well together, but still the line lengthened instead of contracting. Horses that could hardly be held downhill, and that applied themselves to the turf, on landing, as if they could never have enough of it, now began to bear upon the rein and hang back to those behind; while the hounds came straggling along like a flock of wild geese, with full half a mile between the leader and the last. However, they all threw their tongues, and each man flattered himself that the hound he was with was the first. In vain the galloping Watchorn looked back and tootled his horn; in vain he worked with his cap; in vain the whips rode at the tail hounds, cursing and swearing, and vowing they would cut them in two.
There was no getting them together. Every now and then the fox might be seen, looking about the size of a marble, as he rounded some distant hill, each succeeding view making him less, till, at last, he seemed no bigger than a pea.
Five-and-twenty minutes best pace over downs is calculated to try the mettle of anything; and, long before the leading hounds reached Cockthropple Dean, the field was choked by the pace. Sir Harry had long been tailed off; both the brothers Spangles had dropped astern; the horse of one had dropped too; Sawbones, the doctor’s, had got a stiff neck; Willing, the road surveyor, and Mr. Lavender, the grocer, pulled up together. Muddyman, the farmer’s four-year-old, had enough at the end of ten minutes; both the whips tired theirs in a quarter of an hour; and in less than twenty minutes Watchorn and Sponge were alone in their glory, or rather Sponge was in his glory, for Watchorn’s horse was beat.
‘Lend me your horn!’ exclaimed Sponge, as he heard by the hammer and pincering of Watchorn’s horse, it was all U P with him.
The horse stopped as if shot; and getting the horn, Mr. Sponge went on, the brown laying himself out as if still full of running. Cockthropple Dean was now close at hand, and in all probability the fox would not leave it. So thought Mr. Sponge as he dived into it, astonished at the chorus and echo of the hounds.
‘HE’S AWAY! — REET ‘CROSS TORNOPS’
‘Tally ho!’ shouted a countryman on the opposite side; and the road Sponge had taken being favourable to the point, he made for it at a hand-gallop, horn in hand, to blow as soon as he got there.
‘He’s away!’ cried the man as soon as our friend appeared; ‘reet ‘cross tornops!’ added he, pointing with his hoe.
Mr. Sponge then put his horse’s head that way, and blew a long shrill reverberating blast. As he paused to take breath and listen, he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, and presently a stentorian voice, half frantic with rage, exclaimed from behind:
‘Who the Dickens are you?’
‘Who the Dickens are you?’ retorted Mr. Sponge, without looking round.
‘They commonly call me the Earl of Scamperdale,’ roared the same sweet voice, ‘and those are my hounds.’
‘They’re not your hounds!’ snapped Mr. Sponge, now looking round on his big-spectacled, flat-hatted lordship, who was closely followed by his double, Mr. Spraggon.
‘Not my hounds!’ screeched his lordship. ‘Oh, ye barber’s apprentice! Oh, ye draper’s assistant! Oh ye unmitigated Mahomedon! Sing out, Jack! sing out! For Heaven’s sake, sing out!’ added he, throwing out his arms in perfect despair.
‘Not his lordship’s hounds!’ roared Jack, now rising in his stirrups and brandishing his big whip. ‘Not his lordship’s hounds! Tell me that, when they cost him five-and-twenty ‘underd — two thousand five ‘underd a year! Oh, by Jingo, but that’s a pretty go! If they’re not his lordship’s hounds, I should like to know whose they are?’ and thereupon Jack wiped the foam from his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Sir Harry’s!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, again putting the horn to his lips, and blowing another shrill blast.
‘Sir Harry’s!’ screeched his lordship in disgust, for he hated the very sound of his name— ‘Sir Harry’s! Oh, you rusty-booted ruffian! Tell me that to my very face!’
‘Sir Harry’s!’ repeated Jack, again standing erect in his stirrups. ‘What! impeach his lordship’s integrity — oh, by Jove, there’s an end of everything! Death before dishonour! Slugs in a saw-pit! Pistols and coffee for two! Cock Pheasant at Weybridge, six o’clock i’ the mornin’!’ And Jack, sinking exhausted on his saddle, again wiped the foam from his mouth.
His lordship then went at Sponge again.
‘Oh, you sanctified, putrified, pestilential, perpendicular, gingerbread-booted, counter-skippin’ snob, you think because I’m a lord, and can’t swear or use coarse language, that you may do what you like; but I’ll let you see the contrary,’ said he, brandishing his brother to Jack’s whip. ‘Mark you, sir, I’ll fight you, sir, any non-huntin’ day you like, sir, ‘cept Sunday.’
Just then the clatter and blowing of horses was heard, and Frostyface emerged from the wood followed by the hounds, who, swinging themselves ‘forrard’ over the turnips, hit off the scent and went away full cry, followed by his lordship and Jack, leaving Mr. Sponge transfixed with astonishment.
’Changed foxes,’ at length said Sponge, with a shake of his head; and just then the cry of hounds on the opposite bank confirmed his conjecture, and he got to Sir Harry’s in time to take up his lordship’s fox.
His lordship’s hounds ran into Sir Harry’s fox about two miles farther on, but the hounds would not break him up; and, on examining him, he was found to have been aniseeded; and, worst of all, by the mark on his ear to be one that they had turned down themselves the season before, being one of a litter that Sly had stolen from Sir Harry’s cover at Seedeygorse �
� a beautiful instance of retributive justice.
CHAPTER LI
FARMER PEASTRAW’S DÎNÉ-MATINÉE
THERE ARE PLEASANTER situations than being left alone with twenty couple of even the best-mannered fox-hounds; far pleasanter situations than being left alone with such a tearing, frantic lot as composed Sir Harry Scattercash’s pack. Sportsmen are so used (with some hounds at least) to see foxes ‘in hand’ that they never think there is any difficulty in getting them there; and it is only a single-handed combat with the pack that shows them that the hound does not bring the fox up in his mouth like a retriever. A tyro’s first tête-à-tête with a half-killed fox, with the baying pack circling round, must leave as pleasing a souvenir on the memory as Mr. Gordon Cumming would derive from his first interview with a lion.
Our friend Mr. Sponge was now engaged with a game of ‘pull devil, pull baker’ with the hounds for the fox, the difficulty of his situation being heightened by having to contend with the impetuous temper of a high-couraged, dangerous horse. To be sure, the gallant Hercules was a good deal subdued by the distance and severity of the pace, but there are few horses that get to the end of a run that have not sufficient kick left in them to do mischief to hounds, especially when raised or frightened by the smell of blood; nevertheless, there was no help for it. Mr. Sponge knew that unless he carried off some trophy, it would never be believed he had killed the fox. Considering all this, and also that there was no one to tell what damage he did, he just rode slap into the middle of the pack, as Marksman, Furious, Thunderer, and Bountiful were in the act of despatching the fox. Singwell and Saladin (puppies) having been sent away howling, the one bit through the jowl, the other through the foot.
‘Ah! leave him — leave him — leave him!’ screeched Mr. Sponge, trampling over Warrior and Tempest, the brown horse lashing out furiously at Melody and Lapwing. ‘Ah, leave him! leave him!’ repeated he, throwing himself off his horse by the fox, and clearing a circle with his whip, aided by the hoofs of the animal. There lay the fox before him killed, but as yet little broken by the pack. He was a noble fellow; bright and brown, in the full vigour of life and condition, with a gameness, even in death, that no other animal shows. Mr. Sponge put his foot on the body, and quickly whipped off his brush. Before he had time to pocket it, the repulsed pack broke in upon him and carried off the carcass.
‘Ah! dash ye, you may have that,’ said he, cutting at them with his whip as they clustered upon it like a swarm of bees. They had not had a wild fox for five weeks.
‘Who-hoop!’ cried Mr. Sponge, in the hopes of attracting some of the field. ‘Who-hoop!’ repeated he, as loud as he could halloo. ‘Where can they all be, I wonder?’ said he, looking around; and echo answered — where?
The hounds had now crunched their fox, or as much of him as they wanted. Old Marksman ran about with his head, and Warrior with a haunch.
‘Drop it, you old beggar!’ cried Mr. Sponge, cutting at Marksman with his whip, and Mr. Sponge being too near to make a trial of speed prudent, the old dog did as he was bid, and slunk away.
Our friend then appended this proud trophy to his saddle-flap by a piece of whipcord, and, mounting the now tractable Hercules, began to cast about in search of a landmark. Like most down countries, this one was somewhat deceptive; there were plenty of landmarks, but they were all the same sort — clumps of trees on hill-tops, and plantations on hill-sides, but nothing of a distinguishing character, nothing that a stranger could say, ‘I remember seeing that as I came’; or, ‘I remember passing that in the run.’ The landscape seemed all alike: north, south, east, and west, equally indifferent.
‘Curse the thing,’ said Mr. Sponge, adjusting himself in his saddle, and looking about; ‘I haven’t the slightest idea where I am. I’ll blow the horn, and see if that will bring any one.’
So saying, he applied the horn to his lips, and blew a keen, shrill blast, that spread over the surrounding country, and was echoed back by the distant hills. A few lost hounds cast up from various quarters, in the unexpected way that hounds do come to a horn. Among them were a few branded with S, who did not at all set off the beauty of the rest.
‘‘Ord rot you, you belong to that old ruffian, do you?’ said Mr. Sponge, riding and cutting at one with his whip, exclaiming, ‘Get away to him, ye beggar, or I’ll tuck you up short.’
He now, for the first time, saw them together in anything like numbers, and was struck with the queerness and inequality of the whole. They were of all sorts and sizes, from the solemn towering calf-like fox-hound down to the little wriggling harrier. They seemed, too, to be troubled with various complaints and infirmities. Some had the mange; some had blear eyes; some had but one; many were out at the elbows; and not a few down at the toes. However, they had killed a fox, and ‘Handsome is that handsome does,’ said Mr. Sponge, as, with his horse surrounded by them, he moved on in quest of his way home.
At first, he thought to retrace his steps by the marks of his horse’s hoofs, and succeeded in getting back to the dean, where Sir Harry’s hounds changed foxes with Lord Scamperdale’s; but he got confused with the imprints of the other horses, and very soon had to trust entirely to chance. Chance, we are sorry to say, did not befriend him; for, after wandering over the wide-extending downs, he came upon the little hamlet of Tinkler Hatch, and was informed that he had been riding in a semicircle.
He there got some gruel for his horse, and, with day closing in, now set off, as directed, on the Ribchester road, with the assurance that he ‘couldn’t miss his way.’ Some of the hounds here declined following him any farther, and slunk into cottages and outhouses as they passed along. Mr. Sponge, however, did not care for their company.
Having travelled musingly along two or three miles of road, now thinking over the glorious run — now of the gallant way in which Hercules had carried him — now of the pity it was that there was nobody there to see — now of the encounter with Lord Scamperdale, just as he passed a well-filled stackyard, that had shut out the view of a flaming red brick house with a pea-green door and windows, an outburst of ‘hoo-rays!’ followed by one cheer more— ‘hoo-ray!’ made the remaining wild hounds prick up their ears, and our friend rein in his horse, to hear what was ‘up.’ A bright fire in a room on the right of the door overpowered the clouds of tobacco-smoke with which the room was enveloped, and revealed sundry scarlet coats in the full glow of joyous hilarity. It was Sir Harry and friends recruiting at Fanner Peastraw’s after their exertions; for, though they could not make much of hunting, they were always ready to drink. They were having a rare set-to — rashers of bacon, wedges of cheese, with oceans of malt-liquor. It was the appearance of a magnificent cold round of home-fed beef, red with saltpetre and flaky with white fat, borne on high by their host, that elicited the applause and the one cheer more that broke on Mr. Sponge’s ear as he was passing — applause that was renewed as they caught a glimpse of his red coat, not on account of his safety or that of the hounds, but simply because being in the cheering mood, they were ready to cheer anything.
‘Hil-loo! there’s Mr. What’s-his-name!’ exclaimed brother Bob Spangles, as he caught view of Sponge and the hounds passing the window.
‘So there is!’ roared another; ‘Hoo-ray!’
‘Hoo-ray!’ yelled two or three more.
‘Stop him!’ cried another.
‘Call him in,’ roared Sir Harry, ‘and let’s liquor him.’
‘Hilloo! Mister What’s-your-name!’ exclaimed the other Spangles, throwing up the window. ‘Hilloo, won’t you come in and have some refreshment?’
‘Who’s there?’ asked Mr. Sponge, reining in the brown.
‘Oh, we’re all here,’ shouted brother Bob Spangles, holding up a tumbler of hot brandy-and-water; ‘we’re all here — Sir Harry and all,’ added he.
‘But what shall I do with the hounds?’ asked Mr. Sponge, looking down upon the confused pack, now crowding about his horse’s head.
‘Oh, let the beef-eaters — the scen
e-shifters — I meant to say the servants — those fellows, you know, in scarlet and black caps, look after them,’ replied brother Bob Spangles.
‘But there are none of them here,’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, looking back on the deserted road.
‘None of them here!’ hiccuped Sir Harry, who had now got reeled to the window. ‘None of them here,’ repeated he, staring vacantly at the uneven pack. ‘Oh (hiccup) I’ll tell you what do — (hiccup) them into a barn or a stable, or a (hiccup) of any sort, and we’ll send for them when we want to (hiccup) again.’ ‘Then just you call them to you,’ replied Sponge, thinking they would go to their master. ‘Just you call them,’ repeated he, ‘and I’ll put them to you.’
‘(Hiccup) call to them?’ replied Harry. ‘I can’t (hiccup).’
‘Oh yes!’ rejoined Mr. Sponge; ‘call one or two by their names, and the rest will follow.’
‘Names! (hiccup) I don’t know any of their nasty names,’ replied Sir Harry, staring wildly.
‘Towler! Towler! Towler! here, good dog — hoop! — here’s your liquor!’ cried brother Bob Spangles, holding the smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water out of the window, as if to tempt any hound that chose to answer to the name of Towler.
There didn’t seem to be a Towler in the pack; at least, none of them qualified for the brandy-and-water.
‘Oh, I’ll (hiccup) you what we’ll do,’ exclaimed Sir Harry: ‘I’ll (hiccup) you what we’ll do. ‘We’ll just give them a (hiccup) kick a-piece and send them (hiccuping) home,’ Sir Harry reeling back into the room to the black horse-hair sofa, where his whip was.
