by R S Surtees
He presently appeared at the door, and, going into the midst of the hounds, commenced laying about him, rating, and cutting, and kicking, and shouting.
SIR HARRY OF NONSUCH HOUSE
‘Geete away home with ye, ye brutes; what are you all (hiccup)ing here about? Ah! cut off his tail!’ cried he, staggering after a venerable blear-eyed sage, who dropped his stern and took off.
‘Be off! Does your mother know you’re out?’ cried Bob Spangles, out of the window, to old Marksman, who stood wondering what to do.
The old hound took the hint also.
‘Now, then, old feller,’ cried Sir Harry, staggering up to Mr. Sponge, who still sat on his horse, in mute astonishment at Sir Harry’s mode of dealing with his hounds. ‘Now, then, old feller,’ said he, seizing Mr. Sponge by the hand, ‘get rid of your quadruped, and (hiccup) in, and make yourself “o’er all the (hiccups) of life victorious,” as Bob Spangles says, when he (hiccups) it neat. This is old (hiccup) Peastraw’s, a (hiccup) tenant of mine, and he’ll be most (hiccup) to see you.’
‘But what must I do with my horse?’ asked Mr. Sponge, rubbing some of the dried sweat off the brown’s shoulder as he spoke; adding, ‘I should like to get him a feed of corn.’
‘Give him some ale, and a (hiccup) of sherry in it,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘it’ll do him far more good — make his mane grow,’ smoothing the horse’s thin, silky mane as he spoke.
‘Well, I’ll put him up,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ‘and then come to you,’ throwing himself, jockey fashion, off the horse as he spoke.
‘That’s a (hiccup) feller,’ said Sir Harry; adding, ‘here’s old Pea himself come to see after you.’
So saying, Sir Harry reeled back to his comrades in the house, leaving Mr. Sponge in the care of the farmer.
‘This way, sir; this way,’ said the burly Mr. Peastraw, leading the way into his farmyard, where a line of hunters stood shivering under a long cart-shed.
‘But I can’t put my horse in here,’ observed Mr. Sponge, looking at the unfortunate brutes.
‘No, sir, no,’ replied Mr. Peastraw; ‘put yours in a stable, sir; put yours in a stable’; adding, ‘these young gents don’t care much about their horses.’
‘Does anybody know the chap’s name?’ asked Sir Harry, reeling back into the room.
‘Know his name!’ exclaimed Bob Spangles; ‘why, don’t you?’
‘No,’ replied Sir Harry, with a vacant stare.
‘Why, you went up and shook hands with him, as if you were as thick as thieves,’ replied Bob.
‘Did I?’ hiccuped Sir Harry. ‘Well, I thought I knew him. At least, I thought it was somebody I had (hiccup)ed before; and at one’s own (hiccup) house, you know, one’s ‘bliged to be (hiccup) feller well (hiccup) with everybody that comes. But surely, some of you know his (hiccup) name,’ added he, looking about at the company.
‘I think I know his (hiccup) face,’ replied Bob Spangles, imitating his brother-in-law.
‘I’ve seen him somewhere,’ observed the other Spangles, through a mouthful of beef.
‘So have I,’ exclaimed some one else, ‘but where I can’t say.’
‘Most likely at church,’ observed brother Bob Spangles.
‘Well, I don’t think he’ll corrupt me,’ observed Captain Quod, speaking between the fumes of a cigar.
‘He’ll not borrow much of me,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck, producing a much tarnished green purse, and exhibiting two fourpenny-pieces at one end, and three-halfpence at the other.
‘Oh, I dare say he’s a good feller,’ observed Sir Harry; ‘I make no doubt he’s one of the right sort.’
Just then in came the man himself, hat and whip in hand, waving the brush proudly over his head.
‘Ah, that’s (hiccup) right, old feller,’ exclaimed Sir Harry, again advancing with extended hand to meet him, adding, ‘you’d (hiccup) all you wanted for your (hiccup) horse: mutton broth — I mean barley-water, foot-bath, everything right. Let me introduce my (hiccup) brother-in-law, Bob Spangles, my (hiccup) friend Captain Ladofwax, Captain Quod, Captain (hiccup) Bouncey, Captain (hiccup) Seedeybuck, and my (hiccup) brother-in-law, Mr. Spangles, as lushy a cove as ever was seen; ar’n’t you, old boy?’ added he, grasping the latter by the arm.
All these gentlemen severally bobbed their heads as Sir Harry called them over, and then resumed their respective occupations — eating, drinking, and smoking.
These were some of the debauched gentlemen Mr. Sponge had seen before Nonsuch House in the morning. They were all captains, or captains by courtesy. Ladofwax had been a painter and glazier in the Borough, where he made the acquaintance of Captain Quod, while that gentleman was an inmate of Captain Hudson’s strong house. Captain Bouncey was the too well-known betting-office keeper; and Seedeybuck was such a constant customer of Mr. Commissioner Fonblanque’s court, that that worthy legal luminary, on discharging him for the fifth time, said to him, with a very significant shake of the head, ‘You’d better not come here again, sir.’ Seedeybuck, being of the same opinion, had since fastened himself on to Sir Harry Scattercash, who found him in meat, drink, washing, and lodging. They were all attired in red coats, of one sort or another, though some of which were of a very antediluvian, and others of a very dressing-gown cut. Bouncey’s had a hare on the button, and Seedeybuck’s coat sat on him like a sack. Still a scarlet coat is a scarlet coat in the eyes of some, and the coats were not a bit more unsportsmanlike than the men. To Mr. Sponge’s astonishment, instead of breaking out in inquiries as to where they had run to, the time, the distance, who was up, who was down, and so on, they began recommending the victuals and drink; and this, notwithstanding Mr. Sponge kept flourishing the brush.
‘We’ve had a rare run,’ said he, addressing himself to Sir Harry.
‘Have you (hiccup)? I’m glad of it (hiccup). Pray have something to (hiccup) after it; you must be (hiccup).’
‘Let me help you to some of this cold round of beef?’ exclaimed Captain Bouncey, brandishing the great broad-bladed carving knife.
‘Have a slice of ‘ot ‘am,’ suggested Captain Quod.
‘The finest run I ever rode!’ observed Mr. Sponge, still endeavouring to get a hearing.
‘Dare say it would,’ replied Sir Harry;’ those (hiccup) hounds of mine are uncommon (hiccup).’ He didn’t know what they were, and the hiccup came very opportunely.
‘The pace was terrific!’ exclaimed Sponge.
‘Dare say it would,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘and that’s what makes me (hiccup) you’re so (hiccup). Pea, here, has some rare old October — (hiccup) bushels to the (hiccup) hogshead.’ ‘It’s capital!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck, frothing himself a tumblerful out of the tall brown jug.
‘So is this,’ rejoined Captain Quod, pouring himself out a liberal allowance of gin.
‘That horse of mine carried me MAGnificently!’ observed Mr. Sponge, with a commanding emphasis on the MAG.
‘Dare say he would,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘he looked like a (hiccup)er — a white ‘un, wasn’t he?’
‘No; a brown,’ replied Mr. Sponge, disgusted at the mistake.
‘Ah, well; but there was somebody on a white,’ replied Sir Harry. ‘Oh — ah — yes — it was old Bugles on my lady’s horse. By the (hiccup) way (hiccup), gentlemen, what’s got Mr. Orlando (hiccup) Bugles?’ asked Sir Harry, staring wildly round.
‘Oh! old Bugles! old Pad-the-Hoof! old Mr. Funker! the horse frightened him so, that he went home crying,’ replied Bob Spangles.
‘Hope he didn’t lose him?’ asked Sir Harry.
‘Oh no,’ replied Bob; ‘he gave a lad a shilling to lead him, and they trudged away very quietly together.’
‘The old (hiccup)!’ exclaimed Sir Harry; ‘he told me he was a member of the Surrey something.’
‘The Sorry Union,’ replied Captain Quod. ‘He was out with them once, and fell off on his head and knocked his hat-crown out.’
‘Well, but I was telling you about the run,’ inter
posed Mr. Sponge, again endeavouring to enlist an audience. ‘I was telling you about the run,’ repeated he.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, my dear sir,’ interrupted Captain Bouncey; ‘we know all about it — found — checked — killed, killed — found — checked.’
‘You can’t know all about it!’ snapped Mr. Sponge; ‘for there wasn’t a soul there but myself, much to my horror, for I had a reg’lar row with old Scamperdale, and never a soul to back me.’
‘What! you fell in with that mealy-mouthed gentleman, who can’t (hiccup) swear because he’s a (hiccup) lord, did you?’ asked Sir Harry, his attention being now drawn to our friend.
‘I did,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘and a pretty passage of politeness we had of it.’
‘Indeed! (hiccup),’ exclaimed Sir Harry. ‘Tell us (hiccup) all about it.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Sponge, laying the brush lengthways before him on the table, as if he was going to demonstrate upon it. ‘Well, you see we had a devil of a run — I don’t know how many miles, as hard as ever we could lay legs to the ground; one by one the field all dropped astern, except the huntsman and myself. At last he gave in, or rather his horse did, and I was left alone in my glory. Well, we went over the downs at a pace that nothing but blood could live with, and, though my horse has never been beat, and is as thorough-bred as Eclipse — a horse that I have refused three hundred guineas for over and over again, I really did begin to think I might get to the bottom of him, when all of a sudden we came to a dean.’
‘Ah! Cockthropple that would be,’ observed Sir Harry.
‘Dare say,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘Cock-anything-you-like-to-call-it for me. Well, when we got there, I thought we should have some breathing time, for the fox would be sure to hug it. But no; no sooner had I got there than a countryman hallooed him away on the far side. I got to the halloo as quick as I could, and just as I was blowing the horn,’ producing Watchorn’s from his pocket as he spoke; ‘for I must tell you,’ said he, ‘that when I saw the huntsman’s horse was beat, I took this from him — a horn to a foot huntsman being of no more use, you know, than a side-pocket to a cow, or a frilled shirt to a pig. Well, as I was tootleing the horn for hard life, who should turn out of the wood but old mealy-mouth himself, as you call him, and a pretty volley of abuse he let drive at me.’
‘No doubt,’ hiccuped Sir Harry; ‘but what was he doing there?’
‘Oh! I should tell you,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ‘his hounds had run a fox into it, and were on him full cry when I got there.’
‘I’ll be bund,’ cried Sir Harry, ‘it was all sham — that he just (hiccup) and excuse for getting into that cover. The old (hiccup) beggar is always at some trick, (hiccup)-ing my foxes or disturbing my covers or something,’ Sir Harry being just enough of a master of hounds to be jealous of the neighbouring ones.
‘Well, however, there he was,’ continued Mr. Sponge; ‘and the first intimation I had of the fact was a great, gruff voice, exclaiming, “Who the Dickens are you?”
‘“Who the Dickens are you?” replied I.’
‘Bravo!’ shouted Sir Harry.
‘Capital!’ exclaimed Seedeybuck.
‘Go it, you cripples! Newgate’s on fire!’ shouted Captain Quod.
‘Well, what said he?’ asked Sir Harry.
‘“They commonly call me the Earl of Scamperdale,” roared he, “and those are my hounds.”
‘“They’re not your hounds,” replied I.
‘“Whose are they, then?” asked he.
‘“Sir Harry Scattercash’s, a devilish deal better fellow,” replied I.
‘“Oh, by Jove!” roared he, “there’s an end of everything, Jack,” shouted he to old Spraggon, “this gentleman says these are not my hounds!”
‘“I’ll tell you what it is, my lord,” said I, gathering my whip and riding close up as if I was goin’ to pitch into him, “I’ll tell you what it is; you think, because you’re a lord, you may abuse people as you like, but by Jingo you’ve mistaken your man. I’ll not put up with any of your nonsense. The Sponges are as old a family as the Scamperdales, and I’ll fight you any non-hunting day you like with pistols, broadswords, fists or blunder-busses.”’
‘Well done you! Bravo! that’s your sort!’ with loud thumping of tables and clapping of hands, resounded from all parts.
‘By Jove, fill him up a stiff’un! he deserves a good drink after that!’ exclaimed Sir Harry, pouring Mr. Sponge out a beaker, equal parts brandy and water.
Mr. Sponge immediately became a hero, and was freely admitted into their circle. He was clearly a choice spirit — a trump of the first water — and they only wanted his name to be uncommonly thick with him. As it was, they plied him with victuals and drink, all seeming anxious to bring him up to the same happy state of inebriety as themselves. They talked and they chattered, and they abused Old Scamperdale and Jack Spraggon, and lauded Mr. Sponge up to the skies.
Thus day closed in, with Farmer Peastraw’s bright fire shedding its cheering glow over the now encircling group. One would have thought that, with their hearts mellow, and their bodies comfortable, their minds would have turned to that sport in whose honour they sported the scarlet; but no, hunting was never mentioned. They were quite as genteel as Nimrod’s swell friends at Melton, who cut it altogether. They rambled from subject to subject, chiefly on indoor and London topics; billiards, betting-offices, Coal Holes, Cremorne, Cider Cellars, Judge and Jury Courts, there being an evident confusion in their minds between the characters of sportsmen and sporting men, or gents as they are called. Mr. Sponge tried hard to get them on the right tack, were it only for the sake of singing the praises of the horse for which he had so often refused three hundred guineas, but he never succeeded in retaining an hearing. Talkers were far more plentiful than listeners.
At last they got to singing, and when men begin to sing, it is a sign that they are either drunk, or have had enough of each other’s company. Sir Harry’s hiccup, from which he was never wholly free, increased tenfold, and he hiccuped and spluttered at almost every word. His hand, which shook so at starting that it was odds whether he got his glass to his mouth or his ear, was now steadied, but his glazed eye and green haggard countenance showed at what a fearful sacrifice the temporary steadiness had been obtained. At last his jaw dropped on his chest, his left arm hung listlessly over the back of the chair, and he fell asleep. Captain Quod, too, was overcome, and threw himself full-length on the sofa. Captain Seedeybuck began to talk thick.
Just as they were all about brought to a standstill, the trampling of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and the shrill twang, twang, twang of the now almost forgotten mail horn, roused them from their reveries. It was Sir Harry’s drag scouring the country in search of our party. It had been to all the public-houses and beer-shops within a radius of some miles of Nonsuch House, and was now taking a speculative blow through the centre of the circle.
It was a clear frosty night, and the horses’ hoofs rang, and the wheels rolled soundly over the hard road, cracking the thin ice, yet hardly sufficiently frozen to prevent a slight upshot from the wheels.
MR. BUGLES PREFERS DANCING TO HUNTING
Twang, twang, twang, went the horn full upon Farmer Peastraw’s house, causing the sleepers to start, and the waking ones to make for the window.
‘Coach-a-hoy!’ cried Bob Spangles, smashing a pane in a vain attempt to get the window up. The coachman pulled up at the sound.
‘Here we are. Sir Harry!’ cried Bob Spangles, into his brother-in-law’s ear, but Sir Harry was too far gone; he could not ‘come to time.’ Presently a footman entered with furred coats, and shawls, and checkered rugs, in which those who were sufficiently sober enveloped themselves, and those who were too far gone were huddled by Peastraw and the man; and amid much hurry and confusion, and jostling for inside seats, the party freighted the coach, and whisked away before Mr. Sponge knew where he was.
When they arrived at Nonsuch House, they found Mr. Bugles exercising the
fiddlers by dancing the ladies in turns.
CHAPTER LII
A MOONLIGHT RIDE
THE POSITION, THEN, of Mr. Sponge was this. He was left on a frosty, moonlight night at the door of a strange farmhouse, staring after a receding coach, containing all his recent companions.
‘You’ll not be goin’ wi’ ’em, then?’ observed Mr. Peastraw, who stood beside him, listening to the shrill notes of the horn dying out in the distance.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘Rummy lot,’ observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.
‘Are they?’ asked Mr. Sponge.
‘Very!’ replied Mr. Peastraw. ‘Be the death of Sir Harry among ’em.’
‘Who are they all?’ asked Mr. Sponge.
‘Rubbish!’ replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depths of his pockets. ‘Well, we’d better go in,’ added he, pulling his hands out and rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.
Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he had taken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen night air striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head. He began to feel queer.
‘Well,’ said he to his host, ‘I think I’d better be going.’
‘Where are you bound for?’ asked Mr. Peastraw.
‘To Puddingpote Bower,’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘S-o-o,’ observed Mr. Peastraw thoughtfully; ‘Mr. Crowdey’s — Mr. Jogglebury that was?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘He is a deuce of a man, that, for breaking people’s hedges,’ observed Mr. Peastraw; after a pause, ‘he can’t see a straight stick of no sort, but he’s sure to be at it.’
‘He’s a great man for walking-sticks,’ replied Mr. Sponge, staggering in the direction of the stable in which he put his horse.
The house clock then struck ten.
‘She’s fast,’ observed Mr. Peastraw, fearing his guest might be wanting to stay all night.
