by R S Surtees
No Bartholomew answered.
‘Murray Ann!’ then hallooed Jog, in a sharper, quicker key. ‘Murray Ann!’ repeated he, still louder, after a pause.
‘Yes, sir! here, sir!’ exclaimed that invaluable servant, tidying her pink-ribboned cap as she hurried into the passage below. Looking up, she caught sight of her master’s great sallow chaps hanging like a flitch of bacon over the garret banister.
‘Oh, Murry Ann,’ bellowed Mr. Jog, at the top of his voice, still holding his hands to his mouth, as soon as he saw her, ‘Oh, Murry Ann, you’d better get the (puff) breakfast ready; I think the (gasp) Mr. Sponge will be (wheezing) away to-day.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mary Ann.
‘And tell Bartholomew to get his washin’ bills in.’
‘He harn’t had no washin’ done,’ replied Mary Ann, raising her voice to correspond with that of her master.
‘Then his bill for postage,’ replied Mr. Jog, in the same tone.
‘He harn’t had no letters neither,’ replied Mary Ann.
‘Oh, then, just get the breakfast ready,’ rejoined Jog, adding, ‘he’ll be (wheezing) away as soon as he gets it, I (puff) expect.’
‘Will he?’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as, with throbbing head, he lay tumbling about in bed, alleviating the recollections of the previous day’s debauch with an occasional dive into his old friend Mogg. Corporeally, he was in bed at Puddingpote Bower, but mentally, he was at the door of the Goose and Gridiron, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, waiting for the three o’clock bus, coming from the Bank to take him to Isleworth Gate.
Jog’s bellow to ‘Bartholo — m — e — w’ interrupted the journey, just as in imagination Mr. Sponge was putting his foot on the wheel and hallooing to the driver to hand him the strap to help him on to the box.
‘Will he?’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he heard Jog’s reiterated assertion that he would be wheezing away that day. ‘Wish you may get it, old boy,’ added he, tucking the now backless Mogg under his pillow, and turning over for a snooze.
When he got down, he found the party ranged at breakfast, minus the interesting prodigy, Gustavus James, whom Sponge proceeded to inquire after as soon as he had made his obeisance to his host and hostess, and distributed a round of daubed comfits to the rest of the juvenile party.
‘But where’s my little friend, Augustus James?’ asked he, on arriving at the wonder’s high chair by the side of mamma. ‘Where’s my little friend, Augustus James?’ asked he, with an air of concern.
‘Oh, Gustavus James,’ replied Mrs. Jog, with an emphasis on Gustavus; ‘Gustavus James is not very well this morning; had a little indigestion during the night.’
‘Poor little hound,’ observed Mr. Sponge, filling his mouth with hot kidney, glad to be rid for a time of the prodigy. ‘I thought I heard a row when I came home, which was rather late for an early man like me, but the fact was, nothing would serve Sir Harry but I should go with him to get some refreshment at a tenant’s of his; and we got on talking, first about one thing, and then about another, and the time slipped away so quickly, that day was gone before I knew where I was; and though Sir Harry was most anxious — indeed, would hardly take a refusal — for me to go home with him, I felt that, being a guest here, I couldn’t do it — at least, not then; so I got my horse, and tried to find my way with such directions as the farmer gave me, and soon lost my way, for the moon was uncertain, and the country all strange both to me and my horse.’
‘What farmer was it?’ asked Jog, with the butter streaming down the gutters of his chin from a mouthful of thick toast. ‘Farmer — farmer — farmer — let me see, what farmer it was,’ replied Mr. Sponge thoughtfully, again attacking the kidneys. ‘Oh, farmer Beanstraw, I should say.’
‘Peastraw, p’raps?’ suggested Jog, colouring up, and staring intently at Mr. Sponge.
‘Pea — Peastraw was the name,’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘I know him,’ said Jog; ‘Peastraw of Stoke.’
‘Ah, he said he knew you.’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘Did he?’ asked Jog eagerly. ‘What did he say?’
‘Say — let me see what he said,’ replied he, pretending to recollect.’ He said “you are a deuced good feller,” and I’d to make his compliments to you, and to say that there were some nice young ash saplings on his farm that you were welcome to cut.’
‘Did he?’ exclaimed Jog; ‘I’m sure that’s very (puff) polite of him. I’ll (wheeze) over there the first opportunity.’
‘And what did you make of Sir Harry?’ asked Mrs. Jog.
‘Did you (puff) say you were going to (wheeze) over to him?’ asked Jog eagerly.
‘I told him I’d go to him before I left the country,’ replied Mr. Sponge carelessly; adding, ‘Sir Harry is rather too fast a man for me.’
‘Too fast for himself, I should think,’ observed Mrs. Jog.
‘Fine (puff — wheeze) young man,’ growled Jog into the bottom of his cup.
‘Have you known him long?’ asked Mrs. Jogglebury.
‘Oh, we fox-hunters all know each other,’ replied Mr. Sponge evasively.
‘Well, now that’s what I tell Mr. Jogglebury,’ exclaimed she. ‘Mr. Jog’s so shy, that there’s no getting him to do what he ought,’ added the lady. ‘No one, to hear him, would think he’s the great man he is.’
‘Ought (puff) — ought (wheeze),’ retorted Jog, puffing furiously into his capacious shirt-frill. ‘It’s one (puff) thing to know (puff) people out with the (wheeze) hounds, and another to go calling upon them at their (gasp) houses.’ ‘Well, but, my dear, that’s the way people make acquaintance,’ replied his wife. ‘Isn’t it, Mr. Sponge?’ continued she, appealing to our friend.
‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ‘certainly; all men are equal out hunting.’
‘So I say,’ exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury; ‘and yet I can’t get Jog to call on Sir George Stiff, though he meets him frequently out hunting.’
‘Well, but then I can’t (puff) upon him out hunting (wheeze), and then we’re not all equal (gasp) when we go home.’
So saying, our friend rose from his chair, and after giving each leg its usual shake, and banging his pockets behind to feel that he had his keys safe, he strutted consequentially up to the window to see how the day looked.
Mr. Sponge, not being desirous of continuing the ‘calling’ controversy, especially as it might lead to inquiries relative to his acquaintance with Sir Harry, finished the contents of his plate quickly, drank up his tea, and was presently alongside of his host, asking him whether he ‘was good for a ride, a walk, or what?’
‘A (puff) ride, a (wheeze) walk, or a (gasp) what?’ repeated Jog thoughtfully. ‘No, I (puff) think I’ll stay at (puff) home,’ thinking that would be the safest plan.
‘‘Ord, hang it, you’ll never lie at earth such a day as this!’ exclaimed Sponge, looking out on the bright, sunny landscape.
‘Got a great deal to do,’ retorted Jog, who, like all thoroughly idle men, was always dreadfully busy. He then dived into a bundle of rough sticks, and proceeded to select one to fashion into the head of Mr. Hume. Sponge, being unable to make anything of him, was obliged to exhaust the day in the stable, and in sauntering about the country. It was clear Jog was determined to be rid of him, and he was sadly puzzled what to do. Dinner found his host in no better humour, and after a sort of Quakers’ meeting of an evening, they parted heartily sick of each other.
CHAPTER LV
THE TRIGGER
JOG SLEPT BADLY again, and arose next morning full of projects for getting rid of his impudent, unceremonious, free-and-easy guest.
Having tried both an up and a downstairs shout, he now went out and planted himself immediately under Mr. Sponge’s bedroom window, and, clearing his voice, commenced his usual vociferations.
‘Bartholo — m — e — w!’ whined he. ‘Bartholo — m — e — w!’ repeated he, somewhat louder. ‘Bar — tholo — m — e — w!’ roared he, in a voice of thunder.
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br /> Bartholomew did not answer.
‘Murry Ann!’ exclaimed Jog, after a pause. ‘Murry Ann!’ repeated he, still louder. ‘Murray Ann!’ roared he, at the top of his voice.
‘Comin’, sir! comin’!’ exclaimed Mary Ann, peeping down upon him from the garret-window.
‘Oh, Murry Ann,’ cried Mr. Jog, looking up, and catching the ends of her blue ribbons streaming past the window-frame, as she changed her nightcap for a day one, ‘oh, Murry Ann, you’d better be (puff)in’ forrard with the (gasp) breakfast; Mr. Sponge’ll most likely be (wheeze)in’ away to-day.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mary Ann, adjusting the cap becomingly.
‘Confounded, puffing, wheezing, gasping, broken-winded old blockhead it is!’ growled Mr. Sponge, wishing he could get to his former earth at Puffington’s, or anywhere else. When he got down he found Jog in a very roomy, bright, green-plush shooting-jacket, with pockets innumerable, and a whistle suspended to a button-hole. His nether man was encased in a pair of most dilapidated white moleskins, that had been degraded from hunting into shooting ones, and whose cracks and darns showed the perils to which their wearer had been exposed. Below these were drab, horn-buttoned gaiters, and hob-nailed shoes.
‘Going a-gunning, are you?’ asked Mr. Sponge, after the morning salutation, which Jog returned most gruffly.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Mr. Sponge, at once dispelling the delusion of his wheezing away.
‘Only going to frighten the (puff) rooks off the (gasp) wheat,’ replied Jog carelessly, not wishing to let Sponge see what a numb hand he was with a gun.
‘I thought you told me you were going to get me a hare,’ observed Mrs. Jog; adding, ‘I’m sure shooting is a much more rational amusement than tearing your clothes going after the hounds,’ eyeing the much dilapidated moleskins as she spoke.
Mrs. Jog found shooting more useful than hunting.
‘Oh, if a (puff) hare comes in my (gasp) way, I’ll turn her over,’ replied Jog carelessly, as if turning them over was quite a matter of course with him; adding, ‘but I’m not (wheezing) out for the express purpose of shooting one.’
‘Ah, well,’ observed Sponge, ‘I’ll go with you, all the same.’
‘But I’ve only got one gun,’ gasped Jog, thinking it would be worse to have Sponge laughing at his shooting than even leaving him at home.
‘Then, we’ll shoot turn and turn about,’ replied the pertinacious guest.
Jog did his best to dissuade him, observing that the birds were (puff) scarce and (wheeze) wild, and the (gasp) hares much troubled with poachers; but Mr. Sponge wanted a walk, and moreover had a fancy for seeing Jog handle his gun.
Having cut himself some extremely substantial sandwiches, and filled his ‘monkey’ full of sherry, our friend Jog slipped out the back way to loosen old Ponto, who acted the triple part of pointer, house-dog, and horse to Gustavus James. He was a great fat, black-and-white brute, with a head like a hat-box, a tail like a clothes-peg, and a back as broad as a well-fed sheep’s. The old brute was so frantic at the sight of his master in his green coat, and wide-awake to match, that he jumped and bounced, and barked, and rattled his chain, and set up such yells, that his noise sounded all over the house, and soon brought Mr. Sponge to the scene of action, where stood our friend, loading his gun and looking as consequential as possible.
‘I shall only just take a (puff) stroll over moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry,’ observed Jog, as Mr. Sponge emerged at the back door.
FRANTIC DELIGHT OF PONTO
Jog’s pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, and he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial. He then shouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into Farmer Stiffland’s stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous, independent way, regardless of Jog’s whistles and rates and the crack of his little knotty whip. Jog then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland’s turnips, into which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but these impediments to travelling soon told on his great buttermilk carcass, and brought him to a more subdued pace; still, the dog had a good deal more energy than his master. Round he went, sniffing and hunting, then dashing right through the middle of the field, as if he was out on his own account alone, and had nothing whatever to do with a master.
‘Why, your dog’ll spring all the birds out of shot,’ observed Mr. Sponge; and, just as he spoke, whirr! rose a covey of partridges, eleven in number, quite at an impossible distance, but Jog blazed away all the same.
‘‘Ord rot it, man! if you’d only held your (something) tongue,’ growled Jog, as he shaded the sun from his eyes to mark them down, ‘I’d have (wheezed) half of them over.’
‘Nonsense, man!’ replied Mr. Sponge. ‘They were a mile out of shot.’
‘I think I should know my (puff) gun better than (wheeze) you,’ replied Jog, bringing it down to load.
‘They’re down!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who, having watched them till they began to skim in their flight, saw them stop, flap their wings, and drop among some straggling gorse on the hill before them. ‘Let’s break the covey; we shall bag them better singly.’
‘Take time (puff), replied Jog, snorting into his frill, and measuring out his powder most leisurely. ‘Take time (wheeze),’ repeated he; ‘they’re just on the bounds of moy ter-ri-to-ry.’
Jog had had many a game at romps with these birds, and knew their haunts and habits to a nicety. The covey consisted of thirteen at first, but by repeated blazings into the ‘brown of ’em,’ he had succeeded in knocking down two. Jog was not one of your conceited shots, who never fired but when he was sure of killing; on the contrary, he always let drive far or near; and even if he shot a hare, which he sometimes did, with the first barrel, he always popped the second into her, to make sure. The chairman’s shooting afforded amusement to the neighbourhood. On one occasion a party of reapers, having watched him miss twelve shots in succession, gave him three cheers on coming to the thirteenth — but to our day. Jog had now got his gun reloaded with mischief, the cap put on, and all ready for a fresh start. Ponto, meanwhile, had been ranging, Jog thinking it better to let him take the edge off his ardour than conform to the strict rules of lying down or coming to heel. ‘Now, let’s on,’ cried Mr. Sponge, stepping out quickly.
‘Take time (puff), take time (wheeze),’ gasped Jog, waddling along; ‘better let ’em settle a little (puff). Better let ’em settle a little (gasp),’ added he, labouring on.
‘Oh no, keep them moving,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ‘keep them moving. Only get at ’em on the hill, and drive ’em into the fields below, and we shall have rare fun.’
‘But the (puff) fields below are not mine,’ gasped Jog.
‘Whose are they?’ asked Mr. Sponge.
‘Oh (puff), Mrs. Moses’s,’ gasped Jog. ‘My stoopid old uncle,’ continued he, stopping, and laying hold of Mr. Sponge’s arm, as if to illustrate his position, but in reality to get breath, ‘my stoopid old uncle (puff) missed buying that (wheeze) land when old Harry Griperton died. I only wanted that to make moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry extend all the (gasp) way up to Cockwhistle Park there,’ continued he, climbing on to a stile they now approached, and setting aside the top stone. ‘That’s Cockwhistle Park, up there — just where you see the (puff) windmill — then (puff) moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry comes up to the (wheeze) fallow you see all yellow with runch; and if my old (puff) uncle (wheeze) Crowdey had had the sense of a (gasp) goose, he’d have (wheezed) that when it was sold. Moy (puff) name was (wheeze) Jogglebury,’ added he, ‘before my (gasp) uncle died.’
‘Well, never mind about that,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ‘let us go on after these birds.’
‘Oh, we’ll (puff) up to them presently,’ observed Jog, labouring away, with half a ton of clay at each foot, the sun having dispelled the frost where it struck, and made the land carry.
‘Presently!’ retorted Mr. Sponge. ‘But you should make haste, man.’
‘Well, but let me go my own (puff
) pace,’ snapped Jog, labouring away.
‘Pace!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ‘your own crawl, you should say.’
‘Indeed!’ growled Jog, with an angry snort.
They now got through a well-established cattle-gap into a very rushy, squashy, gorse-grown pasture, at the bottom of the rising ground on which Mr. Sponge had marked the birds. Ponto, whose energetic exertions had been gradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog, suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled on a rushy tuft.
‘P-o-o-n-to!’ ejaculated Jog, expecting every minute to see him dash at it. ‘P-o-o-n-to!’ repeated he, raising his hand.
Mr. Sponge stood on the tip-toe of expectation; Jog raised his wide-awake hat from his eyes and advanced cautiously with the engine of destruction cocked. Up started a great hare; bang! went the gun, with the hare none the worse. Bang! went the other barrel, which the hare acknowledged by two or three stotting bounds and an increase of pace.
‘Well missed!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge.
Away went Ponto in pursuit.
‘P-o-o-n-to!’ shrieked Jog, stamping with rage.
‘I could have wiped your nose,’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, covering the hare with a hedge-stake placed to his shoulder like a gun.
‘Could you?’ growled Jog; ‘‘spose you wipe your own,’ added he, not understanding the meaning of the term.
Meanwhile, old Ponto went rolling away most energetically, the farther he went the farther he was left behind, till the hare having scuttled out of sight, he wheeled about and came leisurely back, as if he was doing all right.
Jog was very wroth, and vented his anger on the dog, which, he declared, had caused him to miss, vowing, as he rammed away at the charge, that he never missed such a shot before. Mr. Sponge stood eyeing him with a look of incredulity, thinking that a man who could miss such a shot could miss anything. They were now all ready for a fresh start, and Ponto, having pocketed his objurgation, dashed forward again up the rising ground over which the covey had dropped.
