Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  These and similar reflections were interrupted by a great thump against the thin lath-and-plaster wall that separated their rooms, or rather closets, accompanied by an exclamation of:

  ‘Halloo, old boy! how goes it?’ — an inquiry to which our friend deigned no answer.

  ‘‘Ord rot ye! you’re awake,’ muttered Facey to himself, well knowing that no one could sleep after such a ‘Jim-Crow-ing’ and ‘Swiss-boy-ing’ as he had given him. He therefore resumed his battery, thumping as though he would knock the partition in.

  ‘Halloo!’ at last exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ‘who’s there?’

  ‘Well, old Sivin-Pund-Ten, how goes it?’ asked Facey, in a tone of the keenest irony.

  ‘You be —— !’ growled Mr. Sponge, in disgust.

  ‘Breakfast in half an hour!’ resumed Facey. ‘Pigs’-puddin’s and sarsingers — all ‘ot — pipin’ ‘ot!’ continued our host.

  ‘Wish you were pipin’ ‘ot,’ growled Mr. Sponge, as he jerked himself out of his little berth.

  Though Facey pumped him pretty hard during this second pig repast, he could make nothing out of Sponge with regard to his movements — our friend parrying all his inquiries with his Mogg, and assurances that he could amuse himself. In vain Facey represented that his Oncle Gilroy would be expecting them; that Mr. Hobler was ready for him to ride over on; Sponge wasn’t inclined to shoot, but begged Facey wouldn’t stay at home on his account. The fact was, Sponge meditated a bolt, and was in close confab with Leather, in the Rose and Crown stables, arranging matters, when the sound of his name in the yard caused him to look out, when — oh, welcome sight! — a Puddingpote Bower messenger put Sir Harry’s note in his hand, which had at length arrived at Jog’s through their very miscellaneous transit, called a post. Sponge, in the joy of his heart, actually gave the lad a shilling! He now felt like a new man. He didn’t care a rap for Facey, and, ordering Leather to give him the hack and follow with the hunters, he presently cantered out of town as sprucely as if all was on the square.

  When, however, Facey found how matters stood, he determined to stop Sponge’s things, which Leather resisted; and, Facey showing fight, Leather butted him with his head, sending him backwards downstairs and putting his shoulder out. Leather than marched off with the kit, amid the honours of war.

  CHAPTER LXI

  NONSUCH HOUSE AGAIN

  ‘MR. SPONGE, MY LADY’

  he gallant inmates of Nonsuch House had resolved themselves into a committee of speculation, as to whether Mr. Sponge was coming or not; indeed, they had been betting upon it, the odds at first being a hundred to one that he came, though they had fallen a point or two on the arrival of the post without an answer.

  ‘Well, I say Mr. What-d’ye-call-him — Sponge — doesn’t come!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck, as he lay full length, with his shaggy greasy head on the fine rose-coloured satin sofa, and his legs cocked over the cushion.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Miss Glitters, who was beguiling the twilight half-hour before candles with knitting.

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied Seedeybuck, twirling his moustache, ‘don’t know — have a presentiment he won’t.’

  ‘Sure to come!’ exclaimed Captain Bouncey, knocking the ashes off his cigar on to the fine Tournay carpet.

  ‘I’ll lay ten to one — ten fifties to one — he does, — a thousand to ten if you like.’ If all the purses in the house had been clubbed together, we don’t believe they would have raised fifty pounds.

  ‘What sort of a looking man is he?’ asked Miss Glitters, now counting her loops.

  ‘Oh — whoy — ha — hem — haw — he’s just an ordinary sort of lookin’ man — nothin’ ‘tickler any way,’ drawled Captain Seedeybuck, now wetting and twirling his moustache.

  ‘Two legs, a head, a back, and so on, I presume,’ observed the lady.

  ‘Just so,’ assented Captain Seedeybuck.

  ‘He’s a horsey-lookin’ sort o’ man, I should say,’ observed Captain Bouncey, ‘walks as if he ought to be ridin’ — wears vinegar tops.’

  ‘Hate vinegar tops,’ growled Seedeybuck.

  Just then, in came Lady Scattercash, attended by Mr. Orlando Bugles, the ladies’ attractions having caused that distinguished performer to forfeit his engagement at the Surrey Theatre. Captain Cutitfat, Bob Spangles, and Sir Harry quickly followed, and the Sponge question was presently renewed.

  ‘Who says old brown boots comes?’ exclaimed Seedeybuck from the sofa.

  ‘Who’s that with his nasty nob on my fine satin sofa?’ asked the lady.

  ‘Bob Spangles,’ replied Seedeybuck.

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ rejoined the lady; ‘and I’ll trouble you to get off.’

  ‘Can’t — I’ve got a bone in my leg,’ rejoined the captain.

  ‘I’ll soon make you,’ replied her ladyship, seizing the squab, and pulling it on to the floor.

  As the captain was scrambling up, in came Peter — one of the wageless footmen — with candles, which having distributed equitably about the room, he approached Lady Scattercash, and asked, in an independent sort of way, what room Mr. Soapsuds was to have.

  ‘Soapsuds! — Soapsuds! — that’s not his name,’ exclaimed her ladyship.

  ‘Sponge, you fool! Soapey Sponge,’ exclaimed Cutitfat, who had ferreted out Sponge’s nomme de Londres.

  ‘He’s not come, has he?’ asked Miss Glitters eagerly.

  ‘Yes, my lady — that’s to say, miss,’ replied Peter.

  ‘Come, has he!’ chorused three or four voices.

  ‘Well, he must have a (hiccup) room,’ observed Sir Harry. ‘The green — the one above the billiard-room will do,’ added he.

  ‘But I have that, Sir Harry,’ exclaimed Miss Howard.

  ‘Oh, it’ll hold two well enough,’ observed Miss Glitters.

  ‘Then you can be the second,’ replied Miss Howard, with a toss of her head.

  ‘Indeed!’ sneered Miss Glitters, bridling up. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Well, but where’s the (hiccup) man to be put?’ asked Sir Harry.

  ‘There’s Ladofwax’s room,’ suggested her ladyship.

  ‘The captain’s locked the door and taken the key with him,’ replied the footman; ‘he said he’d be back in a day or two.’

  ‘Back in a (hiccup) or two!’ observed Sir Harry. ‘Where is he gone?’

  The man smiled.

  ‘Borrowed,’ observed Captain Quod, with an emphasis.

  ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Sir Harry, adding, ‘well, I thought that was Nabbum’s gig with the old grey.’

  ‘He’ll not be back in a hurry,’ observed Bouncey. ‘He’ll be like the Boulogne gents, who are always going to England, but never do.’

  ‘Poor Wax!’ observed Quod; ‘he’s a big fool, to give him his due.’

  ‘If you give him his due it’s more than he gives other people, it seems.’ observed Miss Howard.

  ‘Oh, fie, Miss H.!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck.

  ‘Well, but the (hiccup) man must have a (hiccup) bed somewhere,’ observed Sir Harry; adding to the footman, ‘you’d better (hiccup) the door open, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better try what one of yours will do,’ observed Bob Spangles, to the convulsion of the company.

  In the midst of their mirth Mr. Bottleends was seen piloting Mr. Sponge up to her ladyship.

  ‘Mr. Sponge, my lady,’ said he in as low and deferential a tone as if he got his wages punctually every quarter-day.

  ‘How do you do. Mr. Sponge?’ said her ladyship, tendering him her hand with an elegant curtsey.

  ‘How are you, Mr. (hiccup) Sponge?’ asked Sir Harry, offering his; ‘I believe you know the (hiccup) company?’ continued he, waving his hand around; ‘Miss (hiccup) Glitters, Captain (hiccup) Quod, Captain Bouncey, Mr. (hiccup) Bugles, Captain (hiccup) Seedeybuck, and so on’; whereupon Miss Glitters curtsied, the gentlemen bobbed their heads and drew near our hero, who had now stationed himself before the fire.

  ‘C
oldish to-night,’ said he, stooping, and placing both hands to the bars. ‘Coldish,’ repeated he, rubbing his hands and looking around.

  ‘It generally is about this time of year, I think,’ observed Miss Glitters, who was quite ready to enter for our friend.

  ‘Hope it won’t stop hunting,’ said Mr. Sponge.

  ‘Hope not,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘would be a bore if it did.’

  ‘I wonder you gentlemen don’t prefer hunting in a frost,’ observed Miss Howard; ‘one would think it would be just the time you’d want a good warming.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you, there,’ replied Mr. Sponge, looking at her, and thinking she was not nearly so pretty as Miss Glitters.

  ‘Do you hunt to-morrow?’ asked he of Sir Harry, not having been able to obtain any information at the stables.

  ‘(Hiccup) to-morrow? Oh, I dare say we shall,’ replied Sir Harry, who kept his hounds as he did his carriages, to be used when wanted. ‘Dare say we shall,’ repeated he.

  But though Sir Harry spoke thus encouragingly of their prospects, he took no steps, as far as Mr. Sponge could learn, to carry out the design. Indeed, the subject of hunting was never once mentioned, the conversation after dinner, instead of being about the Quorn, or the Pytchley, or Jack Thompson with the Atherstone, turning upon the elegance and lighting of the Casinos in the Adelaide Gallery and Windmill Street, and the relative merits of those establishments over the Casino de Venise in High Holborn. Nor did morning produce any change for the better, for Sir Harry and all the captains came down in their usual flashy broken-down player-looking attire, their whole thoughts being absorbed in arranging for a pool at billiards, in which the ladies took part. So with billiards, brandy, and ‘‘baccy,’—’’baccy,’ brandy, and billiards, varied with an occasional stroll about the grounds, the non-sporting inmates of Nonsuch House beguiled the time, much to Mr. Sponge’s disgust, whose soul was on fire and eager for the fray. The reader’s perhaps being the same, we will skip Christmas and pass on to New Year’s Day.

  CHAPTER LXII

  A FAMILY BREAKFAST

  ‘TWERE ALMOST SUPERFLUOUS to say that new year’s day is always a great holiday. It is a day on which custom commands people to be happy and idle, whether they have the means of being happy and idle or not. It is a day for which happiness and idleness are ‘booked,’ and parties are planned and arranged long beforehand. Some go to the town, some to the country; some take rail; some take steam; some take greyhounds; some take gigs; while others take guns and pop at all the little dicky-birds that come in their way. The rural population generally incline to a hunt. They are not very particular as to style, so long as there are a certain number of hounds, and some men in scarlet, to blow their horns, halloo, and crack their whips.

  The population, especially the rising population about Nonsuch House, all inclined that way. A New Year’s Day’s hunt with Sir Harry had long been looked forward to by the little Raws, and the little Spooneys, and the big and little Cheeks, and we don’t know how many others. Nay, it had been talked of by the elder boys at their respective schools — we beg pardon, academies — Dr. Switchington’s, Mr. Latherington’s, Mrs. Skelper’s, and a liberal allowance of boasting indulged in, as to how they would show each other the way over the hedges and ditches. The thing had long been talked of. Old Johnny Raw had asked Sir Harry to arrange the day so long ago that Sir Harry had forgotten all about it. Sir Harry was one of those good-natured souls who can’t say ‘No’ to any one. If anybody had asked if they might set fire to his house, he would have said:

  ‘Oh (hiccup) certainly, my dear (hiccup) fellow, if it will give you any (hiccup) pleasure.’

  Now, for the hiccup day.

  It is generally a frost on New Year’s Day. However wet and sloppy the weather may be up to the end of the year, it generally turns over a new leaf on that day. New Year’s Day is generally a bright, bitter, sunshiny day, with starry ice, and a most decided anti-hunting feeling about it — light, airy, ringy, anything but cheery for hunting.

  Thus it was in Sir Harry Scattercash’s county. Having smoked and drunk the old year out, the captains and company retired to their couches without thinking about hunting. Mr. Sponge, indeed, was about tired of asking when the hounds would be going out. It was otherwise, however, with the rising generation, who were up betimes, and began pouring in upon Nonsuch House in every species of garb, on every description of steed, by every line and avenue of approach.

  ‘Halloo! what’s up now?’ exclaimed Lady Scattercash, as she caught view of the first batch rounding the corner to the front of the house.

  ‘Who have we here?’ asked Miss Glitters, as a ponderous, parti-coloured clown, on a great, curly-coated cart-horse, brought up the rear.

  ‘Early callers,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck, eating away complacently.

  ‘Friends of Mr. Sponge’s, most likely,’ suggested Captain Quod.

  ‘Some of the little Sponges come to see their pa, p’raps,’ lisped Miss Howard, pretending to be shocked after she had said it.

  ‘Bravo, Miss Howard!’ exclaimed Captain Cutitfat, clapping his hands.

  ‘I said nothing, Captain,’ observed the young lady with becoming prudery.

  ‘Here we are again!’ exclaimed Captain Quod, as a troop of various-sized urchins, in pea-jackets, with blue noses and red comforters, on very shaggy ponies, the two youngest swinging in panniers over an ass, drew up alongside of the first comers.

  ‘Whose sliding-scale of innocence is that, I wonder!’ exclaimed Miss Howard, contemplating the variously sized chubby faces through the window.

  ‘He, he, he! ho, ho, ho!’ giggled the guests.

  Another batch of innocence now hove in sight.

  ‘Oh, those are the little (hiccup) Raws,’ observed Sir Harry, catching sight of the sky-blue collar of the servant’s long drab coat. ‘Good chap, old Johnny Raw; ask them to (hiccup) in,’ continued he, ‘and give them some (hiccup) cherry brandy’; and thereupon Sir Harry began nodding and smiling, and making signs to them to come in. The youngsters, however, maintained their position.

  ‘The little stupexes!’ exclaimed Miss Howard, going to the window, and throwing up the sash. ‘Come in, young gents!’ cried she, in a commanding tone, addressing herself to the last comers. ‘Come in, and have some toffy and lollypops! D’ye hear?’ continued she, in a still louder voice, and motioning her head towards the door.

  The boys sat mute.

  ‘You little stupid monkeys,’ muttered she in an undertone, as the cold air struck upon her head. ‘Come in, like good boys,’ added she in a louder key, pointing with her finger towards the door.

  ‘Nor, thenk ye!’ at last drawled the elder of the boys.

  ‘Nor, thenk ye!’ repeated Miss Howard, imitating the drawl. ‘Why not?’ asked she sharply.

  The boy stared stupidly.

  ‘Why won’t you come in?’ asked she, again addressing him.

  ‘Don’t know!’ replied the boy, staring vacantly at his younger brother, as he rubbed a pearl off his nose on the back of his hand.

  ‘Don’t know!’ ejaculated Miss Howard, stamping her little foot on the Turkey carpet.

  ‘Mar said we hadn’t,’ whined the younger boy, coming to the rescue of his brother.

  ‘Mar said we hadn’t!’ retorted the fair interrogator. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied the elder.

  ‘Don’t know! you little stupid animal,’ snapped Miss Howard, the cold air increasing the warmth of her temper. ‘I wonder what you do know. Why did your ma say you were not to come in?’ continued she, addressing the younger one.

  ‘Because — because,’ hesitated he, ‘she said the house was full of trumpets.’

  ‘Trumpets, you little scamp!’ exclaimed the lady, reddening up; ‘I’ll get a whip and cut your jacket into ribbons on your back.’ And thereupon she banged down the window and closed the conversation.

  CHAPTER LXIII

  THE RISING GENERATION

&nbs
p; THE LULL THAT prevailed in the breakfast-room on Miss Howard’s return from the window was speedily interrupted by fresh arrivals before the door. The three Master Baskets in coats and lay-over collars, Master Shutter in a jacket and trousers, the two Master Bulgeys in woollen overalls with very large hunting whips, Master Brick in a velveteen shooting-jacket, and the two Cheeks with their tweed trousers thrust into fiddle-case boots, on all sorts of ponies and family horses, began pawing and disordering the gravel in front of Nonsuch House.

  George Cheek was the head boy at Mr. Latherington’s classical and commercial academy, at Flagellation Hall (late the Crown and Sceptre Hotel and Posting House, on the Bankstone road), where, for forty pounds a year, eighty young gentlemen were fitted for the pulpit, the senate, the bar, the counting-house, or anything else their fond parents fancied them fit for.

  George was a tall stripling, out at the elbows, in at the knees, with his red knuckled hands thrust a long way through his tight coat. He was just of that awkward age when boys fancy themselves men, and men are not prepared to lower themselves to their level. Ladies get on better with them than men: either the ladies are more tolerant of twaddle, or their discerning eyes see in the gawky youth the germ of future usefulness. George was on capital terms with himself. He was the oracle of Mr. Latherington’s school, where he was not only head boy and head swell, but a considerable authority on sporting matters. He took in Bell’s Life, which he read from beginning to end, and ‘noted its contents,’ as they say in the city.

  ‘I’ll tell you what all these little (hiccup) animals will be wanting,’ observed Sir Harry, as he cayenne-peppered a turkey’s leg; ‘they’ll be come for a (hiccup) hunt.’

  ‘Wish they may get it,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck; adding, ‘why, the ground’s as hard as iron.’

  ‘There’s a big boy,’ observed Miss Howard, eyeing George Cheek through the window.