by R S Surtees
Still Walker trots him up like a man proud of his load amid the suppressed titters and “Who’s this?” of the company. Sir Moses immediately vouchsafes him protection — by standing erect in his stirrups, and exclaiming with a waive of his right hand, “Ah, Monsieur! comment vous portez-vous?”
“Pretty bobbish, I tenk you, sare, opes you are veil yourself and all de leetle Mainchanees,” replied Monsieur, rising in the gig, showing the scrimpness of his coat and the amplitude of his cinnamon-coloured peg-top trousers, thrust into green-topped opera-boots, much in the style of old Paul Pry. Having put something into Walker’s hand, Monsieur alights with due caution and Walker whipping on, presently shows the gilt “V. R.” on the back of his red gig as he works his way through the separating crowd. Walker claims to be one of Her Majesty’s servants; if not to rank next to Lord Palmerston, at all events not to be far below him. And now Monsieur being left to himself, thrusts his Malacca cane whip stick under his arm, and drawing on a pair of half-dirty primrose-coloured kid gloves, pokes into the crowd in search of his horse, making up to every disengaged one he saw, with “Is dee’s for me? Is dee’s for me?”
Meanwhile Imperial John having emancipated himself from his Mackintosh, and had his horse placed becomingly at the step of the dog-cart, so as to transfer himself without alighting, and let everybody see the magnificence of the establishment, now souces himself into the saddle of a fairish young grey, and turns round to confront the united field; feeling by no means the smallest man in the scene. “Hybrid!” exclaims Sir Moses, seeing him approach the still dismounted Monsieur, “Hybrid! let me introduce my friend Rougier, Monsieur Rougier, Mr. Hybrid! of Barley Hill Hall, a great friend of Lord Ladythorne’s,” whereupon off went the faded sugar-loaf-shaped cap, and down came the Imperial hat, Sir Moses interlarding the ceremony with, “great friend of Louis Nap’s, great friend of Louis Nap’s,” by way of balancing the Ladythorne recommendation of John. The two then struck up a most energetic conversation, each being uncommonly taken with the other. John almost fancied he saw his way to the Tuileries, and wondered what Miss “somebody” would say if he got there.
The conversation was at length interrupted by Dribbler’s grinning groom touching Jack behind as he came up with a chestnut horse, and saying, “Please, Sir, here’s your screw.”
“Ah, my screw, is it!” replied Jack, turning round, “dat is a queer name for a horse — screw — hopes he’s a good ‘un.”
“A good ‘un, and nothin’ but a good ‘un,” replied the groom, giving him a punch in the ribs, to make him form up to Jack, an operation that produced an ominous grunt.
“Vell” said Jack, proceeding to dive at the stirrup with his foot without taking hold of the reins; “if Screw is a good ‘un I sail make you handsome present — tuppence a penny, p’raps — if he’s a bad ‘un, I sail give you good crack on the skoll,” Jack flourishing his thick whipstick as he spoke.
“Will you!” replied the man, leaving go of the rein, whereupon down went the horse’s head, up went his heels, and Jack was presently on his shoulder.
“Oh, de devil!” roared Jack, “he vill distribute me! he vill distribute me! I vill be killed! Nobody sall save me! here, garçon, grum!” roared he amid the mirth of the company. “Lay ‘old of his ‘ead! lay ‘old of his ‘ocks! lay ‘old of ‘eels! Oh, murder! murder!” continued he in well-feigned dismay, throwing out his supplicating arms. Off jumped Imperial John to the rescue of his friend, and seizing the dangling rein, chucked up the horse’s head with a resolute jerk that restored Jack to his seat.
“Ah, my friend, I see you are not much used to the saddle,” observed His Highness, proceeding to console the friend of an Emperor.
“Veil, sare, I am, and I am not,” replied Jack, mopping his brow, and pretending to regain his composure, “I am used to de leetle ‘orse at de round-about at de fair, I can carry off de ring ten time out of twice, but these great unruly, unmannerly, undutiful screws are more than a match for old Harry.”
“Just so,” assented His Highness, with a chuck of his Imperial chin, “just so;” adding in an under-tone, “then I’ll tell you what we’ll do — I’ll tell you what we’ll do — we’ll pop into the bar at the back of the house, and have a glass of something to strengthen our nerves.”
“By all means, sare,” replied Jack, who was always ready for a glass. So they quietly turned the corner, leaving the field to settle their risible faculties, while they summoned the pretty corkscrew ringletted Miss Tubbs to their behests.
“What shall it be?” asked Imperial John, as the smiling young lady tripped down the steps to where they stood.
“Brandy,” replied Jack, with a good English accent.
“Two brandies!” demanded Imperial John, with an air of authority.
“Cold, with?” asked the lady, eyeing Monsieur’s grim visage.
“Neat!” exclaimed Jack in a tone of disdain.
“Yes, Sir,” assented the lady, bustling away.
“Shilling glasses!” roared Jack, at the last flounce of her blue muslin.
Presently she returned bearing two glasses of very brown brandy, and each having appropriated one, Jack began grinning and bowing and complimenting the donor.
“Sare,” said he, after smelling at the beloved liquor, “I have moch pleasure in making your quaintance. I am moch pleased, sare, with the expression of your mog. I tink, sare, you are de ‘andsomest man I never had de pleasure of lookin’ at. If, sare, dey had you in my country, sare, dey vod make you a King — Emperor, I mean. I drink, sare, your vare good health,” so saying, Jack swigged off the contents oi his glass at a draught.
Imperial John felt constrained to do the same.
“Better now,” observed Jack, rubbing his stomach as the liquid fire began to descend. “Better now,” repeated he, with a jerk of his head, “Sare,” continued he, “I sall return the compliment — I sall treat you to a glass.”
Imperial John would rather not. He was a glass of sherry and a biscuit sort of man; but Monsieur was not to be balked in his liberality. “Oh, yes, sare, make me de pleasure to accept a glass,” continued Jack, “Here! Jemima! Matilda! Adelaide! vot the doose do they call de young vomans — look sharp,” added he, as she now reappeared. “Apportez, dat is to say, bring tout suite, directly; two more glasses; dis gentlemans vill be goode enough to drink my vare good ‘ealth.”
“Certainly,” replied the smiling lady, tripping away for them.
“Ah, sare, it is de stoff to make de air corl,” observed Jack, eyeing his new acquaintance. “Ye sall go like old chaff before the vind after it. Vill catch de fox myself.”
The first glass had nearly upset our Imperial friend, and the second one appeared perfectly nauseous. He would give anything that Jack would drink them both himself. However, Monsieur motioned blue muslin to present the tray to John first, so he had no alternative but to accept. Jack then took his glass, and smacking his lips, said— “I looks, sare, towards you, sare, vith all de respect due to your immortal country. De English, sare, are de finest nation under de moon; and you, sare, and you are as fine a specimens of dat nation as never vas seen. Two such mans as you, sare, could have taken Sebastopol. You could vop all de ell ound savage Sepoys by yourself. So now, sare,” continued Jack, brandishing his glass, “make ready, present, fire!” and at the word fire, he drained off his glass, and then held it upside down to show he had emptied it.
Poor Imperial John was obliged to follow suit.
The Imperial head now began to swim. Mr. Hybrid saw two girls in blue muslin, two Monsieurs, two old yellow Po-chaises, two water-carts with a Cochin-China cock a gollowing a-top of each.
Jack, on the contrary, was quite comfortable. He had got his nerves strung, and was now ready for anything. “S’pose, now,” said he, addressing his staring, half-bewildered friend, “you ascend your gallant grey, and let us look after dese mighty chasseurs. But stop,” added he, “I vill first pay for de tipple,” pretending to dive into his peg-top t
rousers pocket for his purse. “Ah! malheureusement,” exclaimed he, after feeling them both. “I have left my blont, my tin, in my oder trousers pockets. Navare mind! navare mind,” continued he, gaily, “ve vill square it op some other day. Here,” added he to the damsel, “dis gentlemens vill pay, and I vill settle vid him some oder day — some oder day.” So saying, Jack gathered his horse boldly together, and spurred out of the inn-yard in a masterly way, singing Partant pour la Syrie as he went.
CHAPTER XXXVI. A BIRD’S EYE VIEW.
HE friends reappeared at the front of the Crooked Billet Hotel when the whole cavalcade had swept away, leaving only the return ladies, and such of the grooms as meant to have a drink, now that “master was safe.” Sir Moses had not paid either Louis Napoleon’s or Lord Ladythorne’s friend, the compliment of waiting for them. On the contrary, having hailed the last heavy subscriber who was in the habit of using the Crooked Billet meet, he hallooed the huntsman to trot briskly away down Rickleton Lane, and across Beecham pastures, as well to shake off the foot-people, as to prevent any attempted attendance on the part of the carriage company. Sir Moses, though very gallant, was not always in the chattering mood; and, assuredly, if ever a master of hounds may be excused for a little abruptness, it is when he is tormented by the rival spirits of the adjoining hunt, people who always see things so differently to the men of the country, so differently to what they are meant to do.
It was evident however by the lingering looks and position of parties that the hunt had not been long gone — indeed, the last red coat might still be seen bobbing up and down past the weak and low parts of the Rickleton Lane fence. So Monsieur, having effected a satisfactory rounding, sot his horse’s head that way, much in the old threepence a-mine and hopes for something over, style of his youth. Jack hadn’t forgotten how to ride, though he might occasionally find it convenient to pretend to be a tailor. Indeed, his horse seemed to have ascertained the fact, and instead of playing any more monkey-tricks, he began to apply himself sedulously to the road. Imperial John was now a fitter subject for solicitude than Monsieur, His Highness’s usual bumptious bolt-upright seat being exchanged for a very slouchy, vulgar roll. His saucy eyes too seemed dim and dazzled, like an owl’s flying against the sun. Some of the toiling pedestrians, who in spite of Sir Moses’s intention to leave them in the lurch, had started for the hunt, were the first overtaken, next two grinning boys riding a barebacked donkey, one with his face to the tail, doing the flagellation with an old hearth-brush, then a brandy-nosed horse-breaker, with a badly-grown black colt that didn’t promise to be good for anything, next Dr. Linton on his dun pony, working his arms and legs most energetically, riding far faster than his nag; next Noggin, the exciseman, stealing quietly along on his mule as though he were bent on his business and had no idea of a hunt; and at length a more legitimate representative of the chace in the shape of young Mr. Hadaway, of Oakharrow Hill, in a pair of very baggy white cords, on but indifferent terms about the knees with his badly cleaned tops. They did not, however, overtake the hounds, and the great body of scarlet, till just as they turned off the Summersham road into an old pasture-field, some five acres of the low end of which had been cut off for a gorse to lay to the adjoining range of rocky hills whose rugged juniper and broom-dotted sides afforded very comfortable and popular lying for the foxes. It being, if a find, a quick “get away,” all hands were too busy thinking of themselves and their horses, and looking for their usual opponents to take heed of anything else, and Jack and his friends entered without so much as an observation from any one.
Just at that moment up went Joe’s cap on the top of the craig, and the scene changed to one of universal excitement. Then, indeed, had come the tug of war! Sir Moses, all hilarity, views the fox! Now Stephen Booty sees him, now Peter Lynch, and now a whole cluster of hats are off in his honour.
* * * *
And now his honour’s off himself —
“Shrill horns proclaim his flight.”
Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Billy Pringle?
Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Imperial John?
Oh dear! where’s Jack Rogers?
Jack’s all right! There he is grinning with enthusiasm, quite forgetting that he’s a Frenchman, and hoisting his brown cap with the best of them. Another glass would have made him give a stunning view-halloa.
Imperial John stares like a man just awoke from a dream. Is he in bed, or is he out hunting, or how! he even thinks he hears Miss de Glancey’s “Si-r-r! do you mean to insult me?” ringing in his ears.
Billy Pringle! poor Billy! he’s not so unhappy as usual. His horse is very docile. His tail has lost all its elegant gaiety, and altogether he has a very drooping, weedy look: he coughs, too, occasionally. Billy, however, doesn’t care about the coughs, and gives him a dig with his spur to stop it.
“Come along, Mr. Pringle, come along!” now shrieks Sir Moses, hurrying past, hands down, head too, hugging and spurring his horse as he goes. He is presently through the separating throng, leaving Billy far in the rear. “Quick’s” the word, or the chance is lost. There are no reserved places at a hunt. A flying fox admits of no delay. It is either go or stay.
And now, Monsieur Jean Rougier having stuck his berry-brown conical cap tight on his bristly black head, crams his chestnut horse through the crowd, hallooing to his transfixed brandy friend, “Come along, old cock-a-doodle! come along, old Blink Bonny!”
Imperial John, who has been holding a mental conference with himself, poising himself in the saddle, and making a general estimate of his condition, thinking he is not so drunk as “all that,” accepts the familiar challenge, and urges his horse on with the now flying crowd. He presently makes a bad shot at a gate on the swing, which catching him 011 the kneecap, contributes very materially to restore his sobriety, the pain making him first look back for his leg, which he thinks must be off, and then forward at the field. It is very large; two bustling Baronets, two Monsieurs, two huntsmen, two flying hatters — everybody in duplicate, in short.
Away they scud up Thorneycroft Valley at a pace that looks very like killing. The foremost rise the hill, hugging aud holding 011 by the manes.
“I’ll go!” says his Highness to himself, giving up rubbing his kneecap, and settling himself in his saddle, he hustles his horse, and pushing past the undecided ones, is presently in the thick of the fray. There is Jack going, elbows and legs, elbows and legs, at a very galloping, dreary, done sort of pace, the roaring animal he bestrides contracting its short, leg-tied efforts every movement. Jack presently begins to objurgate the ass who lent it him; first wishes he was on himself, then declares the tanner ought to have him. he now sits sideways, and proceeds to give him a good rib-roasting in the old post-boy style.
And now there’s a bobbing up and down of hats, caps, and horses’ heads in front, with the usual deviation under the “hounds clauses consolidation act,” where the dangerous fencing begins. A pair of white breeches are summersaulting in the air, and a bay horse is seen careering in a wild head in the air sort of way, back to the rear instead of following the hounds.
“That’s lucky,” said Jack Rogers to himself, as soon as he saw him coming towards him, and circumventing him adroitly at the corner of a turnip-field, he quits his own pumped-out animal and catches him. “That’s good,” said he, looking him over, seeing that he was a lively young animal in fairish condition, with a good saddle and bridle.
“Stirrups just my length, too, I do believe,” continued he, preparing to mount. “All right, by Jove!” added he, settling himself into the saddle, feet well home, and gathering his horse together, he shot forward with the easy elasticity of breeding. It was a delightful change from the rolling cow-like action of the other.
“Let us see vot he as in his monkey,” said Jack to himself, now drawing the flask from the saddle-case.
“Sherry, I fear,” said he, uncorking it.
“Brandy, I declare,” added he with delight, after smelling it. He then took a long pull
at the contents.
“Good it is, too!” exclaimed he, smacking his lips; “better nor ve ad at de poblic;” so saying, he took another long suck of it.
“May as vell finish it,” continued he, shaking it at his ear to ascertain what was left; and having secured the remainder, he returned the monkey to the saddle-case, and put on his horse with great glee, taking a most independent line of his own.
Jack’s triumph, however, was destined to be but of short duration. The fox being hard pressed, abandoned his original point for Collington Woods, and swerving to the left over Stanbury Hundred, was headed by a cur, and compelled to seek safety in a drain in the middle of a fallow field. The hounds were presently feathering over the mouth in the usual wild, disappointed sort of way, that as good as says, “No fault of ours, you know; if he won’t stay above ground, we can’t catch him for you.”
Such of the field as had not ridden straight for Collington Woods, were soon down at the spot; and while the usual enquiries, “Where’s Pepper?” “Where’s Viper?” “Where can we get a spade?” “Does anybody know anything about the direction of this drain?” were going on, a fat, fair, red-coated, flushed-faced pedestrian — to wit, young Mr. Threadcroft, the woolstapler’s son of Harden Grange and Hinton, dived into the thick of the throng, and making up to Monsieur, exclaimed in an anger-choked voice, “This (puff) is my (gasp) horse! What the (gasp, puff) devil do you mean by riding away with him in this (puff-, gasp) way?” the youth mopping his brow with a yellow bandanna as he spoke.
“Your oss!” exclaimed Jack with the greatest effrontery, “on de loose can he be your os: I catched him fair! and I’ve a right to ride him to de end of de run;” a claim that elicited the uproarious mirth of the field, who all looked upon the young wool-pack, as they called him, as a muff.
