by R S Surtees
“Nonsense!” retorted the youth, half frantic with rage. “How can that be?”
“Ow can dat be,” repeated Jack, turning sideways in his saddle, and preparing to argue the case, “Ow can dat be? Dis hont, sare, I presume, sare, is condocted on de principle of de grand hont de Epping, vere every mans vot cotched anoder’s oss, is entitled to ride him to the end of de ron,” replied Jack gravely.
“Nonsense!” again retorted the youth, amidst the renewed laughter of the field. “We know nothing of Epping hunts here!”
“Nothin’ of Epping onts here?” exclaimed Jack, throwing out his hands with well feigned astonishment. “Nothin’ of Epping honts here! Vy, de grand hont de. Epping rules all the oder honts, jost as the grand Clob de Jockey at Newmarket rules all oder Jockey Clubs in de kingdom.”
“Hoot, toot,” sneered the fat youth, “let’s have none of yonr jaw. Give me my horse, I say, how can he be yours?”
“Because, sare,” replied Jack, “I tells you I cotched ’im fairly in de field. Bot for me he vod have been lost to society — to de vorld at large — eat up by de loup — by de volf — saddle, bridle, and all.”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mr. Treadcroft, indignantly, “you had no business to touch him.”
Monsieur (with energy). I appeal to you, Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, de master of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, if I have not a right to ride ’im.
“Ah, I’m afraid, Monsieur, it’s not the law of this country,” replied Sir Moses, laughing. “It may be so in France, perhaps; but tell me, where’s your own horse?”
Monsieur. Pomped out de beggar; had no go in ’im; left him in a ditch.
Sir Moses. That’s a pity! — if you’d allowed me, I’d have sent you a good ‘un.
Mr. Treadcroft, thus reinforced by Sir Moses’s decision, returned to the charge with redoubled vigour. “If you don’t give me up my horse, sir,” says he, with firmness, “I’ll give you in charge of the police for stealing him.” Then
“Conscience, which makes cowards of us all,”
caused Jack to shrink at the recollection of his early indiscretion in the horse-stealing line, and instantly resolving not to give Jack Ketch a chance of taking any liberties with his neck, he thus addresses Mr. Treadcroft: —
“Sare, if Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, do grandmodder of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, says it is not a case of catch ’im and keep ’im ‘cordin’ to de rules of de grand hont de Epping, I must surrender de quadruped, but I most say it is dem un’andsome treatment, after I ‘ave been at de trouble of catching ’im.” So saying, Jack dropped off on the wrong side of the saddle, and giving the horse a slap on his side left his owner to take him.
“Tally-ho! there he goes!” now exclaimed a dozen voices, as out bounced the fox with a flourish of his well tagged brush that looked uncommonly defiant. What a commotion he caused! Every man lent a shout that seemed to be answered by a fresh effort from the flyer: but still, with twenty couple of overpowering animals after him, what chance did there seem for his life, especially when they could hunt him by his scent after they had lost sight. Every moment, however, improved his opportunity, and a friendly turn of the land shutting him out of view, the late darting, half-frantic pack were brought to their noses.
“Hold hard for one, minute!” is the order of the day.
“Now, catch ’em if’ you can!” is the cry.
Away they go in the settled determined way of a second start. The bolt taking place on the lower range of the gently swelling Culmington hills, that stretch across the north-east side of Hit-im and Hold-im shire, and the fox making for the vale below, Monsieur has a good bird’s eye view of the scramble, without the danger and trouble of partaking of the struggle. Getting astride a newly stubbed ash-tree near the vacated drain mouth, he thus sits and soliloquises— “He’s a pretty flyer, dat fox — if dey catch ’im afore he gets to the hills,” eyeing a gray range uudulating in the distance, “they’ll do well. That Moff of a man,” alluding to Treadcroft, “‘ill never get there. At all events,” chuckled Jack, “his brandy vont. Dats ’im! I do believe,” exclaimed Jack, “off again!” as a loose horse is now seen careering across a grass field. “No; dat is a black coat,” continued Jack, as the owner now appeared crossing the field in pursuit of his horse. “Bot dat vill be ’im! dat vill be friend Moll’,” as a red rider now measures his length on the greensward of a field in the rear of the other one; and Jack, taking off his faded cap, waives it triumphantly as he distinctly recognises the wild, staring running of his late steed. “Dash my buttons!” exclaims he, working his arms as if he was riding, “bot if it hadn’t been for dat unwarrantable, unchristian-like cheek I’d ha’ shown those red coats de vay on dat oss, for I do think he has de go in him and only vants shovin’ along. — Ah Moff — my friend Moff!” laughed he, eyeing Treadcroft’s vain endeavour to catch his horse, “you may as vell leave ’im where he is — you’ll only fatigue yourself to no purpose. If you ‘ad ’im you’d be off him again de next minute.”
The telescope of the chace is now drawn out to the last joint, and Jack, as he sits, has a fine bird’s eye view of the scene. If the hounds go rather more like a flock of wild geese than like the horses in the chariot of the sun, so do the field, until the diminutive dots, dribbling through the vale, look like the line of a projected railway.
“If I mistake not,” continued Jack, “dat leetle shiny eel-like ting,” eyeing a tortuous silvery thread meandering through the vale, “is vater, and dere vill be some fon by de time dey get there.”
Jack is right in his conjecture. It is Long Brawlingford brook, with its rotten banks and deep eddying pools, describing all sorts of geographical singularities in its course through the country, too often inviting aspiring strangers to astonish the natives by riding at it, while the cautious countrymen rein in as they approach, and, eyeing the hounds, ride for a ford at the first splash.
Jack’s friend, Blink Bonny, has ridden not amiss, considering his condition — at all events pretty forward, as may be inferred from his having twice crossed the Flying Hatter and come in for the spray of his censure. But for the fact of his Highness getting his hats of the flyer, he would most likely have received the abuse in the bulk. As it was, the hatter kept letting it go as he went.
And now as the hounds speed over the rich alluvial pastures by the brook, occasionally one throwing its tongue, occasionally another, for the scent is first-rate and the pace severe, there is a turning of heads, a checking of horses, and an evident inclination to diverge. Water is in no request.
“Who knows the ford?” cries Harry Waggett, who always declined extra risk.— “You know the ford, Smith?” continued he, addressing himself to black tops.
“Not when I’m in a hur-hur-hurry,” ejaculates Smith, now fighting with his five-year-old bay.
“O’ill show ye the ford!” cries Imperial John, gathering his grey together and sending him at a stiff flight of outside slab-made rails which separate the field from the pack. This lands His Highness right among the tail hounds.
“Hold hard, Mr. Hybrid!” now bellows Sir Moses, indignant! at the idea of a Featherbedfordshire farmer thinking to cut down his gallant field.
“One minuit! and you may go as hard as iver you like!” cries Tom Findlater, who now sees the crows hovering over his fox as he scuttles away on the opposite side of the brook.
There is then a great yawing of mouths and hauling of heads and renewed inquiries for fords. — You know the ford, Brown? You know the ford, Green? Who knows the ford?
His Highness, thus snubbed and rebuked on all sides, is put on his mettle, and inwardly resolves not to be bullied by these low Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps. “If they don’t know what is due to the friend of an Earl, he will let them see that he does.” So, regardless of their shouts, he shoves along with his Imperial chin well in the air, determined to ride at the brook — let those follow who will. He soon has a chance. T
he fox has taken it right in his line, without deviating a yard either way, and Wolds-man, and Bluecap, and Ringwood, and Hazard, and Sparkler are soon swimming on his track, followed by the body of the screeching, vociferating pack.
Old Blink Bonny now takes a confused, wish-I-was-well-over, sort of look at the brook, shuddering when he thought how far he was from dry clothes. It is however, too late to retreat. At it he goes in a half resolute sort of way, and in an instant the Imperial hat and the Imperial horse’s head are all that appear above water.
“Hoo-ray!” cheer some of the unfeeling Hit-im and Hold-im shireites, dropping down into the ford a little below.
“Hoo-ray!” respond others on the bank, as the Red Otter, as Silverthorne calls His Highness, rises hatless to the top.
“Come here, and I’ll help you out!” shouts Peter Linch, eyeing Mr. Hybrid’s vain ‘tarts first at the hat and then at the horse.
“Featherbed ford shire for ever!” cries Charley Drew, who doesn’t at all like Imperial John.
And John, who finds the brook not only a great deal wider, but also a great deal deeper and colder than he expected, is in such a state of confusion that he lands on one side and his horse on the other, so that his chance of further distinction is out for the day. And as he stands shivering and shaking and emptying his hat, he meditates on the vicissitudes of life, the virtues of sobriety, and the rashness of coping with a friend of His Imperial brother, Louis Nap. His horse meanwhile regales upon grass, regardless of the fast receding field. Thus John is left alone in his glory, and we must be indebted to other sources for an account of the finish of this day’s sport.
CHAPTER XXXVII. TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.
MONSIEUR JEAN ROUGIER having seen the field get small by degrees, if not beautifully less, and having viewed the quivering at the brook, thinking the entertainment over, now dismounted from his wooden steed, and, giving it a crack with his stick, saying it was about as good as his first one, proceeded to perform that sorry exploit of retracing his steps through the country on foot. Thanks to the influence of civilisation, there is never much difficulty now in finding a road; and, Monsieur was soon in one whose grassy hoof-marked sides showed it had been ridden down in chase. Walking in scarlet is never a very becoming proceeding; but, walking in such a scarlet as Jack had on, coupled with such a cap, procured him but little respect from the country people, who took him for one of those scarlet runners now so common with hounds. One man (a hedger) in answer to his question, “If he had seen his horse?” replied, after a good stare— “Nor — nor nobody else;” thinking that the steed was all imaginary, and Jack was wanting to show off: another said, “Coom, coom, that ill not de; you’ve ne horse.” Altogether, Monsieur did not get much politeness from anyone; so he stumped moodily along, venting his spleen as he went.
The first thing that attracted his attention was his own pumped-out steed, standing with its snaffle-rein thrown over a gate-post; and Jack, having had about enough pedestrian exercise, especially considering that he was walking in his own boots, now gladly availed himself of the lately discarded mount.
“Wooay, ye great grunting brute!” exclaimed he, going up with an air of ownership, taking the rein off the post, and climbing on.
He had scarcely got well under way, ere a clattering of horses’ hoofs behind him, attracted his attention; and, looking back, he saw the Collington Woods detachment careering along in the usual wild, staring, which-way? which-way? sort of style of men, who have been riding to points, and have lost the hounds. In the midst of the flight was his master, on the now woe-begone bay; who came coughing, and cutting, and hammer and pincering along, in a very ominous sort of way. Billy, on the other hand, flattered himself that they were having a very tremendous run, with very little risk, and he was disposed to take every advantage of his horse, by way of increasing its apparent severity, thinking it would be a fine thing to tell his Mamma how he had got through his horse. Monsieur having replied to their which ways? with the comfortable assurance “that they need not trouble themselves any further, the hounds being miles and miles away,” there was visible satisfaction on the faces of some; while others, more knowing, attempted to conceal their delight by lip-curling exclamations of “What a bore!”
“Thought you knew the country, Brown.” “Never follow you again, Smith,” and so on. They then began asking for the publics. “Where’s the Red Lion?”
“Does anybody know the way to the Barley Mow?”
“How far is it to the Dog and Duck at Westpool?”
“Dat oss of yours sall not be quite veil, I tink, sare,” observed Jack to his master, after listening to one of its ominous coughs.
“Oh, yes he is, only a little lazy,” replied Billy, giving him a refresher, as well with the whip on his shoulder, as with the spur on his side.
“He is feeble, I should say, sare,” continued Jack, eyeing him pottering along.
“What should I give him, then?” asked Billy, thinking there might be something in what Jack said.
“I sud say a leetle gin vod be de best ting for im,” replied Jack.
“Gin! but where can I get gin here?” asked Billy.
“Dese gentlemens is asking their vays to de Poblic ouses,” replied Jack; “and if you follows dem, you vill laud at some tap before long.”
Jack was right. Balmey Zephyr, as they call Billy West, the surgeon of Hackthorn, who had joined the hunt quite promiscuous, is leading the way to the Red Lion, and the cavalcade is presently before the well-frequented door; one man calling for Purl, another Ale, a third for Porter; while others hank their horses on to the crook at the door, while they go in to make themselves comfortable. Jack dismounting, and giving his horse in charge of his master, entered the little way-side hostelry; and, asking for a measure of gin, and a bottle of water, he drinks off the gin, and then proceeds to rinse Billy’s horse’s mouth out with the water, just as a training-groom rinses a horse’s after a race.
“Dat vill do,” at length said Jack, chucking the horse’s head up in the air, as if he gets him to swallow the last drop of the precious beverage. “Dat vill do,” repeated he, adding, “he vill now carry you ome like a larkspur.” So saying, Jack handed the bottle back through the window, and, paying the charge, remounted his steed, kissing his hand, and bon-jouring the party, as he set off with his master in search of Pangburn Park.
Neither of them being great hands at finding their way about a country, they made sundry bad hits, and superfluous deviations, and just reached Pangburn Park as Sir Moses and Co. came triumphantly down Rossington hill, flourishing the brush that had given them a splendid fifty minutes (ten off for exaggeration) without a check, over the cream of their country, bringing Imperial John, Gameboy Green, and the flower of the Featherbedfordshire hunt, to the most abject and unmitigated grief.
“Oh, such a run!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his paws. “Oh, such a run! Finest run that ever was seen! Sort of run, that if old Thome (meaning Lord Ladythorne) had had, he’d have talked about it for a year.” Sir Moses then descended to particulars, describing the heads up and sterns down work to the brook, the Imperial catastrophe which he dwelt upon with great goût, dom’d if he didn’t; and how, leaving John in the water, they went away over Rillington Marsh, at a pace that was perfectly appalling, every field choking off some of those Featherbedfordshireites, who came out thinking to cut them all down; then up Tewey Hill, nearly to the crow trees, swinging down again into the vale by Billy Mill, skirting Laureston Plantations, and over those splendid pastures of Arlingford, where there was a momentary check, owing to some coursers, who ought to be hang, dom’d if they shouldn’t. “This,” continued Sir Moses, “let in some of the laggers, Dickey among the number; but we were speedily away again; and, passing a little to the west of Pickering Park, through the decoy, and away over Larkington Rise, shot down to the Farthing-pie House, where that great Owl, Gameboy Green, thinking to show off, rode at an impracticable fence, and got a crop
per for his pains, nearly knocking the poor little Damper into the middle of the week after next by crossing him. Well, from there he made for the main earths in Purdoe Banks, where, of course, there was no shelter for him; and, breaking at the east end of the dene, he set his head straight for Brace well Woods, good two miles off (one and a quarter, say); but his strength failing him over Winterttood Heath, we ran from scent to view, in the finest, openest manner imaginable, — dom’d if we didn’t,” concluded Sir Moses, having talked himself out of breath.
The same evening, just as Oliver Armstrong was shutting up day by trimming and lighting the oil-lamp at the Lockingford toll-bar, which stands within a few yards from where the apparently well-behaved little stream of Long Brawlingford brook divides the far-famed Hit-im and Hold-im shire from Featherbedfordshire, a pair of desperately mud-stained cords below a black coat and vest, reined up behind a well wrapped and buttoned-up gentleman in a buggy, who chanced to be passing, and drew forth the usual inquiry of “What sport?”
The questioner was no less a personage than Mr. Easylease, Lord Ladythorne’s agent — we beg pardon, Commissioner — and Mr. Gameboy Green, the tenant in possession of the soiled cords, recognising the voice in spite of the wraps, thus replied —
“Oh, Mr. Easylease it’s you, sir, is it? Hope you’re well, sir,” with a sort of move of his hat — not a take off, nor yet a keep on— “hope Mrs. Easylease is quite well, and the young ladies.”
“Quite well, thank you; hope Mrs. G.’s the same. What sport have you had?” added the Commissioner, without waiting for an answer to the inquiry about the ladies.
“Sport!” repeated Gameboy, drawing his breath, as he conned the matter hastily over. “Sport!” recollecting he was as good as addressing the Earl himself — master of hounds — favours past — hopes for future, and so on. “Well,” said he, seeing his line; “We’ve had a nice-ish run — a fair-ish day — five and twenty minutes, or so.”
