by R S Surtees
Cupid has the advantage over all other sportsmen in his season being continuous. His arrow flies as freely in the frosts of winter as in the heat of summer. Winter had now established her full supremacy, the trees and hedges were leafless, and would-be sportsmen had now no excuse left for not taking the field in pursuance of the summer announcements. Some men are desperately keen so long as the corn is in the ground. Our friend Mr. Bunting, though not a “six days a-week, and more if possible man,” could hunt a little just as he could shoot a little, and fish a little, especially when so doing would forward his views in other respects. Though absent, he was still true to the pretty hat, and longed for the day when he would be restored to its company. Meanwhile he spun several yards of bad verse in praise of our beauty.
As hunting runs a good deal in streams, the current of which generally sets one way, all for the grass, a man may make many inquiries in London ere he gets much information respecting a remote country. Of course if ho falls in with a man of the land he will hear how the Scrambleford are the finest hounds in the world, how there is no such huntsman as Tootles, how their country is next to the Quorn, and a chap who can go over it can go anywhere; but for any reliable directions as to quarters and so on, he might as well ask what hounds there are in the moon.
Mr. Bunting felt the full force of this observation, as in the course of his peregrinations he varied the usual conversation about the weather, by asking any hunting-man with whom he came in contact, if he could tell him anything about the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds.
“Why yes, Sir Sampson Scamper knew there was such a -pack, because he saw them advertised, but where they hunted he hadn’t the slightest idea in the world. Didn’t ‘spose they were a pack that any body ever went to see — rig’lar provincials — he made no doubt.”
“Why, what the deuce can you want with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds?” exclaimed Mr. Rowley Rushington, on being interrogated on the same subject—” Why what the deuce can you want with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds?” repeated he, eyeing Mr. Bunting suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing,” quoth he, “nothing particular, see them, that’s all,” stuttered our conscience-stricken hero, trying to turn the conversation.
“Oh fiddle-de-dee; one pack is very much like another nowadays. If you want to hunt, go into a good country — costs no more than a bad one — not so much generally.”
So Mr. Bunting profited very little by his inquiries, and felt it advisable to discontinue them.
Of course, if a man goes into a country solely for hunting, his best plan is first to ascertain where the kennel is, and then to look out for accommodation somewhere in the neighbourhood, but in a case of this sort, where the hunting was a secondary consideration — indeed subservient to something else — the plan was to see what locality would be most convenient to the something else.
For this purpose Mr. Bunting conned the large map of the country hanging against the wall of the sinecure library, or rather sleeping-room of the Polyanthus Club, putting his fore-finger on the modestly denoted Frivett Grove, and then casting about for the Castle, Mayfield, and other familiar though yet unexplored places. He felt himself quite at home with them, though he had never seen them, so often had he talked them over with Miss and Mamma, when —
Mayfield was certainly what the country-people call most “contagions” to Privett Grove — but then it was wide of the castle, added to which our friend would have to encounter his fat rival with his dirty five-pound notes at every turn and corner. Heatherfield was nearer the Castle, but wide of the railway, and Cotfield Court did not seem likely to be large enough to accommodate a gentleman of his luxurious requirements. Burton St. Leger seemed larger, and a reference to a certain expensive topographical dictionary, showed that it boasted three inns, viz., the Marquis of Cornwallis, the Saracen’s Head, and the Malt Shovel. Upon the whole therefore, after mature deliberation, and all the available information he could obtain about the Duke’s derided country, he determined to throw himself upon the resources of Burton St. Leger. To this end he then began to prepare himself, and ultimately made the arrangement we shall presently disclose.
CHAPTER LVIII.
CAPTAIN CAVENDISH CHICHESTER’S HORSES.
THE BENEVOLENCE OF the Londoners with regard to their horses can ‘Only be fully appreciated by those who are aware how much those excellent people are in the habit of giving things away. Not a number of “The Times” do we take up without finding some most -excellent offer, a steady cob, equal to carry a castle, without fault or blemish, to be parted with for one quarter his value to insure a good master and a comfortable home.
“A highly broken lady’s horse to be disposed of or lent, subject to approval, with any trial allowed, either on the road or in the riding-’School.”
Next, “A gentleman having a pair of well-bred, handsome grey horses, will lend them until the summer, or sell them at a great sacrifice. They are 15 hands 3 inches high, five and six years old, quiet in single and double harness, and quiet to ride; will carry ladies; also good hunters, step well together; have grand action, with light mouth, and temperate; splendid Brougham or phaeton horses; sold together or separately with their suits of clothes. Warranted sound, and one month’s trial given. To save trouble, no dealer need apply.” — A useless exclusion, seeing that none would be weak enough to do so; but then it looks as if the tender-hearted owner merely wanted to secure good quarters for his dumb favourites, where he could occasionally have the pleasure of seeing or hearing of them. And what does the reader think the disinterested party asks for these pieces of perfection — these “Matthew’s at home” of horses — five and six years old; own brothers most likely, in the prime of life—” Three hundred guineas?” as Tattersall would say. Two hundred and fifty? Two hundred? A hundred and seventy-five? A hundred and fifty? A hundred? A paltry hundred! No, not even a hundred — ninety guineas! Ninety guineas is all that is asked for a pair of well-bred handsome horses, that can do everything, and a month’s trial allowed. What can be fairer or more liberal! With three such offers, a man might have his season’s job for nothing. First the grays, then the bays, and next, perhaps, the silver roans. In fact, the Cockneys are so soft and generous that they are always wishing to oblige other people with their horses. Their kindness in this matter exceeds all belief. They are always offering. That splendid brook-jumper Topthorrne, seems to be getting lent or given away every day. Somehow the offers all run upon horses. We never see a good cow, or a carriage to be lent, or a fat pig to be sold for half price.
That there are a great many well-to-do people ready to avail themselves of such bargains is evident by the number and pertinacity of the advertisements. Even our friend Mr. Bunting was not above accepting a handsome offer of the sort.
Whatever a man’s mind is running upon, to that point will he naturally turn his attention when perusing his paper. Thus, if he is thinking of his beloved “Consols,” he “at’s” the City article first, sees whether they are on the rise or the fall; if he wants a cook, he skims the “wont places” advertisements; if a grand pianoforte, he knows where to go; the same with regard to coals, candles, carpets, or what not.
Our friend Mr. Bunting’s too susceptible mind running a good deal on spurs and Spanish hats, caused him to look occasionally into the second page of ‘‘The Times” Supplement, perhaps to see if there was anything likely to suit his charmer, who had frequently expressed a desire to have a fine horse with thin legs, and a flowing mane and tail instead of her pony. As luck would have it, just at the time of the Tergiversation trip an advertisement appeared in the usual column, stating that in consequence of a bad fall out hunting, a gentleman would be glad to lend his “two splendid hunters, Owen Ashford and The Exquisite, to any one for a month or six weeks, who would ride them fairly, and keep them in condition,” an offer that does not occur every day just in the cream of the hunting season; and though our friend had about made up his mind that his own two horses would do all t
he dangerous he was equal to, he nevertheless, after considering it a little, got into one of Cutbush’s safety cabs and bowled away to the indicated quarter, viz., Sligo Mews, Rochester Square, there to see these magnificent animals. Arrived at the Square, he paid his fare, popped out of the vehicle, and, with the slip of paper in his hand on which he had written down the address, began asking his way to Sligo Mews. Police constable 49 B pointed it out to him, and away he went as directed.
It was not a very inviting locality, and appeared worse in consequence of the sudden transition from the openness of the Square to its contracted limits. It was a long narrow alley running the whole length of the Square, interspersed with dunghills, dairies, coal-sheds, and cabbage-shops, with here and there a marine-store-dealer. As Mr. Bunting wended his way, taking care of his boots, the women looked at him and smiled, as if there was something unusual about him, but when he paused at 51 A, and began asking in a loud and audible voice for “Peter Crankey, Captain Cavendish Chichester’s groom,” there was an increased supply of plain or ringlets at the windows and doors, with more smiling and putting of aprons up to the mouth.
“Where shall I find Peter Crankey, Captain Cavendish Chichester’s groom?” demanded Mr. Bunting, wondering what they were giggling at— “Where shall I find Peter Crankey, Captain Cavendish Chichester’s groom?” repeated he, reading the address from his slip of paper.
“Touch the bell above your head, Sir! — Touch the bell! above your head, Sir!” exclaimed a chimney-sweep from a window over the way, and looking up, Mr. Bunting saw the half-rod, half-chain of a little bell-pull dangling at the white door-post beside him. He gave it a gentle pull, and stood waiting for the result. Scarcely had it concluded its tinkle ere a rustic up the adjoining entry announced an approach, and a man came, settling himself into a greasy gray coat as he walked.
He was not at all a prepossessing looking person, nor at all the sort of groom that one would expect to find attached to the person of such an aristocratically named Captain. He looked like a cross between a circus-man, a dog-stealer, a cow-leech, and a besom-maker. In person he was about six feet high, but awkward and ill-proportioned, close clipped, clean shaved, and moustached, with a green patch over his right eye, and all the roguery of the two compressed into his left one. That indeed was a piercer, and Mr. Bunting felt rather nervous as its ill-omened lustre settled fully upon him. He inwardly resolved whatever he did about the horses he wouldn’t borrow the groom.
“You be come to see our nags, I ‘spose,” observed the man, giving his greasy vest-pockets an external squeeze for the key, and then diving deep into his baggy broad patterned brown cord ones. From the right pocket he then fished up the ring-key, which he quickly applied to the lock of the newly-painted pea-green door, hallooing out, “Matthew Andrew! Matthew Andrew!” as he opened it.
“Walk in, Sir! walk in!” continued Peter, in a peremptory sort of tone, as our hero rather hesitated on the threshold—” walk in, Sir, do” and Mr. Bunting, remembering the dislike these gentry have to a breath of fresh air in the stables, and wishing perhaps to escape the criticisms of the now gathering crowd, almost involuntarily complied trusting to the publicity of the place for not being murdered. The door was closed and bolted inside as soon as he was well in, and an attenuated ginnified-looking lad, attired in a full suit of dirty fustians, came crawling headforemost down the loft-ladder in reply to the summons for “Matthew Andrew.”
“Open the window-shutter,” said Peter, adjusting his stable-cap on his grizzly head as the lad reached the ground, and while the boy was obeying his master’s orders, with the aid of a pitchfork, Peter drew back the brown-holland curtain of another long slip of a window Anther on, and threw a general light upon the scene.
It wasn’t so bad as it seemed, and barring a certain smell, more resembling that of a chemist’s shop than a stable, there was nothing remarkable about it. It contained three stalls, two of which were occupied by horses, the other with fodder, while a goodish hat with a new cockade hung conspicuously against the back wall.
“Humph!” mused Mr. Bunting, eyeing the whole, and thinking perhaps, Peter might not be so great a ruffian when properly dressed to attend on his master. He certainly did not look well then. It was now that great master of arts’ turn to operate, and hitching up his baggy shorts, and giving his tell-tale nose a rub across the back of his hand, he fixed his evil eye upon our watchful friend, and proceeded to make a mental estimate of his character. Peter thought Bunting looked soft, but he might be hard for all that, and it behoved Peter to be circumspect.
“Well now,” said he, nodding towards the horses, “there be the nags. In all humane probability you’ll know the cause o’ their bein’ in this ’ere unfortunate predicament,” scanning Bunting attentively as he spoke.
“Why yes, your master has had an accident, hasn’t he?” asked Bunting, remembering the terms of the advertisement.
“Bad accident, bad accident, werry” replied Peter, shaking his head. “No fault o’ the ‘osses though, I must say that,” continued he, vindicating the character of his quadruped. “I measured the brack, and there was near nine yards o’ water, with a werry rotten takin’ off — in fact, one that none but Matt. Mytton and my master would ever have thought o’ ridin’ at, but these ’ere young gents will be fust or nowhere, and indeed I werry much fears that it may put him nowhere,” Peter applying the corner of a very dirty old red cotton kerchief to his roguish eye as he spoke.
“Then he wants to lend them for a time in consequence of the fall?” asked Mr. Bunting.
“He wants to lend them for a time in consequence of the fall,” repeated Peter, delighted to see that Bunting was swallowing the bait—” the Advertisement,” said he, pulling a Times Supplement out of his pocket, “says for a month or six weeks, but, ‘atwixt you and I,” continued he, nudging Mr. Bunting confidentially, with his elbow, “I da’say whoever gets them may keep them to the end o’ the season.”
“What, he’s much hurt, is be?” asked Mr. Bunting consolingly.
“Oh, despert, despert,” replied Peter, with a frown, and an ominous shake of his head— “spine, I should say — spine,” putting his right hand on his own back—” doctor says ‘No,’ but I says ‘Yes,’ and I werry much fear I shall be right,” Peter applying the dirty ball of kerchief again to his blear eye as he spoke.
It was now clear that Mr. Bunting was going to bite, so as soon as his feelings could be properly composed, Peter restored the kerchief to his pocket, and turning to the boy said, with an air of authority, “Strip that ‘oss.”
Forthwith the young vagabond, rushing up to the horse’s side, seized the straps with his teeth, and undoing the buckles, very soon had sheet, and blankets, and roller, and hood sweeping over his quarters and down his bang tail.
“There! there!” exclaimed Peter, extending his right arm in an attitude of admiration, “that is the Hexquisite, the best of the two, for I disdains the dealers’ hartifiz o’ showing an inferior hanimal fust.”
The Exquisite certainly was a beautiful animal, a bay, or rather something between a bay and a mouse colour, the horse having been clipped or shaved, giving it that good firm condition those operations impart. He had a small well set on head, a good intelligent eye, lengthy shoulders and quarters, with large clean muscular legs. Altogether a very superior looking animal.
“Go hup to ’im, Sir! Go hup to ’im,” said Peter encouragingly, and Mr. Bunting, albeit not very fond of strange horses, went sneaking up the stall to where the boy now had hold of the Exquisite by the head.
“Quiet as a lamb! — Quiet as a lamb! Child might ride ’im!” continued Peter, as the horse began snuffling and smelling at our friend. “Sixteen ‘ands zactly,” said Peter, as Bunting began chinning him—” sixteen ‘ands zactly — he’s the ‘oss to carry a man out o’ the dirt, and make the fences look small. I’m dashed if there’s anything too big to stop ’im — anything in reason and moderation at least. In cos, if gents will ride at
navigable rivers or harms o’ the sea, they will get into grief, whatever they’re on; but for a man as treats an ‘oss as an ‘oss, and not as a hengine, that is the one that can give satisfaction. There! throw the rug over ’im, boy, and strip Howen Hashford,” now continued Peter, shifting his position to the back of the next stall.
“Oh, thank you,” replied Mr. Bunting, coming gingerly out from beside the Exquisite, “I won’t trouble you to do that, I dare say I can see all I want as he stands.”
“Well, Sir, wot you please, Sir,” replied Peter, rather chopfallen, fearing Bunting was going to back out, “only I shouldn’t be a doin’ o’ my master justice if I didn’t offer to show ’im. Better strip ’im,” continued he coaxingly — .”better strip ’im. No trouble. Come, boy, look sharp! strip ’im at once!”
Matthew Andrew then at the clothing with his teeth as before, and very soon had Owen Ashford in his “when unadorned, adorned the most” state.
Notwithstanding Peter’s assertion to the contrary, Owen was the handsomer horse of the two; a beautiful dapple gray, with an arch neck, and a splendidly set on tail. If it hadn’t been that he was to be lent, there might perhaps have been a slight imputation of ginger. Bunting conned him quietly over, not caring to contradict the groom as to the relative merits of the two, and thinking how well he would look upon either. At length Bunting spoke —
“Well, they are two very nice horses,” said he.
“They are two werry nice ‘osses,” replied Peter. “No man need wish for no better. Put the clothing on, boy,” continued Peter, addressing the lad.
Bunting then drew back a pace or two, and contemplated them from beside the cockaded hat.
“And they are to be lent,” said he, after a pause.
“To be lent,” repeated Peter, slowly and deliberately, feeling that they were drawing up to the critical point. “To be lent, that is to say,” continued he, scrutinising Bunting, “lent to a gent as is not over heavy, and will ride them fairly and well.”
