by R S Surtees
Mr. Jessop having made the tour of the stables and found all right as regarded the Bold Pioneer, dropped into the dining-room just as the Jug was inducting Mr. Bunting into the mysteries of the morning meal, and after the usual good mornings, greetings, and common-places about the weather, he gradually broached the handsome proposition about the horse.
Mr. Bunting was surprised, for he had not lived sufficiently among fox-hunters to know their general kindly disposition, and, moreover, had about arranged in his own mind to take Privett Grove in his way home; but the Jug devoting the intervals between munching a large plate of brawn, and washing it down with plentiful libations of tea to seconding Mr. Jessop’s proposition, our hero paused in his resolution, and considered whether staying on might not be as agreeable as spending the evening alone at Burton St. Leger. And as Mr. Jessop seemed to be sincere in what he said, and the Jug occasionally threw in an approving tongue between mouthfuls, Mr. Bunting was not very difficult to overcome. Mr. Jessop then rang or rather shook the bell wire for his own breakfast, oatmeal porridge and a thin rump-steak with fried potatoes, pending which, Monsieur Bagout appeared with his bill of fare for that day, and to receive the compliments of the company for his performance on the preceding one. There is no keeping a French cook up to the collar unless you flatter him well. Cash without compliments won’t do; so Mr. Jessop, and the guest, and the Jug, all joined in his praise. Monsieur having passed his bill of fare with the addition of an omelette soufflée at the suggestion of the Jug, then withdrew, and Mr. Jessop proceeded to enjoy his breakfast in the leisurely way of a man who generally has to hurry it. That being his business day, when he went through his accounts, he then bethought him how he could assist his Jug in getting his guest through the interval. Library there was none, at least there were no books in it; indeed the room was made into a servants’ dormitory, and though Mr. Jessop took in the Times, and the Jug Bell’s Life and the Field, even these with the assistance of the Post-Office Directory, which the Jug was much given to studying, would hardly suffice to a stranger.
“What are you going to do to-day, Tom?” now asked our master as he played away at his steak, thinking to see if his coadjutor could help him out with an idea.
“Me, oh, why, I — thought of taking a round with the harriers,” drawled Boyston, as if he had not quite made up his mind on the matter.
“Ah, to be sure! the very thing!” replied Mr. Jessop, gaily turning to Mr. Bunting, and saying, “And why shouldn’t you go?”
“I have no horse,” replied Mr. Bunting; who, indeed, did not care much for hunting if it did not include the scarlet.
“Oh, I’ll find you a horse,” replied Mr. Jessop. “I’ll find you a horse — there’s my little grey Merrylegs, the very thing for harriers — carry you like winking, won’t he Boyston?”
“Capitally,” replied the Jug, still holding on steadily at his breakfast. —
“Just order him when you are inclined to go;” then said Mr. Jessop, addressing the Jug.
“I will,” replied he, gulping down his last mouthful of tea; then chucking his napkin away, he arose and stumped leisurely away to the windows with his hands in his side-pockets.
“Fine day,” observed he, after a good vacant stare outside.
“Oh, fine day,” replied Mr. Jessop. “Fine day as can be — I only hope it will keep this way over to-morrow.”
“Well, then I’m ready when you’re ready,” observed the Jug, addressing Mr. Bunting.
“You’d better say, when,” replied our hero.
“No hurry with harriers,” rejoined the Jug, “can always catch them up; but as the day’s fine, we may as well be in the open air as in the house. So what say you to half an hour?”
“So be it,” said Mr. Bunting, whereupon the Jug stumped away to the stables to order the horses.
Now it so happened that the Jug had just got a new horse; “Lofty” his late owner called him on account of his high action, Billy Rough’un the Jug called him, because of his shaking him so. He was a grand horse with a great inclination for the chase, but he was too many for most people, hence he passed from hand to hand at always receding prices, until he came down to the Jug’s figure — a twenty pound note. And having tried various bits upon him with but indifferent success, our friend bethought him that the best way to prevent Billy pulling his arms off was to give him a little more work, so he resolved to treat him to a round with the harriers the day before hunting with the foxhounds whenever he could. To this end he made the acquaintance of our before-mentioned Jonathan Jobling, who, though no great admirer of the red coats in general — certainly not of those with yellow collars to them — yet agreed out of respect for Mr. Jessop, to send Mr. Boyston his card, provided he did not come out in white cords, of which Jonathan had a mortal aversion, Lord Marchhare having ridden over the pride of his heart, the beautiful Bluebell, when so attired. And the Jug having found the first day with the harriers very beneficial upon his new horse, and not being at all fond of a large washing bill, had no difficulty in complying with the terms, as to omitting the white cords.
So much for the rider, now for a word about the horse.
Billy Rough’un was a grand horse, stood sixteen hands, with strength and speed of the first order. He could go as fast through plough as he could upon grass. He was a darkish bay, with a large star, and a white fore foot, capital legs and loins, with a small well set on head. His fault was being too much of a horse, too keen and anxious to be with hounds, which, combined with a very high rough action, put as it were two days’ work into one for his rider. Indeed if Billy was not regularly worked there was no riding him, and he had nearly shaken the hearts out of half-a-dozen people before the Jug got him. Hot that Billy had any vice in him, it was only his impetuosity that made him unpopular. He was a sort of horse that a looker on liked better than the person that was on him. There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse.
When Billy, then called Lofty, stepped out of Mr. Blandisher the dealer’s yard, he was a hundred and ninety guineas’ worth, a ten pound note haying somehow slipped off his two hundred guinea price during the transaction, and though undoubtedly rough, yet when not in his excited knock-his-knee-against-his-tooth action, by no means an unpleasant horse to ride. He was then the property of Mr. George Dallimore, a weakly constituted gentleman, who had been recommended horse exercise on account of his health; and when George first appeared at Weston Wood side with Lord Furzebrake’s hounds, Lofty was pronounced by the cognoscenti to be a deuced nice sporting-looking nag. George, however, had not been on him half an hour, before the bay horse had been changed into a white one, and finding as soon as the fox broke away that he must be first (which was by no means George’s place) or no where, he thought he had better be no where, and so went home. Blandisher, however, was a kind man, and readily exchanged him for an easy oily going gray, — a sort of animal that would do for a Roseberry Rocks riding-master, and sold Lofty again the next day for about his old figure, Blandisher making an uncommonly handsome profit by the transaction. The next purchaser was one of the same sort, a light man who fancied himself heavy, and wanted something above his weight, which Lofty certainly was, stotting him up and down like a parched pea on a drumhead, tiring him completely and sending him asleep almost as soon as the cloth was drawn after dinner. He then sold him to a youth, with whom Lofty, certainly under great provocation, ran away, whereupon he was pronounced vicious, and quickly came down to the Jug’s price, who devised the expedient for curing him we have already mentioned. Billy, however, had no vice in him, it was sheer love of hunting and disgust at being ridden by tailors who had not the sense to appreciate his spirit. If he let people down at little places, it was only because they never gave him a stance at big ones. It was no use trying to deceive Billy Rough’un about hunting — no use sending him on alone with a lad in a jacket and trousers, as if he were going to exercise — he knew as well as the genius who saddled him what he was going to do. The first r
ed coat he saw on the road set him on grinding his teeth, fretting and trying to be on — what he wanted was to be with the hounds. Even on the present occasion, when the Jug turned out in his old round-crowned deer-stalking hat, brown sea-side jacket and long leather gaiters, the horse felt by the hunting martingal on his shoulders what he was going to do. And when little Merrylegs came prancing out of the stable for the dandified Mr. Bunting to mount, Billy gave a half squeak, as much as to say, now we’ll have some fun together, you and I.
“W-h-o-a-y!” cried the Jug, hoisting himself on, adding, “I’ll take the nonsense out of you when I get you on to the Downs.” So saying, he drew reins and piloted our hero out of the yard.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
MR. JONATHAN JOBBING’S HARRIERS.
MR. JONATHAN JOBLING had two distinct countries, hill and vale, the hill formed of fine open undulating downs, the vale of very stiff, cramped, awkward enclosures. On a clear day nothing could be finer than a gallop over the sound turf of the downs, swelling and falling sufficiently to give zest and impetus to the horse without endangering the neck of the rider. Here, indeed, a man could see hunting in its wildest openest form, there being nothing to distract his attention with regard to progression, there not being even the fear of a water furrow in the bottoms. He could go sailing away wherever the hounds went — seeing the find, the forward, the double, the triple, the Gordian knot itself unravelled.
Jonathan was a real great man, stood six feet two in his stocking feet, and weighed twenty stone, at least, that was his reputed weight, for he had declined the scales for many years before the period of our story. He had begun hunting when bed-gown coats were the order of the day, a fashion that he still retained, and now had as much cloth in each lap as would make a moderate sized modern exquisite a coat. How many bed-gowns, the great white mother-of-pearl buttons with the black hares engraved upon them had worn out, it was impossible to say; Jonathan himself having lost all count of them. They were numerous, and yet Jonathan was not the man to give up a coat upon slight provocation. They descended gradually, the shiney No. I. of sunny weather, being a long time before it became the faded No. II. of doubtful days, still longer ere it was the patched and tattered No. III. of desperate wet and stormy ones. Number IV. generally occupied the post of a “flay craw,” in the fields. His boots and breeches corresponded with his coat, large, roomy, and rough, drab with brass buttons, and boots brown without effect, while his ponderous hammer-headed whip in the hands of a misguided man, would be enough to make the blood curdle in one’s veins. His horses of course were of the largest, most formidable order, and to see Jonathan tearing away after his hounds with his great coat laps flying out, followed by the usual miscellaneous assortment of a harrier field gave him much the appearance of a gigantic hen and chickens. But we are going to have a day or rather half a day with him at Missendon rubbing Post, so we had better be getting on as he is a man to a minute, and never waits for any one.
The rubbing post was at least five miles from Appleton Hall — that is to say, five miles by the road — but the Jug with his great geographical knowledge and acquaintance with gaps and short cuts could ride it in three and a half or four. First he took the liberty of going through the Rev. Mr. Spintext’s glebe, then he was sure Widow Weatherly would have no objection to their passing along the top of her seeds, though he knew Widow Weatherly had the greatest possible objection to anything of the sort; next he cut off a large angle equal to a quarter of a mile, by trespassing up Squire Cracklow’s carriage road, and boring through his young plantation into the Burtreeford turnpike, which latter, however, he quickly forsook for a pet line of gates through Mr. Blatherwick’s farm, then past the Punch Bowl Inn, through Thurlestone fivelanes to the little village of Barrymore at the foot of the downs, whose ascent he then made by the zig-zag road up the sides, passing up into an entirely different region to the one they had left — wild, open, undulating downs, with nothing but plovers and tinkling-belled sheep to disturb the serenity of the scene. Billy Rough’un then applied himself vigorously to the sound turf, and went snorting and cantering away in evident enjoyment of the change, accompanied by little Merrylegs, who seemed equally pleased.
Having thus opened their pipes by some three-quarters of a mile gallop, the Jug looked at his fat watch, and finding they were in plenty of time, the friends pulled up just as Jonathan appeared with his hounds on the brow of the opposite hill, attended by farmers Brushfield and Jaoobstow, all straining their eyes and wondering who the deuce these strangers could be. As they approached, Jonathan saw it was the Jug, whereupon he gave his old sugar-loaf shaped cap an upward poke off his brow, and said he hoped Mr. Jovey Jessop was well.
“Quite well,” replied the Jug, “thank you;” adding, “you’d better come and dine with us after hunting and see.”
“Humph!” grunted Jonathan, “what time does he feed?”
“Six thirty,” replied the Jug, “six thirty to a minute.”
“Dinner!” exclaimed Jonathan, raising his eye-brows, “soouper, I should say.”
“Get an omelette soufflée,” added the Jug, recollecting his own order.
“What’nt a thing’s that?” asked the master of harriers, erecting his great whip like a column on his leg.
“Come and see,” said the Jug.
“No-r, batter puddin’, if you like,” muttered Jonathan, after a pause; “batter puddlin’ if you like, but none of your messes.”
Up then came the old customer, Cordey Brown, with his spurs in his hat, thinking nobody would know he had gone out to hunt, followed by Jack Pole, Billy Brickworth, and Tom Talford, the tippling farrier, who has lain overnight at the sign of the Punch Bowl, and has very much the appearance of one himself. All are either dressed in green coats or the dark clothes and strong lower garments of men bent on defying the united attacks of weather and woods. There was nothing like a white top-boot, let alone a pair of white cords amongst them. A hunt was what they wanted and came for.
Jonathan’s, like Jovey’s, was quite a working establishment, nothing for show or appearance. But Jonathan, unlike Jovey, was a queer morose sort of chap, who could be extremely disagreeable when he liked. If one of the over riding red coats was to tell Jonathan he had seen the hare pass through a gap or a gate, Jonathan would immediately hold the hounds the opposite way, muttering something about it had most likely been a cat. Not that anybody ever was rash enough to come out with Jonathan in red; but he had a certain instinctive knowledge of those who wore it, and always dreaded their jealous rivalry and rushing for a start.
“Bad word it, sir!” he would exclaim. “Do you think I’d bring out these sixteen couple of beautiful amers if I wanted you to catch the ar? Do, please, hold hard whilst they try to make it out, or at all events get off your horse and put your nose to the ground yourself. Now for our particular day.”
Time being up, and all the field come or accounted for, and Cordey Brown having unbagged and buckled on the clandestine spurs, Jonathan now moved his beautiful hounds to a few acres of fallow on the right of the rubbing post, whose depth of soil had been too much for the fanner to resist, and ere he had gone half over the ground up started puss, with a flounce that sent the sandy soil up into the air, looking as terrified as an old maid when a man offers to shake hands with her without his glove on.
Away she scuttled at best pace, every hound in full view, gaining upon them, and looking as if she would leave her competitors immeasureably in the lurch. A patch of gorse on the brow of the hill hid her from further view and brought the late screeching pack fairly to their noses. There was a good scent with which they swept down in a cluster into the vale, and rose the opposing hill with undiminished dash. Meanwhile the field went coolly and fairly away, all except the Jug, who was borne impetuously along by the overanxious, boring Billy Rough’un. Getting him down into the bottom, however, with a fine grassy slope in front, the Jug eased him out gently, and ere Billy reached the top the Jug had the satisfaction of feeling his imp
etuosity gradually subside, when, giving him a touch of the spur, as much as to say, “Come, old boy, we are not done yet,” he at length landed him on the top of the rising ground, with every apparent disposition to be quiet. The Jug then held back a little for Jonathan Jobling and his tail to come up, when falling into the ruck, Billy Rough’un and he went sailing along very comfortably together, along the brow of Lingfield hill, past Silverdown quarry, over Polestar peak by Brockenden bam, sinking the hill, and so down into the enclosures of the vale below. These were large and roomy, and puss having traversed the first, a field of seeds, diagonally swerved to the left, and after making a Gordian knot, finally threw herself with a surprising bound into a ragged boundary fence between Bickington and Fittiss’s farms, composed of the usual confusion of brushwood, dead wood, old harrows, and anything.
