Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  HUNTING THE HOUNDS

  Tramptinton Hill, whose summit they had just reached as the hounds brokecover, commanded an extensive view over the adjoining vale, and, as Mr.Sponge sat shading his eyes with his hands from a bright wintry sun, hethought he saw them come to a check, and afterwards bend to the left.

  'I really think,' said he, addressing his still perspiring companion, 'thatif you were to make for that road on the left' (pointing one out as seenbetween the low hedge-rows in the distance), 'we might catch them up yet.'

  'Left (puff), left (wheeze)?' replied Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, staring aboutwith anything but the quickness that marked his movements when he divedinto Hackberry Dean.

  'Don't you see,' asked Sponge tartly, 'there's a road by the corn-stacksyonder?' Pointing them out.

  'I see,' replied Jogglebury, blowing freely into his shirt-frill. 'I see,'repeated he, staring that way; 'but I think (puff) that's a mere (wheeze)occupation road, leading to (gasp) nowhere.'

  'Never mind, let's try!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, giving the rein a jerk, toget the horse into motion again; adding, 'it's no use sitting here, youknow, like a couple of fools, when the hounds are running.'

  'Couple of (puff)!' growled Jog, not liking the appellation, and wishing tobe home with the long holly. 'I don't see anything (wheeze) foolish in the(puff) business.'

  'There they are!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who had kept his eye on the spot helast viewed them, and now saw the horsemen titt-up-ing across a grass fieldin the easy way that distance makes very uneasy riding look. 'Cut along!'exclaimed he, laying into the horse's hind-quarters with his hunting-whip.

  'Don't! the horse is (puff) tired,' retorted Jog angrily, holding thehorse, instead of letting him go to Sponge's salute.

  'Not a bit on't!' exclaimed Sponge; 'fresh as paint! Spring him a bit,that's a good fellow!' added he.

  Jog didn't fancy being dictated to in this way, and just crawled along athis own pace, some six miles an hour, his dull phlegmatic face contrastingwith the eager excitement of Mr. Sponge's countenance. If it had not beenthat Jog wanted to see that Leather did not play any tricks with his horse,he would not have gone a yard to please Mr. Sponge. Jog might, however,have been easy on that score, for Leather had just buckled the curb-rein ofthe horse's bridle round a tree in the plantations where they found, andthe animal, being used to this sort of work, had fallen-to quitecontentedly upon the grass within reach.

  Bilkington Pike now appeared in view, and Jog drew in as he spied it. Heknew the damage: sixpence for carriages, and he doubted that Sponge wouldpay it.

  'It's no use going any (wheeze) farther,' observed he, drawing up into awalk, as he eyed the red-brick gable end of the toll-house, and theformidable white gate across the road.

  Tom Coppers had heard the hounds, and, knowing the hurry sportsmen areoften in, had taken the precaution to lock the gate.

  'Just a _leetle_ farther!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge soothingly, whose anxietyin looking after the hounds had prevented his seeing this formidableimpediment. 'If you would just drive up to that farmhouse on the hill,'pointing to one about half a mile off, 'I think we should be able to decidewhether it's worth going on or not.'

  'Well (puff), well (wheeze), well (gasp),' pondered Jogglebury, stillstaring at the gate, 'if you (puff) think it's worth (wheeze) while goingthrough the (gasp) gate,' nodding towards it as he spoke.

  'Oh, never mind the gate,' replied Mr. Sponge, with an ostentatious diveinto his breeches pocket, as if he was going to pay it.

  He kept his hand in his pocket till he came close up to the gate, when,suddenly drawing it out, he said:

  'Oh, hang it! I've left my purse at home! Never mind, drive on,' said he tohis host; exclaiming to the man, 'it's Mr. Crowdey's carriage--Mr.Jogglebury Crowdey's carriage! Mr. Crowdey, the chairman of theStir-it-stiff Poor-Law Union!'

  'Sixpence!' shouted the man, following the phaeton with outstretched hand.

  ''Ord, hang it (puff)! I could have done that (wheeze),' growledJogglebury, pulling up.

  'You harn't got no ticket,' said Coppers, coming up, 'and ain't a-goin' tonot never no meetin' o' trustees, are you?' asked he, seeing the importanceof the person with whom he had to deal;--a trustee of that and other roads,and one who always availed himself of his privilege of going to themeetings toll-free.

  'No,' replied Jog, pompously handing Sponge the whip and reins.

  He then rose deliberately from his seat, and slowly unbuttoned eachparticular button of the brown great-coat he had over the tight blackhunting one. He then unbuttoned the black, and next the right-hand pocketof the white moleskins, in which he carried his money. He then deliberatelyfished up his green-and-gold purse, a souvenir of Miss Smiler (theplaintiff in the breach-of-promise action, Smiler _v._ Jogglebury), andholding it with both hands before his eyes, to see which end contained thesilver, he slowly drew the slide, and took out a shilling, though therewere plenty of sixpences in.

  This gave the man an errand into the toll-house to get one, and, by way ofmarking his attention, when he returned he said, in the negative way thatcountry people put a question:

  'You'll not need a ticket, will you?'

  'Ticket (puff), ticket (wheeze)?' repeated Jog thoughtfully. 'Yes, I'lltake a ticket,' said he.

  'Oh! hang it, no,' replied Sponge; 'let's get on!' stamping against thebottom of the phaeton to set the horse a-going. 'Costs nothin',' observedJog drily, drawing the reins, as the man again returned to the gate-house.

  A considerable delay then took place; first, Pikey had to find his glasses,as he called his spectacles, to look out a one-horse-chaise ticket. Then hehad to look out the tickets, when he found he had all sorts except aone-horse-chaise one ready--waggons, hearses, mourning-coaches,saddle-horses, chaises and pair, mules, asses, every sort but the one thatwas wanted. Well, then he had to fill one up, and to do this he had, first,to find the ink-horn, and then a pen that would 'mark,' so that,altogether, a delay took place that would have been peculiarly edifying toa Kennington Common or Lambeth gate-keeper to witness.

  But it was not all over yet. Having got the ticket Jog examined itminutely, to see that it was all right, then held it to his nose to smellit, and ultimately drew the purse slide, and deposited it among thesovereigns. He then restored that expensive trophy to his pocket, shook hisleg, to send it down, then buttoned the pocket, and took the tight blackcoat with both hands and dragged it across his chest, so as to get hisstomach in. He then gasped and held his breath, making himself as small aspossible, while he coaxed the buttons into the holes; and that difficultprocess being at length accomplished, he stood still awhile to take breathafter the exertion. Then he began to rebutton the easy, brown great-coat,going deliberately up the whole series, from the small button below, tokeep the laps together, up to the one on the neck, or where the neck wouldhave been if Jog had not been all stomach up to the chin. He then sousedhimself into his seat, and, snorting heavily through his nostrils, took thereins and whip and long holly from Mr. Sponge, and drove leisurely on.Sponge sat anathematizing his slowness.

  When they reached the farmhouse on the hill the hounds were fairly in view.The huntsman was casting them, and the horsemen were grouped about asusual, while the laggers were stealing quietly up the lanes and by-roads,thinking nobody would see them. Save the whites or the greys, our friendsin the 'chay' were not sufficiently near to descry the colours of thehorses; but Mr. Sponge could not help thinking that he recognized theoutline of the wicked chestnut, Multum-in-Parvo.

  'By the powers, but if it is him,' muttered he to himself, clenching hisfist and grinding his teeth as he spoke, 'but I'll--I'll--I'll make _sich_an example of you,' meaning of Leather.

  Mr. Sponge could not exactly say what he would do, for it was by no means asettled point whether Leather or he were master. But to the hounds. If ithad not been for Mr. Sponge's shabbiness at the turnpike gate, we reallybelieve he might now have caught them up, for the road to them was downhill all the way,
and the impetus of the vehicle would have sent the oldscrew along. That delay, however, was fatal. Before they had gone a quarterof the distance the hounds suddenly struck the scent at a hedge-row, and,with heads up and sterns down, went straight away at a pace thatannihilated all hope. They were out of sight in a minute. It was clearly acase of kill.

  'Well, there's a go!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, folding his arms, and throwinghimself back in the phaeton in disgust. 'I think I never saw such a mess aswe've made this morning.'

  And he looked at the stick in the apron, and the long holly between Jog'slegs, and longed to lay them about his great back.

  'Well (puff), I s'pose (wheeze) we may as well (puff) home now?' observedJog, looking about him quite unconcernedly.

  'I think so,' snapped Sponge, adding, 'we've done it for once, at allevents.'

  The observation, however, was lost upon Jog, whose mind was occupied withthinking how to get the phaeton round without upsetting. The road wasnarrow at best, and the newly laid stone-heaps had encroached upon itsbounds. He first tried to back between two stone-heaps, but only succeededin running a wheel into one; he then tried the forward tack, with no bettersuccess, till Mr. Sponge seeing matters were getting worse, just jumpedout, and taking the old horse by the head, executed the manoeuvre thatMr. Jogglebury Crowdey first attempted. They then commenced retracing theirsteps, rather a long trail, even for people in an amiable mood, but aterribly long one for disagreeing ones.

  Jog, to be sure, was pretty comfortable. He had got all he wanted--all hewent out a-hunting for; and as he hissed and jerked the old horse along, hekept casting an eye at the contents of the apron, thinking what crowned, orgreat man's head, the now rough, club-headed knobs should be fashioned torepresent; and indulged in speculations as to their prospective worth andpossible destination. He had not the slightest doubt that a thousand sticksto each of his children would be as good as a couple of thousand poundsa-piece; sometimes he thought more, but never less. Mr. Sponge, on theother hand, brooded over the loss of the run; indulged in all sorts ofspeculations as to the splendour of the affair; pictured the figure hewould have cut on the chestnut, and the price he might have got for him inthe field. Then he thought of the bucketing Leather would give him; the wayhe would ram him at everything; how he would let him go with a slack reinin the deep--very likely making him over-reach--nay, there was no sayingbut he might stake him.

  Then he thought over all the misfortunes and mishaps of the day. Theunpropitious toilet; the aggravation of 'Obin and Ichard'; the delay causedby Jog being sick with his cigar; the divergence into Hackberry Dean; andthe long protracted wait at the toll-bar. Reviewing all the circumstancesfairly and dispassionately, Mr. Sponge came to the determination of havingnothing more to do with Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey in the hunting way. These,or similar cogitations and resolutions were, at length, interrupted bytheir arriving at home, as denoted by an outburst of children rushing fromthe lodge to receive them--Gustavus James, in his nurse's arms, bringing upthe rear, to whom our friend could hardly raise the semblance of a smile.

  It was all that little brat! thought he.