Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER LVIII

  FACEY ROMFORD

  MR. FACEY ROMFORD]

  Four days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to SirHarry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utterimpossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at PuddingpoteBower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off,but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment sogreatly, that if it hadn't been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horseskept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense. Thecompany lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling,cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped theplace of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-clothsintroduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed aconsistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.

  In the course of this time Sponge wrote to Puffington, saying if he wasbetter he would return and finish his visit; but the wary Puff sent amessenger off express with a note, lamenting that he was ordered to HandleyCross for his health, but 'pop'lar man' like, hoping that the pleasure ofSponge's company was only deferred for another season. Jawleyford, evenSponge thought hopeless; and, altogether, he was very much perplexed. Hehad made a little money certainly, with his horses; but a permanentinvestment of his elegant person, such as he had long been on the look-outfor, seemed as far off as ever. On the afternoon of the fifth day, as hewas taking a solitary stroll about the country, having about made up hismind to be off to town, just as he was crossing Jog's buttercup meadow onhis way to the stable, a rapid bang! bang! caused him to start, and,looking over the hedge, he saw a brawny-looking sportsman in brownreloading his gun, with a brace of liver-and-white setters crouching likestatues in the stubble.

  'Seek dead!' presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of his hand;and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird.

  'I'll have a word with you,' said Sponge, 'on and off-ing' the hedge, hisbeat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined for a run; secondthoughts said Sponge was too near, and he'd better brave it.

  'What sport?' asked Sponge, striding towards him.

  'Oh, pretty middling,' replied the shooter, a great red-headed, frecklyfaced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a drab rustic. 'Oh,pretty middling,' repeated he, not knowing whether to act on the friendlyor defensive.

  'Fine day!' said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and stout, muscularframe.

  'It is,' replied the shooter; adding, 'just followed my birds over theboundary. No 'fence, I s'pose--no 'fence.'

  'Oh no,' said Mr. Sponge. 'Jog, I dessay, 'll be very glad to see you.'

  'Oh, you'll be Mr. Sponge?' observed the stranger, jumping to a conclusion.

  'I am,' replied our hero; adding, 'may I ask who I have the honour ofaddressing?'

  'My name's Romford--Charley Romford; everybody knows me. Very glad to makeyour 'quaintance,' tendering Sponge a great, rough, heavy hand. 'I wasgoin' to call upon you,' observed the stranger, as he ceased swingingSponge's arm to and fro like a pump-handle; 'I was goin' to call upon you,to see if you'd come over to Washingforde, and have some shootin' at meOncle's--Oncle Gilroy's, at Queercove Hill.'

  'Most happy!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking it was the very thing he wanted.

  'Get a day with the harriers, too, if you like,' continued the shooter,increasing the temptation.

  'Better still!' thought Sponge.

  'I've only bachelor 'commodation to offer you; but p'raps you'll not mindroughing it a bit?' observed Romford.

  'Oh, faith, not I!' replied Sponge, thinking of the luxuries ofPuffington's bachelor habitation. 'What sort of stables have you?' askedour friend.

  'Capital stables--excellent stables!' replied the shooter; 'stalls six feetin the clear, by twelve dip (deep), iron racks, oak stall-posts coveredwith zinc, beautiful oats, capital beans, splendacious hay--won without ashower!'

  'Bravo!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking he had lit on his legs, and might snaphis fingers at Jog and his hints. He'd take the high hand, and give Jog up.

  'I'm your man!' said Sponge, in high glee.

  'When will you come?' asked Romford.

  'To-morrow!' replied Sponge firmly.

  'So be it,' rejoined his proffered host; and, with another hearty swing ofthe arm, the newly made friends parted.

  Charley Romford, or Facey, as he was commonly called, from his being theadmitted most impudent man in the country, was a great, round-faced,coarse-featured, prize-fighting sort of fellow, who lived chiefly by hiswits, which he exercised in all the legitimate lines of industry--poaching,betting, boxing, horse-dealing, cards, quoits--anything that cameuppermost. That he was a man of enterprise, we need hardly add, when he hadformed a scheme for doing our Sponge--a man that we do not think any of ourreaders would trouble themselves to try a 'plant' upon.

  This impudent Facey, as if in contradiction of terms, was originallyintended for a civil engineer; but having early in life voted himself heirto his uncle, Mr. Gilroy, of Queercove Hill, a great cattle-jobber, with a'small independence of his own'--three hundred a year, perhaps, which akind world called six--Facey thought he would just hang about until hisuncle was done with his shoes, and then be lord of Queercove Hill.

  Now, 'me Oncle Gilroy,' of whom Facey was constantly talking, had aleft-handed wife and promising family in the sylvan retirement of St.John's Wood, whither he used to retire after his business in 'Smi'fiel''was over; so that Facey, for once, was out in his calculations. Gilroy,however, being as knowing as 'his nevvey,' as he called him, justencouraged Facey in his shooting, fishing, and idle propensities generally,doubtless finding it more convenient to have his fish and game for nothingthan to pay for them.

  Facey, having the apparently inexhaustible sum of a thousand pounds, beganlife as a fox-hunter--in a very small way, to be sure--more for the purposeof selling horses than anything else; but, having succeeded in 'doing' allthe do-able gentlemen, both with the 'Tip and Go' and Cranerfield hounds,his occupation was gone, it requiring an extended field--such as our friendSponge roamed--to carry on cheating in horses for any length of time. Faceywas soon blown, his name in connexion with a horse being enough to preventany one looking at him. Indeed, we question that there is any lessdesirable mode of making, or trying to make money, than by cheating or evendealing in horses. Many people fancy themselves cheated, whatever they get;while the man who is really cheated never forgets it, and proclaims it tothe end of time. Moreover, no one can go on cheating in horses for anylength of time, without putting himself in the power of his groom; and letthose who have seen how servants lord it over each other say how they wouldlike to subject themselves to similar treatment.--But to our story.

  Facey Romford had now a splendid milk-white horse, well-known in Mr.Nobbington's and Lord Leader's hunts as Mr. Hobler, but who Facey kindlyrechristened the 'Nonpareil,' which the now rising price of oats, andfalling state of his finances, made him particularly anxious to get rid of,ere the horse performed the equestrian feat of 'eating its head off.' Hewas a very hunter-like looking horse, but his misfortune consisted inhaving such shocking seedy toes, that he couldn't keep his shoes on. If hegot through the first field with them on, they were sure to be off at thefence. This horse Facey voted to be the very thing for Mr. Sponge, andhearing that he had come into the country to hunt, it occurred to him thatit would be a capital thing if he could get him to take Mother Overend'sspare bed and lodge with him, twelve shillings a week being more than Faceyliked paying for his rooms. Not that he paid twelve shillings for the roomsalone; on the contrary, he had a two-stalled stable, with a sort of kennelfor his pointers, and a sty for his pig into the bargain. This pig, whichwas eaten many times in anticipation, had at length fallen a victim to thebutcher, and Facey's larder was uncommonly well found in black-puddings,sausages, spare ribs, and the other component parts of a pig: so that hewas in very hospitable circumstances--at least, in his rough and ready ideaof what hospitality ought to b
e. Indeed, whether he had or not, he'd haverisked it, being quite as good at carrying things off with a high hand asMr. Sponge himself.

  The invitation came most opportunely; for, worn out with jealousy andwatching, Jog had made up his mind to cut to Australia, and when Spongereturned after meeting Facey, Jog was in the act of combing out anadvertisement, offering all that desirable sporting residence calledPuddingpote Bower, with the coach-house, stables, and offices thereuntobelonging, to let, and announcing that the whole of the valuable householdfurniture, comprising mahogany, dining, loo, card, and Pembroke tables;sofa, couch, and chairs in hair seating; cheffonier, with plate glass;book-case; flower-stands; pianoforte, by Collard and Collard; music-stooland Canterbury; chimney and pier-glasses; mirror; ormolu time-piece;alabaster and wax figures and shades; china; Brussels carpets and rugs;fenders and fire-irons; curtains and cornices; Venetian blinds; mahoganyfour-post, French, and camp bedsteads; feather beds; hair mattresses;mahogany chests of drawers; dressing-glasses; wash and dressing-tables;patent shower-bath; bed and table-linen; dinner and tea-ware;warming-pans, &c., would be exposed to immediate and unreserved sale.

  How gratefully Sponge's inquiry if he knew Mr. Romford fell on his ear, asthey sat moodily together after dinner over some very low-priced port.

  'Oh yes (puff)--oh yes (wheeze)--oh yes (gasp)! Know CharleyRomford--Facey, as they call him. He's (puff, wheeze, gasp) heir to old Mr.Gilroy, of Queercove Hill.'

  'Just so,' rejoined Sponge, 'just so; that's the man--stout, square-builtfellow, with backward-growing whiskers. I'm going to stay with him to shootat old Gil's. Where does Charley live?'

  'Live!' exclaimed Jog, almost choked with delight at the information;'live! live!' repeated he, for the third time; 'lives at (puff, wheeze,gasp, cough) Washingforde--yes, at Washingforde; 'bout ten miles from(puff, wheeze) here. When d'ye go?'

  'To-morrow,' replied Sponge, with an air of offended dignity.

  Jog was so rejoiced that he could hardly sit on his chair.

  Mrs. Jog, when she heard it, felt that Gustavus James's chance ofindependence was gone; for well she knew that Jog would never let Spongecome back to the Bower.

  We need scarcely say that Jog was up betimes in the morning, most anxiousto forward Mr. Sponge's departure. He offered to allow Bartholomew toconvey him and his 'traps' in the phaeton--an offer that Mr. Sponge availedhimself of as far as his 'traps' were concerned, though he preferredcantering over on his piebald to trailing along in Jog's jingling chay. Somatters were arranged, and Mr. Sponge forthwith proceeded to put his brownboots, his substantial cords, his superfine tights, his cuttey scarlet, hisdress blue saxony, his clean linen, his heavy spurs, and though last, notleast in importance, his now backless _Mogg_, into his solid leatherportmanteau, sweeping the surplus of his wardrobe into a capaciouscarpet-bag. While the guest was thus busy upstairs, the host wandered aboutrestlessly, now stirring up this person, now hurrying that, in the fullenjoyment of the much-coveted departure. His pleasure was, perhaps, ratherdamped by a running commentary he overheard through the lattice-window ofthe stable, from Leather, as he stripped his horses and tried to roll uptheir clothing in a moderate compass.

  ''Ord rot your great carcass!' exclaimed he, giving the roll a hearty kickin its bulging-out stomach, on finding that he had not got it as small ashe wanted. ''Ord rot your great carcass,' repeated he, scratching his headand eyeing it as it lay; 'this is all the consequence of your nastybrewers' hapron weshins--blowin' of one out, like a bladder!' and,thereupon, he placed his hand on his stomach to feel how his own was.'Never see'd sich a house, or sich an awful mean man!' continued he,stooping and pommelling the package with his fists. It was of no use, hecould not get it as small as he wished--'Must have my jacket out on you, Ido believe,' added he, seeing where the impediment was; 'sticks in yourgizzard just like a lump of old Puff-and-blow's puddin''; and then hethrust his hand into the folds of the clothing, and pulled out the greasygarment. 'Now,' said he, stooping again, 'I think we may manish ye'; and hetook the roll in his arms and hoisted it on to Hercules, whom he meant tomake the led horse, observing aloud, as he adjusted it on the saddle, andwhacked it well with his hands to make it lie right, 'I wish it was oldJog--wouldn't I sarve him out!' He then turned his horses round in theirstalls, tucked his greasy jacket under the flap of the saddle-bags, tookhis ash-stick from the crook, and led them out of the capacious door. Joglooked at him with mingled feelings of disgust and delight. Leather justgave his old hat flipe a rap with his forefinger as he passed with thehorses--a salute that Jog did not condescend to return.

  Having eyed the receding horses with great satisfaction, Jog re-entered thehouse by the kitchens, to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Sponge off. Hefound the portmanteau and carpet-bag standing in the passage, and just atthe moment the sound of the phaeton wheels fell on his ear, as Bartholomewdrove round from the coach-house to the door. Mr. Sponge was already inthe parlour, making his adieus to Mrs. Jog and the children, who were allassembled for the purpose.

  'What, are you goin'?' (puff) asked Jog, with an air of surprise.

  'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge; adding, as he tendered his hand, 'the bestfriends must part, you know.'

  'Well (puff), but you'd better have your (wheeze) horse round,' observedJog, anxious to avoid any overture for a return.

  'Thankee,' replied Mr. Sponge, making a parting bow; 'I'll get him at thestable.'

  'I'll go with you,' said Jog, leading the way.

  Leather had saddled, and bridled, and turned him round in the stall, withone of Mr. Jog's blanket-rugs on, which Mr. Sponge just swept over his tailinto the manger, and led the horse out.

  'Adieu!' said he, offering his hand to his host.

  'Good-bye!--good (puff) sport to you,' said Jog, shaking it heartily.

  Mr. Sponge then mounted his hack, and cocking out his toe, rode off at acanter.

  At the same moment, Bartholomew drove away from the front door; and Jog,having stood watching the phaeton over the rise of Pennypound Hill, scrapedhis feet, re-entered his house, and rubbing them heartily on the mat as heclosed the sash-door, observed aloud to himself, with a jerk of his head:

  'Well, now, that's the most (puff) impittent feller I ever saw in my life!Catch me (gasp) godpapa-hunting again.'