THE AUTHORITY.
It is ten years since Mr. Hall did the Bullshire country the honour of becoming a resident, and in that time he has managed to assert himself considerably, and may now be considered "no small pumpkins." At least the Hall family look on themselves in that light, and surely they must be the best judges.
Hall père is a good-natured open-handed sportsman, who rides the best horses, smokes the best cigars, and drinks the best wine that money can procure, but who has the misfortune to consider himself an authority on sport and hunting, and is also afflicted with a weakness for seeing his lucubrations in print.
Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, affects the evangelical rôle, and is forever establishing crèches, forming night-schools, and endeavouring to lead the young men of Bullshire in the way that they should go. She is also of a literary turn of mind, and has published more than once under the auspices of the S.P.C.K. Her latest effort was not quite a success, owing, she says, to "bitter and unchristian hostility."
She had spent much time on the completion of a "sporto-religious" novel—"one that anybody might read without a blush," as she put it; and when finished she called it "A Heavenly Hunt, or Hints by the Way."
Harold Lappington and a few kindred spirits, however, were unkind enough to parody the book; and a week afterwards was distributed broadcast throughout the country, "Running a Ring, or Hints on Matrimony."
The joke was too good not to be appreciated, and one may safely say that the only person who did not see it was Mrs. Hall herself. Even her husband laughed at her, and talked grandiloquently about writing on subjects that she did not understand.
It was for a long time a mystery to the members of the Hunt how the accounts of their sport got into the papers, and Sir John tried in vain to discover the reporter. Marvellously accurate were the descriptions of the run, names of places, distances, what each particular hound did, where Tom made his cast for better or for worse, and the various incidents or accidents of the chase were all set forth without an error. So men came to the conclusion that it must be some one of the hard-riders, and consequently were more puzzled than ever. Everybody was accused in turn—the Doctor, the Parson, even Mrs. Talford; but all denied the soft impeachment.
When the matter was alluded to at the hunt-dinner by Sir John, it was noticed that Mr. Hall did not look quite as if he was enjoying his dinner, and whispers of "It's old Hall; look at him," passed from one to the other.
"But then Hall never rides a yard. How the deuce could he know all about it?" said others; and the matter was as far from being solved as ever.
Old Tom, however, determines to get at the bottom of it, and as he rides to Brainsty cross-roads, he maps out a plan of operations. It is not a nice day by any means, a high blustering north-east wind blowing, as Tom says, "fit to turn yer inside out;" and, as he takes refuge with the pack behind a barn, the old Huntsman does not anticipate much sport. The field arrive by twos and threes, with heads bent down and upturned collars, looking as wretched as men generally do when beating up against a gale. Almost the last comer is Mr. Hall, who immediately gives it as his opinion that there cannot possibly be any fun, and that he should not be surprised if Sir John took the hounds home.
"I've seen 'em run hard in worse weather nor this, sir," says Tom, with a smile and a shiver.
"Well, I never have, and you may take it I know something about hunting," replies the Authority.
"What's that?" asks the Master, who has just got on to his horse.
"Nothing, Sir John; nothing. I only said that there would be no sport, and Tom seems to think differently;" and then, turning to the men about him, Mr. Hall continues: "It's impossible for any scent to lie with this wind. Besides, what fox in his senses would face it?"
"There's more nor one kind o' scent, and if t' fox wunna face t' wind, ay mun travel wi' it," puts in Tom, and then trots off best pace to draw Ambleside Banks.
When they arrive at the covert, Mr. Hall informs everybody that "It is no use going to the far side; no fox ever breaks there. Never has done yet;" and on some of his audience paying no attention, he shouts: "Oh, all right; don't blame me if you're thrown out."
Scarcely are the words out of his mouth than the sound of Tom's horn comes down on the wind, and the pack are away in full cry, the fox breaking just where Mr. Hall had said he would not. A sharp burst over two fields, a quick turn, and then down-wind like lightning, the pace increasing every yard.
Unfortunately for the Authority, he does not notice the turn, and, riding hard along the lane for a point, he finds himself on reaching the top of a small hill utterly lost, no sign of the hounds and no sound of any sort to guide him. After riding about aimlessly in every direction for the best part of an hour, he at last hears tidings of their being down Hinckley way, and off he goes, only to hear that "T' hounds a-been gone better nor twenty minutes." It is now getting late, so Mr. Hall makes up his mind to ride home viâ the kennels, where for a moment we will leave him and return to Tom and the rest of the field.
After ten minutes as fast as they can go, the fox tries the low wall of a farmyard, but the pace has been too hot for him, and he falls back right into the mouths of the pack. Having performed the funeral rites, Tom gets his orders for Hinckley, and then commence a series of disappointments. Foxes there are, for one is soon halloed away; but the hounds can make nothing of it directly they get into the open. Two or three times this happens, and it becomes evident that Mr. Hall was right in the main, and that they could not hunt that day. So at last the Master gives the word for home, for which few blame him.
As Tom rides along the road to the kennels, he tells Charles and Harry they are to be sure and say that it has been a first-class thing, and to back him up in everything he says. Naturally they both wonder what the old man is up to, but Tom holds his peace, and will tell them nothing, looking the while as knowing as a jackdaw who has just hidden something valuable. Evidently he has concocted some scheme, and a light begins to dawn on the two Whips when the figure of Mr. Hall is seen in the distance.
"Why, Mayster Hall, wheer an yer been to?" says Tom, as they overtake the lost one.
"Well," replies Mr. Hall, "I don't know how it was, but when I got to Kirby I found I was clean out of it. I took the wrong turn in the wood, you see. You must have dipped the hill, and the infernal wind was so high I could not hear you."
"Dear-a me, that was a pity! you missed summat good," exclaims Tom, with a sorrowful or rather pitiful expression.
Mr. Hall eagerly snaps at the bait and asks for full particulars—whether they killed? where they went? who was up? etc. etc.; all of which information the Huntsman supplies with the gravest of countenances, inventing as he goes along. Charles and Harry are nearly convulsed, and it is with the utmost difficulty that they are able to speak when appealed to by old Tom to corroborate his statements.
"By Jove, Tom, that was a good thing," says the Authority. "I said that they could only run down wind. You may always trust me about hunting. Why, its nearly nine miles straight on end! How long did you say?"
"Fifty-five minutes, weren't it, Charles?" replies Tom, appealing to the First Whip.
"Summat about there," answers Charles, turning away and muttering: "Lord forgive us, what a start!"
Mr. Hall then bids good-night to the hunt-servants, and trots home as pleased as Punch.
That evening, after Sir John has finished his dinner, his butler tells him that the Huntsman wishes to speak a word to him, and then Tom tells his master the story, and what he expected would come of it.
"He'll never forgive you, Tom, if you are right in what you think; and he's one of our best supporters," exclaimed Sir John, roaring with laughter.
"Never fear, sir, never fear. I can work round him right enow; and I'm thinking, Sir John, if so be as you will say naught, but just write up the week after to contradict the whole thing, it will give Mr. Hall a lesson. He dursn't say anything, as he knows you don't like the 'ounds wrote of, and the paper won't have no more from Mr. 'Black Hat'" (the nom de plume of the Bullshire correspondent).
Next Saturday morning, as sure as fate, men are surprised to see a description of an extraordinary run from Ambleside, as follows:
"A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire.
"On Tuesday last this sporting pack had a wonderfully good run in a gale of wind. There was not a large muster at the meet (Brainsty cross-roads) owing to the inclemency of the weather, but those who were bold enough to face the elements had no cause to regret their temerity. The first draw was Ambleside Banks, noted throughout the country for the stoutness of its foxes; and on the day in question it fully kept up its reputation, for scarcely had that best of huntsmen, Tom Wilding, thrown his hounds into covert, than a real traveller broke away with the pack almost at his brush. Strange to say he headed straight up wind, notwithstanding that, as I have said, it was blowing a gale, and made the best of his way to Kirby village; then, turning to the right, he led them a cracking pace over the vale through Shawston to Hinckley Wood; here he was inclined to hang in covert, but the hounds would not be denied, and forced him out, when he made his point for Lyston, some three miles off. The pace had been very fast and the country very stiff, so that the field was greatly reduced, and there were many cases of profundit humi. Most of the first flight, however, were 'all there,' including, among others, place aux dames, Mrs. Talford, Sir John Lappington (the Master), Mr. Halston, and Mr. Bowles. About a mile from Lyston there was a short but welcome check, owing to the fox having been coursed by a sheep-dog; but Tom, by a judicious cast, hit off the line, and they were away again. Leaving Lyston on the left (Reynard having tried the earths there, and found no admittance), the line lay through Oxley, over the brook—which proved a serious obstacle to more than one sportsman—indeed, there were, as might have been expected considering the pace, more in than over. But to continue. Having run straight through the village of Oxley, this gallant fox made for Mr. Browne's farm on the hill; but, unfortunately for him, the hounds were close at his brush, and before he could reach that bourne the 'who-whoop' had sounded his requiem. Mr. Browne, with his usual hospitality, regaled those who were there to see the end, and a nip of his famous ginger brandy was an offer not to be refused, especially with a long ride home in the teeth of the wind. The time from start to finish was an hour and five minutes, almost without a check, and the distance from point to point could not be less than nine miles. When this celebrated pack have another run such as that I have endeavoured to describe, may I be again there to see.
"Black Hat."
"Who the deuce can have written all that farrago of nonsense?" says Mr. Boulter. "Why, we never ran more than a mile and a half." And the Secretary is not the only one who makes anxious inquiries.
Mr. Hall has been away in London, and, having only returned that morning is in blissful ignorance of the way he has been taken in.
As he arrives there is a general shout of "Here, Hall, you're an Authority; some idiot has been cooking up an account of Tuesday's sport and writing to the papers. You never read such a pack of lies in your life. We must stop this sort of thing. What should be done?"
The gentleman's feelings can be better imagined than described, and as he stammers out "I have not seen the paper," he wishes himself elsewhere.
It is noticed that that day he does not give his opinion on the whereabouts of a fox in quite such an authoritative manner, and avoids everybody as much as possible. Of course he soon hears the true account, and on the following Saturday his cup is filled when he reads under the same heading as his own—viz. "A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire"—
"Sir,—I beg to inform you that the account of a run on Tuesday week with these hounds, which you gave in your last issue, was entirely fictitious, as we had no sport after the first ten minutes, the hounds being unable to hunt.—I remain yours obediently,
"J. Lappington, Master B.H."
How old Tom managed to smooth the irate individual down is not known, but nothing more ever came of it, save that "Black Hat" no longer sends accounts to the papers of sport with the Bullshire Hounds.