THE BOASTER.
If one could only believe one quarter of the strange adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and marvellous performances in the field of which Mr. Story says he has been the hero, one might well set him down as a wonderful Nimrod. But, unfortunately, veracity does not form part of his character. He is good-natured, generous, hospitable, and amusing, yet one of the most confirmed liars in the country.
Not that he is what is known as a harmful liar, for he would as soon think of telling an anecdote reflecting on the character of any of his friends or acquaintances as he would of picking their pockets. No, his embroidery is strictly personal. It appertains solely to what he has done or can do, and such a habit has this become with him that he firmly believes every word he says, and will pledge his honour that such and such a thing happened, that he did this or that, the while relating some performance that effectually puts that prince of fibbers Baron Munchausen in the background.
Nothing seems to cure him. Over and over again has he been caught out by a sceptical audience, who have then and there endeavoured to put him to the blush, but it has been of no avail, for two minutes afterwards he will be romancing away as gaily as ever on some fresh subject. Men have got tired of trying to break him of it, and now only sit and laugh, acknowledging that "Old Story is devilish good fun though he is such a thundering liar."
Of course in the hunting-field he is the veriest impostor that ever got on a horse, never, if he can possibly help it, leaving the glorious safety of the hard highway. Yet the description of the run as told by him in the evening fairly takes your breath away, and, supposing you to be a stranger, makes you feel that you have come into a country the like of which you have never seen.
Sheep-hurdles are (according to Mr. Story) five-barred gates, the smallest ditch a veritable river; and as he turns to some one or the other guest at his table and says: "Did you notice that horse I was riding to-day? Deuced clever animal, I can tell you. Jumped a double post and rails with about twelve foot of water on the far side, and made nothing of them, 'pon my honour!" you wonder whether there are many fences of the same species to be encountered, or many horses with the same supreme contempt for them to be picked up in Bullshire.
Once in his life he did jump a brook, and it is even betting that before you have been long in his presence he will tell you all about it, though his version of the occurrence differs slightly from that of those who saw it.
They had been having a very slow hunting-run on a cold scent, barely out of a trot most of the time, the hounds picking it out inch by inch, and at last they came to a dead lock in a field, round two-thirds of which ran the Marston brook. Mr. Story, who had been as usual very prominent in the centre of the road, which ran conveniently adjacent, thought he might as well turn into the field through the gate, which he did.
Unfortunately for him there was a bull in the corner, which neither he nor anyone else had noticed, and just as the gate swung to and latched again, the hounds hit off the line and went over the brook. At the same moment the bull, having lashed himself into a rage, and maddened by the cry of the hounds, singled out Story's red coat and charged down on him. This startled his gallant steed. Away he went, followed by the bull, and, to everyone's intense astonishment and amusement, Story was seen on his horse's neck well over the water.
He himself will tell you that he cut the whole field down—"Pounded them, sir, on my honour, at the brook;" but the real facts of the case are those I have just narrated.
Most particular is Mr. Story as to his external appearance, and the bows of his well-fitting leathers are tied with a mathematical accuracy attainable only by long and patient manipulation, aided by the use of various scientific instruments, such as pincers and button-hooks, of which he keeps a large assortment. His necktie is the envy of half the men in the field, while the peculiar shade of his tops has caused more envy, hatred, and malice among the valets than one would have believed possible.
It is very fine to hear the contemptuous tone he assumes when dilating on the performances of those sportsmen who come under the head of the "galloping-and-jumping division." "Look at them," he will say. "I ask you, what do they know about hunting? They've only one idea—jump, jump, jump, all day. Now no one is fonder of a quick thing than I am, but you never see me galloping about, jumping over everything I can find" (the only true thing in his speech), "and yet when it comes to riding, I flatter myself I can give them a stone and a beating. Valpy! Faugh, a rough-rider, sir, a rough-rider. Nowhere in a run. Have beaten him over and over again, 'pon my honour. You remember that forty minutes we had," etc. etc.; and then follows a glowing description of some imaginary run over the stiffest part of the country, where Story had the hounds all to himself after the first ten minutes, and never saw a soul again till they had broken up their fox.
If he happens to be at his own house he will take you off to his den, and, by way of corroborating the tale, will point out the brush of the identical fox hanging over the mantelpiece, and handling it carefully, will say: "Ah, there is some satisfaction in having a brush that one gets all by one's self."
(Quite so, Mr. Story; but what was that small piece of gold for, that found its way out of your pocket into that of Charles the First Whip?)
Quite a museum of sport is Story's den, or "sanctum," as he calls it. Round the walls are hung innumerable sporting pictures, foxs' brushes and masks, all mounted, and bearing the date, length of run, find, and kill, emblazoned in gold letters underneath. On the left-hand side of the fireplace is a gun-cupboard, well stocked with breechloaders and rifles; for Story has some wonderful adventures in the Rocky Mountains to relate. Opposite, on the other side, is a stick-rack, crowded with crops, cutting-whips, ash-plants, spurs of all sizes, and hunting-caps; while underneath are arranged a pile of white band-boxes, each containing a shining Lincoln and Bennett. Between the windows are a row of hat-pegs, four in number, and on every peg hangs a hat reduced to the state of flatness said to be peculiar to pancakes.
Naturally one is struck with so novel an arrangement in dilapidated head-gear, and in a weak moment, perhaps, one asks "What on earth those old hats are for? Are they used in the summer to keep the birds from the peas, or what?"
"Peas, my dear fellow; no, by gad," will be the ready reply. "They are the hats I have come to grief in. I keep them for old lang syne. In that one on the right I rode the famous Willowfield run. Fourteen falls, and finished up in the Swill. On my honour, I thought I never should have got out. Horse got on the top of me, and I was under water for a minute;" and then, taking down the other three in succession, Story will relate the romance attached to each.
Ill-natured slander says that their present shape is attributable to having been violently sat upon in the garden after two days' rain, and the authority of a discharged valet, who remonstrated on this wholesale destruction of his perquisites, is given. But then there is nothing that ill-natured slander will not say.
One good point about the Boaster is that he is a most stanch preserver of foxes, and although his property is not a large one, Lappington is always perfectly certain of finding in his coverts. It is a great-day for him when the hounds meet in the village. No general commanding a division feels half such a great man as Mr. Story, who, having confidentially informed Sir John that there are no less than five foxes in the wood, takes charge of Tom and the pack and leads them on to victory.
Should they not find immediately, the various stages of anxiety depicted on his face are intensely amusing, and the triumphant "I-told-you-so" expression he assumes when at last the swelling chorus proclaims the varmint at home, is well worth coming any distance to see.
No sooner are they well away than the highroad claims him for its own, and, followed by a small detachment, Story's figure is seen vanishing through the toll-gate, making for some distant point which he seems to know by intuition the fox is bound for. His knowledge of the country and the lanes thereof is wonderful, and having, by slipping down a byway, shaken off his retinue, he arrives on the high ground just as the fox crosses the bottom and crawls into Watson's osiers.
The hounds are not yet in sight though he can hear them in the distance, so he has time to let himself into the field through the gate, and inspect the low wattle fence at the far end, over which he knows the line will be. Finding it is very plain sailing, and that there is a most convenient gap again into the lane which leads direct to the osiers, he gets behind a haystack, and waits the arrival of Tom and the pack. Most men would holloa the fox, but Story knows a trick worth two of that. He has a reputation to keep up, and a history to tell of "those big rails by Brown's farm," and "that double after we came out of the water-meadows," which would hardly sound so well if he was known to have arrived at his present position in front of the hounds.
Presently the hounds come up, and he notes with glee that there are but four or five anywhere near them. As they top the wattle he dashes round the haystack as if he had ridden all the way wide on their left, and flying the fence is in the same field with them—alone.
"Dang 'im, how did ay get theer? Ay never rode along wi' us, I know," mutters Tom to himself; but the pace is too hot to think about it at the moment.
"Capital run, Tom," shouts Story, as they gallop down the field together; "but, my eye, what a stiff bit we have had! Those rails of Brown's were a stopper. You should have had them where I did, on the left." (Tom had been deuced nearly down there, a circumstance Story had noticed from the road.) "He'll be in the osiers; I'll get on and view him out the far side;" and away goes our friend through the gap and down the lane.
"Now, I should just like to know wheer in the name of fortun' ay's coom from. There's some hanky-panky, I knows. Did you see Mayster Story, Charles?" says Tom, as they check, to the First Whip, who has just arrived, his coat showing pretty evident signs of where he had been.
"Saw him going down the road when we found; but Craftsman has it," replies Charles, and "For'ard on" is again the order.
Into the osiers they crash, and a "Tally-ho!" from Story on the far side shows them to be close behind their fox. "For'ard, for'ard, for'ard away," screams Tom, blowing the hounds out of the covert; and in the second field it is all up, and Tom is off his horse in the middle of the pack, with Story and five others only there to see. As the remainder of the field gallop up by twos and threes our friend takes his watch out, and, addressing the Master, says: "Best thing I've seen for many a day—fifty-three minutes with hardly a check. 'Pon my honour, it's marvellous that so few of us came to grief. Awful stiff country. Give you my word, I thought I should break my neck every fence."
"Could not afford to lose such a sportsman as you, Story," replies Sir John, laughing and turning to Tom. "Here, give Mr. Story the brush; it's worthy of a place in his den."
"Right, sir," says Tom; but he winks at Charles and whispers: "There'll be a fine tale over this one, I'll lay."
Story is dining out that night, so he does not accompany them to find their second fox, but by the time the ladies have come into the drawing-room and the chairs are drawn round the fire, the fifty-three minutes have grown to an hour and twenty minutes, and the deeds of daring performed by himself have increased in proportion. As he drives home he turns it over in his own mind whether another hat and peg shall not be added to the relics between the window, with the glorious history of "the crumpler over Brown's rails" attached thereto. But he eventually decides, as so many of the field saw him at the finish with his headpiece in its normal condition, that perhaps on the whole it would be better not.
This, however, does not prevent him from entering a full and true (?) account of the run to Watson's osiers in his hunting-diary, and executing a small yet carefully-drawn map of the country, with crosses marked thereon denoting the locality of some of the terrific obstacles he encountered—and negotiated in safety.
Should the conversation turn on hunting (which it is pretty certain to do) while smoking the post-prandial cigar in Story's sanctum, he will read a few extracts from this diary, which the assembled guests may believe or not—as they like.