THE KEEPER.
One of the richest men in the county of Bullshire next to "the Dook" is a Mr. Betteridge, a retired partner of the well-known firm of Betteridge, Woolsey, and Co., of Manchester, who about five years back purchased the Medemere estate, which originally belonged to the Slowboy family. Of course he immediately improved (?) the fine old Elizabethan hall by adding thereto sundry wings and towers, and also converting the old-fashioned gardens, with their quaint yew-edges, into trim parterres and terraces, after what he was pleased to call "the Italian style."
He has two great objects in life, in both of which unfortunately he appears bound to be frustrated. The first is to be what is known as "a popular sportsman," and the second to be considered somebody of importance.
With regard to number one—beyond having made a gorse and keeping the most expensive cattle, which, needless to say, he cannot ride himself—his ideas are limited; while, in the second instance, he has a deadly rival, before whom he sinks into insignificance, and whose word he has learnt to look on as law.
This individual is neither more nor less than his Head-keeper, "Mr. James," who (in his own estimation) combines all the virtues under the sun, and speaks in the most grandiloquent way of "our shooting," "our woods," "our coverts," "our foxes," "our parties," and "our" Heaven knows what. Mr. James will inform you that he is a most ardent fox-hunter, that it is "our pride always to have foxes for Sir John. In fact, I told Mr. Betteridge that it must be when we first agreed on the shooting," etc.
Yet, strange to say, there is a scarcity of the commodity in the Medemere Woods that does not tally with these high-sounding assertions. Certainly the gorse generally contains one or two, but that is quite on the outsides, and near nothing in the pheasant interest. Betteridge himself would pay anything, do anything (except adopt the only proper method), to have foxes, and has many a time and oft remonstrated with "Mr. James" on the subject. But he is invariably snubbed and subdued by this mighty potentate, and made to wish he had not spoken.
It is unfortunate that "Mr. James" should have lived, before he condescended to "assist" Mr. Betteridge, with the Earl of Upcroft, for the "Hearl" is his great rallying-point; and whenever there is anything that his present employer does not quite like, and ventures to suggest alterations upon, it is always:
"When I lived with the 'Hearl' we never did in no way different to what we are a-doing now, and the 'Hearl,' he used to say as how, thanks to me—'I puts it all down to you, James,' was his very words—'heverything works just like clockwork.' Of course if so be as you wants it different, why it can be done, but depend hon it the 'Hearl' knowed what was what."
After this "Cottonopolis" has nothing to say, and James and the "Hearl" carry it.
Give him his due as a Keeper, he is excellent; for getting up a head of game his equal is not to be found, nor can his method of beating the covers or showing his birds be surpassed. But in his heart, notwithstanding his outward professions, he is a vulpecide, and his satellites are too well trained and hold him in too much awe to say anything.
Sir John Lappington distrusts him; indeed, he has gone so far as to speak to Betteridge on the subject, and old Tom is perfectly convinced on the point; but James and his "Hearl" have hitherto been more than they can manage.
Last season things very nearly came to a climax, for after drawing Mr. Betteridge's coverts blank three times running, Sir John vowed he would not come there again. Mr. James was most profuse in his apologies, and his astonishment was grand.
"I'm sure," said he, "I can't imagine where them foxes has got to. Bill saw two in the big wood last night, and I've been most pertickerler about it. Bill tells me as he knows of another in the Cross Spinney. Didn't yer, Bill? Where's Bill?" (That worthy having carefully slipped out of sight on the first signs of a cross-examination.) "Ah! 'e's never here when he's wanted," continued the great man. "Tom, I'm thinking you must have drawed over 'em."
"More than I'm thinking you've done," returned old Tom; adding, sotto voce, "nasty deceitful beggar."
"Well, Mr. Betteridge," said Sir John after a pause, and with his eye fixed on "Mr. James," "it's a great pity, but I think I must be to blame to a certain extent. I ought to have brought out some different hounds. I must get some truffle-dogs if I come here again. It seems our only chance of finding foxes, and I daresay your Keeper is right and we have drawn over them."
The shouts of laughter that followed this speech made it clear to both master and man that there was some sarcasm, but neither of them could make out quite what it was—until the evening, when Mr. James, happening to meet the village schoolmaster, asked him what Sir John meant by truffle-dogs, and was informed that they were a peculiar breed that found things underground.
The joke went round the village in a trice, and Mr. James is still known as "Truffles," though it is not quite safe to call him so to his face.
For more than half the season the Master kept his word, and the hounds never came near Medemere. But at last a piteous appeal from Mr. Betteridge is listened to, and "Monday, Medemere Hall," appears in the paper.
Such a turn-out! A breakfast, more than half of it down from Gunter's; powdered footmen rushing about in everybody's way; footmen out of powder doing the same thing; a butler, whose busy appearance is worth a hundred a-year to him, superintending the champagne, which flowed freely; and over all Mr. Betteridge, flushed, excited, and uncomfortable.
Outside is the same profusion, and Mr. James and his army of retainers dispense good cheer with a liberal hand. No fear has he to-day, for Bill has actual and bonâ-fide knowledge of a fox in the osiers, and to make quite certain, a small box from Leadenhall Market came down two days before, and the contents have been shaken out in the big wood.
Under the circumstances he can afford to pass by Tom's remark of "Hope you haven't stopped no foxes in to-day" in silence, merely saying: "I think we had better draw our Osiers first, if Sir John is agreeable. I have told Mr. Betteridge that would be the first draw."
"Oh, you have, have yer?—that was kind of you," says Tom; and turning to the Whip: "Charles, put those hounds to me; they might go and injure Mr. James's flower-beds."
What the result of this speech, which of course raised a laugh, might have been it is hard to say, for at this moment out comes the Master and Mr. Betteridge, followed by the rest of the field. Mr. James takes off his hat with a low bow, and says: "Beg pardon, Sir John, I was a just saying to the Huntsman that we'd better try the Hosiers first. Bill knows of a fox there."
"I hope he does this time, James," replies Sir John; "but I am going to draw the big wood, and then the Osiers."
"Very good, Sir John; of course you knows best," remarks Mr. James, and then hurries off, thinking how deuced lucky it is that he had a bagman down on the chance.
When they arrive at the bottom of the wood they find the great man standing at the gate full of importance, and with an air of self-satisfaction on his face. "I'm sure there's summut up, sir," says old Tom to Sir John, as the hounds dash into cover. "He'd never look so 'nation pleased if there was not some roguery in the wind. Eleu, in; eleu, at him; eugh, boys. Bagman, maybe. Eleu, try." A tally-ho from the far side before the hounds have opened on the line cuts him short, and with a "Danged if I don't think I'm right," the old Huntsman, blowing his horn, gallops down the ride to where the holloa was heard. The hounds do not settle on the line kindly, in fact, the old hounds will scarcely own it; however, they get along somehow for about a quarter of an hour, when poor bagman's race is run and they pull him down.
"Who-whoop," yells Tom; "who-whoop, and if that don't make yer ashamed of yourself nothin' will; I know'd he were a bagman—dang the cheek of the man."
Not a hound will touch him, not even the young entry, and Sir John is perfectly furious.
"Mr. Betteridge," he says; as that worthy appears, quite innocent and highly delighted at there being a fox at all. "Mr. Betteridge, I came here at your request to draw your covers; I came here on your assurance that there were foxes; and you, sir, have the audacity to turn out a stinking bagman in front of my hounds."
"My dear Sir John," replied the unfortunate man, "I never should dream of doing such a thing; my Keeper told me there were foxes; but I never would have turned out a bagman, I assure you. How can you tell it is a bag fox?"
"I believe, Mr. Betteridge, you are innocent, and I apologise," says Sir John after a pause. "You ask me how I know. Look there at the hounds, they know well enough. Frankly, I tell you that unless you arrange matters with your Keeper James, who is the author of this, I will not draw your covers again, nor will I take your subscription to the hounds;" and then, turning to Tom, "try the Osiers, and if that's blank, trot off to Lappington."
Mr. Betteridge is quite flabbergasted, and in the first flush of the thing vows vengeance against the Keeper, but this cools down considerably before they get to the osiers, and he begins to turn over in his mind what the "Hearl" would have done. Mr. James is ignorant of the little scene that has been enacted, so meets the hounds at the Osiers, and, touching his hat to Sir John, with a smile says: "Killed him, sir? You'll find another here."
He is somewhat astonished, therefore, when he is told that if he dare do such a thing again he as likely as not will get his discharge, and if Mr. Betteridge can't be persuaded to do that he is still more likely to get a good thrashing for his impertinence.
"Dang your ugly mug," says Tom to him, as soon as Sir John is out of hearing; "you thought to come the clever over me and t' hounds, did yer? Ugh, they'd no more eat a bag fox than they'd touch your dirty overgrown carcass. I'd like to gi' yer what for, big as yer are;" and then the hounds crash over into the witheys, and Tom begins to draw. From the way they dash there is no doubt of a good fox this time, and presently a whimper from Bonnibel strikes the key-note. Up and down the Osiers twice he goes, with the pack close at him, and then away. No. One of the Keeper's satellites, and under-Velveteens, heads him, and he sneaks back along the wet ditch, while the hounds flash into the grass-field.
"Tall'o baik," screams Charles, who has seen it. "Will you take yourself away from there?" and Velveteens removes himself and feels humble.
One more round, and then he does go, and sets his head straight for Colliston, a grand line, grass the whole way. The first fifty minutes is racing pace, and the grief over the big fences plentiful. Four or five minutes are lost in a small pit-hole by a farm, where the fox had tried an earth, and then they are away again, rolling him over in the open twenty minutes later.
"A real good thing," is the unanimous verdict, and the Master is only too glad to tell Mr. Betteridge, when he arrives (which he does after all has been over some time) that the present animal makes up for the morning's performance, whereat the heart of "Cottonopolis" is made joyful again.
As they ride together to the next draw—Colliston Gorse—Mr. Betteridge begs Sir John to come and dine with him that night quite alone, and to help him to interview Mr. James. Sir John, foreseeing a good result, accepts, and after dinner, at which meal Mr. Betteridge hears some good wholesome truths, Mr. James is sent for.
Directly he appears and sees Sir John he knows it is all up, and that the "Hearl" will not serve him a bit; and his heart fails when Sir John commences by saying: "Your master has left the matter on which we have sent for you entirely in my hands." Then, after keeping him on tenter-hooks for a quarter of an hour, and turning the man inside out, he relieves him by saying: "The fox from the Osiers saved you, but Mr. Betteridge has given his word of honour that the next time the hounds come here and there are no foxes—wild ones I mean—that day is your last with him, and you go—without a character."
Mr. James, humbled and apologetic, commences a long string of protestations and assurances of amendment, but is cut short by "That will do; go and act, don't talk." Betteridge thinks the Master the most wonderful man, and cannot make out how he braved Mr. James and the "Hearl" so cleverly; but he is awfully grateful, and being a man of his word it is to be hoped that in future there will be foxes at Medemere, and that he will no longer be under the thumb of—the Keeper.