THE RUNNER.
There is no better-known individual in the whole of the Bullshire Hunt perhaps than Jack Whistler the Runner, or, as is he more commonly called, "Jumping Jack." His antecedents are somewhat obscure, and various contradictory stories are told as to who he is and what he was; but his presence at the end of a long run, or in any spot where he thinks he may have the chance of earning an honest shilling, is a positive certainty.
How he manages to turn up at the right moment is only another of the mysteries which surround him; but the fact remains the same, that Jack has solved the problem of "how to be in two places at once" most satisfactorily. No matter how long the day has been, or how many miles he has to go back to the place where he is supposed to have his home, the next day you will see him at the meet as fresh as paint, in his old pink-and-brown leather gaiters, with the same keen eye and half-saucy smile on his face as he doffs his well-worn velvet cap at your approach.
Full of quaint humour is Jack, with many a story of sport, and many a reminiscence of flood and field, which he delights in relating to anyone he can get to listen to him.
"Ger on with yer," he will say to a crowd of gaping rustics; "ger on with yer—call last Wednesday's a run? Why, bless yer, I remember in the old Squire's time, when we run from Finchley cross-roads to Ipply Gorse, better nor five-and-twenty mile, and old Mayster Simpson got up to his neck in the brook, and I stood on the bank fit to bust mysen with larfin, and wouldna pull un out under two half-crowns. Ah! them was days, I can tell yer."
And then, some mounted cavalier arriving, off goes the hunting-cap, and he accosts the sportsman with "Morning, captin'; fine scenting day; hold your horse? thankee, sir," all in one breath.
Not a hound in the pack but what knows him and is glad to see him; and he can call them all by name, and give you their pedigree without a mistake. As old Tom says: "Where he picks up his knowledge Lord knows, but 'e's never wrong, and, by Guy, 'e's a puzzler to be sure."
It is getting near the end of the season, and the weather is just a trifle warm, as old Tom with the hounds overtakes Jack Whistler making his way towards the meet at Fairleigh. There is a breakfast there, and Jack likes to be in time on those occasions, for he knows that he will earn many a sixpence before the actual work begins, besides getting his day's food and drink gratis.
"Holloa, old man, what have yer got there? going a-fishing?" exclaims Tom as he comes up with the pedestrian. "What's that thing for?" pointing to a light pole that Jack is balancing on his shoulder.
"Fishing be blowed," is the reply, "it's my jumper. Don't yer see it's a bit 'ot, and old Riley" (a fellow-runner in a neighbouring pack) "put me up to the tip last week as ever was. He says, says he: 'Why don't yer have a pole made? it ain't much to carry, and you can get over hanythink with it.' So I've had this fettled up, and I've been practising a bit with it, and I can go fine now I can tell yer."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" says Tom. "Well, I should a thought it were more trouble than it were worth carrying a great fishing-rod of a thing like that about."
"Ger out," retorts Jack; "it ain't nothing when yer used to it. I thought it were a new-fangled notion at first, and I came nigh breaking my neck two or three times over a pigsty wall afore I got into it; but look'ee 'ere, it's as easy as shelling peas;" and Jack proceeds to show Tom his prowess in the noble art of saltation.
Taking a short run, with a "Ger back, hounds," he essays to top the fence out of the road; but, alas, to the intense amusement of Tom and the two Whips, his pole sinks into some soft ground, and poor Jack falls all of a heap into the wet ditch on the far side, uttering the while exclamations the reverse of complimentary against the treacherous friend of his travels that had so basely betrayed him.
When he appears, scratched and muddy, in the road again, as soon as Tom can stop laughing he advises him to "leave the bloomin' pole where it is, and not go cutting any more capers of that sort." But Jack's dander is up, and his only reply is to shoulder his weapon and walk on. Presently they arrive at the fixture, and Mr. Whistler's hands are quite full. Indeed, what between laying in a cargo for himself and looking after horses while their owners do the like, he has not much time to talk.
Then comes the business of altering stirrups, tightening girths, and looking after his tips. A marvellous memory does Jack show in this latter respect. Vain indeed is it to try and put on an air of unconcern at his approach, as if you had never seen him before, or as if you had entirely forgotten the service he rendered you when you got that spill last week, and he recovered your horse for you on the promise of half-a-crown.
Jack remembers the circumstance well and the promise better, and he will sidle up to you with a smile, and say: "Morning cap'n. None the worse for the fall? Have not seen yer out since. Hope you won't forget Jack;" and then, having received his recompense, his quick eye catches sight of another debtor, and with a "Thank'ee kindly, sir," he is off to collect more dues.
What he likes best is being taken as a pilot by some comparative stranger to the country, whose heart is not placed in that position requisite to enable him to follow the hounds or ride straight. Then he is in his glory, and from his knowledge of the highways and byways he invariably manages to nick in at various points, and eventually brings his craft safely into port without any casualties.
Of course for this he expects something handsome, and though he makes no bargain he has got a way of returning thanks for any gift he deems insufficient that shows plainly enough his opinion, and generally extracts something in addition. To-day, by the time the hounds move off, Jack has made quite a haul, for, being near the end of the season, men have "remembered the Runner." He is in high feather, and what between pleasure and the effects of the old ale, he is a little unsteady and more garrulous than usual.
"Wheer to, Mayster Wilding?" he asks Tom, as he shoulders his pole and swings it in close proximity to the Huntsman's head.
"Mind what you're a-doin' of, a-poking a fellow's eye out with that thing. We're a goin' to draw the gorse first, but you'd better leave that blessed article behind, or you'll be killing somebody," retorts Tom, riding off, while Jack, with a laugh, swings off best pace towards the first draw, and as soon as he arrives at the gorse places himself in a commanding position to await the turn of events.
Just as the hounds are thrown in there is a bit of commotion down at the other end, and a loose horse galloping past tells the tale of a misfortune. Away goes Jack in hot chase, and manages to catch the riderless steed in a trice. When he returns he finds it is Mr. Betteridge, who, having trusted himself on a new purchase, has been fain to dismount rather more hurriedly than he intended. However, no bones are broken, and Jack, having added another bit of silver to his day's earnings, betakes himself to where he had left his pole.
It is a quick find, and the fox breaks close by Mr. Whistler, who, as soon as he sees him well away, gives vent to his feelings in a somewhat beery view holloa, and then proceeds to follow as fast as he can. At the bottom of the meadow, below the gorse, runs a broadish brook, and a good many turn away for the road and bridge which spans the obstacle. On any other occasion Jack would have done the same, but his failure in the road and old Tom's laughter still rankles in his bosom, and as he runs down towards the water he clutches his pole and says to himself: "I'll show some on 'em as I ain't a-going to be second. I'll pound a few on 'em I'll bet. I do 'ope that old beggar Tom 'ull get a wet jacket."
As the hounds dash in and feather about on the other side, Tom and the hard-riders pull up to see which way the line lies and whether the fox is over or not. But Jack does not stop a moment, and with an exultant shout of "Come on, gents, what are yer waiting for?" he jumps as far as he can, and, holding his pole in a slanting position, plunges it in to aid him in his journey over the water.
The pole touches the bottom and then sinks into about two feet of mud, leaving Jack suspended in mid-air. A momentary pause, and with a "Rot the thing!" the Runner disappears from view beneath the waters of the brook, emerging on the other side half drowned and covered with black slime, while the instrument of his misfortune remains erect in the middle.
"I thought you was a-going fishing," says Tom with a chuckle; as he lands safe by the side of Jack, and then as he passes him to get to the hounds: "You'd better take a few lessons from your pal Riley afore you try again."
The rest of the spectators are nearly in a state of collapse with laughter, both at the pitiable sight Jack presents as well as at the murderous glances he casts at the pole; but hounds are running and there is no time to lose, so the chase sweeps past and he is left alone in his misery to make the best of his way home. As soon as Jack has scraped himself a bit clean and wrung out his coat, he feels carefully in his pockets to see if all his gains are safe; and finding everything right in that respect he brightens up, and leaving his pole where it is, moves off at a brisk jog-trot to the nearest public to dry the outer and wet the inner man.
When next he appears at the door he shows evident signs that he has accomplished the latter part of his purpose, for his course is anything but straight, and after taking nearly an hour to do half a mile he manages to stagger into a barn, where in a few moments he is "wrapt in sweet slumber."
He is not, however, likely to take any harm from the proceeding, for he is used to the sort of sleeping-place, and will turn out next morning—a little red about the eyes perhaps—but ready to go any distance with the hounds, and, what is more, equally ready for some more of the "hair of the dog that bit him."
Passionately fond of hounds and hunting, he enjoys life thoroughly during the winter, and lives on the fat of the land; but when what he calls the "stinking violets and primroses" appear, things are not so pleasant. "Othello's occupation gone," he has to fall back on odd jobs and an occasional half-a-crown from Sir John or some of his friends, and, failing these, may be generally found "at home" at the "red house," maybe better known as the "workus."
Vagabond he is, and vagabond he will remain. Nevertheless, there is many a man who would be sorry to hear of anything serious happening to Jack Whistler the Bullshire Runner.