THE SCHOOLBOYS.
For the last week parents have been receiving letters from young hopefuls, in which allusions have been made to the absolute necessity of sending by return of post some more pocket-money wherewith to liquidate sundry small accounts, and to enable him to give his friends who are "leaving this half" some presents.
Most of the documents have wound up with the announcement that there are only three or four days to the holidays, and with requests that John, or Thomas, or Sam may be told to get the pony fit for them to ride. In some instances the father, or, as the "young gentleman" prefers to call him, "the governor," has been reminded of his promise to buy a new horse; and as he knows full well that unless he does so the word "peace," so far as he is concerned, may be scratched out of the dictionary, Jimmy Holden is called into council and the animal is procured.
As the down-train runs into Lappington Station, four or five eager faces may be seen, one over the other, filling up the window of the railway carriage; and before the train has well stopped four or five equally eager bodies jump out; and the porters, without waiting for instructions, immediately proceed to empty the compartment of rugs, sticks, two-shilling novels, bags, and the numerous other items which invariably accompany a boy on his return from school.
"There's the governor, Charlie," says a bright-looking lad to his schoolfellow, whom he has brought home with him for the first fortnight of the holidays.
"How are you, Dick? and how is the pony?" exclaims another, addressing the neat-looking servant, who is evidently as pleased to see his young master as that worthy is to have put by his books for a time.
"No signs of frost; we shall be out to-morrow at The Grange," shouts a third, as he disappears within the portals of the booking-office.
The hero of the hour, however, is Harold Lappington, Sir John's youngest brother, a tall good-looking young fellow, who in the field is known to combine the fearlessness of youth with the knowledge of old age. He has come that morning from Eton, where he has been keeping his hand in by hunting the college beagles. Old Tom and his brother have come to meet him, and many of the other boys envy him the honour of shaking hands with so great a man as the Huntsman.
"By Guy, Mayster Harold, but you are growed, looking well and all," says Tom; and then, turning to the Master: "Eh, Sir John, ay's gettin' a rare-topped 'un."
"By Jove, Tom, there's no need to ask how you are, you're looking as fit as a fiddle. Is that young gray horse fit for me to ride? The one you had at the kennels, I mean," ejaculates Harold: and, receiving an answer in the affirmative, walks off with Sir John to where an obsequious porter is hoisting his traps into a dog-cart which is standing outside.
"Here, John," he says to his brother, as he jumps up, "I'm going to drive."
"Not if I know it," replies the Master. "I have not forgotten that last exploit of yours, when you upset me over a heap of stones."
But of course the boy has his way, and with a "Good-night, Tom," and a wave of the hand, they rattle round the corner, shaving the gate-post so close as to cause the Master to clench his teeth and hold on like grim death.
"Well," mutters Tom, when they, are out of sight, "there'll be some riding to-morrow, I know, and some tumbling too. I 'opes we gets away quick, for though I loves to see the lads go, they do myther (bother) me terrible at the first;" and he turns up the road towards the kennels, exchanging Good-nights and bright hopes for the morrow with the young occupants of the various traps as they pass him on their way to their respective homes.
By ten o'clock the next morning the road to The Grange is lively with the usual symptoms of a meet. Grooms with led-horses are riding alongside the tax-cart of the butcher or baker. Men and boys on foot keep up that peculiar kind of shuffle, half run, half walk, which is seen nowhere save in the country. The keeper and the poacher jostle one another and combine to chaff the merry vendor of crockery and hardware who, perched on the top of his wares and drawn by his trotting "moke," has chosen the centre of the road, somewhat to the inconvenience of those in his rear.
He is well able to hold his own, and gives as much as he gets. Indeed, in the matter of chaff, it takes the allied forces all their time to keep on even terms until they overtake the local policeman, when the channel of wit and repartee is diverted against "poor Robert," who of course being ignominiously defeated at once, takes refuge under official dignity, and thinks of the time when his turn will come.
The keepers have held aloof from the latter entertainment, for it would not be right to make a butt of the Law, they think; and so, joining him, all proceed towards The Grange as merry as crickets. Presently there is a shout from behind, and turning round they see old Tom and the pack, with many a bit of pink in his wake, and, what is more (in their own eyes, at all events), many an emancipated schoolboy.
"Lend us one of them dorgs to run under my carriage," says the itinerant hardware merchant as they pass him.
Tom rather winces at the word "dorgs" being applied to his darlings, and is preparing a stinging rejoinder; but before it is ready, Eton, Harrow, Rugby, and Winchester have (verbally) fallen on the rash jester and silenced him completely.
However, he manages to make his way to The Grange, and while there disposes of some of his crockery, and drinks Tom's health in some of Mr. Boulter's beer, calling him, by-the-way, "Lord Topboots."
Such greetings and chaff, too, among lads! Criticisms of their respective animals, mutual challenges, and hurried arrangements for all sorts of sport. The Secretary is not forgotten either, and various inquiries are made concerning "his last speech and what time he came home." At last the Master and his brother Harold drive up, and in a few moments are mounted and ready. One glass of sherry "Just to keep the Secretary in tune," as Harold says, and Tom, getting a nod, trots off to the wood about half a mile away.
"Charles," says he to the First Whip, "you get down to corner, and if so be as t' fox breaks, dunna holloa; just crack yer whip when ay's well away. Maybe then I shall have a chance of getting hounds on to the line."
On the road to the wood there are two small fences, and though the gates are open wide, with the exception of Harold Lappington, every boy has his pony over, into, or through them. A fall or two brings down a torrent of jeers on the unfortunates, and one youngster in particular, who goes careering round the field, half on, half off his animal, is most productive of sport.
"Stick to him, Johnny," shout some; "he's off; no he isn't; well saved," as, more by good luck than good management, he regains his seat, and comes back looking rather crestfallen. Some of the farmers think for a moment of their fences and what a lot of "making up" there will be on the morrow; but the joyous faces and boisterous spirits of the schoolboys are infectious, and they feel with old Simms, who said, when last year they broke three of his gates down and let his sheep out all over the country: "We were all boys once, and not a bit better. Bless 'em, they don't mean any harm, and I love 'em."
The first draw is a blank, much to the disappointment of all, Boulter in particular, for he catches it most unmercifully from all his young friends.
A move is then made for a piece of rough stuff called Shepherd's Gorse. Sir John has a difficult task to keep his field in order here, for it is a crooked in-and-out-shaped place, and the ponies will creep forward into forbidden corners. As fast as he orders one back he finds another expectant and overanxious youth somewhere else.
However, they are not kept long in suspense, for a quick find is followed by a ringing "Gone away," and his field gallop round to find Tom and the pack sailing along merrily, he having slipped off with the hounds well on to the line before he vouchsafed to proclaim his departure.
Hard work it is to catch them, for they are racing with a scent breast-high, but the schoolboys sit down and send their ponies along with a will, thinking no more of the big bank and ditch that confront them than they would if it was only a broken sheep-hurdle. Harold Lappington is first down to it, and his young gray pecks badly on the far side, for the animal is a bit fresh and over-jumps himself. Harold's fine seat, however, saves him from a fall, and turning round to where he sees young Charlie Whistler riding his pony, scarce thirteen hands three inches in height, at the biggest place he can find, he shouts: "Steady, Charlie; it's too big for you; take it in two, on and off."
"Go on," replies the monkey, "I'm all——" he would have said "right," but as he was turning head over heels like a rabbit before he could finish his sentence, he found further conversation somewhat difficult. Next in order came two hard-riding members with Sir John and Mrs. Talford, and then a whole crowd of horses and ponies, a good many of which plumbed the depths of the ditch on the landing-side. It is wonderful what a good pony will do with a resolute youngster on his back. Where it can't jump it will creep or climb, and generally manages to pull through somehow or other; but this particular fence is a rasper to commence with, and in most cases the cause of grief is over-excitement.
"You're a nice sort of fellow, Tom, slipping off like that," says Harold, as he comes up with the old Huntsman, who is gnashing his teeth because they've checked, and "Them blessed lads will be all among t' hounds again."
"What did you do it for?" he continues.
"Ah Mayster Harold; must get a start, or we should never get through all them ponies," replies Tom. "Here they come, by gad. That's it, praise the Lord," as the hounds hit it off just as the rest arrive.
"For'ard on," yell the lads, as pleased as Punch to have caught the hounds again.
"Harold, it's my idea the fox will make over the Swill," says Sir John to his brother, as they gallop along the grass. "There are two or three deuced stiff ploughs before we get there, and as you can't jump it we had better take the road and round by the bridge."
"Not I; I'm going with the hounds," replies Harold. "If they go over I can but go in and out."
"Don't you be a fool," retorts the Master. "By Jove, I'm right! it is for the Swill," as the hounds swung to the left towards the line of pollards that denote the course of that "meandering streamlet."
"Hold hard, young gentlemen, hold hard," roars Tom, as they hang for a moment on the plough, and five or six reeking ponies get unpleasantly near his darlings. "You canna jump Swill; you must go round by t' bridge."
But they pay no heed to either him or paternal warning, and pound away over the plough towards the willows.
"Here, I'm dashed if some on 'em won't get drownded, for they'll have it, as sure as my name's Wilding," he continues.
The two Simms and a few adventurous spirits follow in the wake of the lads, while the rest of the field follow the Master to the bridge. As the hounds plunge in Tom gallops off for the same goal, saying: "This way, young gents, this way." He might as well have spared his breath, for Eton is not going to be beaten by Harrow, nor Winchester by Rugby, nor Clifton by any of them, and the rivals feel the honour of their schools to be at stake. Harold again heads the charge, and the young 'un makes a gallant effort, just getting his fore-legs on the opposite bank. Quick as thought the boy is over his head on terra firma, while the gray falls back into the brook. "Bravo," shout the rest of the field, "bravo!" and, as his horse scrambles out, Harold's heart swells with pride, and he says to his brother: "The dear old school bested them all."
Harrow, Rugby, Winchester, and Clifton, all go at it in a lump, and all four are splashing about together, when little Phillips, a lad of twelve, who has just completed his first half, at Marlborough, comes down, and handling his rat of a pony down the bank, the pair swim across, and out the other side they scramble, the urchin shouting at the top of his voice: "Hooray, Eton first, Marlborough second."
All, happily, manage, contrary to Tom's expectations, to escape being "drownded;" and, wet as they are, ride harder than ever to make up their "leeway."
About a mile farther on the fox is viewed heading straight for Braby Main Earths, where he goes to ground with the pack close at his brush. Then paternal authority asserts itself, and the dripping schoolboys are promptly ordered home. They plead hard to stay, but paterfamilias is firm, and the lads turn to go with a last wistful look at Tom and the hounds.
It is late in the afternoon, and they have had a right down good gallop, thinks Sir John; so turning to the field he says: "Gentlemen, I shall send the hounds home. We will call this the schoolboys' day, and I am sure after the way they have ridden it would be a shame to go on without them."