****

“Rum fellow that,” observed the Baronet, now showing Billy up to his room, as soon as he had got sufficient space put between them to prevent Cuddy hearing, “Rum fellow that,” repeated he, not getting a reply from our friend, who didn’t know exactly how to interpret the word “rum.”

“That fellow’s up to everything,—cleverest fellow under the sun,” continued Sir Moses, now throwing open the door of an evident bachelor’s bed-room. Not but that it was one of the best in the house, only it was wretchedly furnished, and wanted all the little neatnesses and knic-knaceries peculiar to a lady-kept house. The towels were few and flimsy, the soap hard and dry, there was a pincushion without pins, a portfolio without paper, a grate with a smoky fire, while the feather-bed and mattress had been ruthlessly despoiled of their contents. Even the imitation maple-wood sofa on which Billy’s dress-clothes were now laid, had not been overlooked, and was as lank and as bare as a third-rate Margate lodging-house, one—all ribs and hollows.

“Ah, there you are!” exclaimed Sir Moses, pointing to the garments, “There you are!” adding, “You’ll find the bell at the back of your bed,” pointing to one of the old smothering order of four-posters with its dyed moreen curtains closely drawn, “You’ll find the bell at the back of the bed, and when you come down we shall be in the same room as we were before.” So saying, the Baronet retired, leaving our Billy to commence operations.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
SIR MOSES’S SPREAD.

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WE dare pay it has struck such of our readers as have followed the chace for more than the usual average allowance of three seasons, that hunts flourish most vigorously where there is a fair share of hospitality, and Sir Moses Mainchance was quite of that opinion. He found it answered a very good purpose as well to give occasional dinners at home as to attend the club meetings at Hinton. To the former he invited all the elite of his field, and such people as he was likely to get anything out of while the latter included the farmers and yeomen, the Flying Hatters, the Dampers, and so on, whereby, or by reason or means whereof, as the lawyers say, the spirit of the thing was well sustained. His home parties were always a great source of annoyance to our friend Mrs. Margerum, who did not like to be intruded upon by the job cook (Mrs. Pomfret, of Hinton), Mrs. Margerum being in fact more of a housekeeper than a cook, though quite cook enough for Sir Moses in a general way, and perhaps rather too much of a housekeeper for him—had he but known it. Mrs. Pomfret, however, being mistress of Mrs. Margerum’s secret (viz., who got the dripping), the latter was obliged to “put up” with her, and taking her revenge by hiding her things, and locking up whatever she was likely to want. Still, despite of all difficulties, Mrs. Pomfret, when sober, could cook a very good dinner, and as Sir Moses allowed her a pint of rum for supper, she had no great temptation to exceed till then. She was thought on this occasion, if possible, to surpass herself, and certainly Sir Moses’s dinner contrasted very favourably with what Billy Pringle had been partaking of at our friend Major Yammerton’s, whose cook had more energy than execution. In addition to this, Mr. Bankhead plied the fluids most liberally, as the feast progressed, so that what with invitations to drink, and the regular course of the tide, the party were very happy and hilarious.

Then, after dinner, the hot chestnuts and filberts and anchovy toasts mingling with an otherwise excellent desert flavoured the wine and brought out no end of “yoicks wind ‘ims” and aspirations for the morrow. They all felt as if they could ride—Billy and all!

“Not any more, thank you,” being at length the order of the day, a move was made back to the library, a drawing-room being a superfluous luxury where there is no lady, and tea and coffee were rung for. A new subject of conversation was wanted, and Monsieur presently supplied the deficiency.

“That’s a Frenchman, that servant of yours, isn’t he, Pringle?” asked Sir Moses, when Monsieur retired with the tray.

“Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his trifling moustache after its dip in the cup.

“Thought so,” rejoined Sir Moses, who prided himself upon his penetration. “I’ll have a word with him when he comes in again,” continued he.

Tea followed quickly on the heels of coffee, Monsieur coming in after Bankhead. Monsieur now consequentially drank, and dressed much in the manner that he is in the picture of the glove scene at Yammerton Grange.

“Ah, Monsieur! comment vous portez-vous?” exclaimed the Baronet, which was about as much French as he could raise.

“Pretty middlin’, tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, bowing and grinning at the compliment.

“What, you speak English, do you?” asked the Baronet, thinking he might as well change the language.

“I spake it, sare, some small matter, sare,” replied Jack, with a shrug of his shoulders—“Not nothing like my modder’s tongue, you knows.”

“Ah! you speak it domd well,” replied Sir Moses. “Let you and I have a talk together. Tell me, now, were you ever out hunting?”

Jean Rougier. “Oh, yes, sare, I have been at the chasse of de small dicky-bird—tom-tit—cock-robin—vot you call.”

Sir Moses (laughing). “No, no, that is not the sort of chace I mean; I mean, have you ever been out fox-hunting?”

Jean Rougier (confidentially). “Nevare, sare—nevare.”

Sir Moses. “Ah, my friend, then you’ve a great pleasure to come to—a great pleasure to come to, indeed. Well, you’re a domd good feller, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll mount you to-morrow—domd if I won’t—you shall ride my old horse, Cockatoo—carry you beautifully. What d’ye ride? Thirteen stun, I should say,” looking Jack over, “quite up to that—quite up to that—stun above it, for that matter. You’ll go streaming away like a bushel of beans.”

“Oh, sare, I tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, “but I have not got my hunting apparatus—my mosquet—my gun, my—no, not notin at all.”

“Gun!” exclaimed Sir Moses, amidst the laughter of the company. “Why, you wouldn’t shoot the fox, would ye?”

“Certainement” replied Jack. “I should pop him over.”

“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing up his hands in astonishment. “Why, man, we keep the hounds on purpose to hunt him.”

“Silly fellers,” replied Jack, “you should pepper his jacket.”

“Ah, Monsieur, I see you have a deal to learn,” rejoined Sir Moses, laughing. “However, it’s never too late to begin—never too late to begin, and you shall take your first lesson to-morrow. I’ll mount you on old Cockatoo, and you shall see how we manage these matters in England.”

“Oh, sare, I tenk you moch,” replied Jack, again excusing himself. “But I have not got no breeches, no boot-jacks—no notin, comme il faut.”

“I’ll lend you everything you want,—a boot-jack and all,” replied Sir Moses, now quite in the generous mood.

“Ah, sare, you are vare beautiful, and I moch appreciate your benevolence; bot I sud not like to risk my neck and crop outside an unqualified, contradictory quadruped.”

“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “nothing of the sort! He’s the quietest, gentlest crittur alive—a child might ride him, mightn’t it, Cuddy?”

“Safest horse under the sun,” replied Cuddy Flintoff, confidently. “Don’t know such another. Have nothing to do but sit on his back, and give him his head, and he’ll take far better care of you than you can of him. He’s the nag to carry you close up to their stems. Ho-o-i-ck, forrard, ho-o-i-ck! Dash my buttons, Monsieur, but I think I see you sailing away. Shouldn’t be surprised if you were to bring home the brush, only you’ve got one under your nose as it is,” alluding to his moustache.

Jack at this looked rather sour, for somehow people don’t like to be laughed at; so he proceeded to push his tray about under the guests’ noses, by way of getting rid of the subject. He had no objection to a hunt, and to try and do what Cuddy Flintoff predicted, only he didn’t want to spoil his own clothes, or be made a butt of. So, having had his say, he retired as soon as he could, inquiring of Bankhead, when he got out, who that porky old fellow with the round, close-shaven face was.

When the second flight of tea-cups came in, Sir Moses was seated on a hardish chaise longue, beside our friend Mr. Pringle, to whom he was doing the agreeable attentive host, and a little of the inquisitive stranger; trying to find out as well about the Major and his family, as about Billy himself, his friends and belongings. The Baronet had rather cooled on the subject of mounting Monsieur, and thought to pave the way for a back-out.

“That’s a stout-built feller of yours,” observed he to Billy, kicking up his toe at Jack as he passed before them with the supplementary tray of cakes and cream, and so on.

“Yarse,” drawled Billy, wondering what matter it made to Sir Moses.

“Stouter than I took him for,” continued the Baronet, eyeing Jack’s broad back and strong undersettings. “That man’ll ride fourteen stun, I dessay.”

Billy had no opinion on the point so began admiring his pretty foot; comparing it with Sir Moses’s, which was rather thick and clumsy.

The Baronet conned the mount matter over in his mind; the man was heavy; the promised horse was old and weak; the country deep, and he didn’t know that Monsieur could ride,—altogether he thought it wouldn’t do. Let his master mount him if he liked, or let him stay at home and help Bankhead with the plate, or Peter with the shoes. So Sir Moses settled it in his own mind, as far as he was concerned, at least, and resumed his enquiries of our Billy. Which of the Miss Yammertons he thought the prettiest, which sang the best, who played the harp, if the Major indulged him with much hare-soup, and then glanced incidentally at his stud, and Bo-Peep.

He then asked him about Lord Ladythorne; if it was true that Mrs. Moffatt and he quarrelled; if his lordship wasn’t getting rather slack; and whether Billy didn’t think Dicky Boggledale an old woman, to which latter interrogatory he replied, “Yarse,”—he thought he was, and ought to be drafted.

While the tête-à-tête was going on, a desultory conversation ensued among the other guests in various parts of the room, Mr. Booty button-holeing Captain Hurricane, to tell him a capital thing out of “Punch,” and receiving in return an exclamation of—“Why, man, I told you that myself before dinner.” Tom Dribbler going about touching people up in the ribs with his thumb, inquiring with a knowing wink of his eye, or a jerk of his head, “Aye, old feller, how goes it;” which was about the extent of Tom’s conversational powers. Henry Waggett talking “wool” to Mr. Tupman; while Cuddy Flintoff kept popping out every now and then to look at the moon, returning with a “hoick wind ‘im; ho-ick!” or—

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,
Proclaimeth a hunting morning.”

Very cheering the assurance was to our friend Billy Pringle, as the reader may suppose; but he had the sense to keep his feelings to himself.

At length the last act of the entertainment approached, by the door flying open through an invisible agency, and the delirium tremens footman appearing with a spacious tray, followed by Bankhead and Monsieur, with “Cardigans” and other the materials of “night-caps,” which they placed on the mirth-promoting circle of a round table. All hands drew to it like blue-bottle-flies to a sugar-cask, as well to escape from themselves and each other, as to partake of the broiled bones, and other the good things with which the tray was stored.

“Hie, worry! worry! worry!” cried Cuddy Flintoff, darting at the black bottles, for he dearly loved a drink, and presently had a beaker of brandy, so strong, that as Silverthorn said, the spoon almost stood upright in it.

“Let’s get chairs!” exclaimed he, turning short round on his heel: “let’s get chairs, and be snug; it’s as cheap sitting as standing,” so saying, he wheeled a smoking chair up to the table, and was speedily followed by the rest of the party, with various shaped seats. Then such of the guests as wanted to shirk drinking took whiskey or gin, which they could dilute as much as they chose; while those who didn’t care for showing their predilection for drink, followed Cuddy’s example, and made it as strong as they liked. This is the time that the sot comes out undisguisedly. The form of wine-drinking after dinner is mere child’s play in their proceedings: the spirit is what they go for.

At length sots and sober ones were equally helped to their liking; and, the approving sips being taken, the other great want of life—tobacco—then became apparent.

“Smoking allowed here,” observed Cuddy Flintoff, diving into his side-pocket for a cigar, adding, as he looked at the wretched old red chintz-covered furniture, which, not even the friendly light of the moderateur lamps could convert into anything respectable: “No fear of doing any harm here, I think?”

So the rest of the company seemed to think, for there was presently a great kissing of cigar-ends and rising of clouds, and then the party seeming to be lost in deep reveries. Thus they sat for some minutes, some eyeing their cocked-up toes, some the dirty ceiling, others smoking and nursing their beakers of spirit on their knees.

At length Tom Dribbler gave tongue—“What time will the hounds leave the kennel in the morning, Sir Moses?” asked he.

“Hoick to Dribbler! Hoick!” immediately cheered Cuddy—as if capping the pack to a find.

“Oh, why, let me see,” replied Sir Moses, filliping the ashes off the end of his cigar—“Let me see,” repeated he—“Oh—ah—tomorrow’s Monday; Monday, the Crooked Billet—Crooked Billet—nine miles—eight through Applecross Park; leave here at nine—ten to nine, say—nothing like giving them plenty of time on the road.”

“Nothing,” assented Cuddy Flintoff, taking a deep drain at his glass, adding, as soon as he could get his nose persuaded to come out of it again, “I do hate to see men hurrying hounds to cover in a morning.”

“No fear of mine doing that,” observed Sir Moses, “for I always go with them myself when I can.”

“Capital dodge, too,” assented Cuddy, “gets the fellers past the public houses—that drink’s the ruin of half the huntsmen in England;” whereupon he took another good swig.

“Then, Monsieur, and you’ll all go together, I suppose,” interrupted Dribbler, who wanted to see the fun.

“Monsieur, Monsieur—oh, ah, that’s my friend Pringle’s valet,” observed Sir Moses, drily; “what about him?”

“Why he’s going, isn’t he?” replied Dribbler.

“Oh, poor fellow, no,” rejoined Sir Moses; “he doesn’t want to go—it’s no use persecuting a poor devil because a Frenchman.”

“But I dare say he’d enjoy it very much,” observed Dribbler.

“Well, then, will you mount him?” asked Sir Moses.

“Why I thought you were going to do it,” replied Dribbler.

“Me mount him!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his ringed hands in well-feigned astonishment, as if he had never made such an offer—“Me mount him! why, my dear fellow, do you know how many people I have to mount as it is? Let me tell you,” continued he, counting them off on his fingers, “there’s Tom, and there’s Harry, and there’s Joe, and there’s the pad-groom and myself, five horses out every day—generally six, when I’ve a hack—six horses a day, four days a week—if that isn’t enough, I don’t know what is—dom’d if I do,” added he, with a snort and a determined jerk of his head.

“Well, but we can manage him a mount among us, somehow, I dare say,” persevered Dribbler, looking round upon the now partially smoke-obscured company.

“Oh no, let him alone, poor fellow; let him alone,” replied Sir Moses, coaxingly, adding, “he evidently doesn’t wish to go—evidently doesn’t wish to go.”

“I don’t know that,” exclaimed Cuddy Flintoff, with a knowing jerk of his head; “I don’t know that—I should say he’s rather a y-o-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-eks push ‘im up! sort of chap.” So saying, Cuddy drained his glass to the dregs.

“I should say you’re rather a y-o-i-eks wind ‘im—y-o-i-cks drink ‘im up sort of chap,” replied Sir Moses, at which they all laughed heartily.

Cuddy availed himself of the divertissement to make another equally strong brew—saying, “It was put there to drink, wasn’t it?” at which they all laughed again.

Still there was a disposition to harp upon the hunt—Dribbler tied on the scent, and felt disposed to lend Jack a horse if nobody else would. So he threw out a general observation, that he thought they could manage a mount for Monsieur among them.

“Well, but perhaps his master mayn’t, like it,” suggested Sir Moses, in hopes that Billy would come to the rescue.

“O, I don’t care about it,” replied Billy, with an air of indifference, who would have been glad to hunt by deputy if he could, and so that chance fell to the ground.

“Hoick to Governor! Hoick to Governor!” cheered Cuddy at the declaration. “Now who’ll lend him a horse?” asked he, taking up the question. “What say you, Stub?” appealing to Mr. Strongstubble, who generally had more than he could ride.

“He’s such a beefey beggar,” replied Strongstubble, between the whiffs of a cigar.

“Oh, ah, and a Frenchman too!” interposed Sir Moses, “he’ll have no idea of saving a horse, or holding a horse together, or making the most of a horse.”

“Put him on one that ‘ll take care of himself,” suggested Cuddy; “there’s your old Nutcracker horse, for instance,” added he, addressing himself to Harry Waggett.

“Got six drachms of aloes,” replied Waggett, drily.

“Or your Te-to-tum, Booty,” continued Cuddy, nothing baffled by the failure.

“Lame all round,” replied Booty, following suit.

“Hut you and your lames,” rejoined Cuddy, who knew better—“I’ll tell you what you must do then, Tommy,” continued he, addressing himself familiarly to Dribbler, “you must lend him your old kicking chestnut—the very horse for a Frenchman,” added Cutty, slapping his own tight-trousered leg—“you send the Shaver to the Billet in the morning along with your own horse, and old Johnny Crapaud will manage to get there somehow or other—walk if he can’t ride: shoemaker’s pony’s very safe.”

“Oh, I’ll send him in my dog-cart if that’s all,” exclaimed Sir Moses, again waxing generous.

“That ‘ll do! That ‘ll do!” replied Cuddy, appealing triumphantly to the brandy. Then as the out-door guests began to depart, and the in-door ones to wind up their watches and ask about breakfast, Cuddy took advantage of one of Sir Moses’ momentary absences in the entrance hall to walk off to bed with the remainder of the bottle of brandy, observing, as he hurried away, that he was “apt to have spasms in the night”; and Sir Moses, thinking he was well rid of him at the price, went through the ceremony of asking the “remanets” if they would take any more, and being unanimously answered in the negative, he lit the bedroom candles, turned off the modérateurs, and left the room to darkness and to Bankhead.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
GOING TO COVER WITH THE HOUNDS.

HOW different a place generally proves to what we anticipate, and how difficult it is to recall our expectations after we have once seen it, unless we have made a memorandum beforehand. How different again a place looks in the morning to what we have conjectured over-night. What we have taken for towers perhaps have proved to be trees, and the large lake in front a mere floating mist.

Pangbum Park had that loose rakish air peculiar to rented places, which carry a sort of visible contest between landlord and tenant on the face of everything. A sort of “it’s you to do it, not me” look. It showed a sad want of paint and maintenance generally. Sir Moses wasn’t the man to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary, “Dom’d if he was,” so inside and outside were pretty much alike.

Our friend Billy Pringle was not a man of much observation in rural matters, though he understood the cut of a coat, the tie of a watch-ribbon cravat, or the fit of a collar thoroughly. We are sorry to say he had not slept very well, having taken too much brandy for conformity’s sake, added to which his bed was hard and knotty, and the finely drawn bolsters and pillows all piled together, were hardly sufficient to raise his throbbing temples. As he lay tossing and turning about, thinking now of Clara Yammerton’s beautiful blue eyes and exquisitely rounded figure, now of Flora’s bright hair, or Harriet’s graceful form, the dread Monsieur entered his shabbily furnished bed-room, with, “Sare, I have de pleasure to bring you your pink to-day,” at once banishing the beauties and recalling the over-night’s conversation, the frightful fences, the yawning ditches, the bottomless brooks, with the unanimous declaration that the man who could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im-shire could ride over any country in the world. And Billy really thought if he could get over the horrors of that day he would retire from the purgatorial pleasures of the chace altogether.

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With this wise resolution he jumped out of bed with the vigorous determination of a man about to take a shower-bath, and proceeded to invest himself in the only mitigating features of the chace, the red coat and leathers. He was hardly well in them before a clamorous bell rang for breakfast, quickly followed by a knock at the door, announcing that it was on the table.

Sir Moses was always in a deuce of a hurry on a hunting morning. Our hero was then presently performing the coming downstairs feat he is represented doing at page 147. and on reaching the lower regions he jumped in with a dish of fried ham which led him straight to the breakfast room.

Here Sir Moses was doing all things at once, reading the “Post,” blowing his beak, making the tea, stirring the fire, crumpling his envelopes, cussing the toast, and doming the footman, to which numerous avocations he now added the pleasing one of welcoming our Billv.

“Well done you! First down, I do declare!” exclaimed he, tendering him his left hand, his right one being occupied with his kerchief. “Sit down, and let’s be at it,” continued he, kicking a rush-bottomed chair under Billy as it were, adding “never wait for any man on a hunting morning.” So saying, he proceeded to snatch an egg, in doing which he upset the cream-jug. “Dom the thing,” growled he, “what the deuce do they set it there for. D’ye take tea?” now asked he, pointing to the tea-pot with his knife—“or coffee?” continued he, pointing to the coffee-pot with his fork, “or both praps,” added he, without waiting for an answer to either question, but pushing both pots towards his guest, following up the advance with ham, eggs, honey, buns, butter, bread, toast, jelly, everything within reach, until he got Billy fairly blocked with good things, when he again set-to on his own account, munching and crunching, and ended by nearly dragging all the contents of the table on to the floor by catching the cloth with his spur as he got up to go away.

He then went doming and scuttling out of the room, charging Billy if he meant to go with the hounds to “look sharp.”

During his absence Stephen Booty and Mr. Silverthorn came dawdling into the room, taking it as easy as men generally do who have their horses on and don’t care much about hunting.

Indeed Silverthorn never disguised that he would rather have his covers under plough than under gorse, and was always talking about the rent he lost, which he estimated at two pounds an acre, and Sir Moses at ten shillings.

Finding the coast clear, they now rang for fresh ham, fresh eggs, fresh tea, fresh everything, and then took to pumping Billy as to his connection with the house, Sir Moses having made him out over night to be a son of Sir Jonathan Pringle’s, with whom he sometimes claimed cousinship, and they wanted to get a peep at the baronetage if they could. In the midst of their subtle examination, Sir Moses came hurrying back, whip in one hand, hat in the other, throwing open the door, with, “Now, are you ready?” to Billy, and “morning, gentlemen,” to Booty and Silverthorn.

Then Billy rose with the desperate energy of a man going to a dentist’s, and seizing his cap and whip off the entrance table, followed Sir Moses through the intricacies of the back passages leading to the stables, nearly falling over a coal-scuttle as he went. They presently changed the tunnel-like darkness of the passage into the garish light of day, by the opening of the dirty back door.

Descending the little flight of stone steps, they then entered the stable-yard, now enlivened with red coats and the usual concomitants of hounds leaving home. There was then an increased commotion, stable-doors flying open, from which arch-necked horses emerged, pottering and feeling for their legs as they went. Off the cobble-stone pavement, and on to the grass grown soft of the centre, they stood more firm and unflinching. Then Sir Moses took one horse, Tom Findlater another, Harry the first whip a third, Joe the second whip a fourth, while the blue-coated pad groom came trotting round on foot from the back stables, between Sir Moses’s second horse and Napoleon the Great.

Billy dived at his horse without look or observation, and the clang of departure being now at its height, the sash of a second-floor window flew up, and a white cotton night-capped head appeared bellowing out, “Y-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-cks push ‘im up!” adding, “Didn’t I tell ye it was going to be a hunting morning?”

“Ay, ay, Cuddy you did,” replied Sir Moses laughing, muttering as he went: “That’s about the extent of your doings.”

“He’ll be late, won’t he?” asked Billy, spurring up alongside of the Baronet.

“Oh, he’s only an afternoon sportsman that,” replied Sir Moses; adding, “he’s greatest after dinner.”

“Indeed!” mused Billy, who had looked upon him with the respect due to a regular flyer, a man who could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im-shire itself.

The reverie was presently interrupted by the throwing open of the kennel door, and the clamorous rush of the glad pack to the advancing red coats, making the green sward look quite gay and joyful.

“Gently, there! gently!” cried Tom Findlater, and first and second whips falling into places, Tom gathered his horse together and trotted briskly along the side of the ill-kept carriage road, and on through the dilapidated lodges: a tattered hat protruding through the window of one, and two brown paper panes supplying the place of glass in the other. They then got upon the high road, and the firy edge being taken off both hounds and horses, Tom relaxed into the old post-boy pace, while Sir Moses proceeded to interrogate him as to the state of the kennel generally, how Rachael’s feet were, whether Prosperous was any better, if Abelard had found his way home, and when Sultan would be fit to come out again.

They then got upon other topics connected with the chace, such as, who the man was that Harry saw shooting in Tinklerfield cover; if Mrs Swan had said anything more about her confounded poultry; and whether Ned Smith the rat-catcher would take half a sovereign for his terrier or not.

Having at length got all he could out of Tom, Sir Moses then let the hounds flow past him, while he held back for our Billy to come up. They were presently trotting along together a little in the rear of Joe, the second whip.

“I’ve surely seen that horse before,” at length observed Sir Moses, after a prolonged stare at our friend’s steed.

“Very likely,” replied Billy, “I bought him of the Major.”

“The deuce you did!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “then that’s the horse young Tabberton had.”

“What, you know him, do you?” asked Billy.

“Know him! I should think so,” rejoined Moses; “everybody knows him.”

“Indeed!” observed Billy, wondering whether for good or evil.

“I dare say, now, the Major would make you give thirty, or five-and-thirty pounds for that horse,” observed Sir Moses, after another good stare.

“Far more!” replied Billy, gaily, who was rather proud of having given a hundred guineas.

“Far more!” exclaimed Sir Moses with energy; “far more! Ah!” added he, with a significant shake of the head, “he’s an excellent man, the Major—an excellent man,—but a leetle too keen in the matter of horses.”

Just at this critical moment Tommy Heslop of Hawthorndean, who had been holding back in Crow-Tree Lane to let the hounds pass, now emerged from his halting-place with a “Good morning, Sir Moses, here’s a fine hunting morning?”

“Good morning, Tommy, good morning,” replied Sir Moses, extending his right hand; for Tommy was a five-and-twenty pounder besides giving a cover, and of course was deserving of every encouragement.

The salute over, Sir Moses then introduced our friend Billy,—“Mr. Pringle, a Featherbedfordshire gentleman, Mr. Heslop,” which immediately excited Tommy’s curiosity—not to say jealousy—for the “Billet” was very “contagious,” for several of the Peer’s men, who always brought their best horses, and did as much mischief as they could, and after ever so good a run, declared it was nothing to talk of. Tommy thought Billy’s horse would not take much cutting down, whatever the rider might do. Indeed, the good steed looked anything but formidable, showing that a bad stable, though “only for one night,” may have a considerable effect upon a horse. His coat was dull and henfeathered; his eye was watery, and after several premonitory sneezes, he at length mastered a cough. Even Billy thought he felt rather less of a horse under him than he liked. Still he didn’t think much of a cough. “Only a slight cold,” as a young lady says when she wants to go to a ball.

Three horsemen in front, two black coats and a red, and two reds joining the turnpike from the Witch berry road, increased the cavalcade and exercised Sir Moses’ ingenuity in appropriating backs and boots and horses. “That’s Simon Smith,” said he to himself, eyeing a pair of desperately black tops dangling below a very plumb-coloured, long-backed, short-lapped jacket. “Ah! and Tristram Wood,” added he, now recognising his companion. He then drew gradually upon them and returned their salutes with an extended wave of the hand that didn’t look at all like money. Sir Moses then commenced speculating on the foremost group. There was Peter Linch and Charley Drew; but who was the fellow in black? He couldn’t make out.

“Who’s the man in black, Tommy?” at length asked he of Tommy Heslop.

“Don’t know,” replied Tommy, after scanning the stranger attentively.

“It can’t be that nasty young Rowley Abingdon; and yet I believe it is,” continued Sir Moses, eyeing him attentively, and seeing that he did not belong to the red couple, who evidently kept aloof from him. “It is that nasty young Abingdon,” added he. “Wonder at his impittance in coming out with me. It’s only the other day that ugly old Owl of a father of his killed me young Cherisher, the best hound in my pack,” whereupon the Baronet began grinding his teeth, and brewing a little politeness wherewith to bespatter the young Owl as he passed. The foremost horses hanging back to let their friends the hounds overtake them, Sir Moses was presently alongside the black coat, and finding he was right in his conjecture as to who it contained, he returned the youth’s awkward salute with, “Well, my man, how d’ye do? hope you’re well. How’s your father? hope he’s well,” adding, “dom ‘im, he should be hung, and you may tell ‘im I said so.” Sir Moses then felt his horse gently with his heel, and trotted on to salute the red couple. And thus he passed from singles to doubles, and from doubles to triples, and from triples to quartets, and back to singles again, including the untold occupants of various vehicles, until the ninth milestone on the Bushmead road, announced their approach to the Crooked Billet. Tom Findlater then pulled up from the postboy jog into a wallk, at which pace he turned into the little green field on the left of the blue and gold swinging sign. Here he was received by the earthstopper, the antediluvian ostler, and other great officers of state. But for Sir Moses’ presence the question would then have been “What will you have to drink?” That however being interdicted, they raised a discussion about the weather, one insisting that it was going to be a frost; another, that it was going to be nothing of the sort.

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE MEET.

THE Crooked Billet Hotel and Posting house, on the Bushmead road had been severed from society by the Crumpletin Railway. It had indeed been cut off in the prime of life: for Joe Cherriper, the velvet-collared doeskin-gloved Jehu of the fast Regulator Coach, had backed his opinion of the preference of the public for horse transit over steam, by laying out several hundred pounds of his accumulated fees upon the premises, just as the surveyors were setting out the line.

“A rally might be andy enough for goods and eavy marchandise,” Joe said; “but as to gents ever travellin’ by sich contraband means, that was utterly and entirely out of the question. Never would appen so long as there was a well-appointed coach like the Regulator to be ad.” So Joe laid on the green paint and the white paint, and furbished up the sign until it glittered resplendent in the rays of the mid-day sun. But greater prophets than Joe have been mistaken.

One fine summer’s afternoon a snorting steam-engine came puffing and panting through the country upon a private road of its own, drawing after it the accumulated rank, beauty, and fashion of a wide district to open the railway, which presently sucked up all the trade and traffic of the country. The Crooked Billet fell from a first-class way-side house at which eight coaches changed horses twice a-day, into a very seedy unfrequented place—a very different one to what it was when our hero’s mother, then Miss Willing, changed horses on travelling up in the Old True Blue Independent, on the auspicious day that she captured Mr. Pringle. Still it was visited with occasional glimpses of its former greatness in the way of the meets of the hounds, when the stables were filled, and the long-deserted rooms rang with the revelry of visitors. This was its first gala-day of the season, and several of the Featherbedfordshire gentlemen availed themselves of the fineness of the weather to see Sir Moses’ hounds, and try whether they, too, could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im shire.

The hounds had scarcely had their roll on the greensward, and old black Challenger proclaimed their arrival with his usual deep-toned vehemence, ere all the converging roads and lanes began pouring in their tributaries, and the space before the bay-windowed red brick-built “Billet” was soon blocked with gentlemen on horseback, gentlemen in Malvern dog-carts, gentlemen in Newport Pagnells, gentlemen in Croydon clothesbaskets, some divesting themselves of their wraps, some stretching themselves after their drive, some calling for brandy, some for baccy, some for both brandy and baccy.

Then followed the usual inquiries, “Is Dobbinson coming?”

“Where’s the Damper?”

“Has anybody seen anything of Gameboy Green?” Next, the heavily laden family vehicles began to arrive, containing old fat paterfamilias in the red coat of his youth, with his “missis” by his side, and a couple of buxom daughters behind, one of whom will be installed in the driving seat when papa resigns. Thus we have the Mellows of Mawdsley Hill, the Chalkers of Streetley, and the Richleys of Jollyduck Park, and the cry is still, “They come! they come!” It is going to be a bumper meet, for the foxes are famous, and the sight of a good “get away” is worth a dozen Legers put together.

See here comes a nice quiet-looking little old gentleman in a well-brushed, flat-brimmed hat, a bird’s-eye cravat, a dark grey coat buttoned over a step-collared toilanette vest, nearly matching in line his delicate cream-coloured leathers, who everybody stares at and then salutes, as he lifts first one rose-tinted top and then the other, working his way through the crowd, on a thorough-bred snaffle-bridled bay. He now makes up to Sir Moses, who exclaims as the raised hat shows the familiar blue-eyed face, “Ah! Dicky my man! how d’ye do? glad to see you?” and taking off his glove the Baronet gives our old friend Boggledike a hearty shake of the hand. Dicky acknowledges the honour with becoming reverence, and then begins talking of sport and the splendid runs they have been having, while Sir Moses, instead of listening, cons over some to give him in return.

But who have we here sitting so square in the tandem-like dogcart, drawn by the high-stepping, white-legged bay with sky-blue rosettes, and long streamers, doing the pride that apes humility in a white Macintosh, that shows the pink collar to great advantage? Imperial John, we do believe?

Imperial John, it is! He has come all the way from Barley Hill Hall, leaving the people on the farm and the plate in the drawing-room to take care of themselves, starting before daylight, while his footman groom has lain out over night to the serious detriment of a half sovereign. As John now pulls up, with a trace-rattling ring, he cocks his Imperial chin and looks round for applause—a “Well done, you!” or something of that sort, for coming such a distance. Instead of that, a line of winks, and nods, and nudges, follow his course, one man whispering another, “I say, here’s old Imperial John,” or “I say, look at Miss de Glancey’s boy;” while the young ladies turn their eyes languidly upon him to see what sort of a hero the would-be Benedict is. His Highness, however, has quite got over his de Glancey failure, and having wormed his way after divers “with your leaves,” and “by your leaves,” through the intricacies of the crowd, he now pulls up at the inn door, and standing erect in his dog-cart, sticks his whip in the socket, and looks around with a “This is Mr. Hybrid the-friend-of-an-Earl” sort of air.

“Ah! Hybrid, how d’ye do?” now exclaims Sir Moses familiarly; “hope you’re well?—how’s the Peer? hope he’s well. Come all the way from Barley Hill?”

“Barley Hill Hall,” replies the great man with an emphasis on the Hall, adding in the same breath, “Oi say, ostler, send moy fellow!” whereupon there is a renewed nudging and whispering among the ladies beside him, of “That’s Mr. Hybrid!”

“That’s Imperial John, the gentleman who wanted to marry Miss de Glancey for though Miss de Glancey was far above having him, she was not above proclaiming the other.”

His Highness then becomes an object of inquisitive scrutiny by the fair; one thinking he might do for Lavinia Edwards; another, for Sarah Bates; a third, for Rachel Bell; a fourth, perhaps, for herself. It must be a poor creature that isn’t booked for somebody.

Still, John stands erect in his vehicle, flourishing his whip, hallooing and asking for his fellow.

“Ring the bell for moy fellow!—Do go for moy fellow!—Has anybody seen moy fellow? Have you seen moy fellow?” addressing an old smock-frocked countryman with a hoe in his hand.

“Nor, arm d—d if iver ar i did!” replied the veteran, looking him over, a declaration that elicited a burst of laughter from the bystanders, and an indignant chuck of the Imperial chin from our John.

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!” who have we here? All eyes turn up the Cherryburn road; the roused hounds prick their ears, and are with difficulty restrained from breaking away. It’s Walker, the cross postman’s gig, and he is treating himself to a twang of the horn. But who has he with him? Who is the red arm-folded man lolling with as much dignity as the contracted nature of the vehicle will allow? A man in red, with cap and beard, and all complete. Why it’s Monsieur! Monsieur coming in forma pauperis, after Sir Moses’ liberal offer to send him to cover,—Monsieur in a faded old sugar-loaf shaped cap, and a scanty coat that would have been black if it hadn’t been red.

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Still Walker trots him up like a man proud of his load amid the suppressed titters and “Who’s this?” of the company. Sir Moses immediately vouchsafes him protection—by standing erect in his stirrups, and exclaiming with a waive of his right hand, “Ah, Monsieur! comment vous portez-vous?”

“Pretty bobbish, I tenk you, sare, opes you are vell yourself and all de leetle Mainchanees,” replied Monsieur, rising in the gig, showing the scrimpness of his coat and the amplitude of his cinnamon-coloured peg-top trousers, thrust into green-topped opera-boots, much in the style of old Paul Pry. Having put something into Walker’s hand, Monsieur alights with due caution and Walker whipping on, presently shows the gilt “V. R.” on the back of his red gig as he works his way through the separating crowd. Walker claims to be one of Her Majesty’s servants; if not to rank next to Lord Palmerston, at all events not to be far below him. And now Monsieur being left to himself, thrusts his Malacca cane whip stick under his arm, and drawing on a pair of half-dirty primrose-coloured kid gloves, pokes into the crowd in search of his horse, making up to every disengaged one he saw, with “Is dee’s for me? Is dee’s for me?”

Meanwhile Imperial John having emancipated himself from his Mackintosh, and had his horse placed becomingly at the step of the dog-cart, so as to transfer himself without alighting, and let everybody see the magnificence of the establishment, now souces himself into the saddle of a fairish young grey, and turns round to confront the united field; feeling by no means the smallest man in the scene. “Hybrid!” exclaims Sir Moses, seeing him approach the still dismounted Monsieur, “Hybrid! let me introduce my friend Rougier, Monsieur Rougier, Mr. Hybrid! of Barley Hill Hall, a great friend of Lord Ladythorne’s,” whereupon off went the faded sugar-loaf-shaped cap, and down came the Imperial hat, Sir Moses interlarding the ceremony with, “great friend of Louis Nap’s, great friend of Louis Nap’s,” by way of balancing the Ladythorne recommendation of John. The two then struck up a most energetic conversation, each being uncommonly taken with the other. John almost fancied he saw his way to the Tuileries, and wondered what Miss “somebody” would say if he got there.

The conversation was at length interrupted by Dribbler’s grinning groom touching Jack behind as he came up with a chestnut horse, and saying, “Please, Sir, here’s your screw.”

“Ah, my screw, is it!” replied Jack, turning round, “dat is a queer name for a horse—screw—hopes he’s a good ‘un.”

“A good ‘un, and nothin’ but a good ‘un,” replied the groom, giving him a punch in the ribs, to make him form up to Jack, an operation that produced an ominous grunt.

“Vell” said Jack, proceeding to dive at the stirrup with his foot without taking hold of the reins; “if Screw is a good ‘un I sall make you handsome present—tuppence a penny, p’raps—if he’s a bad ‘un, I sall give you good crack on the skoll,” Jack flourishing his thick whipstick as he spoke.

“Will you!” replied the man, leaving go of the rein, whereupon down went the horse’s head, up went his heels, and Jack was presently on his shoulder.

“Oh, de devil!” roared Jack, “he vill distribute me! he vill distribute me! I vill be killed! Nobody sall save me! here, garçon, grum!” roared he amid the mirth of the company. “Lay ‘old of his ‘ead! lay ‘old of his ‘ocks! lay ‘old of ‘eels! Oh, murder! murder!” continued he in well-feigned dismay, throwing out his supplicating arms. Off jumped Imperial John to the rescue of his friend, and seizing the dangling rein, chucked up the horse’s head with a resolute jerk that restored Jack to his seat.

“Ah, my friend, I see you are not much used to the saddle,” observed His Highness, proceeding to console the friend of an Emperor.

“Vell, sare, I am, and I am not,” replied Jack, mopping his brow, and pretending to regain his composure, “I am used to de leetle ‘orse at de round-about at de fair, I can carry off de ring ten time out of twice, but these great unruly, unmannerly, undutiful screws are more than a match for old Harry.”

“Just so,” assented His Highness, with a chuck of his Imperial chin, “just so;” adding in an under-tone, “then I’ll tell you what we’ll do—I’ll tell you what we’ll do—we’ll pop into the bar at the back of the house, and have a glass of something to strengthen our nerves.”

“By all means, sare,” replied Jack, who was always ready for a glass. So they quietly turned the corner, leaving the field to settle their risible faculties, while they summoned the pretty corkscrew ringletted Miss Tubbs to their behests.

“What shall it be?” asked Imperial John, as the smiling young lady tripped down the steps to where they stood.

“Brandy,” replied Jack, with a good English accent.

“Two brandies!” demanded Imperial John, with an air of authority.

“Cold, with?” asked the lady, eyeing Monsieur’s grim visage.

“Neat!” exclaimed Jack in a tone of disdain.

“Yes, Sir,” assented the lady, bustling away.

“Shilling glasses!” roared Jack, at the last flounce of her blue muslin.

Presently she returned bearing two glasses of very brown brandy, and each having appropriated one, Jack began grinning and bowing and complimenting the donor.

“Sare,” said he, after smelling at the beloved liquor, “I have moch pleasure in making your quaintance. I am moch pleased, sare, with the expression of your mog. I tink, sare, you are de ‘andsomest man I never had de pleasure of lookin’ at. If, sare, dey had you in my country, sare, dey vod make you a King—Emperor, I mean. I drink, sare, your vare good health,” so saying, Jack swigged off the contents of his glass at a draught.

Imperial John felt constrained to do the same.

“Better now,” observed Jack, rubbing his stomach as the liquid fire began to descend. “Better now,” repeated he, with a jerk of his head, “Sare,” continued he, “I sall return the compliment—I sall treat you to a glass.”

Imperial John would rather not. He was a glass of sherry and a biscuit sort of man; but Monsieur was not to be balked in his liberality. “Oh, yes, sare, make me de pleasure to accept a glass,” continued Jack, “Here! Jemima! Matilda! Adelaide! vot the doose do they call de young vomans—look sharp,” added he, as she now reappeared. “Apportez, dat is to say, bring tout suite, directly; two more glasses; dis gentlemans vill be goode enough to drink my vare good ‘ealth.”

“Certainly,” replied the smiling lady, tripping away for them.

“Ah, sare, it is de stoff to make de air corl,” observed Jack, eyeing his new acquaintance. “Ye sall go like old chaff before the vind after it. Vill catch de fox myself.”

The first glass had nearly upset our Imperial friend, and the second one appeared perfectly nauseous. He would give anything that Jack would drink them both himself. However, Monsieur motioned blue muslin to present the tray to John first, so he had no alternative but to accept. Jack then took his glass, and smacking his lips, said—“I looks, sare, towards you, sare, vith all de respect due to your immortal country. De English, sare, are de finest nation under de moon; and you, sare, and you are as fine a specimens of dat nation as never vas seen. Two such mans as you, sare, could have taken Sebastopol. You could vop all de ell ound savage Sepoys by yourself. So now, sare,” continued Jack, brandishing his glass, “make ready, present, fire!” and at the word fire, he drained off his glass, and then held it upside down to show he had emptied it.

Poor Imperial John was obliged to follow suit.

The Imperial head now began to swim. Mr. Hybrid saw two girls in blue muslin, two Monsieurs, two old yellow Po-chaises, two water-carts with a Cochin-China cock a gollowing a-top of each.

Jack, on the contrary, was quite comfortable. He had got his nerves strung, and was now ready for anything. “S’pose, now,” said he, addressing his staring, half-bewildered friend, “you ascend your gallant grey, and let us look after dese mighty chasseurs. But stop,” added he, “I vill first pay for de tipple,” pretending to dive into his peg-top trousers pocket for his purse. “Ah! malheureusement,” exclaimed he, after feeling them both. “I have left my blont, my tin, in my oder trousers pockets. Navare mind! navare mind,” continued he, gaily, “ve vill square it op some other day. Here,” added he to the damsel, “dis gentlemens vill pay, and I vill settle vid him some oder day—some oder day.” So saying, Jack gathered his horse boldly together, and spurred out of the inn-yard in a masterly way, singing Partant pour la Syrie as he went.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
A BIRD’S EYE VIEW.

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HE friends reappeared at the front of the Crooked Billet Hotel when the whole cavalcade had swept away, leaving only the return ladies, and such of the grooms as meant to have a drink, now that “master was safe.” Sir Moses had not paid either Louis Napoleon’s or Lord Ladythorne’s friend the compliment of waiting for them. On the contrary, having hailed the last heavy subscriber who was in the habit of using the Crooked Billet meet, he hallooed the huntsman to trot briskly away down Rickleton Lane, and across Beecham pastures, as well to shake off the foot-people, as to prevent any attempted attendance on the part of the carriage company. Sir Moses, though very gallant, was not always in the chattering mood; and, assuredly, if ever a master of hounds may be excused for a little abruptness, it is when he is tormented by the rival spirits of the adjoining hunt, people who always see things so differently to the men of the country, so differently to what they are meant to do.

It was evident however by the lingering looks and position of parties that the hunt had not been long gone—indeed, the last red coat might still be seen bobbing up and down past the weak and low parts of the Rickleton Lane fence. So Monsieur, having effected a satisfactory rounding, sot his horse’s head that way, much in the old threepence a-mile and hopes for something over, style of his youth. Jack hadn’t forgotten how to ride, though he might occasionally find it convenient to pretend to be a tailor. Indeed, his horse seemed to have ascertained the fact, and instead of playing any more monkey-tricks, he began to apply himself sedulously to the road. Imperial John was now a fitter subject for solicitude than Monsieur, His Highness’s usual bumptious bolt-upright seat being exchanged for a very slouchy, vulgar roll. His saucy eyes too seemed dim and dazzled, like an owl’s flying against the sun. Some of the toiling pedestrians, who in spite of Sir Moses’s intention to leave them in the lurch, had started for the hunt, were the first overtaken, next two grinning boys riding a barebacked donkey, one with his face to the tail, doing the flagellation with an old hearth-brush, then a brandy-nosed horse-breaker, with a badly-grown black colt that didn’t promise to be good for anything, next Dr. Linton on his dun pony, working his arms and legs most energetically, riding far faster than his nag; next Noggin, the exciseman, stealing quietly along on his mule as though he were bent on his business and had no idea of a hunt; and at length a more legitimate representative of the chace in the shape of young Mr. Hadaway, of Oakharrow Hill, in a pair of very baggy white cords, on but indifferent terms about the knees with his badly cleaned tops. They did not, however, overtake the hounds, and the great body of scarlet, till just as they turned off the Summersham road into an old pasture-field, some five acres of the low end of which had been cut off for a gorse to lay to the adjoining range of rocky hills whose rugged juniper and broom-dotted sides afforded very comfortable and popular lying for the foxes. It being, if a find, a quick “get away,” all hands were too busy thinking of themselves and their horses, and looking for their usual opponents to take heed of anything else, and Jack and his friends entered without so much as an observation from any one.

Just at that moment up went Joe’s cap on the top of the craig, and the scene changed to one of universal excitement. Then, indeed, had come the tug of war! Sir Moses, all hilarity, views the fox! Now Stephen Booty sees him, now Peter Lynch, and now a whole cluster of hats are off in his honour.