****
And now his honour’s off himself—
“Shrill horns proclaim his flight.”
Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Billy Pringle?
Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Imperial John?
Oh dear! where’s Jack Rogers?
Jack’s all right! There he is grinning with enthusiasm, quite forgetting that he’s a Frenchman, and hoisting his brown cap with the best of them. Another glass would have made him give a stunning view-halloa.
Imperial John stares like a man just awoke from a dream. Is he in bed, or is he out hunting, or how! he even thinks he hears Miss de Glancey’s “Si-r-r! do you mean to insult me?” ringing in his ears.
Billy Pringle! poor Billy! he’s not so unhappy as usual. His horse is very docile. His tail has lost all its elegant gaiety, and altogether he has a very drooping, weedy look: he coughs, too, occasionally. Billy, however, doesn’t care about the coughs, and gives him a dig with his spur to stop it.
“Come along, Mr. Pringle, come along!” now shrieks Sir Moses, hurrying past, hands down, head too, hugging and spurring his horse as he goes. He is presently through the separating throng, leaving Billy far in the rear. “Quick’s” the word, or the chance is lost. There are no reserved places at a hunt. A flying fox admits of no delay. It is either go or stay.
And now, Monsieur Jean Rougier having stuck his berry-brown conical cap tight on his bristly black head, crams his chestnut horse through the crowd, hallooing to his transfixed brandy friend, “Come along, old cock-a-doodle! come along, old Blink Bonny!”
Imperial John, who has been holding a mental conference with himself, poising himself in the saddle, and making a general estimate of his condition, thinking he is not so drunk as “all that,” accepts the familiar challenge, and urges his horse on with the now flying crowd. He presently makes a bad shot at a gate on the swing, which catching him on the kneecap, contributes very materially to restore his sobriety, the pain making him first look back for his leg, which he thinks must be off, and then forward at the field. It is very large; two bustling Baronets, two Monsieurs, two huntsmen, two flying hatters—everybody in duplicate, in short.
Away they scud up Thorneycroft Valley at a pace that looks very like killing. The foremost rise the hill, hugging and holding on by the manes.
“I’ll go!” says his Highness to himself, giving up rubbing his kneecap, and settling himself in his saddle, he hustles his horse, and pushing past the undecided ones, is presently in the thick of the fray. There is Jack going, elbows and legs, elbows and legs, at a very galloping, dreary, done sort of pace, the roaring animal he bestrides contracting its short, leg-tied efforts every movement. Jack presently begins to objurgate the ass who lent it him; first wishes he was on himself, then declares the tanner ought to have him. He now sits sideways, and proceeds to give him a good rib-roasting in the old post-boy style.
And now there’s a bobbing up and down of hats, caps, and horses’ heads in front, with the usual deviation under the “hounds clauses consolidation act,” where the dangerous fencing begins. A pair of white breeches are summersaulting in the air, and a bay horse is seen careering in a wild head in the air sort of way, back to the rear instead of following the hounds.
“That’s lucky,” said Jack Rogers to himself, as soon as he saw him coming towards him, and circumventing him adroitly at the corner of a turnip-field, he quits his own pumped-out animal and catches him. “That’s good,” said he, looking him over, seeing that he was a lively young animal in fairish condition, with a good saddle and bridle.
“Stirrups just my length, too, I do believe,” continued he, preparing to mount. “All right, by Jove!” added he, settling himself into the saddle, feet well home, and gathering his horse together, he shot forward with the easy elasticity of breeding. It was a delightful change from the rolling cow-like action of the other.
“Let us see vot he as in his monkey,” said Jack to himself, now drawing the flask from the saddle-case.
“Sherry, I fear,” said he, uncorking it.
“Brandy, I declare,” added he with delight, after smelling it. He then took a long pull at the contents.
“Good it is, too!” exclaimed he, smacking his lips; “better nor ve ad at de poblic;” so saying, he took another long suck of it.
“May as vell finish it,” continued he, shaking it at his ear to ascertain what was left; and having secured the remainder, he returned the monkey to the saddle-case, and put on his horse with great glee, taking a most independent line of his own.
Jack’s triumph, however, was destined to be but of short duration. The fox being hard pressed, abandoned his original point for Collington Woods, and swerving to the left over Stanbury Hundred, was headed by a cur, and compelled to seek safety in a drain in the middle of a fallow field. The hounds were presently feathering over the mouth in the usual wild, disappointed sort of way, that as good as says, “No fault of ours, you know; if he won’t stay above ground, we can’t catch him for you.”
Such of the field as had not ridden straight for Collington Woods, were soon down at the spot; and while the usual enquiries, “Where’s Pepper?” “Where’s Viper?” “Where can we get a spade?” “Does anybody know anything about the direction of this drain?” were going on, a fat, fair, red-coated, flushed-faced pedestrian—to wit, young Mr. Threadcroft, the woolstapler’s son of Harden Grange and Hinton, dived into the thick of the throng, and making up to Monsieur, exclaimed in an anger-choked voice, “This (puff) is my (gasp) horse! What the (gasp, puff) devil do you mean by riding away with him in this (puff-, gasp) way?” the youth mopping his brow with a yellow bandanna as he spoke.
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“Your oss!” exclaimed Jack with the greatest effrontery, “on de loose can he be your os: I catched him fair! and I’ve a right to ride him to de end of de run;” a claim that elicited the uproarious mirth of the field, who all looked upon the young wool-pack, as they called him, as a muff.
“Nonsense!” retorted the youth, half frantic with rage. “How can that be?”
“Ow can dat be,” repeated Jack, turning sideways in his saddle, and preparing to argue the case, “Ow can dat be? Dis hont, sare, I presume, sare, is condocted on de principle of de grand hont de Epping, vere every mans vot cotched anoder’s oss, is entitled to ride him to the end of de ron,” replied Jack gravely.
“Nonsense!” again retorted the youth, amidst the renewed laughter of the field. “We know nothing of Epping hunts here!”
“Nothin’ of Epping onts here?” exclaimed Jack, throwing out his hands with well feigned astonishment. “Nothin’ of Epping honts here! Vy, de grand hont de Epping rules all the oder honts, jost as the grand Clob de Jockey at Newmarket rules all oder Jockey Clubs in de kingdom.”
“Hoot, toot,” sneered the fat youth, “let’s have none of yonr jaw. Give me my horse, I say, how can he be yours?”
“Because, sare,” replied Jack, “I tells you I cotched ‘im fairly in de field. Bot for me he vod have been lost to society—to de vorld at large—eat up by de loup—by de volf—saddle, bridle, and all.”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mr. Treadcroft, indignantly, “you had no business to touch him.”
Monsieur (with energy). I appeal to you, Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, de master of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, if I have not a right to ride ‘im.
“Ah, I’m afraid, Monsieur, it’s not the law of this country,” replied Sir Moses, laughing. “It may be so in France, perhaps; but tell me, where’s your own horse?”
Monsieur. Pomped out de beggar; had no go in ‘im; left him in a ditch.
Sir Moses. That’s a pity!—if you’d allowed me, I’d have sent you a good ‘un.
Mr. Treadcroft, thus reinforced by Sir Moses’s decision, returned to the charge with redoubled vigour. “If you don’t give me up my horse, sir,” says he, with firmness, “I’ll give you in charge of the police for stealing him.” Then
“Conscience, which makes cowards of us all,”
caused Jack to shrink at the recollection of his early indiscretion in the horse-stealing line, and instantly resolving not to give Jack Ketch a chance of taking any liberties with his neck, he thus addresses Mr. Treadcroft:—
“Sare, if Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, do grandmodder of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, says it is not a case of catch ‘im and keep ‘im ‘cordin’ to de rules of de grand hont de Epping, I must surrender de quadruped, but I most say it is dem un’andsome treatment, after I ‘ave been at de trouble of catching ‘im.” So saying, Jack dropped off on the wrong side of the saddle, and giving the horse a slap on his side left his owner to take him.
“Tally-ho! there he goes!” now exclaimed a dozen voices, as out bounced the fox with a flourish of his well tagged brush that looked uncommonly defiant. What a commotion he caused! Every man lent a shout that seemed to be answered by a fresh effort from the flyer: but still, with twenty couple of overpowering animals after him, what chance did there seem for his life, especially when they could hunt him by his scent after they had lost sight. Every moment, however, improved his opportunity, and a friendly turn of the land shutting him out of view, the late darting, half-frantic pack were brought to their noses.
“Hold hard for one, minute!” is the order of the day.
“Now, catch ’em if you can!” is the cry.
Away they go in the settled determined way of a second start. The bolt taking place on the lower range of the gently swelling Culmington hills, that stretch across the north-east side of Hit-im and Hold-im shire, and the fox making for the vale below, Monsieur has a good bird’s eye view of the scramble, without the danger and trouble of partaking of the struggle. Getting astride a newly stubbed ash-tree near the vacated drain mouth, he thus sits and soliloquises—“He’s a pretty flyer, dat fox—if dey catch ‘im afore he gets to the hills,” eyeing a gray range uudulating in the distance, “they’ll do well. That Moff of a man,” alluding to Treadcroft, “‘ill never get there. At all events,” chuckled Jack, “his brandy vont. Dats ‘im! I do believe,” exclaimed Jack, “off again!” as a loose horse is now seen careering across a grass field. “No; dat is a black coat,” continued Jack, as the owner now appeared crossing the field in pursuit of his horse. “Bot dat vill be ‘im! dat vill be friend Moll’,” as a red rider now measures his length on the greensward of a field in the rear of the other one; and Jack, taking off his faded cap, waives it triumphantly as he distinctly recognises the wild, staring running of his late steed. “Dash my buttons!” exclaims he, working his arms as if he was riding, “bot if it hadn’t been for dat unwarrantable, unchristian-like cheek I’d ha’ shown those red coats de vay on dat oss, for I do think he has de go in him and only vants shovin’ along.—Ah Moff—my friend Moff!” laughed he, eyeing Treadcroft’s vain endeavour to catch his horse, “you may as vell leave ‘im where he is—you’ll only fatigue yourself to no purpose. If you ‘ad ‘im you’d be off him again de next minute.”
The telescope of the chace is now drawn out to the last joint, and Jack, as he sits, has a fine bird’s eye view of the scene. If the hounds go rather more like a flock of wild geese than like the horses in the chariot of the sun, so do the field, until the diminutive dots, dribbling through the vale, look like the line of a projected railway.
“If I mistake not,” continued Jack, “dat leetle shiny eel-like ting,” eyeing a tortuous silvery thread meandering through the vale, “is vater, and dere vill be some fon by de time dey get there.”
Jack is right in his conjecture. It is Long Brawlingford brook, with its rotten banks and deep eddying pools, describing all sorts of geographical singularities in its course through the country, too often inviting aspiring strangers to astonish the natives by riding at it, while the cautious countrymen rein in as they approach, and, eyeing the hounds, ride for a ford at the first splash.
Jack’s friend, Blink Bonny, has ridden not amiss, considering his condition—at all events pretty forward, as may be inferred from his having twice crossed the Flying Hatter and come in for the spray of his censure. But for the fact of his Highness getting his hats of the flyer, he would most likely have received the abuse in the bulk. As it was, the hatter kept letting it go as he went.
And now as the hounds speed over the rich alluvial pastures by the brook, occasionally one throwing its tongue, occasionally another, for the scent is first-rate and the pace severe, there is a turning of heads, a checking of horses, and an evident inclination to diverge. Water is in no request.
“Who knows the ford?” cries Harry Waggett, who always declined extra risk.—“You know the ford, Smith?” continued he, addressing himself to black tops.
“Not when I’m in a hur-hur-hurry,” ejaculates Smith, now fighting with his five-year-old bay.
“O’ill show ye the ford!” cries Imperial John, gathering his grey together and sending him at a stiff flight of outside slab-made rails which separate the field from the pack. This lands His Highness right among the tail hounds.
“Hold hard, Mr. Hybrid!” now bellows Sir Moses, indignant at the idea of a Featherbedfordshire farmer thinking to cut down his gallant field.
“One minuit! and you may go as hard as iver you like!” cries Tom Findlater, who now sees the crows hovering over his fox as he scuttles away on the opposite side of the brook.
There is then a great yawing of mouths and hauling of heads and renewed inquiries for fords.—You know the ford, Brown? You know the ford, Green? Who knows the ford?
His Highness, thus snubbed and rebuked on all sides, is put on his mettle, and inwardly resolves not to be bullied by these low Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps. “If they don’t know what is due to the friend of an Earl, he will let them see that he does.” So, regardless of their shouts, he shoves along with his Imperial chin well in the air, determined to ride at the brook—let those follow who will. He soon has a chance. The fox has taken it right in his line, without deviating a yard either way, and Wolds-man, and Bluecap, and Ringwood, and Hazard, and Sparkler are soon swimming on his track, followed by the body of the screeching, vociferating pack.
Old Blink Bonny now takes a confused, wish-I-was-well-over, sort of look at the brook, shuddering when he thought how far he was from dry clothes. It is however, too late to retreat. At it he goes in a half resolute sort of way, and in an instant the Imperial hat and the Imperial horse’s head are all that appear above water.
“Hoo-ray!” cheer some of the unfeeling Hit-im and Hold-im shireites, dropping down into the ford a little below.
“Hoo-ray!” respond others on the bank, as the Red Otter, as Silverthorne calls His Highness, rises hatless to the top.
“Come here, and I’ll help you out!” shouts Peter Linch, eyeing Mr. Hybrid’s vain darts first at the hat and then at the horse.
“Featherbedfordshire for ever!” cries Charley Drew, who doesn’t at all like Imperial John.
And John, who finds the brook not only a great deal wider, but also a great deal deeper and colder than he expected, is in such a state of confusion that he lands on one side and his horse on the other, so that his chance of further distinction is out for the day. And as he stands shivering and shaking and emptying his hat, he meditates on the vicissitudes of life, the virtues of sobriety, and the rashness of coping with a friend of His Imperial brother, Louis Nap. His horse meanwhile regales upon grass, regardless of the fast receding field. Thus John is left alone in his glory, and we must be indebted to other sources for an account of the finish of this day’s sport.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.
MONSIEUR Jean Rougier having seen the field get small by degrees, if not beautifully less, and having viewed the quivering at the brook, thinking the entertainment over, now dismounted from his wooden steed, and, giving it a crack with his stick, saying it was about as good as his first one, proceeded to perform that sorry exploit of retracing his steps through the country on foot. Thanks to the influence of civilisation, there is never much difficulty now in finding a road; and, Monsieur was soon in one whose grassy hoof-marked sides showed it had been ridden down in chase. Walking in scarlet is never a very becoming proceeding; but, walking in such a scarlet as Jack had on, coupled with such a cap, procured him but little respect from the country people, who took him for one of those scarlet runners now so common with hounds. One man (a hedger) in answer to his question, “If he had seen his horse?” replied, after a good stare—“Nor—nor nobody else;” thinking that the steed was all imaginary, and Jack was wanting to show off: another said, “Coom, coom, that ill not de; you’ve ne horse.” Altogether, Monsieur did not get much politeness from anyone; so he stumped moodily along, venting his spleen as he went.
The first thing that attracted his attention was his own pumped-out steed, standing with its snaffle-rein thrown over a gate-post; and Jack, having had about enough pedestrian exercise, especially considering that he was walking in his own boots, now gladly availed himself of the lately discarded mount.
“Wooay, ye great grunting brute!” exclaimed he, going up with an air of ownership, taking the rein off the post, and climbing on.
He had scarcely got well under way, ere a clattering of horses’ hoofs behind him, attracted his attention; and, looking back, he saw the Collington Woods detachment careering along in the usual wild, staring, which-way? which-way? sort of style of men, who have been riding to points, and have lost the hounds. In the midst of the flight was his master, on the now woe-begone bay; who came coughing, and cutting, and hammer and pincering along, in a very ominous sort of way. Billy, on the other hand, flattered himself that they were having a very tremendous run, with very little risk, and he was disposed to take every advantage of his horse, by way of increasing its apparent severity, thinking it would be a fine thing to tell his Mamma how he had got through his horse. Monsieur having replied to their which ways? with the comfortable assurance “that they need not trouble themselves any further, the hounds being miles and miles away,” there was visible satisfaction on the faces of some; while others, more knowing, attempted to conceal their delight by lip-curling exclamations of “What a bore!”
“Thought you knew the country, Brown.” “Never follow you again, Smith,” and so on. They then began asking for the publics. “Where’s the Red Lion?”
“Does anybody know the way to the Barley Mow?”
“How far is it to the Dog and Duck at Westpool?”
“Dat oss of yours sall not be quite vell, I tink, sare,” observed Jack to his master, after listening to one of its ominous coughs.
“Oh, yes he is, only a little lazy,” replied Billy, giving him a refresher, as well with the whip on his shoulder, as with the spur on his side.
“He is feeble, I should say, sare,” continued Jack, eyeing him pottering along.
“What should I give him, then?” asked Billy, thinking there might be something in what Jack said.
“I sud say a leetle gin vod be de best ting for im,” replied Jack.
“Gin! but where can I get gin here?” asked Billy.
“Dese gentlemens is asking their vays to de Poblic ouses,” replied Jack; “and if you follows dem, you vill laud at some tap before long.”
Jack was right. Balmey Zephyr, as they call Billy West, the surgeon of Hackthorn, who had joined the hunt quite promiscuous, is leading the way to the Red Lion, and the cavalcade is presently before the well-frequented door; one man calling for Purl, another Ale, a third for Porter; while others hank their horses on to the crook at the door, while they go in to make themselves comfortable. Jack dismounting, and giving his horse in charge of his master, entered the little way-side hostelry; and, asking for a measure of gin, and a bottle of water, he drinks off the gin, and then proceeds to rinse Billy’s horse’s mouth out with the water, just as a training-groom rinses a horse’s after a race.
“Dat vill do,” at length said Jack, chucking the horse’s head up in the air, as if he gets him to swallow the last drop of the precious beverage. “Dat vill do,” repeated he, adding, “he vill now carry you ome like a larkspur.” So saying, Jack handed the bottle back through the window, and, paying the charge, remounted his steed, kissing his hand, and bon-jouring the party, as he set off with his master in search of Pangburn Park.
Neither of them being great hands at finding their way about a country, they made sundry bad hits, and superfluous deviations, and just reached Pangburn Park as Sir Moses and Co. came triumphantly down Rossington hill, flourishing the brush that had given them a splendid fifty minutes (ten off for exaggeration) without a check, over the cream of their country, bringing Imperial John, Gameboy Green, and the flower of the Featherbedfordshire hunt, to the most abject and unmitigated grief.
“Oh, such a run!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his paws. “Oh, such a run! Finest run that ever was seen! Sort of run, that if old Thorne (meaning Lord Ladythorne) had had, he’d have talked about it for a year.” Sir Moses then descended to particulars, describing the heads up and sterns down work to the brook, the Imperial catastrophe which he dwelt upon with great goût, dom’d if he didn’t; and how, leaving John in the water, they went away over Rillington Marsh, at a pace that was perfectly appalling, every field choking off some of those Featherbedfordshireites, who came out thinking to cut them all down; then up Tewey Hill, nearly to the crow trees, swinging down again into the vale by Billy Mill, skirting Laureston Plantations, and over those splendid pastures of Arlingford, where there was a momentary check, owing to some coursers, who ought to be hung, dom’d if they shouldn’t. “This,” continued Sir Moses, “let in some of the laggers, Dickey among the number; but we were speedily away again; and, passing a little to the west of Pickering Park, through the decoy, and away over Larkington Rise, shot down to the Farthing-pie House, where that great Owl, Gameboy Green, thinking to show off, rode at an impracticable fence, and got a cropper for his pains, nearly knocking the poor little Damper into the middle of the week after next by crossing him. Well, from there he made for the main earths in Purdoe Banks, where, of course, there was no shelter for him; and, breaking at the east end of the dene, he set his head straight for Brace well Woods, good two miles off (one and a quarter, say); but his strength failing him over Winterflood Heath, we ran from scent to view, in the finest, openest manner imaginable,—dom’d if we didn’t,” concluded Sir Moses, having talked himself out of breath.
The same evening, just as Oliver Armstrong was shutting up day by trimming and lighting the oil-lamp at the Lockingford toll-bar, which stands within a few yards from where the apparently well-behaved little stream of Long Brawlingford brook divides the far-famed Hit-im and Hold-im shire from Featherbedfordshire, a pair of desperately mud-stained cords below a black coat and vest, reined up behind a well wrapped and buttoned-up gentleman in a buggy, who chanced to be passing, and drew forth the usual inquiry of “What sport?”
The questioner was no less a personage than Mr. Easylease, Lord Ladythorne’s agent—we beg pardon, Commissioner—and Mr. Gameboy Green, the tenant in possession of the soiled cords, recognising the voice in spite of the wraps, thus replied—
“Oh, Mr. Easylease it’s you, sir, is it? Hope you’re well, sir,” with a sort of move of his hat—not a take off, nor yet a keep on—“hope Mrs. Easylease is quite well, and the young ladies.”
“Quite well, thank you; hope Mrs. G.‘s the same. What sport have you had?” added the Commissioner, without waiting for an answer to the inquiry about the ladies.
“Sport!” repeated Gameboy, drawing his breath, as he conned the matter hastily over. “Sport!” recollecting he was as good as addressing the Earl himself—master of hounds—favours past—hopes for future, and so on. “Well,” said he, seeing his line; “We’ve had a nice-ish run—a fair-ish day—five and twenty minutes, or so.”
“Fast?” asked Mr. Easylease, twirling his gig-whip about, for he was going to Tantivy Castle in the morning, and thought he might as well have something to talk about beside the weather.
“Middlin’—nothin’ partieklar,” replied Green, with a chuck of the chin.
“Kill?” asked the Commissioner, continuing the laconics.
“Don’t know,” replied the naughty Green, who knew full well they had; for he had seen them run into their fox as he stood on Dinglebank Hill; and, moreover, had ridden part of the way home with Tommy Heslop, who had a pad.
“Why, you’ve been down!” exclaimed the Commissioner, starting round at the unwonted announcement of Gameboy Green, the best man of their hunt, not knowing if they had killed.
“Down, aye,” repeated Gameboy, looking at his soiled side, which looked as if he had been at a sculptor’s, having a mud cast taken of himself. “I’m indebted to the nasty little jealous Damper for that.”
“The Damper!” exclaimed the Commissioner, knowing how the Earl hated him. “The Damper! that little rascally draper’s always doing something wrong. How did he manage it?”
“Just charged me as I was taking a fence,” replied Green, “and knocked me clean over.”
“What a shame!” exclaimed the Commissioner, driving on. “What a shame,” repeated he, whipping his horse into a trot.
And as he proceeded, he presently fell in with Dr. Pillerton, to whom he related how infamously the Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps had used poor Green, breaking three of his ribs, and nearly knocking his eye out. And Dr. Pillerton, ever anxious, &c., told D’Orsay Davis, the great we of the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, who forthwith penned such an article on fox-hunting Jealousy, generally, and Hit-im and Hold-im shire Jealousy in particular, as caused Sir Moses to declare he’d horsewhip him the first time he caught him,—“dom’d if he wouldn’t.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE SICK HORSE AND THE SICK MASTER.
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YOUR oss sall be seek—down in de mouth dis mornin’, sare,” observed Monsieur to Billy, as the latter lay tossing about in his uncomfortable bed, thinking how he could shirk that day’s hunting penance; Sir Moses, with his usual dexterity, having evaded the offer of lending him a horse, by saying that Billy’s having nothing to do the day before would be quite fresh for the morrow.
“Shall be w-h-a-w-t?” drawled our hero, dreading the reply.
“Down in de mouth—seek—onvell,” replied Jack, depositing the top-boots by the sofa, and placing the shaving-water on the toilette table.
“Oh, is he!” said Billy, perking up, thinking he saw his way out of the dilemma. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He coughs, sare—he does not feed, sare—and altogether he is not right.”
“So-o-o,” said Billy, conning the matter over—“then, p’raps I’d better not ride him?”
“Vot you think right, sare,” replied Jack. “He is your quadruped, not mine; but I should not say he is vot dey call, op to snoff—fit to go.”
“Ah,” replied Billy. “I’ll not ride ‘im! hate a horse that’s not up to the mark.”
“Sare Moses Baronet vod perhaps lend you von, sare,” suggested Jack.
“Oh, by no means!” replied Billy in a fright. “By no means! I’d just as soon not hunt to-day, in fact, for I’ve got a good many letters to write and things to do; so just take the water away for the present and bring it back when Sir Moses is gone.” So saying, Billy turned over on his thin pillow, and again sought the solace of his couch. He presently fell into a delightful dreamy sort of sleep, in which he fancied that after dancing the Yammerton girls all round, he had at length settled into an interminable “Ask Mamma Polka,” with Clara, from which he was disagreeably aroused by Jack Rogers’ hirsute face again protruding between the partially-drawn curtains, announcing, “Sare Moses Baronet, sare, has cot his stick—is off.”
“Sir Moses, what!” started Billy, dreading to hear about the hunt.
“Sare Moses Baronet, sare, is gone, and I’ve brought you your l’eau chaude, as you said.”
“All right!” exclaimed Billy, rubbing his eyes and recollecting himself, “all right;” and, banishing the beauty, he jumped out of bed and resigned himself to Rogers, who forthwith commenced the elaborate duties of his office. As it progressed he informed Billy how the land lay. “Sare Moses was gone, bot Coddy was left, and Mrs. Margerum said there should be no déjeuner for Cod” (who was a bad tip), till Billy came down. And Jack didn’t put himself at all out of his way to expedite matters to accommodate Cuddy.
At length Billy descended in a suit of those tigerish tweeds into which he had lapsed since he got away from Mamma, and was received with a round of tallihos and view-holloas by Cuddy, who had been studying Bell’s Life with exemplary patience in the little bookless library, reading through all the meets of the hounds as if he was going to send a horse to each of them. Then Cuddy took his revenge on the servants by ringing for everything he could think of, demanding them all in the name of Mr. Pringle; just as an old parish constable used to run frantically about a fair demanding assistance from everybody in the name of the Queen. Mr. Pringle wanted devilled turkey, Mr. Pringle wanted partridge pie, Mr. Pringle wanted sausages, Mr. Pringle wanted chocolate, Mr. Pringle wanted honey, jelly and preserve. Why the deuce, didn’t they send Mr. Pringle his breakfast in properly? And if the servants didn’t think Billy a very great man, it wasn’t for want of Cuddy trying to make them.
And so, what with Cuddy’s exertions and the natural course of events, Billy obtained a very good breakfast. The last cup being at length drained, Cuddy clutched Bell’s Life, and wheeling his semicircular chair round to the fire, dived into his side pocket, and, producing a cigar-case, tendered Billy a weed. And Cuddy did it in such a matter-of-course way, that much as Billy disliked smoking, he felt constrained to accept one, thinking to get rid of it by a sidewind, just as he had got rid of old Wotherspoon’s snuff, by throwing it away. So, taking his choice, he lit it, and prepared to beat a retreat, but was interrupted by Cuddy asking where “he was going?”
“Only into the open air,” replied Billy, with the manner of a professed smoker.
“Open air, be hanged!” retorted Cuddy. “Open airs well enough in summer-time when the roses are out, and the strawberries ripe, but this is not the season for that kind of sport. No, no, come and sit here, man,” continued he, drawing a chair alongside of him for Billy, “and let’s have a chat about hunting.”
“But Sir Moses won’t like his room smoked in,” observed Billy, making a last effort to be off.
“Oh, Sir Moses don’t care!” rejoined Cuddy, with a jerk of his head; “Sir Moses don’t care! can’t hurt such rubbish as this,” added he, tapping the arm of an old imitation rose-wood painted chair that stood on his left. “No old furniture broker in the Cut, would give ten puns for the whole lot, curtains, cushions, and all,” looking at the faded red hangings around.
So Billy was obliged to sit down and proceed with his cigar. Meanwhile Cuddy having established a good light to his own, took up his left leg to nurse, and proceeded with his sporting speculations.
“Ah, hunting wasn’t what it used to be (whiff), nor racing either (puff). Never was a truer letter (puff), than that of Lord Derby’s (whiff), in which he said racing had got into the (puff) hands of (whiff) persons of an inferior (puff) position, who keep (puff) horses as mere instruments of (puff) gambling, instead of for (whiff) sport.” Then, having pruned the end of his cigar, he lowered his left leg and gave his right one a turn, while he indulged in some hunting recollections. “Hunting wasn’t what it used to be (puff) in the days of old (whiff) Warde and (puff) Villebois and (whiff) Masters. Ah no!” continued he, taking his cigar out of his month, and casting his eye up at the dirty fly-dotted ceiling. “Few such sportsmen as poor Sutton or Ralph Lambton, or that fine old fire-brick, Assheton Smith. People want to be all in the ring now, instead of sticking to one sport, and enjoying it thoroughly—yachts, manors, moors, race-horses, cricket, coaches, coursing, cooks—and the consequence is, they get blown before they are thirty, and have to live upon air the rest of their lives. Wasn’t one man in fifty that hunted who really enjoyed it. See how glad they were to tail off as soon as they could. A good knock on the nose, or a crack on the crown settled half of them. Another thing was, there was no money to be made by it. Nothing an Englishman liked so much as making money, or trying to make it.” So saying, Cuddy gave his cigar another fillip, and replacing it in his mouth, proceeded to blow a series of long revolving clouds, as he lapsed into a heaven of hunting contemplations.
From these he was suddenly aroused by the violent retching of Billy. Our friend, after experiencing the gradual growth of seasickness mingled with a stupifying headache, was at length fairly overcome, and Cuddy had just time to bring the slop-basin to the rescue. Oh, how green Billy looked!