"And you ought to meet the first day after. By Heavens, I'd meet every day there till the country was fit to ride," grumbles the Major. "Look at the hounds too. Why, Tom must have got the whole pack out, and borrowed some besides. Now I ask you, can we expect any sport with such a pack as that? 'Pon my soul the Hunt's going to the devil."
"Short of work, Major; must give 'em a bit of exercise," puts in the Huntsman, as Bowles rides off to anathematise the landlord of The Three Bells, for presuming to offer him a glass of "d——d muddy home-brewed," calling, however, for a second edition of the same. By this time the Master has arrived and there is a general bustle, a tightening of girths, a shortening of stirrups, and the usual preparations for a start. The word goes round that the first draw will be Mickleborough Wood, and Tom with the hounds is already on his way there before it reaches the ear of the Major, at that moment engaged in an altercation with his servant, who, according to Bowles, has put a wrong bridle on his second horse, but, according to the man himself, has only obeyed his master's instructions.
No sooner does he hear the appointed place than he gives up the bridle argument, and making his way to where the Master and others are trotting down the lane, commences: "You don't mean to say, Lappington, you're going to put them into the Wood? Why, we shall never get away, and the rides will be impassable. My good sir, just think. Here, some of you fellows, try and persuade him, he never listens to me, nobody ever does;" adding, under his breath, "never heard such d——d folly in my life."
"Why, Bowles," replies Sir John, laughing, "you said a minute ago that the bottoms would be under water, and now you object to the high ground. Where would you go to, you old growler?"
"Growler be hanged: I never grumble. But it is a little bit too much, when one comes out for a day's hunting, to be turned loose into a forest of trees growing on a bog. The man who planted Mickleborough Wood ought to have been hung," says Bowles.
What more he might have added will never be known, for at this instant a ringing view holloa is heard, and the hounds are away full cry, a fox having jumped up in a spinney on the road to the Wood.
"Just like my luck," the Major is heard to ejaculate, as he puts his nag at the fence out of the lane. "Whenever I try and give anybody advice they tell me I am growling. Hold up, you awkward devil," to his horse, who pecks a bit on landing. "And here have I been wasting my time teaching a pack of idiots how to hunt the country, and lost my start."
After running hard for a quarter of an hour, the hounds check in a road, half the pack having flashed over the line.
Here the Major is in his glory, and holds forth. "What did I say this morning? If they will bring out every hound in the kennel, how can they expect them to hunt. Look there, now; look there. What the devil's the use of taking them up the road? The fox is for'ard, I'll wager. 'Pon my oath, I believe old Tom is getting past his work. There's that young ass, Simms, too, messing about—always in the way. I should like to know how he finds time to hunt. Every farmer seems to be able to do everything nowadays, and when they want to pay their corn-bill they cry out about the weather and ask for a reduction of rent."
"Not quite so bad as all that, Major," exclaim one or two farmers, who think it time to stick up for their characters. "Not quite so bad as all that. We likes to ride as well as anyone, and we likes to see others enjoy themselves over our land. But there, we know you don't mean it."