"Mornin', mum," replies old Tom, doffing his cap; and then to avoid further conversation he calls away Bellman and trots off to a distant point, bringing the hounds back at a walk to allow time for her to "collar someone else," as he puts it.
While he is away on his little tour we may just glance at the external appearance of the Member's wife. Certainly she is not a good riding figure, being of the order "dumpy," and her seat in the saddle reminds one strongly of a plum-pudding on a dish. Her habit is a close copy of Mrs. Talford's, with the exception that it is much exaggerated. In the front of the collar, which is turned over, is displayed an elaborate necktie, with a fox's head painted on crystal as a pin, two heads of the same pattern serving as studs for her wristbands. She also affects the hunt-button, plain brass, with "B.H." in a monogram: and a hat-guard made of a small gold chain, secured to a most curly-brimmed hat by a fox's tooth, completes the dress; while the hunting-crop she carries in her fat little pudgy hand is more fitted for a First Whip than a lady, being, both heavy and cumbersome.
Tom evidently knows her pretty well, for before he returns from his self-imposed trot to his original place, Mrs. Polson has "collared someone else," and is making herself agreeable (or trying to) to two strangers who are staying with the Master for a week, and whom she has met at dinner at Lappington. A small group standing a little way off, after bowing, smile among themselves and pity the innocent strangers who, as young Bevan says, are "being let in for a day in waiting." "It's a shame of Lappington not to have put them on their guard," he continues; "I shall tell him so."
"She landed you once, Bevan, did not she?" asks another, laughing.
"Yes, but never again," is the reply. "Five-and-twenty gates to open, a treatise on scent, the pedigree of every hound in the pack, and some weak sherry-and-water, hardly compensate one for missing one of the best things of the season. By gad, we never saw hounds from the time they found till they killed, and yet to hear the woman talk, you would fancy she was in the first flight all the way. Look out, she is bearing down on us;" and the little group disperse, each one seemingly having caught sight of a man in the distance that he "must speak to for a moment."
Time's up now, and they move off to the big wood, Mrs. P. closely attended by the two strangers, to whom she has promised to show the country. They feel obliged, or rather under an obligation to her, and do not like to leave her side, though both think they would rather see the country for themselves without a cicerone. It is her day all over, for it is even betting they do not get out of the wood; and even if they do, what so convenient as a false turn down a ride that leads to nowhere? By the time they get outside hounds will be well away, and the only chance of catching them will be through that line of gates that Mrs. Polson knows so well.
As they come up to the wood the trio find their progress barred by a low rail, over which Tom has popped, followed by a good many of the field. The two strangers naturally suppose that so great a sportswoman as Mrs. Polson will make nothing of a small obstacle like the one before them, so one politely gives her a lead over, turning round on the other side to say: "It's rather a boggy place on the left, but if you jump well to the right you will find it quite firm," while the other holds back till the lady has successfully negotiated the fence.
They are a little surprised when she says, in the blandest possible tones: "I hope you will not think me a bore, but there is nothing I dislike so much as jumping in cold blood. It only takes it out of one's horse for nothing. If you would not mind taking that rail down—it drops off easily—I should be so much obliged."
This necessitates someone dismounting, and the man who gave the lead over has to get off and stand in a pool of muddy water, which he feels oozing through his boots, while he struggles manfully with the offending rail. At last his efforts are successful. Mrs. Poison gallops triumphantly through, splashing him all over as she passes.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she exclaims, when she sees what she has done. "It is my naughty horse; he can't bear to be kept waiting."