Now ambling along the fallows and watching the progress of the plough—now cantering along the greensward by the road side—now taking a flight of hurdles or a five-barred gate—little matters which the Londoner achieved, to Ashbrook’s astonishment, with a seat as firm and a hand as light as his own.
Fortescue was not much of a hand at a gun; he said he did not shoot, but that it always gave him pleasure to see the sport, and often he would take a big stick in his hand and do as tidy a day’s beating, so said Joe Doughty, “as e’er a man on the farm.”
It certainly was most remarkable how he accommodated himself to the ways of Richard Ashbrook. On market days the latter was quite proud of him.
He would take his seat about half way down the table, and before the first quarter of an hour had passed he would contrive to be on good terms with every farmer at the ordinary.
In short, he was a general favourite.
When dinner was over and glasses round was the war-cry of the knights of the plough, he told them stories till they clapped their hands to their aching sides, and spluttered in their glasses as they vainly strove to drink.
“He was a right-down proper sort of gentleman,” the yeomen declared. “There warn’t no mistake about that.”
He was popular with all classes.
“He comes from another breed nor most Cockneys,” said one man. “He aint one of those starchy sort of customers. Dall their rich and stuck-up ways; they’s too proud to look at we poor folks, and when we touches our hats to ’em their heads seems as if they were made of ice. But there aint no pride in this gentleman, ne’er a crumb or morsel.”
So Mr. Fortescue was looked upon as a right down good fellow on the farm and premises—with all but one.