Painful was the revulsion of feeling—I never felt more foolish in my life. Away went pig and tangan—and so they might, for aught I cared—whilst I, like a dying gladiator, lay prone on the earth, applying vigorous friction to my shoulder. In a few seconds, my companions rode up, to my confusion, convulsed with laughter, which they vainly strove to repress.
“You’re not hurt, I hope, Gernon?” said my host, endeavouring to compose his features into a look of commiseration (a dead failure, by-the-bye).
“No, not much,” said I, writhing with pain; “nothing to speak of. It was that confounded rotten stirrup; but I should not have cared, had I speared the hog.”
Upon this, there was another volcano of laughter. I felt annoyed, and begged to know, fiercely, what they found so amusing in a friend’s nearly breaking his neck.
“Oh, my good ami,” exclaimed the Frenchman, “you most pardonnez—but ha! ha! ha! you ave hunt the village pig, ha! ha! ha! and not the vild hogue. Oh, mon Dieu, je vais mourir—oh! oh!”
“Yes,” added Augustus, “oh! oh! oh! you really must excuse us, Gernon, he! he! he! for laughing a little at your griffinish mistake; indeed, you have been chasing a villager; but you are not the first that has made such a blunder. Come,” he continued, “here’s your steed; mount once more, and we’ll show you some real sport. I see you are game to the backbone, and will prove a staunch hog-hunter.”
I was mortified at my blunder, but this piece of flattery acted as a cataplasm to my wounded spirit; so I thought it best to join in the laugh against myself, and remounting my tangan, and re-adjusting the stirrup, we once more continued our route.
After crossing a bare plain, we found ourselves on the banks of the river, covered for miles with a belt of grass and long reeds. The beaters were now put in, and dismal yelling and shouting commenced. In a few minutes the cry of sewer, sewer! (“hog, hog!”) arose from many voices; the reeds ahead waved and rustled, and in a moment a tremendous boar burst from the cover, and bore right away across the hard plain, towards the cultivation.
Away went Augustus in gallant style, with a yell or war-whoop that made the welkin ring. The second mate joined chase right before the wind; my little hard-mouthed Punch stuck down his head, laid back his ears, and, unbidden, followed next, keenly alive to the sport, though I had a hard matter to manage him and my long spear to boot; and in a moment more the Frenchman thundered past, with brandished spear and horse tight in hand.
“Ha! ha!” said he, as he passed me, “now you vill see de death of de veritable vild hogue.”