Yes, there was Mr. Naggett, in full bloom, armed and accoutred for the chase; sipping a fragrant concoction of gin-and-cloves moreover, as a further preparation. His horse, a large mealy chestnut, was being led up and down the yard. I saw it through the bar-window, and thought I never liked the look of an animal much less. All that art could accomplish had, however, been done, to set off its natural unsightliness. It was decorated with a new saddle and bridle, breast-plate, nose-band, and martingale complete. It was accoutred, moreover, with a gaudy saddle-cloth, rather too large, and a boot on every leg but one.
The owner, too, was got-up in an alarming manner, and as he would have said himself, “regardless of expense.” Mr. Naggett’s coat was blue, with the brightest of buttons, bearing some raised device, in which a crown-imperial predominated. Mr. Naggett’s waistcoat was scarlet, bound with yellow braid: and his cream-coloured neckcloth was secured by a red cornelian pin. A low-crowned hat, white cloth breeches, and high Napoleon boots, faultless in polish, but spoiled by a pair of thin racing spurs, very badly put on, completed Mr. Naggett’s resplendent costume. The man himself seemed in the highest possible spirits; but I thought I could detect a slight tremor of the hand, despite his morning stimulant—that tremor which a horse is so apt in discovering, particularly when he is ridden at water.
“Nice morning, sir,” said Mr. Naggett. He pronounced it marning; but this peculiarity I have observed amongst ultra sporting characters. “Hope I see you all right again, sir. You’ll want both hands to-day—heels too, or I’m mistaken. Looks like a hunting marning, don’t it, sir? And there’s a fox lies here in Soakington Gorse, as will give us a ‘buster,’ I know. Got your ‘riding boots’ on to-day, sir, I dare say.”
I was somewhat nettled at his tone, three parts jesting, and not above a quarter respectful; and I replied, wishing to return sarcasm with sarcasm—
“I shall follow you, Mr. Naggett, if I want to be well with them.”
Such delicate thrusts were completely thrown away upon my friend’s proof-armour of self-conceit.
“You might do worse, sir,” said he, in perfect good faith. “I’m riding a real good one to-day. Go as fast as he likes, he can; and jump! He’d jump a town, if you’d put him at it! I know whose fault it will be if we get thrown out to-day. Your health, Miss Lushington. What, Ike! be the hounds come already?”
The latter question was addressed to my old acquaintance, the earth-stopper, who with many a low salaam, and a gentlemanlike air of excusing himself, which he had acquired in his palmy days with “The Flamers,” and never completely shaken off, now sidled into the Bar.
“They’re not half-a-mile behind,” said the old man; and then turned to me, with a “Beg your pardon, sir,” as if to apologise that he had addressed the other first. I accepted the implied compliment; and could do no less in return than ask the veteran “What would he have to drink?”
“A little gin, if you please, sir,” replied old Ike, passing the back of his hand across his mouth. And I saw his wasted features glow and his eyes brighten, as the liquid fire descended to those regions which people who are no anatomists call the “cockles of the heart.” He was still a wonderfully tough old specimen, this earth-stopper. Last night he had been his rounds on a shaggy white pony that looked like the ghost of a horse in the dim moonlight; and to-day, having already walked half-a-dozen miles or so before breakfast, he would follow the hounds for several hours on foot, and be ready again for his work by nightfall.