I saw the old man’s face brighten once more, as the door opened, and Tom Turnbull walked into the bar—not to drink anything, as I soon ascertained, but to inquire if a parcel had been left for his “Missis.” By the way, I should much like to have my curiosity satisfied as to what these parcels for farmer’s wives contain, that are continually left at houses of call. They are invariably small, limp, and a good deal crushed, wrapped in the softest of paper, and tied with the most tangled of string.
Mr. Turnbull looked the picture of a sportsman—low-crowned hat, pepper-and-salt coat, Bedford cord breeches, and brown-topped boots, thick leather gloves, and a blue bird’s-eye neckcloth. “How goes it, Tom?” exclaimed a voice I recognised. “Fine dry morning, this. Won’t you liquor up?”
“Never take anything before I go hunting, thank ye, sir,” replied Tom, turning round his rosy healthy face and clear eye, presenting a marked contrast to the dissipated looks of “Jovial Jem,” for it was none other who now addressed him. The Jovial had been in London, too, during the frost, and, judging by his appearance, had been engaged in a process which he termed “keeping the game alive,” but which was likely to be rapid destruction to the sportsman. He looked as if he had been partially drunk for a fortnight and was hardly sober now, as indeed probably was the case. He was attired, nevertheless, in the most fashionable hunting costume—long scarlet coat with large sleeves, white waistcoat with an infinity of pockets, blue-satin neckcloth and turned-down collar, well-cleaned leathers and top-boots, heavy workmanlike spurs as bright as silver, and a velvet hunting-cap. A cigar in his mouth of course, and, despite a certain nervous anxiety of manner, a merry leer in his eye, or it would not have been “The Jovial.” He had driven Crafty Kate over from The Ashes, and was about to ride a steady seasoned hunter that his father had given him on Christmas-day. “Look alive!” observed this well-dressed sportsman when he had greeted me, as he considered, with sufficient politeness, by slapping me on the back, and calling me “old one.” “The Earl leaves the Green to a minute, and it’s ten-thirty now”—words which caused an immediate bustle in the bar and emptying thereof, nobody but Mr. Naggett having the politeness to wish Miss Lushington “Good-bye.”
Soakington-Green, as it was called—an open space of verdure, generally too wet for cricket, and seldom boasting anything more lively than a worn-out pair of stocks and a few lean geese—was all alive when we mounted our horses and rode across its level surface. True to his character for punctuality, the Earl was already moving off, and I did but catch a glimpse of his long back and tall aristocratic figure as he jogged along amongst his hounds, in earnest conclave with Will Hawke. The pack were gathered round their huntsman’s horse, looking, as they always did, bright as pictures. Glossy in their coats, full of muscle, ribs just visible, and plenty of covering upon their backs, they stepped daintily along, with their sterns well up, and that sagacious quick-witted ready-for-anything expression which is characteristic of the fox-hound. A party of gentlemanlike-looking men from the Castle, admirably mounted, followed close upon the hounds; but my eye sought in vain amongst the troop for the well-known form in its close-fitting riding-habit, which was beginning to take up far too much of my attention. The tinge of disappointment I experienced was, however, rapidly cured by a conversation I happened to overhear between young Plumtree and a double-distilled dandy from the Castle, riding a conspicuous white horse.
The “Jovial,” whose shattered nerves could not brook suspense as well as mine, addressing the elaborate exquisite by the familiar abbreviation of “Pop” (his real name was Popham Algernon Adolphus Evergreen, so it did come shorter to call him “Pop”), asked him point-blank, “What they had done with the rest of the party?” to which “Pop” after a vague stare, and an effort to remember where he was, replied, “Party?—Oh!—Aw!—Yes. Some of the fellows were late, and went on at once to the Gorse. Emperor won’t like it (meaning the Earl); but daren’t blow up, because The Slasher’s gone on with ’em.”
“The Slasher?” exclaimed Plumtree, turning very red and forgetting in his indignation to be either slang or cool, “Who the devil do you call The Slasher?”
“Pop” gathered his wits together once more, and replied imperturbably, “Oh, The Slasher, you know—that Miss Merlin, you know. It’s a name Bight gave her, you know. I’m sure I don’t know why; but he’s a devilish clever fellow, Bight, so they say. It wouldn’t be a bad name for a horse, would it?”
“Pop” relapsing into a brown study at this juncture, it was impossible to get anything more satisfactory out of that priceless piece of porcelain-ware; and the “Jovial,” blowing off his indignation in clouds of cigar-smoke, trotted on to have a look at the hounds, young Evergreen running his eye over myself and horse with a supercilious stare that, in my opinion, did no credit to his good manners. A leading duchess, however, in London, had stated her opinion that “Lady Evergreen’s boy was the best-dressed and the most impudent young one of his year;” so “Pop” was very much the fashion in consequence.
A little wide of the hounds, in order to do no mischief, and a little clear of the horses, lest the four-year-old should prove too handy with his heels, I observe my former acquaintance Tips, the rough-rider, in the full glory of his profession. He had so completely singled himself out from the crowd, that he could not but attract attention. Rather neater in his dress than when I had seen him last, and with a clean white neckcloth of clerical proportions, Mr. Tips sat down in the saddle as no man but a professional horse-breaker ever does sit—an attitude only to be acquired by the habit of keeping constantly on his guard against the agreeable varieties of rearing, kicking, plunging, turning round, and lying down, adopted by a thoroughly refractory pupil when his “dander” is up. Tips, prepared for any or all of these vagaries at a moment’s notice, kept his knees well forward, his feet home in the stirrups, his hands apart, holding the reins rather long, for he likes, he says, “to give them plenty of rope” when they begin throwing their heads about, and his short sturdy cutting whip ready in his right.
To-day, however, these precautionary measures seemed merely to arise from the force of habit, as the animal he was riding—a lengthy good-looking brown, on short legs, with long low shoulders, a long coat, a long head, and a long tail—looked as docile and good-tempered a four-year-old as ever was crossed, and played with its rusty bit, attached, as a horse-breaker’s bit always is, to the most insecure-looking and weather-beaten of bridles, with a good-humoured cheerfulness calculated to inspire the utmost confidence in its rider.