“I sud say a leetle gin vod be de best ting for im,” replied Jack.
“Gin! but where can I get gin here?” asked Billy.
“Dese gentlemens is asking their vays to de Poblic ouses,” replied Jack; “and if you follows dem, you vill laud at some tap before long.”
Jack was right. Balmey Zephyr, as they call Billy West, the surgeon of Hackthorn, who had joined the hunt quite promiscuous, is leading the way to the Red Lion, and the cavalcade is presently before the well-frequented door; one man calling for Purl, another Ale, a third for Porter; while others hank their horses on to the crook at the door, while they go in to make themselves comfortable. Jack dismounting, and giving his horse in charge of his master, entered the little way-side hostelry; and, asking for a measure of gin, and a bottle of water, he drinks off the gin, and then proceeds to rinse Billy’s horse’s mouth out with the water, just as a training-groom rinses a horse’s after a race.
“Dat vill do,” at length said Jack, chucking the horse’s head up in the air, as if he gets him to swallow the last drop of the precious beverage. “Dat vill do,” repeated he, adding, “he vill now carry you ome like a larkspur.” So saying, Jack handed the bottle back through the window, and, paying the charge, remounted his steed, kissing his hand, and bon-jouring the party, as he set off with his master in search of Pangburn Park.
Neither of them being great hands at finding their way about a country, they made sundry bad hits, and superfluous deviations, and just reached Pangburn Park as Sir Moses and Co. came triumphantly down Rossington hill, flourishing the brush that had given them a splendid fifty minutes (ten off for exaggeration) without a check, over the cream of their country, bringing Imperial John, Gameboy Green, and the flower of the Featherbedfordshire hunt, to the most abject and unmitigated grief.
“Oh, such a run!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his paws. “Oh, such a run! Finest run that ever was seen! Sort of run, that if old Thorne (meaning Lord Ladythorne) had had, he’d have talked about it for a year.” Sir Moses then descended to particulars, describing the heads up and sterns down work to the brook, the Imperial catastrophe which he dwelt upon with great goût, dom’d if he didn’t; and how, leaving John in the water, they went away over Rillington Marsh, at a pace that was perfectly appalling, every field choking off some of those Featherbedfordshireites, who came out thinking to cut them all down; then up Tewey Hill, nearly to the crow trees, swinging down again into the vale by Billy Mill, skirting Laureston Plantations, and over those splendid pastures of Arlingford, where there was a momentary check, owing to some coursers, who ought to be hung, dom’d if they shouldn’t. “This,” continued Sir Moses, “let in some of the laggers, Dickey among the number; but we were speedily away again; and, passing a little to the west of Pickering Park, through the decoy, and away over Larkington Rise, shot down to the Farthing-pie House, where that great Owl, Gameboy Green, thinking to show off, rode at an impracticable fence, and got a cropper for his pains, nearly knocking the poor little Damper into the middle of the week after next by crossing him. Well, from there he made for the main earths in Purdoe Banks, where, of course, there was no shelter for him; and, breaking at the east end of the dene, he set his head straight for Brace well Woods, good two miles off (one and a quarter, say); but his strength failing him over Winterflood Heath, we ran from scent to view, in the finest, openest manner imaginable,—dom’d if we didn’t,” concluded Sir Moses, having talked himself out of breath.
The same evening, just as Oliver Armstrong was shutting up day by trimming and lighting the oil-lamp at the Lockingford toll-bar, which stands within a few yards from where the apparently well-behaved little stream of Long Brawlingford brook divides the far-famed Hit-im and Hold-im shire from Featherbedfordshire, a pair of desperately mud-stained cords below a black coat and vest, reined up behind a well wrapped and buttoned-up gentleman in a buggy, who chanced to be passing, and drew forth the usual inquiry of “What sport?”
The questioner was no less a personage than Mr. Easylease, Lord Ladythorne’s agent—we beg pardon, Commissioner—and Mr. Gameboy Green, the tenant in possession of the soiled cords, recognising the voice in spite of the wraps, thus replied—
“Oh, Mr. Easylease it’s you, sir, is it? Hope you’re well, sir,” with a sort of move of his hat—not a take off, nor yet a keep on—“hope Mrs. Easylease is quite well, and the young ladies.”