“Sare Moses Baronet, sare, is gone, and I’ve brought you your l’eau chaude, as you said.”
“All right!” exclaimed Billy, rubbing his eyes and recollecting himself, “all right;” and, banishing the beauty, he jumped out of bed and resigned himself to Rogers, who forthwith commenced the elaborate duties of his office. As it progressed he informed Billy how the land lay. “Sare Moses was gone, bot Coddy was left, and Mrs. Margerum said there should be no déjeuner for Cod” (who was a bad tip), till Billy came down. And Jack didn’t put himself at all out of his way to expedite matters to accommodate Cuddy.
At length Billy descended in a suit of those tigerish tweeds into which he had lapsed since he got away from Mamma, and was received with a round of tallihos and view-holloas by Cuddy, who had been studying Bell’s Life with exemplary patience in the little bookless library, reading through all the meets of the hounds as if he was going to send a horse to each of them. Then Cuddy took his revenge on the servants by ringing for everything he could think of, demanding them all in the name of Mr. Pringle; just as an old parish constable used to run frantically about a fair demanding assistance from everybody in the name of the Queen. Mr. Pringle wanted devilled turkey, Mr. Pringle wanted partridge pie, Mr. Pringle wanted sausages, Mr. Pringle wanted chocolate, Mr. Pringle wanted honey, jelly and preserve. Why the deuce, didn’t they send Mr. Pringle his breakfast in properly? And if the servants didn’t think Billy a very great man, it wasn’t for want of Cuddy trying to make them.
And so, what with Cuddy’s exertions and the natural course of events, Billy obtained a very good breakfast. The last cup being at length drained, Cuddy clutched Bell’s Life, and wheeling his semicircular chair round to the fire, dived into his side pocket, and, producing a cigar-case, tendered Billy a weed. And Cuddy did it in such a matter-of-course way, that much as Billy disliked smoking, he felt constrained to accept one, thinking to get rid of it by a sidewind, just as he had got rid of old Wotherspoon’s snuff, by throwing it away. So, taking his choice, he lit it, and prepared to beat a retreat, but was interrupted by Cuddy asking where “he was going?”
“Only into the open air,” replied Billy, with the manner of a professed smoker.
“Open air, be hanged!” retorted Cuddy. “Open airs well enough in summer-time when the roses are out, and the strawberries ripe, but this is not the season for that kind of sport. No, no, come and sit here, man,” continued he, drawing a chair alongside of him for Billy, “and let’s have a chat about hunting.”
“But Sir Moses won’t like his room smoked in,” observed Billy, making a last effort to be off.
“Oh, Sir Moses don’t care!” rejoined Cuddy, with a jerk of his head; “Sir Moses don’t care! can’t hurt such rubbish as this,” added he, tapping the arm of an old imitation rose-wood painted chair that stood on his left. “No old furniture broker in the Cut, would give ten puns for the whole lot, curtains, cushions, and all,” looking at the faded red hangings around.
So Billy was obliged to sit down and proceed with his cigar. Meanwhile Cuddy having established a good light to his own, took up his left leg to nurse, and proceeded with his sporting speculations.
“Ah, hunting wasn’t what it used to be (whiff), nor racing either (puff). Never was a truer letter (puff), than that of Lord Derby’s (whiff), in which he said racing had got into the (puff) hands of (whiff) persons of an inferior (puff) position, who keep (puff) horses as mere instruments of (puff) gambling, instead of for (whiff) sport.” Then, having pruned the end of his cigar, he lowered his left leg and gave his right one a turn, while he indulged in some hunting recollections. “Hunting wasn’t what it used to be (puff) in the days of old (whiff) Warde and (puff) Villebois and (whiff) Masters. Ah no!” continued he, taking his cigar out of his month, and casting his eye up at the dirty fly-dotted ceiling. “Few such sportsmen as poor Sutton or Ralph Lambton, or that fine old fire-brick, Assheton Smith. People want to be all in the ring now, instead of sticking to one sport, and enjoying it thoroughly—yachts, manors, moors, race-horses, cricket, coaches, coursing, cooks—and the consequence is, they get blown before they are thirty, and have to live upon air the rest of their lives. Wasn’t one man in fifty that hunted who really enjoyed it. See how glad they were to tail off as soon as they could. A good knock on the nose, or a crack on the crown settled half of them. Another thing was, there was no money to be made by it. Nothing an Englishman liked so much as making money, or trying to make it.” So saying, Cuddy gave his cigar another fillip, and replacing it in his mouth, proceeded to blow a series of long revolving clouds, as he lapsed into a heaven of hunting contemplations.