But to our day with Mr. Puffington's hounds.
Our over-night friends were not quite so brisk in the morning as the servants and parties outside. Puffington's 'mixture' told upon a good many of them. Washball had a headache, so had Lumpleg; Crane was seedy; and Captain Guano, sea-green. Soda-water was in great request.
There was a splendid breakfast, table and sideboard looking as if Fortnum and Mason or Morel had opened a branch establishment at Hanby House. Though the staying guests could not do much for the good things set out, they were not wasted, for the place was fairly taken by storm shortly before the advertised hour of meeting; and what at one time looked like a most extravagant supply, at another seemed likely to prove a deficiency. Each man helped himself to whatever he fancied, without waiting for the ceremony of an invitation, in the usual style of fox-hunting hospitality.
A few minutes before eleven, a 'gently, Rantaway,' accompanied by a slight crack of a whip, drew the seedy and satisfied parties to the oriel window, to see Mr. Bragg pass along with his hounds. They were just gliding noiselessly over the green sward, Mr. Bragg rising in his stirrups, as spruce as a game-cock, with his thoroughbred bay gambolling and pawing with delight at the frolic of the hounds, some clustering around him, others shooting forward a little, as if to show how obediently they would return at his whistle. Mr. Bragg was known as the whistling huntsman, and was a great man for telegraphing and signalizing with his arms, boasting that he could make hounds so handy that they could do everything, except pay the turnpike-gates. At his appearance the men all began to shuffle to the passage and entrance-hall, to look for their hats and whips; and presently there was a great outpouring of red coats upon the lawn, all straddling and waddling of course. Then Mr. Bragg, seeing an audience, with a slight whistle and wave of his right arm, wheeled his forces round, and trotted gaily towards where our guests had grouped themselves, within the light iron railing that separated the smooth slope from the field. As he reined in his horse, he gave his cap an aerial sweep, taking off perpendicularly, and finishing at his horse's ears—an example that was immediately followed by the whips, and also by Mr. Bragg's second horseman, Tom Stot.
'Good morning, Mister Bragg! Good morning, Mister Bragg!—Good morning, Mister Bragg!' burst from the assembled spectators: for Mr. Bragg was one of those people that one occasionally meets whom everybody 'Misters.' Mister Bragg, rising in his stirrups with a gracious smile, passed a very polite bow along the line.
'Here's a fine morning, Mr. Bragg,' observed Tom Washball, who thought it knowing to talk to servants.
'Yas, sir,' replied Bragg, 'yas,' with a slight inclination to cap; 'r-a-y-ther more san, p'raps, than desirable,' continued he, raising his face towards the heavens; 'but still by no means a bad day, sir—no, sir—by no means a bad day, sir.'
'Hounds looking well,' observed Charley Slapp between the whiffs of a cigar.
'Yas, sir,' said Bragg, 'yas,' looking around them with a self-satisfied smile; adding, 'so they ought, sir—so they ought; if I can't bring a pack out as they should be, don't know who can.'
'Why, here's our old Rummager, I declare!' exclaimed Spraggon, who, having vaulted the iron hurdles, was now among the pack. 'Why, here's our old Rummager, I declare!' repeated he, laying his whip on the head of a solemn-looking black and white hound, somewhat down in the toes, and looking as if he was about done.