Dick Baker was born sixty-six years ago. How he came to adopt the career he has followed since he was twenty-one years of age, he can hardly explain. He was always fond of horse and hound, and he never took kindly to discipline; running with hounds therefore appealed to him as the ideal occupation for an active and hardy young man who liked to be his own master. Fondness for refreshment, notwithstanding, Dick has reached a hale and happy old age. He can still “keep going” throughout the longest day, and thanks to an outdoor life and a sound constitution, suffers from neither cold nor rain. He dates his career as a runner from about the year 1860, and probably knows more about the Essex, Hertfordshire, and Puckeridge countries than any man living, having spent forty-five seasons running with those packs.
“DICK.”
From a Painting by G. F. Thompson.]
He was for several years under Mr. Parry, when that gentleman was master of the Puckeridge, and he tells many anecdotes of the various huntsmen he has known, Dick Simpson, Hedges, Allen, and Will Wells among the number. Dick’s early ambition was to be a hunt servant, but the Fates denied him; he is, he now admits, safer on his own legs than in the saddle. Upon a day it fell that Mr. Rowland Bevan gave Dick his horse to lead home after a hard gallop. Dick thought it a pity not to try what he could do as a horseman, and reflecting that, inasmuch as the horse had had a long day, it would at least be quiet on this occasion, he mounted. Before he got the horse home he had taken three heavy falls on the macadam; but seemingly he was born a master of what some one has called the “inexact science of falling,” for he boasts that he was none the worse. He has confidence in his lucky star, and expresses it in a fashion that has the merit of originality.
“Why, Dick, I thought you were dead,” said a member of the Puckeridge on one occasion.
“No,” replied Dick, calmly; “God never kills good-looking people.”
How far Dick’s appearance justifies his opinion of his personal attractions our readers are able to judge for themselves.
His master passion is anxiety to be identified with the hunt; to be recognised as a member of the staff. To this end Dick, through the good offices of an indulgent member who at the time held office as hon. secretary, took advantage of the visit of a photographer to the Puckeridge kennels to get his portrait taken with a couple of hounds; in character, as it were. It is probable that this was the proudest moment of his life. That he possesses some business capacity which might have been profitably directed into other channels, is proved by the way he turned this opportunity to account. He ordered a dozen copies of the photograph at the aforesaid member’s expense, and retailed them to members of the Hunt at two shillings apiece.
Dick acknowledges but one enemy in this world, and for that enemy he cherishes hate, the deeper because he cannot be avenged of the outrage it committed upon him. This enemy is the Great Eastern Railway Company, which, with the heartlessness peculiar to railway companies, once “ran him in” for travelling without a ticket. It was really not his fault, he explains; he finished a long day with hounds many miles from home, and thinking he had a shilling in his pocket jumped into the train intending to pay at the other end. The fact that he was mistaken as to the contents of his pocket does not, in his well-considered opinion, justify the Company in haling him before the Bench, and getting him fined ten and sixpence and costs. It was the most costly journey he ever made, and he is unlikely to forget either it or the sequel.