Transcriber's Note:
The Erratum note has been applied to the text.
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD.

MEN WE MEET IN
THE FIELD.

By A. G. BAGOT ("Bagatelle").

1881.
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND,
LONDON.

MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD

OR

THE BULLSHIRE HOUNDS.

By A. G. BAGOT ("Bagatelle"),

AUTHOR OF "SPORTING SKETCHES IN THREE CONTINENTS."

London:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
1881.
[All rights reserved.]

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

PREFACE.

The present series of Sketches in the Hunting Field have, from time to time, appeared in the columns of The Country Gentleman and Sporting Gazette, to the Editor of which journal I am indebted for leave to reprint them. All, or nearly all, the characters I have endeavoured to portray have come under my personal observation, and are from life; but I have done my utmost to avoid depicting peculiarities that might serve to identify my models, or using personalities that might offend them.

In placing Men we Meet in the Field before the public, beyond acknowledging that I have perhaps not done full justice to the subject, I offer no apology; for anything said or done, painted or written, that serves in any way to call attention to our glorious old national sport, or to recall perchance the scenes of our youth, is not done amiss. In that it is one more stone, however humble, in the wall of defence which, alas! it is now becoming necessary to build against the attacks of those whose aim seems to be the demolition of all sport, dazzled as they are by the glamour of notoriety, won by sensational legislation, at the expense of all that has made England what she is, and her sons and daughters what they are.

I do not for a moment wish to enter into political argument. In the Field, Liberal and Conservative, Radical and Home-Ruler, meet as one, save only in the struggle for the lead. But what I do hold is that, by measures such as the Ground Game Bill and the Abolition of all Freedom of Contract, our national sports are fast being blotted out, and that it behoves all true sportsmen to array themselves against such things.

Of the matter contained in the volume I am now sending on its way, others must judge. I confess that I have enjoyed the writing of it. If I am fortunate enough to find some at least who enjoy the reading I shall be content, and shall feel I have not laboured in vain.

To those who so kindly received my maiden venture, "Sporting Sketches" (Messrs. Swan, Sonnenschein, and Allen), I offer my best thanks. Like a young hound who has not felt too much whipcord, encouragement has given confidence. I can only hope I may not have flashed over the line.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

ERRATUM.

For "Hollo!" read throughout "Holloa!"

MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD.

INTRODUCTORY.

For those fond of studying character under various circumstances and in various positions, there is, perhaps, no medium affording so good an opportunity, or so vast a scope, as the hunting-field.

There more than in any other place do men's characters appear in their true lights. At the covert-side the irritable man, however well he may on ordinary occasions be able to conceal his irritability, will fret and fume if things do not go exactly as he wishes. The boaster, who in the safety of his armchair astonishes his friends with anecdotes of his own daring exploits, is, after a fast forty minutes, more often than not weighed in the balance and found wanting. The garrulous individual, who invariably knows where the fox has gone and what the huntsman ought to do, is in the field estimated at his proper value. There also the grumblers never fail to find a grievance, nor the elder generations of sportsmen to lament the "good old days gone by." In fact, the "bell-mouthed pack and tuneful horn" seem to act in some occult way in bringing out the idiosyncrasies of all their followers. This being so, a few sketches may not be uninteresting, and I shall endeavour to draw with my pen some portraits of those with whom we yearly ride, and who are so well known to most of us. To do this the more concisely, I propose to describe the field, subscribers, visitors, and others, who are to be found at the meets from the 1st of November to the end of April, and who go to make up the members of that justly celebrated pack—the Bullshire Hounds. Before individualising, however, it will be necessary to give a short history of the hunt, with a brief outline of the country, and its gradual growth.

The Bullshire country is one of the oldest in England, and was originally hunted on what is known as the "Trencher system," that is everybody, in lieu of paying a subscription, kept (according to his means) one or more hounds, which he was bound to bring with him to the spot selected by the Master (who was yearly elected as huntsman) for the meet. No sinecure was the office of M.F.H., carrying the horn, for as every hound recognised the rule of a different Master, and every Master considered himself entitled to an opinion in the case of his own hound, there was a good deal of jealousy among the latter and no small amount of "tail" among the former. The "tailing," however, was augmented by the different system of preparation and feeding the Bullshire Hounds received, for while Bellman before hunting was treated to no supper, Truelove had to deal with a sumptuous repast placed before her by the compassionate but ignorant goodwife, "who couldn't abear the idea of the old dog doing all that work on an empty stomach."

After a little the system proved unsatisfactory, and a step in the proper direction was taken. Old Gregory the Whip was sent round early in the morning the day before the meet to collect the pack, and it thus became his business to see that all fared alike—wisely, and not too well. From this it was an easy stage to kennels, and somehow, before the inhabitants knew how it happened, they found themselves paying their subscriptions with and without a murmur, and were able to point with pride to the Bullshire kennels. Once this an accomplished fact, everything went on smoothly; and from old Gregory and a Master whose office was the subject of an annual election, they now turn out a huntsman, two whips, and a second horseman, and, for a provincial pack, stand first on the list.

Their present Master is one of the right sort, who takes an interest in his hounds and his servants, perhaps at times a little free with his tongue, but only when absolutely necessary, and it is because of their large and varied field that I have selected the Bullshire for description. The country, though not a flying one, has a fair share of grass, and is acknowledged by all to hold a good scent. As there is every conceivable sort of obstacle, of every conceivable size, shape, and form, wet and dry, it requires a clever horse to get over it. Indeed, when some of the swells from the Shires condescend to patronise the Bullshire (no uncommon occurrence, by-the-way), there are generally two or three to be found, like water, at the bottom of a ditch.

I remember hearing a description of his day by a Meltonian, when he returned to his quarters with a battered head-piece and covered in mud. In reply to a question of "Where had he been?" he said: "Lord knows where I have not been. To the bottom of about ten ditches, three brooks, nearly into a gravel-pit, hung up in a bullfinch for five minutes, and almost broke my neck at the biggest post and rails I ever saw." "Well," continued his interlocutor, "did you have a good run?" "Run!" said he; "I believe you! Ran three miles after my horse and then nicked in, and was up at the finish. Blessed if ever I saw such a country. They think nothing of an hour and ten minutes, and they do stick to it, I can tell you; fox hasn't a chance with the Bullshire. It's for all the world like a stoat and a hare. Rare place to send creditor to; give him a mount on a green nag, he's bound to kill himself."

Added to these advantages, so ably set forth by the Leicestershire sportsman, foxes are plentiful, and, with one notable exception, of whom more anon, everybody looks after them, and does his best to demonstrate the fact that the fox and the pheasant can both be preserved, despite what Velveteens and his myrmidons may say. The man who rules the destinies of this sporting pack will form the subject of my first sketch.

THE MASTER.

"Morning, gentlemen," accompanied by a bow to the ladies, apprises us of the fact that Sir John Lappington has arrived, and as we turn round in our saddles we see a cheery face beaming with health and goodnature, and note what a thorough business look both man and horse present. The horse is one of those rare specimens of weight-carriers, known as "a good thing in a small parcel." Standing about fifteen hands two inches, with quarters fit to jump over a house, and shoulders of equal value when landing the other side, clean flat legs with plenty of bone, and excellent feet, well ribbed up, with a broad deep chest, it stands a living picture of the old-fashioned hunter that could and would go anywhere. And surely the man is not far behind in appearance. Riding about thirteen stone, or a little lighter, with somewhat a careless seat, one's first impression is that he is by no means smartly turned out, though the eye acknowledges at once the workman.

A second and more careful study shows us that, while there is an entire absence of gilt and gingerbread, of varnish and veneer, still, from the crown of his-well-brushed hat to the sole of his well-cleaned boot, everything is neatness itself. It may be that we take exception to the brown cords which Sir John always wears; but when one has tried to follow the clever cobby horse and his master through some of the roughest places in the day's work, and our leathers show plainly where we have been, we are fain to confess the wisdom of the said brown cords. Notwithstanding the cheery goodnature that beams from the Master's face, there is something in his eye and chin that warns instinctively against riding over the hounds or heading a fox, and shows a latent power of anathema and rebuke which, when once heard, is not in a hurry forgotten.

Sir John Lappington has been Master of the Bullshire for four seasons. He took the hounds at the request of the county on the death of Mr. Billington, who had hunted them for six-and-twenty years without hardly missing a day. Some few people urged that the new Master would not be found old enough to control so large a field, being but thirty years of age when he commenced his reign; but the first day dispelled their doubts, for on some of the "galloping-and-jumping" contingent trying to have things their own way, and paying no heed to repeated remonstrances to "give hounds a chance," the young Master astonished everyone by saying to the huntsman: "Stop 'em, Tom;" and when that was effected, turning to the offenders: "Now, gentlemen, when you have done your d——d steeplechasing we will go on hunting. If you want to break your necks you may put down my name for five pounds to bury the first who does so, provided you run it off at once, so that other people who prefer hunting to rough-riding may not be kept waiting."

This effectually stopped them, and from that day very little trouble has been shown, and when any have offended, it has generally required but one talking-to to bring them to a sense of what was required of them. Such is the man who now rides up punctual to the minute, and is greeted by all with a hearty welcome. The hunt servants, with old Tom the huntsman at their head, are as proud of being under him as they can be, and the hounds simply adore him. See how they fly, heedless of Harry's "Ware 'oss, ger away baik," clustering all round the cobby hunter, and leaving the marks of their affection on boot and saddle. "Eu leu, Minstrel, old boy; ay, Harbinger, good old man," says Sir John, a word for each by name; and back they go to the rule of Tom, who cannot for the life of him help feeling a twinge of jealousy, that "the hounds should be so 'nation fond of t' young Master, most as much as they are o' me, I'll be blessed if they ain't."

Five minutes of friendly chaff with the carriages, two more with old Farmer Simms, who, on being shown his wife's poultry bill, says: "Give it here, Sir John, give it here. The ould woman would take the money out of a man's breeches if he did not keep his hands in his pockets," and with a laugh Tom gets the signal to move off, Sir John stopping before he canters on to the hounds to say: "Never mind, Simms, I daresay we shall make it all right. The missus and I are old friends," and replying to Simms's loudly-expressed opinion that "The ould wench 'ull fleece you, I fear," with a deprecatory wave of the hand as he ranges up alongside the old huntsman.

The first draw is a gorse lying on the side of a hill, where there is always a little difficulty in restraining the impatience of the field, who, anxious for a start, are rather apt to override the hounds. There is a hunting-gate, beyond which no one is allowed to go until the hounds are well away, and here the Master posts himself, saying in a loud voice that can be heard by all: "If there is any stranger in the field to-day, he must understand that while hounds are drawing no one is allowed farther than this." At this moment his quick eye catches sight of a youngster who has jumped the rails lower down, and hopes he has escaped detection. "Come back, you sir," rings out; "come back; and as you are so fond of timber you can take the rails up hill. Dash your impudence, when I have just said no one is allowed to go for'ard! Come, at them—no funking;" and as, amid roars of laughter, the culprit, looking exceedingly foolish, rides at the rails, and gets a rattling fall, Sir John chuckles to himself: "Don't think he'll try that game on again." The hounds are by this time hard at work, and from the way they throw themselves out of the gorse there are evident signs of a speedy find. With keen enjoyment the Master watches the young entry, and as first one and then another of his favourites momentarily expose themselves to view, he thinks he would not exchange his empire for untold wealth.

In this enviable frame of mind he is interrupted by the appearance of a tall cadaverous-looking individual on foot, who, addressing himself to him, says: "Sir John Lappington, I believe?" "That's me; what can I do for you?" is the reply. "Ah! they told me I should find you here, ah! I—my name is Simpkins, Mr. Simpkins, Secretary of the Young Men's Improvement Society. I have been requested to ask for your patronage and subscription for a new school our society have decided on opening for young men in Lappington; and as they told me you were following the chase, ah! and my time is limited, I thought I should not be intruding if I could persuade you to" (pulling out a long subscription-list) "look over this."

Here, luckily, "Away, g-o-rne a-wa-a-y!" cut short the conversation, and the Master, swinging down the hill and slipping over the bank and ditch at the bottom, almost before the astonished Simpkins has made out what has happened, might have been heard muttering to himself: "Well, I am blowed! Did anyone hear of a man being asked to subscribe to a school when hounds had just found? Following the chase too! If they don't teach the young men better than that, the future Lappingtonians won't be much in the sporting line. Hark for'ard; for'ard away!" and sending his horse somewhat viciously at a bigger pace than usual he is shut out from sight, where for the time I will leave him.

THE HUNTSMAN.

"Hounds, please, gentlemen; hounds, please," says old Tom Wilding, as he threads his way through the field, who have, in their eagerness, ridden over the line. "Now, where the deuce should t' fox a gotten to, I wonder?" thinks he to himself; "Harbinger made it good across the lane, I swear, for I saw 'im, and there's naught to turn 'im that I can see." But there is; for an old woman, innocent of mischief, suddenly raises her much-be-bonneted head out of the turnips right in front, and with a "Dang her ugly mug," Tom makes a swinging cast for'ard. Minstrel, hitting off the scent under the gate out of the field, is promptly corroborated in his statement by Gaylad, and in a second things are going as jolly as a peal of bells.

The old Huntsman stops just a moment before pulling his horse together at the timber, to give "t' ould wench" a bit of his mind. "Look here," says he, "you've frightened fox away with that danged ould top-knot o' your'n. I be a good mind to——" But the old lady drops a most humble curtsy, and looks so penitent, that his anger vanishes, a smile steals over his face, and with a "Coom up," he pops over the rails and gets to his hounds. A bit of a martinet is Tom, and right well does he know how to keep his whips in order. Ay, and for the matter of that, some of the fire-eaters of the field besides.

Woe betide the unfortunate Harry who, keen as mustard, slips away, leaving two couple and a half behind. "All here?" says Tom. "A couple coming up, sir," replies Harry (he thinks it better to economise the truth as to numbers); "they are close behind." "Then what the devil business have you in front of them? Get back and bring 'em along at once. D'ye suppose my second whip's come out as a horniment?" (Tom, when excited, is a little shaky with his h's.) "If you don't know your business I can jolly soon get someone who does. There's lots of chaps to do the riding without you a-figuring about here. Get back at once, and let me catch you a-leaving hounds behind again." Yet in his heart he thinks none the worse of the lad for being keen to get along in front, and remembers How often he himself has been rated in bygone days for the same offence.

Of course Tom has his aversions, and there is one particular individual who, he says, he "just can't abear"—a Captain Stockley, one of the galloping-and-jumping division, who, although he can ride anything and over anything, knows little of hunting as hunting per se, and is always getting on top of the pack. One day, when he had managed to head the fox twice, the first whip, Charles, allowed his feelings to get the better of him, and holloed: "Hold hard, sir; d——n it, give 'em a chance;" whereupon Stockley rode up to Tom, and with a bland smile said: "I am sorry to be obliged to make a complaint, but one of the whips has been very impudent—in fact, he cursed me." The reply was not quite what the Captain expected, for Tom, seeing the cause of the two mischances in front of him, growled out: "He cursed yer, did he? Well, if it 'ad a-been me, I'd a gi'en yer a jolly good hiding;" and then catching his horse by the head he drove him at the wood fence, and was cheering on the pack before the Captain had recovered from his surprise.

However, we left him just out of the turnips, with the hounds settling down to the line. Everything goes well for some ten minutes, there is a burning scent, lots of fencing for those who like it, and a convenient lane for those who don't. All of a sudden the hounds throw their heads up and spread like a fan. Not a sign does the Huntsman make beyond holding up his hand to stop the rush of the field. But with one eye on the pack, and the other looking forward to where the sheep are scampering across the meadow on the hillside and huddling together in a close column, he sits like a statue. Deaf is he to the remonstrances of the eager ones, who say: "It's for'ard, Tom; get along," merely remarking: "Let 'em puzzle it out; they want to hunt now. Yer can always lift 'em, but yer can't always get their heads down again;" and in a few moments he is rewarded by seeing the hounds work it out of their own accord, and dash forward, proud of their own cleverness.

Some of the strangers to the Bullshire country say Tom is slow, but they do not know the old man. See him in another half hour, when the fox is beginning to run short. They are beginning to look for their second horses, and someone remarks that Charles is away. Suddenly a cap is seen in the air some four fields to the right, and "Hoick, holloa, hoick, holloa!" rings out clear. "Who is that?" ask some of the field. "Why, it's Charles! how the deuce did he get there?" say others. The Huntsman, however, knows well how it all came about, for did not he send Charles off to the high ground overlooking Bromley Wood on the off chance of a view? and now he does not wait an instant to discuss the question, but with a "chink-wink" of the horn and with cap in hand he gallops off, lifting the pack almost on to the fox's back.

Two fields farther on his "Who-whoop" tells everybody that all is over, and as they ride up one after another they see the old man, with his gray hairs streaming in the breeze, standing in the middle of his hounds, holding aloft the fox at arm's length, preparatory to giving his body over to the tender mercies of Traveller, Gaylad, and Co. "Eugh, tear 'im and eat 'im," and the "worry, worry" begins. Tom looks up at his young master with a smile, and says: "We've got the ould divil this time, sir; he's beat us often enough before;" and then raising his voice so as to be heard by all, he continues: "None so slow either. If we had'na let t' hounds work it out theirselves, fox would a-been a-going now. Where to, sir?" as he swings into his saddle. "Bromley Wood? right, sir. Coom away, hounds; coop, coop, coom away;" and Tom trots off with the pack best pace, for, as he remarks: "It's lunch-time now, and if so be I bestirs mysen I can leave about half t' field behind; and that's just what I like. I can get away comfortable without a lot a-trampling and messing over t' hounds, and them as likes eating better nor hunting, why they've no cause to grumble if they're chucked out."

As he approaches the wood, a wave of the hand sends the whole pack tumbling in, the two whips taking their stations like clockwork. With a "'War'oss!" the old Huntsman jumps into cover, and though lost to sight his voice is heard out of the woods cheering on his hounds. "Eugh, at 'im, my beauties. Eugh, doit, eugh, boys," he shouts; and the pack, who have learnt to love, ay, and what is more, respect their tutor, fly to his holloa, each doing what our American cousins call their "level best" to please him.

Tom, when he gets home, will not fail over his glass and pipe to recount exactly what each of his favourites did at each particular spot, for nothing escapes his quick eye, and he fully returns with interest the love of the Bullshire Hounds, of which he has been Huntsman for some eighteen years, and in which position he hopes to remain until he is, as he puts it, "run to ground."

Before leaving him, one anecdote will suffice to show the kindliness of the old man's heart towards dumb animals. They had had a long wearing day over a heavy country, with but little or no scent, and Tom found himself on leaving off some eighteen miles from the kennels. On arrival, after seeing that his darlings were all right (a duty he never neglected), he thought it about time to look after himself, and had just sat down to his well-earned supper, when a small boy arrived at his house, crying fit to break his heart. "What's up, my lad?" said Tom. "P-p-please, sir," replied the urchin between his sobs, "old Bob's b-b-een runned over, and they is broke 'is leg, bo-hoo! and mother s-says as how he mun be shot—for her canna mend it; and if yer p-please, Bob allas slept along wi' me sin' 'e wur a puppy, a-and I c-can't abear it, bo-hoo!" "Well, boy, don't 'e cry; I'll come down mysen and see tew 'im," said the old Huntsman; and, tired and supperless as he was, he there and then put on his coat and tramped off the best part of a mile to see to the crippled terrier, and after setting the leg and making the poor dog as comfortable as he could, he sat up best part of the night nursing it as a mother would her baby. It was three o'clock in the morning before Tom got into his bed; and he will tell you how tired he was, but he will also say: "Poor old doggie, 'e was just for all the world like a Christian. There was none on 'em as knowed aught about it, and when I'd done 'is leg he wagged 'is stump of a tail, saying plain enough: 'Don't 'e go now; I'm main thankful to yer, but don't 'e go,' that I couldna a-bear to leave 'im till 'e wur a bit more comfortable like. You see, we can holloa out, but them dum' animals canna." Bob, the old dog, is still alive, and the boy is now an under-keeper, but neither of them forget old Tom's kindness, and both would almost lay down their lives for the Huntsman of the Bullshire Hounds.

THE WHIPS.

"'Say, Harry, the old man killed his fox well to-day," says Charles, the First Whip, to his junior, as they jog home to the kennels in the evening.

"Umph!" replies Harry; "but he need not have dropped it so hot on to me just because them two couple of loiterers stopped back. Blessed if I ever saw such hounds as them for messing about in cover. It's always the same. Caterer and Bellman, Pillager and Marksman, never up in time; and then if I gets on a bit, it's 'Where's them two couple? Go back and fetch 'em at once.' Dashed if I oughtn't to take a return ticket to every field in the county."

Charles, who thinks it by no means improbable that some day he may find himself with the horn of office, and Harry promoted to First Whip's place, merely says: "Well, you shouldn't be in such a thundering hurry to get off. You know your place is back, and back you should be."

At this juncture they ride up to The Bell and Horns, a famous halfway house, where they brew the best of ale, and can, if so disposed, give you a glass of the best whisky out of Ireland. The landlord, a sporting old veteran, bustles out and takes Tom's order for "Three pints of dog's nose" (a compound of ale and gin), "and some gruel for the nags."

"Well, what sort of a day have you had?" says he. "Nay, nay, don't mind the hound, let him be," as Harry is proceeding to correct Minstrel's attack of curiosity concerning the construction of Boniface's waistcoat. "The old boy and I are friends," and he pats the hound's sensible head.

Old Tom, having taken his face out of the pint pot, and smacking his lips, replies: "A first-rate day. Found in the gorse, run through Bouffler's meadows up to the Mere, turned in the lane, where the fox was headed, then over the Ring Hills, and killed by Bromley Wood. Charles here," pointing to his aide-de-camp, "was the means of our killing; and I must say Harry did uncommon well, though he does always want to be in front."

At this meed of praise from their chief both the Whips feel some inches taller, and Harry quite forgets his rating in the morning.

The horses gruelled and the score paid by the Huntsman, they are again on the road, having been joined by a couple of farmers going their way as far as the cross-roads, and with whom old Tom is soon in close confabulation. Harry rides for some distance without vouchsafing a word, save an occasional "Whip, get for'ard," to some straggler of the pack. At last he says:

"Charles, the old man is a good 'un, and no mistake. I'd sooner have a kick from him than sixpence from anyone else. He's quite right—business is business; but when it's over how many of 'em would stand a glass, 'specially after a bit of a word?"

"You're right, my lad," replies Charles. "You'll go mony a day afore you pitch on a man like old Tom, or, for the matter o' that, on a pack like our'n. Look you, it ain't every Huntsman as 'ull let his Whips into the secret of breeding; but I'll be bound there ain't a hound as you and I don't know as much about as he does hisself."

"What are you two a-chattering about?" interrupts Tom.

"Only a-saying as how we knowed the pedigrees, sir," said Harry.

"So you ought. I'm sure I lets Charles and you know all I can. My system is 'fair do's.' Every man's got a summut to do with the run, and they're our hounds; and though I say it as perhaps shouldn't, we've the best Master and the best pack in England; and when I comes on the society, if Charles there ain't ready to take my place, why it will break my heart. Ay, my lad, and then you can get for'ard as much as you like."

"I knows one thing," says Harry, whose heart is getting too big for his waistcoat, "the Bullshire have got the best Huntsman in England, or, for the matter o' that, in the world; and I'm main sorry as I vexed you to-day leaving them hounds in cover."

"Not a bit, lad, not a bit; it's over now. I like to see yer keen; but duty first, yer know," replies Tom. "Charles," he continues, "it looks all like a frost to-night. What do yer think?"

"Freezes now, and there are two or three of these hounds going lame a bit, and they find the ground a bit hardish," says Charles.

By this time they have arrived at the cross-roads, and the two farmers turn off, leaving the Huntsman and his two Whips with a three-mile trot before them.

It may be gathered from the above the sort of terms that the Bullshire Hunt servants were on with each other, and what good feeling existed between them. Charles, the First Whip, had served his apprenticeship with the pack—first as a lad in the kennel, then as Second Whip, and lastly where we find him. His whole soul lay in his work, and the most miserable time he owns to in his life was when he broke his leg riding over a gate, and was laid up for six weeks away from his darlings. "I shouldn't a minded if it had been in the summer," said he; "but having to lay up abed in the middle of this beautiful scenting weather, it's d——d hard luck, and I know the beauties will be wondering where the deuce I've got to." As soon as he could move, his first outing was to the kennels, where the reception, or rather ovation, he obtained corroborated his opinion anent the hounds missing him.

Equally fond of hunting was Harry, though, it must be confessed, he liked the riding part the best. Originally a farmer's boy, he first made his appearance in the hunting-field on the top of a leader out of the plough, which he had surreptitiously detached, and the way he rattled the old nag along, chains and all, over or through everything, gained him his place. Sir John Lappington, happening to see him, made inquiries about the boy, and when he was turned off by his indignant master—for of course he was turned off when his escapade came to light—he asked the lad if he would like to go to the kennels. Harry jumped at the offer, and when there he made himself so useful and learnt to ride so quickly that on the Second Whip leaving suddenly, through misplaced confidence in the amount of liquid he could "carry," Harry was put in as a stopgap, and did so well that he was officially appointed Second Whip, and has been so now for three seasons, giving every satisfaction.

Of his powers of riding the following anecdote will show:

They had been running hard one day last season, and were getting on terms with their fox, when, just as they approached the Swill (a deep muddy brook, to jump which when low was a thing to talk of, and when full almost an impossibility), a fresh fox jumped up right in the centre of the pack, and took half of them over the stream, which was bank full. To stop them was a necessity, and there was no bridge nearer than half a mile. Harry, without waiting a minute, pulled his nag together, and shouting: "Here's in or over. I canna swim; but I've naught to leave 'cept my togs, and the're master's," rode at it, and, to the astonishment of everybody, in another second was safe across and had stopped the hounds on the far side. How he got over is a mystery to this day, and no one was so astonished as himself. If you ask him he will tell you "he only knew hounds had to be stopped, and if he had gone under he could not have helped it. He trusted to luck and his spurs, and they pulled him through."

It is small wonder that everything works like clockwork when Master, Huntsman, and Whips all act in concert and harmony, and Charles and Harry know full well the value of their situations. After the horses are done up for the night, and the hounds are seen to, fed, warm and comfortable on their benches, the two will as like as not go up and smoke a pipe at old Tom's cottage before turning in; and the knowledge they gain in those "evenings at home" is untold, for, as Charles said, the old man keeps nothing back, and is never so pleased as when he is giving his Whips the benefit of his long experience. Should the frost set in, the Master will be down at the kennels in the morning for a certainty, and two or three instructive hours will be passed in talk of horse and hounds.

THE SECRETARY.

A man of immense importance is Mr. J. Boulter of The Grange, quite as essential to the welfare of the Bullshire Hunt as either Master or servants; and, indeed, if you could see through the double-breasted pink, the corduroy waistcoat, and the gray flannel beneath, into his innermost heart, you would, I am almost convinced, find that Mr. B. was there written down as the man of the lot.

No light task is his, namely that of professional beggar. For he is Secretary and Treasurer to the Hunt, and on him falls the onus of collecting as well as receiving subscriptions. Long practice has made him an adept in the art of "cornering" a defaulter, for he has been in office for fifteen years, and it is his boast that if a pound is to be got he is the man to get it.

On one occasion he was sorely put about by a man (I was going to say a gentleman, but his conduct precludes the use of the term), who came down from town and established himself in the country, bringing with him a large stud of hunters. Naturally the Secretary fixed his eagle eye on so promising a subject, and after a month or so began to hint at a subscription, which of course was promised but never came.

Well, the season was drawing to a close and no cheque had been received from the stranger, who, by-the-way, had not forgotten to find fault with everything and everybody; moreover Mr. Boulter had heard by a side-wind that half the large stud were gone, and the rest, accompanied by their owner, would shortly follow. This, coupled with the oft-repeated question at the covert-side of "Holloa, Boulter, got his coin yet?" put our Secretary on his mettle. So one off-day he rode over to the inn and interviewed the individual, asking him point blank for his cheque, as he (Mr. B.) was making up the accounts. The answer was not propitious, for the snob replied: "I have not got my cheque-book with me, but here are two sovereigns, which is quite sufficient for such a provincial pack as yours."

Boulter pocketed the sovereigns and retired, meditating revenge. At last, however, he hit on a plan.

The meet on the following Monday was fixed for Bindley Park, and the first draw was a long wood, at one end of which lay the house of a market-gardener and small farmer. The only way from the Park to the wood was through the farmyard-gate and out into the field, unless you jumped the fence into the market-garden. Mr. Boulter accordingly took the owner of the said gate into his confidence, as well as those of the field he could trust, and on the day of the meet the gate was found to be locked, and no one knew where the farmer had gone. To lift it off the hinges was impossible, and old Tom, with a twinkle in his eye, said: "Dang it all; but we mun go round," and forthwith made a pretence of trotting off.

"Never heard such a thing in my life," said the non-subscriber, falling into the trap. "Dashed piece of impudence; sort of thing one might expect in this benighted country. I'm dashed if I'm going round; I shall go through the beggar's garden;" and he proceeded to put his threat into execution by riding at the hedge.

As he rose at the fence the farmer's face was seen peeping round the gate, and as the horse descended into the garden a terrific smash was heard, followed by a loud altercation with, "Damage to my glass and pots and that there bed of young stuff," etc. etc. The next morning the owner of the large stud was presented with a bill of costs to the amount of £20, which, after a deal of blustering, he paid, fifteen sovereigns finding their way into Mr. Boulter's cash-box, the remaining five amply repaying the market-gardener for the loss of two broken and useless lights, a few cabbage-stalks, and a selection of old pots, which he, together with the Secretary, had placed under the hedge at likely spots.

Thus did Mr. Boulter score, and he enjoys nothing so much as telling the story of how he trapped the stranger, though, by-the-way, the same story increases in dramatic incident year by year.

Most amusing it is to watch the reception of the Secretary as he rides up on his famous jumping cob. Those who have paid up greet him with: "Morning, Boulter; you're looking very fit;" and sometimes, when perchance he is arrayed more gorgeously than usual as to his headpiece, "What! a new hat? Dash it all, but that's the second this season; there'll be no money left if you go buying hats like this out of the fund. Here, Lappington" (to the Master), "here's the Secretary been embezzling again, and broken out into another new topper." While those who have as yet not forwarded their subscription nod him a good-morning, and then somehow their steeds, which up to the present have been behaving in a most rational manner, suddenly get excited, and it requires the undivided attention of their riders to prevent them running away.

In fact, they do run away until they manage to place a convenient distance between themselves and the jumping cob. The Secretary, however, is fully up to all these little dodges, and generally brings down confusion on one or other member by saying with a chuckle: "Dear me, So-and-so, what a funny thing it is, your horse is always fidgety when I come near him. One would think he was afraid of being asked for a subscription, and forgets that his master has paid." After a pause: "By Jove, no! I'm wrong and the horse is right. Your cheque has not come yet. What a sensible beast the animal is!" He says this is a most infallible remedy, and that the following morning he invariably finds a letter on his table enclosing the required article, and apologising for forgetfulness.

Perhaps the secret of his success lies in his great popularity, for his cheery manners and jovial smile have endeared him to all. Among the farmers' wives he is worshipped, and though they one and all swear that "Next time they are not a-going to be talked over about that poultry-bill," it is always the same. Before the Secretary rides or drives away from the homestead the bill is forgotten, and all the children are crowing after him to tell them one more "'tory."

One good dame in particular is most emphatic on the subject of his powers of persuasion. "You see, my dear," says she, "I sends in a bill for two turkeys, six couple of ducks, just a-fatting too, three couple of hens, and a whole brood of chickens. When I sees Mr. Boulter a-coming up I says to myself says I, 'Now, Mrs. Styles, don't you go for to be bamboozled.' But, laws! afore he's been in the place half an hour I've nearly busted myself a-larfin', and I finds myself a-drinking a dish of tea with him, and as fully persuaded as how it's my place to keep the turkeys for them beastly foxes as I don't know what; and then the blessed bill goes in the fire, and I'm a loser of close on twenty-eight shillings. But then I knowed him as a lad, bless 'im; and there's never a Christmas but what a hamper of game and a bottle of sherry comes to the farm; so there's no bones broke."

With all his wheedling powers, Mr. Boulter is a thorough sportsman. There is not an earth in the country that he does not know as well as his own house; and he is equally well acquainted with the run of every fox. Every hound he knows by name, and can give you chapter and verse for both pedigree and performance.

A sure find for breakfast, dinner, or lunch, too, is The Grange, and for a bottle of real old '47 port never drawn blank. Unbounded hospitality is the order in that establishment, where throughout the season Mrs. Boulter takes care that something is always on the table "in case the hounds should come that way." Talking of Mrs. Boulter, there is a piece of chaff against her husband that the day he was married he not only got a subscription to the hounds out of the parson, but by exercising his persuasive powers actually got off the fees!

The annual hunt-dinner is a great day for the Secretary. On that occasion he takes the vice-chair, and proposes the health of Sir John, the Master, in a speech which poor Mrs. B. has to listen to off and on for the three previous days. Once the meek little woman did rebel. The speech she had put up with, but when her lord and master returned home at two o'clock, exceedingly jovial, and kept her awake till six o'clock by alternately treating her to "John Peel," and informing her, with a somewhat foolish laugh, that "they called me besht f'ller in shworld, drunk m'very good shealth, 'pon m'shoul," she thought it was a little too much; and when the orator awoke next day, headachey, chippy, and penitent, she gave him a piece of her mind which so astonished him that he has never exceeded again, and now returns at eleven sharp.

Sometimes during the summer months Boulter is to be seen struggling with a pile of luggage at a foreign railway station, looking as miserable as a man can look, and heavily handicapped as to the language of the country in which his wife has elected to travel. But the trip never lasts long. Some business connected with the hunt invariably calls him back, and on a hot August day you will find him at the kennels chatting with Tom Wilding over the prospects of the coming season or the young entry, and anxiously longing for the "beastly harvest" to be over, and for November leaves to fall.

If not there he will be riding round looking up Velveteens and his satellites, and endeavouring to imbue them with the motto of "Live and let live," as applicable to the fox.

THE FARMER.

"Like master like man" is a very old saying, and, like many of those ancient saws, very true. Therefore, in such a sporting country as the Bullshire, with such a sporting Master at the head of affairs, it stands to reason that the field, or at all events the majority of them, should be equally imbued with the love of the chase. Now in every country the mainstay and backbone of the hunt is the Farmer, for without his consent and co-operation fox-hunting would become a thing of the past, and instead of a series of brilliant gallops and a successful season, we should read of a series of actions for trespass and verdicts for damages, carrying costs.

Keen sportsmen and true friends to the hunt are the Farmers of Bullshire, so there is little fear of opposition on their part. Indeed, on one occasion they combined to make it very "warm" for a stranger who came among them, and who did not fall in with their views concerning the necessary amount of support to be given to the hounds. The erring member was a man who, having made some money in the chandler line in London, took it into his head that he was cut out for a Farmer, and accordingly took a farm in the centre of the hunt. From the moment he set his foot in the place he gave offence, for the first thing he did was to wire the whole of his fences, and then gave notice that anyone riding across his land would be summoned for trespass and "prosecuted according to law." "He was not a-going to 'ave them beastly dorgs and 'osses a-running over his land, not if he knowed it." A climax, however, was reached when the surly brute assaulted one of the members of the hunt with a pitchfork, and swore he would lay down poison for the hounds. A meeting was there and then called to discuss the question, and it was unanimously decided to give the individual "what for."

Accordingly, some of the younger Farmers assembled one evening, and by the following morning there was not a trace of wire to be seen nor a gate-post standing in the holding of the ex-chandler. Strange to say, the local police, into whose hands the matter was immediately put, failed to discover the offenders, and the country-side was straightway ringing with the candleman's discomfiture. The next time he went to market not a beast could he sell, and it was the same with everything. He found a strong league against him, none would buy from him and none would sell to him; so at the end of a year he retired in disgust, much to the delight of the conspirators.

No two better representatives of the Bullshire Farmers, old and young, could be found than Simms and his son. The father—hard-working, hard-riding, hard-headed, with fifty years of practical knowledge on his shoulders—is a firm believer in Church and State and the rotation of crops. With a horror of anything like steam, and a decided prejudice against the School Board, he stands out a true type of the warm-hearted old-fashioned yeoman.

The son, equally hard-working in his way, and still harder perhaps in his riding, is full of what his sire is pleased to call "danged rattletrap notions," born of the Agricultural College. Steam ploughs or "cultivators" he pins his faith on. Church and State he has not much time, he says, to think about. The rotation of crops must be regulated by manuring, and he drives the old man nearly wild by learned treatises on the subject of superphosphates, nitrates, and guano.

Each in his own way is an excellent Farmer—the one of the old school, practical and working in a groove, the other of the new, mechanical and enterprising. In the hunting-field, however, they meet on common ground, and as there are but few fixtures at which both father and son do not turn up, it may be taken for granted that in this respect their opinions coincide.

Mark the difference in the respective "get-up" of the two as they jog along together to Highfield cross-roads. Old Simms' long-coat is, from constant exposure, more of a brown than the black it originally was; and his hat has evidently had a few words with the hat-brush (the latter having revenged itself by running "heel"), for the silk is all the wrong way, and there is a large dent in the top. He still adheres to a bird's-eye fogle, wound three times round a high white collar, the corners of which only are visible, and contrast strongly with his jovial red face. High jack-boots, and stout cords that have seen the end of many a hard day, complete his attire, while his horse, a real "good 'un," is, like himself, all in the rough. His son, on the contrary, is as neat as a new pin, in a hunting-cap, double-breasted Melton coat, white breeches and tops; and the horse is on a par with his rider.

"Ah Simms, I knew you would turn up," say a cluster of sportsmen as the pair arrive at the meet.

"Good morning, gentlemen; bound to be at Highfield, if possible. James here" (pointing to his son) "would never forgive me if I did not come and see his gorse drawn, though I do tell him as how, with all the stinking stuff be puts on the land, there ain't a ghost of a chance of any scent," is the reply.

"Never you fear, father," retorts James; "you wait till they find, and if they don't run as well over my land as any other I'll eat my hat."

"All right, my boy," laughs the old man. "I hope you and your young 'un may come across one of those infernal steam ploughs of yours, like I did this morning, all of a sudden. The mare nearly put me down, old stager as she is, and what that cocktail of yours'll do, Lord knows."

This raises a general laugh against James, in the middle of which the Master rides up. "Well, James, have you got one for us to-day?" he asks. "Tom tells me that we are sure of a fox in the osiers at the bottom, but if you know of one in the gorse we'll go there first."

"Try the gorse first, Sir John, if you please. I think I can promise one there," replies James Simms, in momentary dread that Tom and the osiers might win the day.

And as Sir John, nodding to the Huntsman, says: "High field Gorse, Tom," James's face beams with pleasure, and, together with his father, he trots off to superintend the arrangements. "A chip of the old block" is the general verdict, as James, sending his "young 'un" at a low post and rails, which he hits hard all round, cuts off a corner, and canters on to the bottom end, where he remains as mute as a sphinx, merely telegraphing to Tom and his father that he was there. Just as the hounds are thrown in, a boy runs up to him and, with a grin, says: "Mayster, ay's theer; I'n sayd 'un. Ay's down at bottom end by t' ould stump."

"All right, Jim, my lad; you keep quiet. If he's there you shall have a bob," replies James, burning with impatience as he hears no sound save Tom's "Eleu, in, eleu 'ave at 'm. Eugh, boys."

"Blank, by the Lord Harry!" he ejaculates, as two or three hounds appear outside; and, turning to the boy, he asks: "My lad, are you sure you saw a fox?"

"I'n sayd 'un; ay's theer," is the reply. "Ay mun bay up stump."

"Here," cries James, "take my whip, and if you can get him out your bob will be two-and-six."

The boy does not wait a moment, but, heedless of furze, dashes on to where the old ivy-covered stump stands, and is soon swarming up to the top. A crack of the whip, a scuffle, a shout from the lad of "Look out, mayster," and a fine old dog jumps out and makes off right under James's nose.

"Good lad," he says, as the boy returns with his whip; "here, catch." And while James utters a view holloa that would wake the dead, the lad, having spat upon it for luck, transfers half-a-crown to his pocket.

"All right, Tom; down the field and over the fence to the right. Come on, dad;" and Tom, getting his hounds on the line in a twinkling, the trio are hard at it.

"Pull that young 'un together," says old Simms as they neared the fence; "it's a big 'un." His old mare slips over as if it was child's play. Not so the "young 'un." Going like an express train, he never rises an inch, and James finds himself and the nag somewhat mixed up on the other side.

"That's a buster. No damage, eh?" says Tom.

"Not a bit; for'ard on," replies James, swinging himself into his saddle, and giving his astonished animal a gentle reminder. "It'll teach him to rise next time. There goes the governor," as his father landed in a blind ditch at the next obstacle, but was up and going again in a moment.

At this crisis they are joined by the Master and a chosen few. "All, this is something like a fox, worthy of the family," laughs Sir John Lappington as he gallops alongside. "Did you breed him on purpose?"

"No, Sir John; I can't quite say that. He's an artful old dodger though, and mother says she's had the feeding of him. He was up in the stump, and a lad fetched him out with my whip," replies Simms the younger as they stride over the grass.

"By gad, fox is bound for your place," says Tom to the father. And Tom is right. Straight as a die he heads for old Simms' farm, and now that they are on his land the son does not forget to chaff his father most unmercifully about the roughness of the fences. A few fields farther on a labourer hollos him, and in the meadow before the house the hounds view, and they run into him almost in the garden.

"Who-whoop," yells the old man, as pleased as Punch. "Now then, missus," as Mrs. Simms comes out to see the end of the destroyer of her chickens, "ale and beer and anything you have. What is it, gentlemen? Give it a name," as the field one by one jump off their smoking horses. "We must drink the health of this one; it's, as Sir John says, a family fox. Oh, bother the turkeys, missus," as Mrs. S. mutters something about feeding the fox; "you can think of nothing but turkeys. We's all a-dry here;" and he bustles off to fetch out some more of the rare old home-brewed, reappearing in a few minutes with an enormous jug. "Now, Sir John, one more glass. No? Anybody else say anything? Here, Tom, I must have that brush. Best thing we've had this season. Oh, you don't want any more beer, James; you ought to feed on phosphates," as his son holds out a horn to be replenished. "There, bring my horse, lad," to a labourer; and the old man, his face beaming with pleasure, is ready for the fray again.

That evening there is what James calls a "symposium" at the farm, and the run is run over again. "Twenty-five minutes without a check, and thank you kindly for the missus, self, and son. I only hope we shall be able to find as good a one next time we draw the gorse, and if every one of us has a family fox on his place, the Bullshire need have no fear about sport," is what old Simms says in acknowledging the toast of himself and family, which is drunk with three times three.

THE PARSON.

It is related of the late Bishop of Winchester that, on one occasion when shooting, he was asked by his host to remonstrate with the keeper for his non-attendance at church, and accordingly he did so. "Well, my lord," replied the man, "I owns I doesn't go much to church, but I reads my bible regular, and I can't say as I've found anything there about t' apostles going a-shooting, and they was bishops."

"Quite right, my man, quite right," was the ready answer. "You see they did not preserve much in those days, so they went fishing instead."

Equally ready was the answer of the Rev. William Halston, when his diocesan informed him that so much hunting did not meet with his approval, and on the argument waxing warm had allowed himself to make use of a somewhat unclerical expression. "Sir," said the angry bishop, "you go galloping all over the country, and your parish is going to the dogs."

"Exactly the reason, my lord, why I hunt," replied his reverence with a smile. "When all my parishioners are going to the dogs, it is my positive duty to go also, if only to look after them."

The bishop thought somehow that he had met his match, and so nothing further was said on the subject. That little episode occurred some twenty years ago, when Mr. Halston was a younger man, but his love of hunting has if anything increased with his age, and seldom is his well-known face absent from any of the meets within reasonable distance (which he computes at eighteen miles); and a bold rider must be the man who, when hounds are running, sets himself down to cut out "t' ould Parson," as the Rector of Copthorpe is called.

Copthorpe, I may mention, in early days was the only church for miles on that side of the country, and the living embraced no less than four straggling parishes, the farthest being some twenty miles distant. With the growth of the population came the necessity for more places of worship, and besides a new church built at Lappington by Sir John's father there is also one at Highfield, situated at the other extremity, the mother church still being, of course, at Copthorpe.

From this it may be wondered how the Rector can find time to do his work and hunt as well. But that he does so is undeniable, for there is not a cottage in the whole parish that some time or other during the week he does not visit, and high and low, rich and poor, one and all love and honour their Parson.

The cottagers simply adore him, for numerous are the tales round the country-side of how "t' ould mon sot up night after night wi' Jack Bliss when ay fell down t' gravel-pit drunk, and welly killed hisself;" and how "ay used to ride o'er every other day wi' some port-wine or summut in his pocket when So-and-so's wife was bad in t' fever-time, six years back." Often does the old gentleman (for he now numbers close on seventy years), coming back after a long day with the hounds, snatch a hasty meal, and, jumping on the back of his famous pony Jerry, canter off some six or seven miles to see a poor parishioner that one of his curates had reported sick; and, should occasion require it, the morning light will find him seated by the bedside of the sufferer, speaking to him or her such words of consolation and hope as make the pain seem less and the heart seem lighter.

His power, too, is unlimited, and on more than one occasion has the arrival of Parson Halston put a sudden stop to a free fight that looked strangely like ending in bloodshed. For the men know that he will stand no nonsense; and still fresh in the memory of most of the pitmen is the discomfiture of one of their number, Black Joe, who in his drunken fury attacked his pastor, and went down like an ox before a deadly left-hander, delivered with a science born of Alma Mater and "town and gown."

They caught "t' ould Parson" up in their stalwart arms then and there, and how they did cheer him as they carried him down the street!

From that day his rule was established, and a word now is sufficient, without anything else, to stop "riot."

But it is not only those workers in the mines that have their story; the farm-labourers are equally loud in singing his praises, for did not he, when a paid hireling was stumping the country urging them to strike against their masters, jump on the cart from whence the ranter was hurling forth denunciations against "the landlords' tyranny and the farmers' oppression," and holding him forcibly down with one hand, address them all as they gazed in wonder, and say to them how they had "worked together and drank together, hunted together and suffered together, for many years; and now would they listen—they, the men of Bullshire—to a miserable whimpering Cockney from London, who could neither mow a swath nor pitch a load to save his life?"

And when they were all for ducking the vermin in the mill-pond, did not he drive him off to the town in his own cart, and never lose sight of the agitator till he saw the train safely out of the station with, the individual well on his road back to town and his employers?

Ay, there are many of them now who shake their heads, and pointing to their fellows in the neighbouring counties, say: "If it 'adna been for our ould Parson we should a' been in the same fettle. Strikes mean starvation, and when a man's clemmed" (hungry), "and' ain't got no one but hisself to thank for't, ay begins to look a fule, that ay does."

Mr. Halston employs three curates, to each of whom he gives a particular district, and they have every evening to bring in their reports of what goes on, and what they have done during the day. Eagerly sought after are these positions, for it is a well-known fact that, after their years of training at Copthorpe, if they are worth their salt they are pretty sure to tumble into a good berth. One thing is however made a sine quâ non—that during their stay they must do their share of work. "Duty first and pleasure afterwards," is the motto of the Rector, and he sees that it is strictly carried out.

Such is a brief description of the man who may be ranked among the best of sportsmen and truest of friends in Bullshire, or indeed any country in the world.

As a man and a friend he is full of the milk of human kindness, hospitable to a fault, and never so happy himself as when giving pleasure to others. As a sportsman, a bold and forward rider, yet always with excellent judgment, displaying as much knowledge of what a fox is likely to do as if he was being hunted himself; a knowledge of the country second to none, a capital judge of both horse and hound, and with a love of hunting that, as I have said, advancing years serve only to increase.

Small wonder that when Tom hears his "view holloa" he knows it is right, and gets forward at once, though there are those who may shout themselves hoarse without attracting the desired attention. "Parson's like my old Solomon," says he; "'e never throws his tongue till he's d——d well certain; but then, by Guy! 'e does let 'em have it."

Whenever it is possible Mr. Halston goes to cover with the hounds, and back again in the same company (unless called away by parish work) after the day is over, and dearly does old Tom love those rides and cheery chats, learning himself, he freely admits, as much as ever he can teach. See them now both in the centre of the pack, jogging homeward in the failing light. Says Tom: "That was a straight-necked 'un we had to-day, sir; but I'm main puzzled what made you guess he'd try them earths at Billowdon."

"Well, Tom," replies the Rector, "I argued it out by common sense. Suppose you'd been hard pressed and knew of a house you could turn into, wouldn't you go for it?"

"Yes, but it was turning right into the mouths of the pack. I was 'nation mad when I found 'em open that I hadna ta'en your hint," continues the Huntsman.

"Live and learn, Tom; live and learn," laughs the Parson. "You forget three seasons ago we lost one just in the same place."

"By Guy! so we did, and I forgot it at the moment. It was the day as young Mayster Bell jumped atop of Melody; but what's become of him, sir?" asks Tom. "How Sir John did pitch it into him that time to be sure."

"Oh, he's getting on first rate; he is inspector at the Deep-seam Pits. I was afraid, though, he was going to the bad at one time. He took a liking to the bottle; but Bliss's accident cured him," replies Mr. Halston. "But here we are at the kennels, and I must get on; I want to ride over to Halstead and see old Widow Greaves; she's a bit ailing; so good-night, Tom."

"Good-night, sir; good-night. See you out, I suppose, on Friday at Fearndale? Sure to find in the wood," says Tom, muttering to himself as he gets off his horse: "There's one of the best men in the world, danged if he ain't."

Mr. Halston is trotting along home, thinking over the events of the day and a hundred-and-one other things, when he is startled by the sudden reappearance of old Tom at his side, who, looking rather scared in answer to his inquiry of "What's the matter?" says: "There's been a fearful accident at the pits, sir; my nephew's just come over. Explosion or summat; there's five-and-twenty poor chaps blocked up, 'e do say, and I thought you'd like to know on it."

Before Tom has well finished speaking, the Parson is urging his horse at best pace in the direction of the Deep-seam Pit, much to that animal's disgust. He pulls up at the first cottage he comes to, and, calling out a boy, sends him off to Copthorpe with a message to say where he has gone, and they need not expect him home at present, and that his groom is to ride Jerry over at once to take back his hunter.

"Look sharp, my lad," says he, tossing the boy a shilling, "and tell James to bring over my bottles with him—port and brandy—he'll know." And again he is on his way. On arriving at the scene of the accident he finds a large crowd of weeping women collected round the pit-mouth, making "confusion worse confused," and seriously interfering with the work of salvation.

Amidst the universal grief and terror he is not noticed at first, but when men and women simultaneously recognise him, if ever a man had reason to be proud, surely Mr. Halston is that man, for such a shout is raised of "Here's t' ould Parson; God bless 'un! we knowed 'e'd come; it's right now," as tells him plainly the place he holds in the hearts of these rough men and sorrowing women.

"Here, take my horse," says he to one of the men; and as Bell comes up he asks: "What is being done?" "Volunteers for an exploring party," briefly answers the inspector; and Mr. Halston steps forward and addresses the crowd.

"My lads," he says, "I am an old man, and perhaps some of you will think it ain't my place to go down; but, thank God, I can still wield a pick with anyone, and with His help we'll get the boys out. No, Mr. Bell," as the inspector tries to dissuade him; "if I ain't much use myself, they'll work all the better for having their Rector with them. And now one word to you, my daughters. You can do no good here. Go home, and get things ready for your husbands against the time we bring them up safe and sound. Now" (to the engineer) "we are ready. Steady, keep your breath for work, lads," as cheer after cheer rends the air; and in a few moments the group of brave volunteers are descending the shaft on their errand of mercy.

All through the night they toil, relieving each other in shifts, working as only men can work when the lives of fellow-creatures depend on their exertions. The Parson is everywhere, quiet, calm, and collected, encouraging and directing, yet taking all his share of manual labour.

Twice he has to be sent to the surface, faint and gasping for breath; but almost before his absence is detected, he is back again in the centre of the noble band.

By 2 A.M. the first six of the imprisoned miners are found, badly burned, but still alive; and before the sun has risen the whole of the twenty-five are restored to their wives, with the exception of three, whose work in this world is finished for ever.

Worn out as he is, Mr. Halston stops to comfort as best he can the fatherless and widow, and then Jerry carries him home. Men miss his kindly face at Fearndale on the Friday, but they know where he is, for the story of his heroism spreads far and wide; and when next he appears in the field, all press forward to do him honour. On the way to their first draw that day a fox jumps up in the open, and goes straight over Milston Brook. Tom has his hounds on the line in a crack, and before anyone has time to look round, three figures are seen sailing away over the grass on the far side of the water—Tom; Charles the First Whip, and, in front of all—the Parson.

THE DOCTOR.

"Never saw such weather or such a season in my life, Sir John. They tell us that 'a green winter makes a full churchyard,' but the saying doesn't hold good down here. Why, bless my heart, everybody's out hunting instead of being ill, and there's nothing for me to do at all."

"Ah Doctor," replies the Master, laughing, "it's better for us than for you then; and yet, in the long run, if the truth was known, I expect you can score more kills than my hounds."

A busy man is Edward Wilson, Esq., M.D., with an increasing practice necessitating the help of an assistant. Yet so devoted is he to hunting, that he thinks it a very hard case if he does not manage one day a-week with the hounds. As he rides up, the picture of robust health and the pink of neatness, one would scarcely imagine, as one listens to his chaffing about the weather and the paucity of patients, that he had had exactly two hours' sleep the night before, and was almost certain to find a message on his return home, calling him away some seven or eight miles, with the prospect of another nocturnal vigil. Yet such is the case. Yesterday afternoon, when he came back from his round, he had said to Thomas his coachman: "I shall manage a day to-morrow, Thomas; I don't think there is anything likely to happen, so have old Ladybird ready for me in the morning. They meet at Willowfield Lodge, and are certain to draw towards home."

Just as he was going to bed, a groom from Lorton Towers came galloping into his yard with an urgent message "As 'ow Doctor wur wanted at once; Lady Slowboy's took bad;" and away he had to go to assist the future Lord Slowboy on his "first appearance on any stage."

"Hang it all; she might have put it off," he said to himself as he buttoned his coat; "but I'm not going to lose my day's hunting for fifty heirs of Lorton;" and at 5.30 A.M., the ceremony being over, before turning in he gave orders that he was to be called at half-past seven, and at half-past ten he arrives, as we see him, hale and hearty, at Willowfield Lodge.

Very well mounted is the Doctor, for he knows a horse when he sees one; and though he only keeps two—or rather, as he himself puts it, "one and a half" (the second one having to take him occasionally on professional trips)—they are both something above the average, and when hounds are running, Ladybird or Precipitate, the two horses, are pretty nearly certain to be seen in the van. It does not require a second glance at the keen eyes, the determined mouth, wreathed in a cheery smile, and the strong nervous hands, to show that before one is a man of iron will.

Prompt of decision, quick at diagnosing disease, with a heart full of sympathy for suffering, yet never faltering when forced to resort to the knife, Edward Wilson has made a name for himself second to none in that part of England. Indeed, over and over again his old friend and patron, Sir George Fennel, the great London physician, has urged him to migrate to town; but his answer is always the same:

"Couldn't live through one season. I must be in the fresh air; and if I did not see hounds now and then, I should pine away. Besides, I should miss all my old friends in Bullshire so; and as for fame, old Widow Fletcher and John Billings the blacksmith would not believe you if you told them there was a cleverer man than myself living! Poor souls! it shows their ignorance; but what more can I want?"

The Doctor is quite right. Among the poor he and the Parson run a neck-and-neck race for popularity. Perhaps from the fact of being associated with that, to them, great mystery—medicine—the Doctor is held in greater awe; but they all remember how, hand-in-hand, the two fought death in the fever-time; and the great authorities I have mentioned—the widow and the blacksmith—assert that "Doctor ay does know summat about rheumatiz; ay's got some stuff as sends it away all in a jiff like."

It is fifteen years ago since Edward Wilson, then five-and-twenty, came down to Bullshire as assistant to old Dr. Johnstone. He rather astonished the methodical old practitioner with his theories, for the young Doctor, whose whole soul was in his profession, had read deeply and judiciously, and was far in advance of the old-fashioned routine of blood-letting, cupping, and Epsom salts.

At first folks shook their heads, and muttered "Quackery;" but one or two bad cases, which had been given over as hopeless by the principal, being successfully pulled through by the assistant, they began to think that after all there was something in the young fellow; and the surgical skill he displayed when, together with every other available medical man, he was called to the scene of the fearful railway accident at Billingdon, confirmed their opinion.

A year after this, old Johnstone died suddenly, and Wilson, after a brisk competition, bought his practice. Directly he felt himself his own master, he allowed his ideas a free scope, and consequently in a very short time his undoubted talent made itself known throughout the country-side, and the practice increased so enormously that, young and energetic as he was, he found it necessary to take an assistant, choosing after much deliberation the son of an old college chum and fellow-student.

"Why, Doctor, who'd have thought of seeing you to-day? I thought you were at Lorton all last night," exclaims Mr. Noble, Lord Slowboy's agent, who rides up as Sir John finishes his repartee.

"So I was, Noble," replies our M.D., "but her ladyship, I am thankful to say, let me off at half-past five; and, as I was just telling Sir John, there being nothing else for me to do this weather, I thought I would come out on the chance of a job in the field."

"I hope you may be disappointed, then, for once. What a blood-thirsty villain! Did you ever hear such a thing, Boulter?" says the Master to the Secretary, who has just arrived on a new steed.

"Hear what?" rejoins that worthy.

"Why," continues Sir John, "the Doctor here says he saw you pass his window on that new horse, and has come out to follow in your wake all day, as he feels convinced you will break your neck, leg, or arm, or do something which he can turn into a fee."

"Don't you believe it," interrupts Mr. Wilson with a laugh; "it would not pay me to mend you, for directly you got well you'd be dunning me for a subscription, and I might whistle for my fees. But look at Tom; he evidently thinks it is time to be moving. Who-ho, old lady" (to his horse), "who-ho," as old Tom, having got the signal, trots by with the pack, and, lifting his cap in response to the Doctor's greeting, says:

"Main glad to see you out, Doctor; hope we shall find a good 'un for you."

In a few minutes the hounds are thrown in, and Mr. Wilson finds himself with Mr. Halston (the clergyman) and Charles at a convenient corner of the covert. As bad luck will have it, though, the fox breaks away on the far side.

"Bless my soul, this is rough," exclaims the Doctor; "come on;" and putting old Ladybird at the fence he goes crashing through the wood, followed by his two companions. As they emerge on the other side they see the hounds streaming away some three fields off below them, and have the satisfaction of knowing that for once they have got as bad a start as could well be.

"It's for Blessington Osiers," says Charles. "If we cut across to the left and over the brook we shall hit it off."

"You are right, Charles," rejoins the Parson. "What do you say, Wilson?"

"For'ard on, then," replies the Doctor; and the trio gallop off almost in a contrary direction to the hounds. They negotiate the water in safety, and pull up by the side of the Osiers just as the hunted fox enters them. Charles rides off to the bottom end to view him through, and as Tom comes up with the pack his "Tailly-ho, for'ard a-w-a-i-y!" proclaims the fact that Reynard has not found Blessington a place of rest.

"Why, where the deuce have you arrived from?" is the universal question asked by all the field.

"Home," says the Doctor with a chuckle, as he sets Ladybird going now in her proper place—in the front rank—and swings over a nasty fence with a double ditch. As he lands on the other side he notices the Secretary's nephew, a young lad who is riding a chestnut that is evidently as much as the boy can manage, and as his eye falls on the stiff timber which appears at the far end of the field he wonders what will happen. "Don't go too fast at the rails, my boy," he says. "Steady. My G—d, what a smash!" as the impetuous brute rushes at the fence, and, breasting the top rail, turns a regular somersault, throwing the boy, luckily, clear of him.

The Doctor is off his horse in a moment, and hounds and hunting are forgotten as he kneels by the side of the pale little face, supporting the lad's head on his breast, and feeling with professional skill for any injury.

"Stand back, gentlemen, please," he exclaims, as some of the field collect round. "Give the boy air. There's nothing wrong beyond a slight shock and a broken arm. Ah Boulter, don't be alarmed," as the Secretary rides up. "Get him in a cart, and drive him home. I'll be round and set his arm directly."

"I'm all right, uncle," says the nephew, who has revived after a pull at the Doctor's flask. "Let me go on."

"No, my boy, you can't go on. You've broken your arm, and will have to be quiet for a bit," replies Mr. Boulter.

"What a bore!" ejaculates the lad; but adds, with a twinkle in his eye, "You'll have to pay Doctor Wilson a fee after all, uncle."

Everybody laughs at this, and the Doctor mutters under his breath: "That's what I call pluck." Then, trotting off home to fetch his paraphernalia, he is at The Grange almost as soon as the invalid. After making him comfortable, the Doctor has to go off on other errands of mercy, and as he drives the seven miles to visit his next patient, he tells Thomas that he is sorry to have missed the end of the run, but if anything could repay him it is the amount of pluck shown by the Secretary's little nephew.

Once a year he takes a two months' holiday, in July and August, when he, together with three old college chums, may be seen clad in blue serge and drinking in great draughts of health on the deck of the yacht which belongs to the eldest of them. They generally wind up with a fortnight at the grouse, and then the Doctor returns to Bullshire with renewed life and with a fund of anecdote and adventures by sea and land, to hear him relate which is as good for a sick man as any of the prescriptions which he writes in his peculiarly neat handwriting.

Wherever he goes, castle or cottage, hall or homestead, his presence always cheers and lights up the sick-room, and Doctor Wilson's visit is looked forward to by the invalid as the pleasantest bit of his long day.

THE DEALERS.

"Yes, sir, he's a niceish little horse, up to a goodish bit of weight too, and carries a lady. My daughter rides him often, and she says he's as handy as a kitten."

There is nothing very remarkable about the speaker, and but for the undeniable bit of "good stuff" he is riding, one would scarcely notice him in the crowd assembled at the meet.

As he turns half round to make the foregoing remark, allowing his right hand to rest on his horse's flank, a dark bay of wondrous shape, one may perhaps be struck with the peculiar look of shrewdness displayed in his eyes, and notice the ease with which he sits in his saddle; but beyond that there is nothing at first sight to mark a difference from any other man in the field.

But Mr. James Holden the Dealer, more generally known as Old Jimmy Holden, is something out of the common.

First, he is one of the best judges of a horse in England, with some forty years' experience to back him.

Secondly, he is a man of the keenest perception. In two seconds he will sum you up as well as if he had been acquainted with you for a lifetime, and knows intuitively at a glance how much you are "good for."

Thirdly, he is one of the best and neatest riders imaginable, with a supreme contempt for such superfluous matter as nerves. Being possessed of hands of silk and will of iron, he can hand a raw young 'un over the stiffest country in the hunt, and make him perform as well as a thoroughly seasoned hunter.

Lastly, he is absolutely trustworthy—that is to say, if you tell him that you want a horse and cannot afford more than such-and-such a sum, he will supply you with the best article that can be got for the money, frankly telling you any defects, and leaving himself but a fair margin of profit. If, however, a purchaser thinks himself very knowing and pits himself against Jimmy Holden, it is long odds that that bumptious individual, the purchaser, will find himself in the wrong box, for Jimmy takes a pleasure in getting what he calls "six to four the best of a knowing card."

He displays a vast amount of esprit de corps concerning his own hunt, always keeping the pick of the bunch for some of his Bullshire customers. "You see," he says with a smile, "I meet them all out in the field, and if I was to come across any of my gents riding one of my 'osses that I knew to be a bad 'un, why I could not say good-morning with a free conscience or a light heart. That horse would be always staring me in the face, and making me uncomfortable."

To outsiders, however, he does not always show so much compunction, as the following anecdote will show. There was a young cotton lord who one season came down to stay with one of the members of the Bullshire for a month's hunting, and, being in want of a horse, was advised to go to Mr. Holden. Exceedingly knowing in matters of horseflesh did this young gentleman consider himself, and as he was rolling in wealth he also gave himself pretty considerable airs.

Accordingly he despatched the following epistle to Freshfield, where Jimmy's house and stables were situated: "Mr. Tinsel, being in want of a hunter, and hearing that James Holden is an honest dealer, will thank him to bring over two or three for his inspection to-morrow to The Shrubbery. Mr. Tinsel begs to say he requires a good horse and not a screw."

Now old Jimmy Holden was not accustomed to this sort of thing. He had, with his father before him, become quite an institution in the Bullshire country, and everybody knowing what a right-down good sportsman he was, always treated him more as an equal than anything else, or at all events with respect and in good-fellowship. Indeed it was considered rather a privilege to buy one of his horses, and his company in the field was always sought after, where his fund of anecdote and quaint humour were wont to keep everybody in a roar. Therefore it may be imagined that the letter rubbed him up the wrong way in no slight degree, and not a word did he vouchsafe in reply.

The next time the hounds met, Mr. Tinsel, who was riding one of his friend's horses, came up to him and said, in a most offensive way: "You are Holden, the horse-dealer, ain't you?"

"My name is Holden, sir," replied old Jimmy, looking over the top of the young snob's head.

"Well, then, why the devil did not you answer my letter? I want a horse, and told you to bring me over two or three to look at," continued young Manchester. "Is that your sort of way of doing business? because it ain't mine."

"I presume, sir, your name is Tinsel. If so, I beg to inform you that I am not in the habit of bringing over horses for strangers to look at. If you like to drive over to Freshfield, my foreman will show you one at my stables," said Jimmy, and straightway rode off fuming, while a visible smile was seen on the faces of all those within hearing.

"Sell him The Baron," said two or three of them; "it will serve him right."

The Baron was a grand-looking beast, whose appearance had deceived the wily James into buying him over in the "Land of the Shamrock;" but with his good looks his virtues came to an end, for he was without exception the veriest brute to ride imaginable, being a confirmed bolter, with no mouth, and with an awkward habit, if he did manage to get rid of his rider, of rushing at him open-mouthed, or else trying to kick his brains out. He had been tried at everything, but it was always the same, whether in saddle or harness; he was a regular man-eating savage.

Hitherto Holden had refused absolutely to part with him, though he had had more than one offer; but so outraged were his feelings on this occasion that he took the advice given, and Mr. Tinsel shortly became the owner of The Baron in exchange for a cheque for two hundred pounds.

It must be owned that at the last moment Jimmy relented, and told the young gentleman he had better not buy; but with the obstinacy of ignorance Tinsel insisted on the bargain, and so had his way.

The result was a foregone conclusion. The first day he took him out the brute ran away with him for six miles straight on end, jumping into the river to wind up with, from which predicament Mr. Tinsel was rescued just in time to save him from a watery grave.

The Baron emerged safely on the far side, and when caught was there and then despatched to town for sale without reserve, being followed in a couple of days by his owner. This, however, happened some years ago, and Jimmy Holden does not care to say very much about it now.

As the hounds move off, one of the field, a Mr. Briggs, finds it impossible to help breaking the tenth commandment and coveting the little bay, and when he sees the easy way in which the animal pops over the stiff rails out of the big grass-meadow, making as little of them as if they were a flight of hurdles, while he himself has been in vain looking all round for a convenient gate, the covetous desire increases, and a settled determination takes possession of him to become the owner or perish in the attempt.

Meanwhile Jimmy has noted all this, and though that jump seemed so carelessly and easily done, he well knows the value of it, and is quite prepared to hear Mr. Briggs say, as he does: "Is that bay for sale, Holden?"

"All my horses are for sale, sir," he replies with a smile; adding, after a pause, "at a price."

Thereupon Briggs tries to look as if he was not the least interested in the matter, and accordingly shows most plainly how anxious he is to buy. "Oh, ah, yes," says he, "he seems likely to make a hunter. How much do you ask?"

"Well, sir, seeing that you are an old customer, I will let you have him at a hundred and twenty; but take my advice, Mr. Briggs, and when you are buying don't show as you're so sweet on the animal; it's as good as putting another five-and-twenty guineas on the price. However, you shall try him the day after to-morrow, and if you like the horse, which I am sure you will, you can have him at the price I said."

Needless to say Mr. Briggs does like him, and a piece of paper signed with his name transfers one hundred and twenty guineas to the account of James Holden at the local bank, though it must be confessed that the little bay does not perform quite so brilliantly under his new master's guidance as he did on the occasion when the exhibition at the rails so delighted his heart.

It was not to be supposed that Jimmy Holden would be left for ever in undisputed possession of such a lucrative position as dealer-in-ordinary to the Bullshire Hunt, and at one time there was quite an influx of veterinary surgeons, job-masters, and copers of all sorts; but they all dropped off and disappeared with the exception of one individual, who was a constant thorn in Jimmy's side, and whom he hated with a hate surpassing that of women (the inverse applies equally to the fair sex, love and hatred both being qualities they excel in).

He was named Seaford—Captain Seaford he called himself, though the Army List was innocent and silent as to his name or his regiment.

"A nasty, snivelling, horse-coping snob," was Jimmy's verdict; "brings discredit on the profession, and makes people think as we're all rogues."

There was a deal of truth in this, for Seaford was as big a scamp as ever doctored a broken-winded nag or bishoped an old stager. Now and then he had a good horse, but it was the exception; and when such an accident did happen it was a wonder that he ever managed to shut his mouth again, so wide did he open it.

Farmer Simms used to say on those occasions: "Ay could see right through un' like a telescope."

A most plausible scoundrel is he notwithstanding, and if he manages to get hold of some new-comer he will stick to him like a leech till he has screwed something out of him. Of course he hunts, and equally of course he arrives rather late, not being over fond of letting his wares get cool—and stiff—at the meet.

He is mounted, perhaps, on a raking-looking chestnut mare. There is a good deal of "furniture" about her, such as breast-plate and martingale; the throat-strap is broad, and the band across the forehead is blue and white enamel. That the mare can jump there is no doubt, for she sails over the big bank and ditch in rare form, and for two or three fields (Captain) Seaford is in front. After a little he is to be seen on another animal, which, when there are enough people round to see, can perform nearly as well as the chestnut, who is now on her way home. If anyone happens to meet her they will be somewhat surprised to see how lame she goes. "Run a nail into 'er 'oof," is the groom's version; but an F.R.C.V.S. would be puzzled to find that nail, and his certificate would show the lameness to proceed from a very different cause.

It is a marvel how Seaford manages to "pick up" so many flats, but he does a thriving trade; and though occasionally he has to square an unpleasant business, he has always a plausible tale ready to hand, and so comes out with merely a scratch on his somewhat shady character.

Once he outdid himself, and was as nearly put in prison as ever he wishes to be. It happened as follows. One evening, late, a couple of fur-capped individuals brought a horse into his yard and asked him if he would buy. A glance showed him the animal was valuable, and the price asked being only twenty pounds Seaford naturally concluded that it was a stolen one. However, he argued, it was nothing to do with him, and bought it there and then. Next day the police found it in his stables, and hard work it was for the Freshfield lawyer to prevent the magistrates committing the gallant Captain as a receiver of stolen goods.

The reason for his having incurred Jimmy's hatred is because he was sharp enough once, soon after he had come into the country, to sell him a broken-winded nag; and Jimmy never hears the last of it to this day. However, he swears he will be "even with the scamp yet," and being a man of his word there is little doubt but that he will.

THE GRUMBLER.

A very enthusiastic individual is Mr. Bowles, J.P., or, as he is more generally called, The Major, from his connection with the local Volunteer force, which, it may almost be said, he founded. Liberal with his money, and at heart a good fellow and keen sportsman, his one great failing is the use, or abuse, of that Englishman's acknowledged privilege—grumbling.

He is never happy unless he is finding fault with something or somebody. No matter what it is, the stars in their courses have always conspired against him personally, or some unfortunate person has done the very thing they should not have done, and so brought the matter in hand to utter grief.