JUST as the old buck was resuming the thread of his fashionable
high-life narrative, preparatory to sounding Billy about the
Major and his family, the same sort of electric thrill shot
through the field that characterised the terrible “g-n-r
along—don’t you see the hounds are running?” de Glancey day with
the Earl. Billy felt all over he-didn’t-know-how-ish—very
wish-he-was-at-home-ish. The horse, too, began to caper.
The thrill is caused by a shilling’s-worth of wide-awake on a
stick held high against the sky-line of the gently-swelling hill
on the left, denoting that the wild beast is found, causing the
Major to hold up his hat as a signal of reply, and all the rest
of the field to desist from their flopping and thistle-whipping,
and rein in their screws for the coming conflict.
“Now s-s-sir!” exclaims the stuttering Major, cantering up to our
Billy all flurry and enthusiasm. “Now, s-s-sir! we ha-ha-have
her, and if you’ll fo-fo-follow me, I’ll show you her,” thinking
he was offering Billy the greatest treat imaginable. So saying
the Major drops his hands on White Surrey’s neck, rises in his
stirrups, and scuttles away, bounding over the gorse bushes and
broom that intervened between him and the still stick-hoisted
tenpenny.
****
“_Where is she?_” demands the Major. “_Where is she!_’ repeats
he, coming up.
“A Major, he mun gi’ us halfe-croon ony ho’ this time,” exclaims
our friend Tom Springer, whose head gear it is that has been
hoisted.
“Deed mun ye!” asserts Pitfall, who has now joined his companion.
“_No, no!_” retorts the Major angrily, “I said a shillin’—a
shillin’s my price, and you know it.”
“Well, but consider what a time we’ve been a lookin’ for her,
Major,” replied Springer, mopping his brow.
“Well, but consider that you are about to partake of the
enjoyments as well as myself, and that I find the whole of this
expensive establishment,” retorted the Major, looking back for
his hounds. “Not a farthin’ subscription.”
“Say two shillin’s, then,” replied Springer coaxingly.
“No, no,” replied the Major, “a shillin’s plenty.”
“Make it eighteen-pence then,” said Pitfall, “and oop she goes
for the money.”
“Well, come,” snapped the Major hurriedly, as Billy now came
elbowing up. “Where is she? Where is she?” demanded he.
“A, she’s not here—she’s not here, but I see her in her form
thonder,” replied Springer, nodding towards the adjoining
bush-dotted hill.
“Go to her, then,” said the Major, jingling the eighteen-pence in
his hand, to be ready to give him on view of the hare.
The man then led the way through rushes, brambles, and briars,
keeping a steady eye on the spot where she sate. At length he
stopped. “There she’s, see!” said he, _sotto voce_, pointing to
the green hill-side.
“I have her!” whispered the Major, his keen eyes sparkling with
delight. “Come here,” said he to Billy, “and I’ll show her to
you. There,” said he, “there you see that patch of gorse with the
burnt stick stumps, at the low end—well, carry your eye down the
slope of the land, past the old willow-tree, and you have her as
plain as a pike-staff.”
Billy shook his head. He saw nothing but a tuft or two of rough
grass.
“O yes, you see her large eyes watching us,” continued the Major,
“thinking she sees us without our seeing her.
“No,” our friend didn’t.
“Very odd,” laughed the Major, “very odd,” with the sort of
vexation a man feels when another can’t be made to see the object
he does.
“Will you give them a view now?” asked Springer, “or put her away
quietly?”
“Oh, put her away quietly,” replied the Major, “put her away
quietly; and let them get their noses well down to the scent;”
adding—“I’ve got some strange hounds out, and I want to see how
they work.”
The man then advanced a few paces, and touching one of the
apparently lifeless tufts with his pole, out sprang puss and went
stotting and dotting away with one ear back and the other
forward, in a state of indignant perturbation. “Buck!” exclaims
Pitfall, watching her as she goes.
“Doubt it,” replied the Major, scrutinising her attentively.
“Nay look at its head and shoulders; did you iver see sic red
shoulders as those on a doe?” asked Springer.
“Well,” said the Major, “there’s your money,” handing Springer
the eighteen-pence, “and I hope she’ll be worth it; but mind, for
the futur’ a shillin’s my price.”
After scudding up the hill, puss stopped to listen and ascertain
the quality of her pursuers. She had suffered persecution from
many hands, shooters, coursers, snarers, and once before from the
Major and his harriers. That, however, was on a bad scenting day,
and she had not had much difficulty in beating them.
Meanwhile Solomon has been creeping quietly on with his hounds,
encouraging such to hunt as seemed inclined that way, though the
majority were pretty well aware of the grand discovery and lean
towards the horsemen in advance. Puss however had slipped away
unseen by the hounds, and Twister darts at the empty form
thinking to save all trouble by a chop. Bracelet then strikes a
scent in advance. Ruffler and Chaunter confirm it, and after one
or two hesitating rashes and flourishes, increasing in intensity
each time, a scent is fairly established, and away they drive
full cry amid exclamations of “Beautiful! beautiful! never saw
anything puttier!” from the Major and the field—the music of the
hounds being increased and prolonged by the echoes of the valleys
and adjacent hills.
The field then fall into line, Silent Solomon first, the Major of
course next. Fine Billy third, with Wotherspoon and Nettlefold
rather contending for his company. Nabley, Duffield, Bonnet,
Reunison. Fanlder, Catcheside, truants, all mixed up together in
heterogeneous confusion, jostling for precedence as men do when
there are no leaps. So they round Hawthorn hill, and pour up the
pretty valley beyond, each man riding a good deal harder than his
horse, the hounds going best pace, which however is not very
great.
“Give me,—” inwardly prays the Major, cantering consequentially
along with his thong-gathered whip held up like a sword, “give me
five and twenty minutes, the first fifteen a burst, then a fault
well hit off’, and the remaining ten without a turn,” thinking to
astonish the supercilious foxhunter. Then he takes a sly look to
see how Napoleon is faring, it being by no means his intention to
let Fine Billy get to the bottom of him.
On, on, the hounds press, for now is the time to enjoy the scent
with a hare, and they have run long enough together to have
confidence in their leaders.
Now Lovely has the scent, now Lilter, now Ruffler flings in
advance, and again is superseded by Twister.
They brush through the heathery open with an increasing cry, and
fling at the cross-road between Birwell Mill and Capstone with
something like the energy of foxhounds; Twister catches it up
beyond the sandy track, and hurrying over it, some twenty yards
further on is superseded by Lovely, who hits it off to the left.
Away she goes with the lead.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaims the Major, hoping the fox-hunter
sees it.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” echoes Nettlefold, as the clustering pack
drop their sterns to the scent and push forward with renewed
velocity.
The Major again looks for our friend Billy, who is riding in a
very careless slack-rein sort of style, not at all adapted for
making the most of his horse. However it is no time for
remonstrance, and the music of the hounds helps to make things
pleasant. On, on they speed; up one hill, down another, round a
third, and so on.
One great advantage of hunting in a strange country undoubtedly
is, that all runs are straight, with harriers as well as
foxhounds, with some men, who ride over the same ground again and
again without knowing that it is the same, and Billy was one of
this sort. Though they rounded Hawthorn hill again, it never
occurred to him that it was the second time of asking; indeed he
just cantered carelessly on like a man on a watering-place hack,
thinking when his hour will be out, regardless of the beautiful
hits made by Lovely and Lilter or any of them, and which almost
threw the Major and their respective admirers into ecstacies.
Great was the praise bestowed upon their performances, it being
the interest of every man to magnify the run and astonish the
stranger. Had they but known as much of the Richest Commoner as
the reader does, they would not have given themselves the
trouble.
Away they pour over hill and dale, over soft ground and sound,
through reedy rushes and sedgy flats, and over the rolling stones
of the fallen rocks.
Then they score away full cry on getting upon more propitious
ground. What a cry they make! and echo seemingly takes pleasure
to repeat the sound!
Napoleon the Great presently begins to play the castanets with
his feet, an ominous sound to our Major, who looks back for the
Bumbler, and inwardly wishes for a check to favour his design of
dismounting our hero.
Half a mile or so further on, and the chance occurs. They get
upon a piece of bare heather burnt ground, whose peaty smell
baffles the scent, and brings the hounds first to a check, then
to a stand-still.
Solomon’s hand in the air beckons a halt, to which the field
gladly respond, for many of the steeds are eating new oats, and
do not get any great quantity of those, while some are on swedes,
and others only have hay. Altogether their condition is not to be
spoken of.
The Major now all hurry scurry, just like a case of “second
horses! second horses! where’s my fellow with my second horse?”
at a check in Leicestershire, beckons the Bumbler up to Billy;
and despite of our friend’s remonstrance, who has got on such
terms with Napoleon as to allow of his taking the liberty of
spurring him, and would rather remain where he is, insists upon
putting him upon the mare again, observing, that he couldn’t
think of taking the only spare ‘orse from a gen’lman who had done
him the distinguished honour of leaving the Earl’s establishment
for his ‘umble pack; and so, in the excitement of the moment,
Billy is hustled off one horse and hurried on to another, as if a
moment’s hesitation would be fatal to the fray. The Major then,
addressing the Bumbler in an undertone, says, “Now walk that
‘orse quietly home, and get him some linseed tea, and have him
done up by the time we get in.” He then spurs gallantly up to the
front, as though he expected the hounds to be off again at score.
There was no need of such energy, for puss has set them a puzzle
that will take them some time to unravel; but it saved an
argument with Billy, and perhaps the credit of the bay. He now
goes drooping and slouching away, very unlike the cock-horse he
came out.
Meanwhile, the hounds have shot out and contracted, and shot out
and contracted—and tried and tested, and tried and tested—every
tuft and every inch of burnt ground, while Solomon sits
motionless between them and the head mopping chattering field.
“Must be on,” observes Caleb Rennison, the horse-breaker, whose
three-year-old began fidgetting and neighing.
“Back, I say,” speculated Bonnet, whose domicile lay to the rear.
“Very odd,” observed Captain Nabley, “they ran her well to here.”
“Hares are queer things,” said old Duffield, wishing he had her
by the ears for the pot.
“Far more hunting with a hare nor a fox,” observed Mr. Rintoul,
who always praised his department of the chase.
“Must have squatted,” observes old “Wotherspoon, taking a pinch
of snuff, and placing his double gold eye-glasses on his nose to
reconnoitre the scene.
“Lies very close, if she has,” rejoins Godfrey Faulder, flopping
at a furze-bush as he spoke.
“Lost her, I fear,” ejaculated Mr. Trail, who meant to beg her
for a christening dinner if they killed.
The fact is, puss having, as we said before, had a game at romps
with her pursuers on a bad scenting day, when she regulated her
speed by their pace, has been inconveniently pressed on the
present occasion, and feeling her strength fail, has had recourse
to some of the many arts for which hares are famous. After
crossing the burnt ground she made for a greasy sheep-track, up
which she ran some fifty yards, and then deliberately retracing
her steps, threw herself with a mighty spring into a rushy furze
patch at the bottom of the hill. She now lies heaving and
panting, and watching the success of her stratagem from her
ambush, with the terror-striking pack full before her.
191m
_Original Size_
And now having accommodated Mr. Pringle with a second horse,
perhaps the reader will allow us to take a fresh pen and finish
the run in another Chapter.