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WE dare pay it has struck such of our readers as have followed
the chace for more than the usual average allowance of three
seasons, that hunts flourish most vigorously where there is a
fair share of hospitality, and Sir Moses Mainchance was quite of
that opinion. He found it answered a very good purpose as well to
give occasional dinners at home as to attend the club meetings at
Hinton. To the former he invited all the elite of his field, and
such people as he was likely to get anything out of while the
latter included the farmers and yeomen, the Flying Hatters, the
Dampers, and so on, whereby, or by reason or means whereof, as
the lawyers say, the spirit of the thing was well sustained. His
home parties were always a great source of annoyance to our
friend Mrs. Margerum, who did not like to be intruded upon by the
job cook (Mrs. Pomfret, of Hinton), Mrs. Margerum being in fact
more of a housekeeper than a cook, though quite cook enough for
Sir Moses in a general way, and perhaps rather too much of a
housekeeper for him—had he but known it. Mrs. Pomfret, however,
being mistress of Mrs. Margerum’s secret (viz., who got the
dripping), the latter was obliged to “put up” with her, and
taking her revenge by hiding her things, and locking up whatever
she was likely to want. Still, despite of all difficulties, Mrs.
Pomfret, when sober, could cook a very good dinner, and as Sir
Moses allowed her a pint of rum for supper, she had no great
temptation to exceed till then. She was thought on this occasion,
if possible, to surpass herself, and certainly Sir Moses’s dinner
contrasted very favourably with what Billy Pringle had been
partaking of at our friend Major Yammerton’s, whose cook had more
energy than execution. In addition to this, Mr. Bankhead plied
the fluids most liberally, as the feast progressed, so that what
with invitations to drink, and the regular course of the tide,
the party were very happy and hilarious.
Then, after dinner, the hot chestnuts and filberts and anchovy
toasts mingling with an otherwise excellent desert flavoured the
wine and brought out no end of “yoicks wind ‘ims” and aspirations
for the morrow. They all felt as if they could ride—Billy and
all!
“Not any more, thank you,” being at length the order of the day,
a move was made back to the library, a drawing-room being a
superfluous luxury where there is no lady, and tea and coffee
were rung for. A new subject of conversation was wanted, and
Monsieur presently supplied the deficiency.
“That’s a Frenchman, that servant of yours, isn’t he, Pringle?”
asked Sir Moses, when Monsieur retired with the tray.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his trifling moustache after its
dip in the cup.
“Thought so,” rejoined Sir Moses, who prided himself upon his
penetration. “I’ll have a word with him when he comes in again,”
continued he.
Tea followed quickly on the heels of coffee, Monsieur coming in
after Bankhead. Monsieur now consequentially drank, and dressed
much in the manner that he is in the picture of the glove scene
at Yammerton Grange.
“_Ah, Monsieur! comment vous portez-vous?_” exclaimed the
Baronet, which was about as much French as he could raise.
“Pretty middlin’, tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, bowing and
grinning at the compliment.
“What, you speak English, do you?” asked the Baronet, thinking he
might as well change the language.
“I spake it, sare, some small matter, sare,” replied Jack, with a
shrug of his shoulders—“Not nothing like my modder’s tongue, you
knows.”
“Ah! you speak it domd well,” replied Sir Moses. “Let you and I
have a talk together. Tell me, now, were you ever out hunting?”
_Jean Rougier_. “Oh, yes, sare, I have been at the chasse of de
small dicky-bird—tom-tit—cock-robin—vot you call.”
_Sir Moses_ (laughing). “No, no, that is not the sort of chace I
mean; I mean, have you ever been out fox-hunting?”
_Jean Rougier_ (confidentially). “Nevare, sare—nevare.”
Sir Moses. “Ah, my friend, then you’ve a great pleasure to come
to—a great pleasure to come to, indeed. Well, you’re a domd good
feller, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell you what I’ll
do—I’ll mount you to-morrow—domd if I won’t—you shall ride my old
horse, Cockatoo—carry you beautifully. What d’ye ride? Thirteen
stun, I should say,” looking Jack over, “quite up to that—quite
up to that—stun above it, for that matter. You’ll go streaming
away like a bushel of beans.”
“Oh, sare, I tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, “but I have not got
my hunting apparatus—my mosquet—my gun, my—no, not notin at all.”
“Gun!” exclaimed Sir Moses, amidst the laughter of the company.
“Why, you wouldn’t shoot the fox, would ye?”
“_Certainement_” replied Jack. “I should pop him over.”
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing up his hands in
astonishment. “Why, man, we keep the hounds on purpose to hunt
him.”
“Silly fellers,” replied Jack, “you should pepper his jacket.”
“Ah, Monsieur, I see you have a deal to learn,” rejoined Sir
Moses, laughing. “However, it’s never too late to begin—never too
late to begin, and you shall take your first lesson to-morrow.
I’ll mount you on old Cockatoo, and you shall see how we manage
these matters in England.”
“Oh, sare, I tenk you moch,” replied Jack, again excusing
himself. “But I have not got no breeches, no boot-jacks—no notin,
_comme il faut_.”
“I’ll lend you everything you want,—a boot-jack and all,” replied
Sir Moses, now quite in the generous mood.
“Ah, sare, you are vare beautiful, and I moch appreciate your
benevolence; bot I sud not like to risk my neck and crop outside
an unqualified, contradictory quadruped.”
“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “nothing of the sort!
He’s the quietest, gentlest crittur alive—a child might ride him,
mightn’t it, Cuddy?”
“Safest horse under the sun,” replied Cuddy Flintoff,
confidently. “Don’t know such another. Have nothing to do but sit
on his back, and give him his head, and he’ll take far better
care of you than you can of him. He’s the nag to carry you close
up to their stems. _Ho-o-i-ck, forrard, ho-o-i-ck!_ Dash my
buttons, Monsieur, but I think I see you sailing away. Shouldn’t
be surprised if you were to bring home the brush, only you’ve got
one under your nose as it is,” alluding to his moustache.
Jack at this looked rather sour, for somehow people don’t like to
be laughed at; so he proceeded to push his tray about under the
guests’ noses, by way of getting rid of the subject. He had no
objection to a hunt, and to try and do what Cuddy Flintoff
predicted, only he didn’t want to spoil his own clothes, or be
made a butt of. So, having had his say, he retired as soon as he
could, inquiring of Bankhead, when he got out, who that porky old
fellow with the round, close-shaven face was.
When the second flight of tea-cups came in, Sir Moses was seated
on a hardish chaise longue, beside our friend Mr. Pringle, to
whom he was doing the agreeable attentive host, and a little of
the inquisitive stranger; trying to find out as well about the
Major and his family, as about Billy himself, his friends and
belongings. The Baronet had rather cooled on the subject of
mounting Monsieur, and thought to pave the way for a back-out.
“That’s a stout-built feller of yours,” observed he to Billy,
kicking up his toe at Jack as he passed before them with the
supplementary tray of cakes and cream, and so on.
“Yarse,” drawled Billy, wondering what matter it made to Sir
Moses.
“Stouter than I took him for,” continued the Baronet, eyeing
Jack’s broad back and strong undersettings. “That man’ll ride
fourteen stun, I dessay.”
Billy had no opinion on the point so began admiring his pretty
foot; comparing it with Sir Moses’s, which was rather thick and
clumsy.
The Baronet conned the mount matter over in his mind; the man was
heavy; the promised horse was old and weak; the country deep, and
he didn’t know that Monsieur could ride,—altogether he thought it
wouldn’t do. Let his master mount him if he liked, or let him
stay at home and help Bankhead with the plate, or Peter with the
shoes. So Sir Moses settled it in his own mind, as far as he was
concerned, at least, and resumed his enquiries of our Billy.
Which of the Miss Yammertons he thought the prettiest, which sang
the best, who played the harp, if the Major indulged him with
much hare-soup, and then glanced incidentally at his stud, and
Bo-Peep.
He then asked him about Lord Ladythorne; if it was true that Mrs.
Moffatt and he quarrelled; if his lordship wasn’t getting rather
slack; and whether Billy didn’t think Dicky Boggledale an old
woman, to which latter interrogatory he replied, “Yarse,”—he
thought he was, and ought to be drafted.
While the _tête-à-tête_ was going on, a desultory conversation
ensued among the other guests in various parts of the room, Mr.
Booty button-holeing Captain Hurricane, to tell him a capital
thing out of “Punch,” and receiving in return an exclamation
of—“Why, man, I told you that myself before dinner.” Tom Dribbler
going about touching people up in the ribs with his thumb,
inquiring with a knowing wink of his eye, or a jerk of his head,
“Aye, old feller, how goes it;” which was about the extent of
Tom’s conversational powers. Henry Waggett talking “wool” to Mr.
Tupman; while Cuddy Flintoff kept popping out every now and then
to look at the moon, returning with a “hoick wind ‘im; ho-ick!”
or—
“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, Proclaimeth a hunting morning.”
Very cheering the assurance was to our friend Billy Pringle, as
the reader may suppose; but he had the sense to keep his feelings
to himself.
At length the last act of the entertainment approached, by the
door flying open through an invisible agency, and the _delirium
tremens_ footman appearing with a spacious tray, followed by
Bankhead and Monsieur, with “Cardigans” and other the materials
of “night-caps,” which they placed on the mirth-promoting circle
of a round table. All hands drew to it like blue-bottle-flies to
a sugar-cask, as well to escape from themselves and each other,
as to partake of the broiled bones, and other the good things
with which the tray was stored.
“Hie, worry! worry! worry!” cried Cuddy Flintoff, darting at the
black bottles, for he dearly loved a drink, and presently had a
beaker of brandy, so strong, that as Silverthorn said, the spoon
almost stood upright in it.
“Let’s get chairs!” exclaimed he, turning short round on his
heel: “let’s get chairs, and be snug; it’s as cheap sitting as
standing,” so saying, he wheeled a smoking chair up to the table,
and was speedily followed by the rest of the party, with various
shaped seats. Then such of the guests as wanted to shirk drinking
took whiskey or gin, which they could dilute as much as they
chose; while those who didn’t care for showing their predilection
for drink, followed Cuddy’s example, and made it as strong as
they liked. This is the time that the sot comes out
undisguisedly. The form of wine-drinking after dinner is mere
child’s play in their proceedings: the spirit is what they go
for.
At length sots and sober ones were equally helped to their
liking; and, the approving sips being taken, the other great want
of life—tobacco—then became apparent.
“Smoking allowed here,” observed Cuddy Flintoff, diving into his
side-pocket for a cigar, adding, as he looked at the wretched old
red chintz-covered furniture, which, not even the friendly light
of the _moderateur_ lamps could convert into anything
respectable: “No fear of doing any harm here, I think?”
So the rest of the company seemed to think, for there was
presently a great kissing of cigar-ends and rising of clouds, and
then the party seeming to be lost in deep reveries. Thus they sat
for some minutes, some eyeing their cocked-up toes, some the
dirty ceiling, others smoking and nursing their beakers of spirit
on their knees.
At length Tom Dribbler gave tongue—“What time will the hounds
leave the kennel in the morning, Sir Moses?” asked he.
“Hoick to Dribbler! Hoick!” immediately cheered Cuddy—as if
capping the pack to a find.
“Oh, why, let me see,” replied Sir Moses, filliping the ashes off
the end of his cigar—“Let me see,” repeated he—“Oh—ah—tomorrow’s
Monday; Monday, the Crooked Billet—Crooked Billet—nine
miles—eight through Applecross Park; leave here at nine—ten to
nine, say—nothing like giving them plenty of time on the road.”
“Nothing,” assented Cuddy Flintoff, taking a deep drain at his
glass, adding, as soon as he could get his nose persuaded to come
out of it again, “I _do_ hate to see men hurrying hounds to cover
in a morning.”
“No fear of mine doing that,” observed Sir Moses, “for I always
go with them myself when I can.”
“Capital dodge, too,” assented Cuddy, “gets the fellers past the
public houses—that drink’s the ruin of half the huntsmen in
England;” whereupon he took another good swig.
“Then, Monsieur, and you’ll all go together, I suppose,”
interrupted Dribbler, who wanted to see the fun.
“Monsieur, Monsieur—oh, ah, that’s my friend Pringle’s valet,”
observed Sir Moses, drily; “what about him?”
“Why he’s going, isn’t he?” replied Dribbler.
“Oh, poor fellow, no,” rejoined Sir Moses; “he doesn’t want to
go—it’s no use persecuting a poor devil because a Frenchman.”
“But I dare say he’d enjoy it very much,” observed Dribbler.
“Well, then, will you mount him?” asked Sir Moses.
“Why I thought _you_ were going to do it,” replied Dribbler.
“_Me_ mount him!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his ringed
hands in well-feigned astonishment, as if he had never made such
an offer—“_Me_ mount him! why, my dear fellow, do you know how
many people I have to mount as it is? Let me tell you,” continued
he, counting them off on his fingers, “there’s Tom, and there’s
Harry, and there’s Joe, and there’s the pad-groom and myself,
five horses out every day—generally six, when I’ve a hack—six
horses a day, four days a week—if that isn’t enough, I don’t know
what is—dom’d if I do,” added he, with a snort and a determined
jerk of his head.
“Well, but we can manage him a mount among us, somehow, I dare
say,” persevered Dribbler, looking round upon the now partially
smoke-obscured company.
“Oh no, let him alone, poor fellow; let him alone,” replied Sir
Moses, coaxingly, adding, “he evidently doesn’t wish to
go—evidently doesn’t wish to go.”
“I don’t know that,” exclaimed Cuddy Flintoff, with a knowing
jerk of his head; “I don’t know that—I should say he’s rather a
y-o-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-eks push ‘im up! sort of chap.” So
saying, Cuddy drained his glass to the dregs.
“I should say you’re rather a y-o-i-eks wind ‘im—y-o-i-cks drink
‘im up sort of chap,” replied Sir Moses, at which they all
laughed heartily.
Cuddy availed himself of the _divertissement_ to make another
equally strong brew—saying, “It was put there to drink, wasn’t
it?” at which they all laughed again.
Still there was a disposition to harp upon the hunt—Dribbler tied
on the scent, and felt disposed to lend Jack a horse if nobody
else would. So he threw out a general observation, that he
thought they could manage a mount for Monsieur among them.
“Well, but perhaps his master mayn’t, like it,” suggested Sir
Moses, in hopes that Billy would come to the rescue.
“O, I don’t care about it,” replied Billy, with an air of
indifference, who would have been glad to hunt by deputy if he
could, and so that chance fell to the ground.
“_Hoick to Governor! Hoick to Governor!_” cheered Cuddy at the
declaration. “Now who’ll lend him a horse?” asked he, taking up
the question. “What say you, Stub?” appealing to Mr.
Strongstubble, who generally had more than he could ride.
“He’s such a beefey beggar,” replied Strongstubble, between the
whiffs of a cigar.
“Oh, ah, and a Frenchman too!” interposed Sir Moses, “he’ll have
no idea of saving a horse, or holding a horse together, or making
the most of a horse.”
“Put him on one that ‘ll take care of himself,” suggested Cuddy;
“there’s your old Nutcracker horse, for instance,” added he,
addressing himself to Harry Waggett.
“Got six drachms of aloes,” replied Waggett, drily.
“Or your Te-to-tum, Booty,” continued Cuddy, nothing baffled by
the failure.
“Lame all round,” replied Booty, following suit.
“Hut you and your lames,” rejoined Cuddy, who knew better—“I’ll
tell you what you must do then, Tommy,” continued he, addressing
himself familiarly to Dribbler, “you must lend him your old
kicking chestnut—the very horse for a Frenchman,” added Cutty,
slapping his own tight-trousered leg—“you send the Shaver to the
Billet in the morning along with your own horse, and old Johnny
Crapaud will manage to get there somehow or other—walk if he
can’t ride: shoemaker’s pony’s very safe.”
“Oh, I’ll send him in my dog-cart if that’s all,” exclaimed Sir
Moses, again waxing generous.
“That ‘ll do! That ‘ll do!” replied Cuddy, appealing triumphantly
to the brandy. Then as the out-door guests began to depart, and
the in-door ones to wind up their watches and ask about
breakfast, Cuddy took advantage of one of Sir Moses’ momentary
absences in the entrance hall to walk off to bed with the
remainder of the bottle of brandy, observing, as he hurried away,
that he was “apt to have spasms in the night”; and Sir Moses,
thinking he was well rid of him at the price, went through the
ceremony of asking the “remanets” if they would take any more,
and being unanimously answered in the negative, he lit the
bedroom candles, turned off the _modérateurs_, and left the room
to darkness and to Bankhead.