THE Crooked Billet Hotel and Posting house, on the Bushmead road
had been severed from society by the Crumpletin Railway. It had
indeed been cut off in the prime of life: for Joe Cherriper, the
velvet-collared doeskin-gloved Jehu of the fast Regulator Coach,
had backed his opinion of the preference of the public for horse
transit over steam, by laying out several hundred pounds of his
accumulated fees upon the premises, just as the surveyors were
setting out the line.
“A rally might be andy enough for goods and eavy marchandise,”
Joe said; “but as to gents ever travellin’ by sich contraband
means, that was utterly and entirely out of the question. Never
would appen so long as there was a well-appointed coach like the
Regulator to be ad.” So Joe laid on the green paint and the white
paint, and furbished up the sign until it glittered resplendent
in the rays of the mid-day sun. But greater prophets than Joe
have been mistaken.
One fine summer’s afternoon a snorting steam-engine came puffing
and panting through the country upon a private road of its own,
drawing after it the accumulated rank, beauty, and fashion of a
wide district to open the railway, which presently sucked up all
the trade and traffic of the country. The Crooked Billet fell
from a first-class way-side house at which eight coaches changed
horses twice a-day, into a very seedy unfrequented place—a very
different one to what it was when our hero’s mother, then Miss
Willing, changed horses on travelling up in the Old True Blue
Independent, on the auspicious day that she captured Mr. Pringle.
Still it was visited with occasional glimpses of its former
greatness in the way of the meets of the hounds, when the stables
were filled, and the long-deserted rooms rang with the revelry of
visitors. This was its first gala-day of the season, and several
of the Featherbedfordshire gentlemen availed themselves of the
fineness of the weather to see Sir Moses’ hounds, and try whether
they, too, could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im shire.
The hounds had scarcely had their roll on the greensward, and old
black Challenger proclaimed their arrival with his usual
deep-toned vehemence, ere all the converging roads and lanes
began pouring in their tributaries, and the space before the
bay-windowed red brick-built “Billet” was soon blocked with
gentlemen on horseback, gentlemen in Malvern dog-carts, gentlemen
in Newport Pagnells, gentlemen in Croydon clothesbaskets, some
divesting themselves of their wraps, some stretching themselves
after their drive, some calling for brandy, some for baccy, some
for both brandy and baccy.
Then followed the usual inquiries, “Is Dobbinson coming?”
“Where’s the Damper?”
“Has anybody seen anything of Gameboy Green?” Next, the heavily
laden family vehicles began to arrive, containing old fat
_paterfamilias_ in the red coat of his youth, with his “missis”
by his side, and a couple of buxom daughters behind, one of whom
will be installed in the driving seat when papa resigns. Thus we
have the Mellows of Mawdsley Hill, the Chalkers of Streetley, and
the Richleys of Jollyduck Park, and the cry is still, “They come!
they come!” It is going to be a bumper meet, for the foxes are
famous, and the sight of a good “get away” is worth a dozen
Legers put together.
See here comes a nice quiet-looking little old gentleman in a
well-brushed, flat-brimmed hat, a bird’s-eye cravat, a dark grey
coat buttoned over a step-collared toilanette vest, nearly
matching in line his delicate cream-coloured leathers, who
everybody stares at and then salutes, as he lifts first one
rose-tinted top and then the other, working his way through the
crowd, on a thorough-bred snaffle-bridled bay. He now makes up to
Sir Moses, who exclaims as the raised hat shows the familiar
blue-eyed face, “Ah! Dicky my man! how d’ye do? glad to see you?”
and taking off his glove the Baronet gives our old friend
Boggledike a hearty shake of the hand. Dicky acknowledges the
honour with becoming reverence, and then begins talking of sport
and the splendid runs they have been having, while Sir Moses,
instead of listening, cons over some to give him in return.
But who have we here sitting so square in the tandem-like
dogcart, drawn by the high-stepping, white-legged bay with
sky-blue rosettes, and long streamers, doing the pride that apes
humility in a white Macintosh, that shows the pink collar to
great advantage? Imperial John, we do believe?
Imperial John, it is! He has come all the way from Barley Hill
Hall, leaving the people on the farm and the plate in the
drawing-room to take care of themselves, starting before
daylight, while his footman groom has lain out over night to the
serious detriment of a half sovereign. As John now pulls up, with
a trace-rattling ring, he cocks his Imperial chin and looks round
for applause—a “Well done, you!” or something of that sort, for
coming such a distance. Instead of that, a line of winks, and
nods, and nudges, follow his course, one man whispering another,
“I say, here’s old Imperial John,” or “I say, look at Miss de
Glancey’s boy;” while the young ladies turn their eyes languidly
upon him to see what sort of a hero the would-be Benedict is. His
Highness, however, has quite got over his de Glancey failure, and
having wormed his way after divers “with your leaves,” and “by
your leaves,” through the intricacies of the crowd, he now pulls
up at the inn door, and standing erect in his dog-cart, sticks
his whip in the socket, and looks around with a “This is Mr.
Hybrid the-friend-of-an-Earl” sort of air.
“Ah! Hybrid, how d’ye do?” now exclaims Sir Moses familiarly;
“hope you’re well?—how’s the Peer? hope he’s well. Come all the
way from Barley Hill?”
“Barley Hill _Hall_,” replies the great man with an emphasis on
the Hall, adding in the same breath, “Oi say, ostler, send moy
fellow!” whereupon there is a renewed nudging and whispering
among the ladies beside him, of “That’s Mr. Hybrid!”
“That’s Imperial John, the gentleman who wanted to marry Miss de
Glancey for though Miss de Glancey was far above having him, she
was not above proclaiming the other.”
His Highness then becomes an object of inquisitive scrutiny by
the fair; one thinking he might do for Lavinia Edwards; another,
for Sarah Bates; a third, for Rachel Bell; a fourth, perhaps, for
herself. It must be a poor creature that isn’t booked for
somebody.
Still, John stands erect in his vehicle, flourishing his whip,
hallooing and asking for his fellow.
“Ring the bell for moy fellow!—Do go for moy fellow!—Has anybody
seen moy fellow? Have you seen moy fellow?” addressing an old
smock-frocked countryman with a hoe in his hand.
“Nor, arm d—d if iver ar i did!” replied the veteran, looking him
over, a declaration that elicited a burst of laughter from the
bystanders, and an indignant chuck of the Imperial chin from our
John.
“_Tweet, tweet, tweet!_” who have we here? All eyes turn up the
Cherryburn road; the roused hounds prick their ears, and are with
difficulty restrained from breaking away. It’s Walker, the cross
postman’s gig, and he is treating himself to a twang of the horn.
But who has he with him? Who is the red arm-folded man lolling
with as much dignity as the contracted nature of the vehicle will
allow? A man in red, with cap and beard, and all complete. Why
it’s Monsieur! Monsieur coming _in forma pauperis_, after Sir
Moses’ liberal offer to send him to cover,—Monsieur in a faded
old sugar-loaf shaped cap, and a scanty coat that would have been
black if it hadn’t been red.
266m
_Original Size_
Still Walker trots him up like a man proud of his load amid the
suppressed titters and “Who’s this?” of the company. Sir Moses
immediately vouchsafes him protection—by standing erect in his
stirrups, and exclaiming with a waive of his right hand, “Ah,
Monsieur! _comment vous portez-vous?_”
“Pretty bobbish, I tenk you, sare, opes you are vell yourself and
all de leetle Mainchanees,” replied Monsieur, rising in the gig,
showing the scrimpness of his coat and the amplitude of his
cinnamon-coloured peg-top trousers, thrust into green-topped
opera-boots, much in the style of old Paul Pry. Having put
something into Walker’s hand, Monsieur alights with due caution
and Walker whipping on, presently shows the gilt “V. R.” on the
back of his red gig as he works his way through the separating
crowd. Walker claims to be one of Her Majesty’s servants; if not
to rank next to Lord Palmerston, at all events not to be far
below him. And now Monsieur being left to himself, thrusts his
Malacca cane whip stick under his arm, and drawing on a pair of
half-dirty primrose-coloured kid gloves, pokes into the crowd in
search of his horse, making up to every disengaged one he saw,
with “Is dee’s for me? Is dee’s for me?”
Meanwhile Imperial John having emancipated himself from his
Mackintosh, and had his horse placed becomingly at the step of
the dog-cart, so as to transfer himself without alighting, and
let everybody see the magnificence of the establishment, now
souces himself into the saddle of a fairish young grey, and turns
round to confront the united field; feeling by no means the
smallest man in the scene. “Hybrid!” exclaims Sir Moses, seeing
him approach the still dismounted Monsieur, “Hybrid! let me
introduce my friend Rougier, Monsieur Rougier, Mr. Hybrid! of
Barley Hill Hall, a great friend of Lord Ladythorne’s,” whereupon
off went the faded sugar-loaf-shaped cap, and down came the
Imperial hat, Sir Moses interlarding the ceremony with, “great
friend of Louis Nap’s, great friend of Louis Nap’s,” by way of
balancing the Ladythorne recommendation of John. The two then
struck up a most energetic conversation, each being uncommonly
taken with the other. John almost fancied he saw his way to the
Tuileries, and wondered what Miss “somebody” would say if he got
there.
The conversation was at length interrupted by Dribbler’s grinning
groom touching Jack behind as he came up with a chestnut horse,
and saying, “Please, Sir, here’s your screw.”
“Ah, my screw, is it!” replied Jack, turning round, “dat is a
queer name for a horse—screw—hopes he’s a good ‘un.”
“A good ‘un, and nothin’ but a good ‘un,” replied the groom,
giving him a punch in the ribs, to make him form up to Jack, an
operation that produced an ominous grunt.
“Vell” said Jack, proceeding to dive at the stirrup with his foot
without taking hold of the reins; “if Screw is a good ‘un I sall
make you handsome present—tuppence a penny, p’raps—if he’s a bad
‘un, I sall give you good crack on the skoll,” Jack flourishing
his thick whipstick as he spoke.
“Will you!” replied the man, leaving go of the rein, whereupon
down went the horse’s head, up went his heels, and Jack was
presently on his shoulder.
“Oh, de devil!” roared Jack, “he vill distribute me! he vill
distribute me! I vill be killed! Nobody sall save me! here,
garçon, grum!” roared he amid the mirth of the company. “Lay ‘old
of his ‘ead! lay ‘old of his ‘ocks! lay ‘old of ‘eels! Oh,
murder! murder!” continued he in well-feigned dismay, throwing
out his supplicating arms. Off jumped Imperial John to the rescue
of his friend, and seizing the dangling rein, chucked up the
horse’s head with a resolute jerk that restored Jack to his seat.
“Ah, my friend, I see you are not much used to the saddle,”
observed His Highness, proceeding to console the friend of an
Emperor.
“Vell, sare, I am, and I am not,” replied Jack, mopping his brow,
and pretending to regain his composure, “I am used to de leetle
‘orse at de round-about at de fair, I can carry off de ring ten
time out of twice, but these great unruly, unmannerly, undutiful
screws are more than a match for old Harry.”
“Just so,” assented His Highness, with a chuck of his Imperial
chin, “just so;” adding in an under-tone, “then I’ll tell you
what we’ll do—I’ll tell you what we’ll do—we’ll pop into the bar
at the back of the house, and have a glass of something to
strengthen our nerves.”
“By all means, sare,” replied Jack, who was always ready for a
glass. So they quietly turned the corner, leaving the field to
settle their risible faculties, while they summoned the pretty
corkscrew ringletted Miss Tubbs to their behests.
“What shall it be?” asked Imperial John, as the smiling young
lady tripped down the steps to where they stood.
“Brandy,” replied Jack, with a good English accent.
“Two brandies!” demanded Imperial John, with an air of authority.
“Cold, _with_?” asked the lady, eyeing Monsieur’s grim visage.
“_Neat!_” exclaimed Jack in a tone of disdain.
“Yes, Sir,” assented the lady, bustling away.
“_Shilling_ glasses!” roared Jack, at the last flounce of her
blue muslin.
Presently she returned bearing two glasses of very brown brandy,
and each having appropriated one, Jack began grinning and bowing
and complimenting the donor.
“Sare,” said he, after smelling at the beloved liquor, “I have
moch pleasure in making your quaintance. I am moch pleased, sare,
with the expression of your mog. I tink, sare, you are de
‘andsomest man I never had de pleasure of lookin’ at. If, sare,
dey had you in my country, sare, dey vod make you a King—Emperor,
I mean. I drink, sare, your vare good health,” so saying, Jack
swigged off the contents of his glass at a draught.
Imperial John felt constrained to do the same.
“Better now,” observed Jack, rubbing his stomach as the liquid
fire began to descend. “Better now,” repeated he, with a jerk of
his head, “Sare,” continued he, “I sall return the compliment—I
sall treat you to a glass.”
Imperial John would rather not. He was a glass of sherry and a
biscuit sort of man; but Monsieur was not to be balked in his
liberality. “Oh, yes, sare, make me de pleasure to accept a
glass,” continued Jack, “Here! Jemima! Matilda! Adelaide! vot the
doose do they call de young vomans—look sharp,” added he, as she
now reappeared. “Apportez, dat is to say, bring tout suite,
directly; two more glasses; dis gentlemans vill be goode enough
to drink my vare good ‘ealth.”
“Certainly,” replied the smiling lady, tripping away for them.
“Ah, sare, it is de stoff to make de air corl,” observed Jack,
eyeing his new acquaintance. “Ye sall go like old chaff before
the vind after it. Vill catch de fox myself.”
The first glass had nearly upset our Imperial friend, and the
second one appeared perfectly nauseous. He would give anything
that Jack would drink them both himself. However, Monsieur
motioned blue muslin to present the tray to John first, so he had
no alternative but to accept. Jack then took his glass, and
smacking his lips, said—“I looks, sare, towards you, sare, vith
all de respect due to your immortal country. De English, sare,
are de finest nation under de moon; and you, sare, and you are as
fine a specimens of dat nation as never vas seen. Two such mans
as you, sare, could have taken Sebastopol. You could vop all de
ell ound savage Sepoys by yourself. So now, sare,” continued
Jack, brandishing his glass, “make ready, present, _fire!_” and
at the word fire, he drained off his glass, and then held it
upside down to show he had emptied it.
Poor Imperial John was obliged to follow suit.
The Imperial head now began to swim. Mr. Hybrid saw two girls in
blue muslin, two Monsieurs, two old yellow Po-chaises, two
water-carts with a Cochin-China cock a gollowing a-top of each.
Jack, on the contrary, was quite comfortable. He had got his
nerves strung, and was now ready for anything. “S’pose, now,”
said he, addressing his staring, half-bewildered friend, “you
ascend your gallant grey, and let us look after dese mighty
chasseurs. But stop,” added he, “I vill first pay for de tipple,”
pretending to dive into his peg-top trousers pocket for his
purse. “_Ah! malheureusement_,” exclaimed he, after feeling them
both. “I have left my blont, my tin, in my oder trousers pockets.
Navare mind! navare mind,” continued he, gaily, “ve vill square
it op some other day. Here,” added he to the damsel, “dis
gentlemens vill pay, and I vill settle vid him some oder day—some
oder day.” So saying, Jack gathered his horse boldly together,
and spurred out of the inn-yard in a masterly way, singing
_Partant pour la Syrie_ as he went.