273m _Original Size_
HE friends reappeared at the front of the Crooked Billet Hotel
when the whole cavalcade had swept away, leaving only the return
ladies, and such of the grooms as meant to have a drink, now that
“master was safe.” Sir Moses had not paid either Louis Napoleon’s
or Lord Ladythorne’s friend the compliment of waiting for them.
On the contrary, having hailed the last heavy subscriber who was
in the habit of using the Crooked Billet meet, he hallooed the
huntsman to trot briskly away down Rickleton Lane, and across
Beecham pastures, as well to shake off the foot-people, as to
prevent any attempted attendance on the part of the carriage
company. Sir Moses, though very gallant, was not always in the
chattering mood; and, assuredly, if ever a master of hounds may
be excused for a little abruptness, it is when he is tormented by
the rival spirits of the adjoining hunt, people who always see
things so differently to the men of the country, so differently
to what they are meant to do.
It was evident however by the lingering looks and position of
parties that the hunt had not been long gone—indeed, the last red
coat might still be seen bobbing up and down past the weak and
low parts of the Rickleton Lane fence. So Monsieur, having
effected a satisfactory rounding, sot his horse’s head that way,
much in the old threepence a-mile and hopes for something over,
style of his youth. Jack hadn’t forgotten how to ride, though he
might occasionally find it convenient to pretend to be a tailor.
Indeed, his horse seemed to have ascertained the fact, and
instead of playing any more monkey-tricks, he began to apply
himself sedulously to the road. Imperial John was now a fitter
subject for solicitude than Monsieur, His Highness’s usual
bumptious bolt-upright seat being exchanged for a very slouchy,
vulgar roll. His saucy eyes too seemed dim and dazzled, like an
owl’s flying against the sun. Some of the toiling pedestrians,
who in spite of Sir Moses’s intention to leave them in the lurch,
had started for the hunt, were the first overtaken, next two
grinning boys riding a barebacked donkey, one with his face to
the tail, doing the flagellation with an old hearth-brush, then a
brandy-nosed horse-breaker, with a badly-grown black colt that
didn’t promise to be good for anything, next Dr. Linton on his
dun pony, working his arms and legs most energetically, riding
far faster than his nag; next Noggin, the exciseman, stealing
quietly along on his mule as though he were bent on his business
and had no idea of a hunt; and at length a more legitimate
representative of the chace in the shape of young Mr. Hadaway, of
Oakharrow Hill, in a pair of very baggy white cords, on but
indifferent terms about the knees with his badly cleaned tops.
They did not, however, overtake the hounds, and the great body of
scarlet, till just as they turned off the Summersham road into an
old pasture-field, some five acres of the low end of which had
been cut off for a gorse to lay to the adjoining range of rocky
hills whose rugged juniper and broom-dotted sides afforded very
comfortable and popular lying for the foxes. It being, if a find,
a quick “get away,” all hands were too busy thinking of
themselves and their horses, and looking for their usual
opponents to take heed of anything else, and Jack and his friends
entered without so much as an observation from any one.
Just at that moment up went Joe’s cap on the top of the craig,
and the scene changed to one of universal excitement. Then,
indeed, had come the tug of war! Sir Moses, all hilarity, views
the fox! Now Stephen Booty sees him, now Peter Lynch, and now a
whole cluster of hats are off in his honour.
****
And now his honour’s off himself—
“Shrill horns proclaim his flight.” Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Billy
Pringle? Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Imperial John? Oh dear! where’s Jack
Rogers?
Jack’s all right! There he is grinning with enthusiasm, quite
forgetting that he’s a Frenchman, and hoisting his brown cap with
the best of them. Another glass would have made him give a
stunning view-halloa.
Imperial John stares like a man just awoke from a dream. Is he in
bed, or is he out hunting, or how! he even thinks he hears Miss
de Glancey’s “_Si-r-r!_ do you mean to insult me?” ringing in his
ears.
Billy Pringle! poor Billy! he’s not so unhappy as usual. His
horse is very docile. His tail has lost all its elegant gaiety,
and altogether he has a very drooping, weedy look: he coughs,
too, occasionally. Billy, however, doesn’t care about the coughs,
and gives him a dig with his spur to stop it.
“Come along, Mr. Pringle, come along!” now shrieks Sir Moses,
hurrying past, hands down, head too, hugging and spurring his
horse as he goes. He is presently through the separating throng,
leaving Billy far in the rear. “_Quick’s_” the word, or the
chance is lost. There are no reserved places at a hunt. A flying
fox admits of no delay. It is either go or stay.
And now, Monsieur Jean Rougier having stuck his berry-brown
conical cap tight on his bristly black head, crams his chestnut
horse through the crowd, hallooing to his transfixed brandy
friend, “Come along, old cock-a-doodle! come along, old Blink
Bonny!”
Imperial John, who has been holding a mental conference with
himself, poising himself in the saddle, and making a general
estimate of his condition, thinking he is not so drunk as “all
that,” accepts the familiar challenge, and urges his horse on
with the now flying crowd. He presently makes a bad shot at a
gate on the swing, which catching him on the kneecap, contributes
very materially to restore his sobriety, the pain making him
first look back for his leg, which he thinks must be off, and
then forward at the field. It is very large; two bustling
Baronets, two Monsieurs, two huntsmen, two flying
hatters—everybody in duplicate, in short.
Away they scud up Thorneycroft Valley at a pace that looks very
like killing. The foremost rise the hill, hugging and holding on
by the manes.
“I’ll go!” says his Highness to himself, giving up rubbing his
kneecap, and settling himself in his saddle, he hustles his
horse, and pushing past the undecided ones, is presently in the
thick of the fray. There is Jack going, elbows and legs, elbows
and legs, at a very galloping, dreary, done sort of pace, the
roaring animal he bestrides contracting its short, leg-tied
efforts every movement. Jack presently begins to objurgate the
ass who lent it him; first wishes he was on himself, then
declares the tanner ought to have him. He now sits sideways, and
proceeds to give him a good rib-roasting in the old post-boy
style.
And now there’s a bobbing up and down of hats, caps, and horses’
heads in front, with the usual deviation under the “hounds
clauses consolidation act,” where the dangerous fencing begins. A
pair of white breeches are summersaulting in the air, and a bay
horse is seen careering in a wild head in the air sort of way,
back to the rear instead of following the hounds.
“That’s lucky,” said Jack Rogers to himself, as soon as he saw
him coming towards him, and circumventing him adroitly at the
corner of a turnip-field, he quits his own pumped-out animal and
catches him. “That’s good,” said he, looking him over, seeing
that he was a lively young animal in fairish condition, with a
good saddle and bridle.
“Stirrups just my length, too, I do believe,” continued he,
preparing to mount. “All right, by Jove!” added he, settling
himself into the saddle, feet well home, and gathering his horse
together, he shot forward with the easy elasticity of breeding.
It was a delightful change from the rolling cow-like action of
the other.
“Let us see vot he as in his monkey,” said Jack to himself, now
drawing the flask from the saddle-case.
“Sherry, I fear,” said he, uncorking it.
“Brandy, I declare,” added he with delight, after smelling it. He
then took a long pull at the contents.
“Good it is, too!” exclaimed he, smacking his lips; “better nor
ve ad at de poblic;” so saying, he took another long suck of it.
“May as vell finish it,” continued he, shaking it at his ear to
ascertain what was left; and having secured the remainder, he
returned the monkey to the saddle-case, and put on his horse with
great glee, taking a most independent line of his own.
Jack’s triumph, however, was destined to be but of short
duration. The fox being hard pressed, abandoned his original
point for Collington Woods, and swerving to the left over
Stanbury Hundred, was headed by a cur, and compelled to seek
safety in a drain in the middle of a fallow field. The hounds
were presently feathering over the mouth in the usual wild,
disappointed sort of way, that as good as says, “No fault of
ours, you know; if he won’t stay above ground, we can’t catch him
for you.”
Such of the field as had not ridden straight for Collington
Woods, were soon down at the spot; and while the usual enquiries,
“Where’s Pepper?” “Where’s Viper?” “Where can we get a spade?”
“Does anybody know anything about the direction of this drain?”
were going on, a fat, fair, red-coated, flushed-faced
pedestrian—to wit, young Mr. Threadcroft, the woolstapler’s son
of Harden Grange and Hinton, dived into the thick of the throng,
and making up to Monsieur, exclaimed in an anger-choked voice,
“This (puff) is my (gasp) horse! What the (gasp, puff) devil do
you mean by riding away with him in this (puff-, gasp) way?” the
youth mopping his brow with a yellow bandanna as he spoke.
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“Your oss!” exclaimed Jack with the greatest effrontery, “on de
loose can he be your os: I catched him fair! and I’ve a right to
ride him to de end of de run;” a claim that elicited the
uproarious mirth of the field, who all looked upon the young
wool-pack, as they called him, as a muff.
“_Nonsense!_” retorted the youth, half frantic with rage. “How
can that be?”
“Ow can dat be,” repeated Jack, turning sideways in his saddle,
and preparing to argue the case, “Ow can dat be? Dis hont, sare,
I presume, sare, is condocted on de principle of de grand hont de
Epping, vere every mans vot cotched anoder’s oss, is entitled to
ride him to the end of de ron,” replied Jack gravely.
“Nonsense!” again retorted the youth, amidst the renewed laughter
of the field. “We know nothing of Epping hunts here!”
“Nothin’ of Epping onts here?” exclaimed Jack, throwing out his
hands with well feigned astonishment. “Nothin’ of Epping honts
here! Vy, de grand hont de Epping rules all the oder honts, jost
as the grand Clob de Jockey at Newmarket rules all oder Jockey
Clubs in de kingdom.”
“Hoot, toot,” sneered the fat youth, “let’s have none of yonr
jaw. Give me my horse, I say, how can he be yours?”
“Because, sare,” replied Jack, “I tells you I cotched ‘im fairly
in de field. Bot for me he vod have been lost to society—to de
vorld at large—eat up by de loup—by de volf—saddle, bridle, and
all.”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mr. Treadcroft, indignantly, “you
had no business to touch him.”
Monsieur (with energy). I appeal to you, Sare Moses Baronet, de
grand maître de chien, de master of all de dogs and all de dogs’
vives, if I have not a right to ride ‘im.
“Ah, I’m afraid, Monsieur, it’s not the law of this country,”
replied Sir Moses, laughing. “It may be so in France, perhaps;
but tell me, where’s your own horse?”
Monsieur. Pomped out de beggar; had no go in ‘im; left him in a
ditch.
Sir Moses. That’s a pity!—if you’d allowed me, I’d have sent you
a good ‘un.
Mr. Treadcroft, thus reinforced by Sir Moses’s decision, returned
to the charge with redoubled vigour. “If you don’t give me up my
horse, sir,” says he, with firmness, “I’ll give you in charge of
the police for stealing him.” Then
“Conscience, which makes cowards of us all,”
caused Jack to shrink at the recollection of his early
indiscretion in the horse-stealing line, and instantly resolving
not to give Jack Ketch a chance of taking any liberties with his
neck, he thus addresses Mr. Treadcroft:—
“Sare, if Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, do
grandmodder of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, says it is not
a case of catch ‘im and keep ‘im ‘cordin’ to de rules of de grand
hont de Epping, I must surrender de quadruped, but I most say it
is dem un’andsome treatment, after I ‘ave been at de trouble of
catching ‘im.” So saying, Jack dropped off on the wrong side of
the saddle, and giving the horse a slap on his side left his
owner to take him.
“_Tally-ho! there he goes!_” now exclaimed a dozen voices, as out
bounced the fox with a flourish of his well tagged brush that
looked uncommonly defiant. What a commotion he caused! Every man
lent a shout that seemed to be answered by a fresh effort from
the flyer: but still, with twenty couple of overpowering animals
after him, what chance did there seem for his life, especially
when they could hunt him by his scent after they had lost sight.
Every moment, however, improved his opportunity, and a friendly
turn of the land shutting him out of view, the late darting,
half-frantic pack were brought to their noses.
“Hold hard for _one_, minute!” is the order of the day.
“Now, catch ’em if you can!” is the cry.
Away they go in the settled determined way of a second start. The
bolt taking place on the lower range of the gently swelling
Culmington hills, that stretch across the north-east side of
Hit-im and Hold-im shire, and the fox making for the vale below,
Monsieur has a good bird’s eye view of the scramble, without the
danger and trouble of partaking of the struggle. Getting astride
a newly stubbed ash-tree near the vacated drain mouth, he thus
sits and soliloquises—“He’s a pretty flyer, dat fox—if dey catch
‘im afore he gets to the hills,” eyeing a gray range uudulating
in the distance, “they’ll do well. That Moff of a man,” alluding
to Treadcroft, “‘ill never get there. At all events,” chuckled
Jack, “his brandy vont. Dats ‘im! I do believe,” exclaimed Jack,
“off again!” as a loose horse is now seen careering across a
grass field. “No; dat is a black coat,” continued Jack, as the
owner now appeared crossing the field in pursuit of his horse.
“Bot dat vill be ‘im! dat vill be friend Moll’,” as a red rider
now measures his length on the greensward of a field in the rear
of the other one; and Jack, taking off his faded cap, waives it
triumphantly as he distinctly recognises the wild, staring
running of his late steed. “Dash my buttons!” exclaims he,
working his arms as if he was riding, “bot if it hadn’t been for
dat unwarrantable, unchristian-like cheek I’d ha’ shown those red
coats de vay on dat oss, for I do think he has de go in him and
only vants shovin’ along.—Ah Moff—my friend Moff!” laughed he,
eyeing Treadcroft’s vain endeavour to catch his horse, “you may
as vell leave ‘im where he is—you’ll only fatigue yourself to no
purpose. If you ‘ad ‘im you’d be off him again de next minute.”
The telescope of the chace is now drawn out to the last joint,
and Jack, as he sits, has a fine bird’s eye view of the scene. If
the hounds go rather more like a flock of wild geese than like
the horses in the chariot of the sun, so do the field, until the
diminutive dots, dribbling through the vale, look like the line
of a projected railway.
“If I mistake not,” continued Jack, “dat leetle shiny eel-like
ting,” eyeing a tortuous silvery thread meandering through the
vale, “is vater, and dere vill be some fon by de time dey get
there.”
Jack is right in his conjecture. It is Long Brawlingford brook,
with its rotten banks and deep eddying pools, describing all
sorts of geographical singularities in its course through the
country, too often inviting aspiring strangers to astonish the
natives by riding at it, while the cautious countrymen rein in as
they approach, and, eyeing the hounds, ride for a ford at the
first splash.
Jack’s friend, Blink Bonny, has ridden not amiss, considering his
condition—at all events pretty forward, as may be inferred from
his having twice crossed the Flying Hatter and come in for the
spray of his censure. But for the fact of his Highness getting
his hats of the flyer, he would most likely have received the
abuse in the bulk. As it was, the hatter kept letting it go as he
went.
And now as the hounds speed over the rich alluvial pastures by
the brook, occasionally one throwing its tongue, occasionally
another, for the scent is first-rate and the pace severe, there
is a turning of heads, a checking of horses, and an evident
inclination to diverge. Water is in no request.
“Who knows the ford?” cries Harry Waggett, who always declined
extra risk.—“You know the ford, Smith?” continued he, addressing
himself to black tops.
“Not when I’m in a hur-hur-hurry,” ejaculates Smith, now fighting
with his five-year-old bay.
“O’ill show ye the ford!” cries Imperial John, gathering his grey
together and sending him at a stiff flight of outside slab-made
rails which separate the field from the pack. This lands His
Highness right among the tail hounds.
“Hold hard, Mr. Hybrid!” now bellows Sir Moses, indignant at the
idea of a Featherbedfordshire farmer thinking to cut down his
gallant field.
“One minuit! and you may go as hard as iver you like!” cries Tom
Findlater, who now sees the crows hovering over his fox as he
scuttles away on the opposite side of the brook.
There is then a great yawing of mouths and hauling of heads and
renewed inquiries for fords.—You know the ford, Brown? You know
the ford, Green? _Who_ knows the ford?
His Highness, thus snubbed and rebuked on all sides, is put on
his mettle, and inwardly resolves not to be bullied by these low
Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps. “If they don’t know what is due
to the friend of an Earl, he will let them see that he does.” So,
regardless of their shouts, he shoves along with his Imperial
chin well in the air, determined to ride at the brook—let those
follow who will. He soon has a chance. The fox has taken it right
in his line, without deviating a yard either way, and Wolds-man,
and Bluecap, and Ringwood, and Hazard, and Sparkler are soon
swimming on his track, followed by the body of the screeching,
vociferating pack.
Old Blink Bonny now takes a confused, wish-I-was-well-over, sort
of look at the brook, shuddering when he thought how far he was
from dry clothes. It is however, too late to retreat. At it he
goes in a half resolute sort of way, and in an instant the
Imperial hat and the Imperial horse’s head are all that appear
above water.
“_Hoo-ray!_” cheer some of the unfeeling Hit-im and Hold-im
shireites, dropping down into the ford a little below.
“_Hoo-ray!_” respond others on the bank, as the Red Otter, as
Silverthorne calls His Highness, rises hatless to the top.
“Come here, and I’ll help you out!” shouts Peter Linch, eyeing
Mr. Hybrid’s vain darts first at the hat and then at the horse.
“Featherbedfordshire for ever!” cries Charley Drew, who doesn’t
at all like Imperial John.
And John, who finds the brook not only a great deal wider, but
also a great deal deeper and colder than he expected, is in such
a state of confusion that he lands on one side and his horse on
the other, so that his chance of further distinction is out for
the day. And as he stands shivering and shaking and emptying his
hat, he meditates on the vicissitudes of life, the virtues of
sobriety, and the rashness of coping with a friend of His
Imperial brother, Louis Nap. His horse meanwhile regales upon
grass, regardless of the fast receding field. Thus John is left
alone in his glory, and we must be indebted to other sources for
an account of the finish of this day’s sport.