COUNTRY QUARTERS
[Illustration: LADY SCATTERCASH]
Sir Harry Scattercash's were only an ill-supported pack of hounds; they
were not kept upon any fixed principles. We do not mean to say that they
had not plenty to eat, but their management was only of the scrimmaging
order. Sir Harry was what is technically called 'going it.' Like our noble
friend, Lord Hard-up, now Earl of Scamperdale, he had worked through the
morning of life without knowing what it was to be troubled with money; but,
unlike his lordship, now that he had unexpectedly come into some, he seemed
bent upon trying how fast he could get through it. In this laudable
endeavour he was ably assisted by Lady Scattercash, late the lovely and
elegant Miss Spangles, of the 'Theatre Royal, Sadler's Wells.' Sir Harry
had married her before his windfall made him a baronet, having, at the
time, some intention of trying his luck on the stage, but he always
declared that he never regretted his choice; on the contrary, he said, if
he had gone among the 'duchesses,' he could not have suited himself better.
Lady Scattercash could ride--indeed, she used to do scenes in the circle
(two horses and a flag)--and she could drive, and smoke, and sing, and was
possessed of many other accomplishments. Sir Harry would sometimes drink
straight on end for a week, and then not taste wine again for a month;
sometimes the hounds hunted, and sometimes they did not; sometimes they
were advertized, and sometimes they were not; sometimes they went out on
one day, and sometimes on another; sometimes they were fixed to be at such
a place, and went to quite a different one. When Sir Harry was on a
drinking-bout they were shut up altogether; and the huntsman, Tom Watchorn,
late of the 'Camberwell and Balham Hill Union Harriers,' an early
acquaintance of Miss Spangles--indeed, some said he was her uncle--used to
go away on a drinking excursion too. Altogether, they were what the country
people called a very 'promiscuous set.' The hounds were of all sorts and
sizes; the horses of no particular stamp; and the men scamps and vagabonds
of the first class.
With such a master and such an establishment, we need hardly say that no
stranger ever came into the country for the purpose of hunting. Sir Harry's
fields were entirely composed of his own choice 'set,' and a few farmers,
and people whom he could abuse and do what he liked with. Mr. Jogglebury
Crowdey, to be sure, had mentioned Sir Harry approvingly, when he went to
Mr. Puffington's, to inveigle Mr. Sponge over to Puddingpote Bower; but
what might suit Mr. Jogglebury, who went out to seek gibbey sticks, might
not suit a person who went out for the purpose of hunting a fox in order to
show off and sell his horses. In fact, Puddingpote Bower was an exceedingly
bad hunting quarter, as things turned out. Sir Harry Scattercash, having
had the run described in our two preceding chapters, and having just
imported a few of the 'sock-and-buskin' sort from town, was not likely to
be going out again for a time; while Mr. Puffington, finding where Mr.
Sponge had taken refuge, determined not to meet within reach of Puddingpote
Bower, if he could possibly help it; and Lord Scamperdale was almost always
beyond distance, unless horse and rider lay out over-night--a proceeding
always deprecated by prudent sportsmen. Mr. Sponge, therefore, got more of
Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey's company than he wanted, and Mr. Crowdey got more
of Mr. Sponge's than he desired. In vain Jog took him up into his attics
and his closets, and his various holes and corners, and showed him his
enormous stock of sticks--some tied in sheaves, like corn; some put up more
sparingly; and others, again, wrapped in silver paper, with their valuable
heads enveloped in old gloves. Jog would untie the strings of these, and
placing the heads in the most favourable position before our friend, just
as an artist would a portrait, question him as to whom he thought they
were.
'There, now (puff),' said he, holding up one that he thought there could be
no mistake about; 'who do you (wheeze) that is?'
'Deaf Burke,' replied Mr. Sponge, after a stare.
'_Deaf Burke!_ (puff),' replied Jog indignantly.
'Who is it, then?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Can't you see? (wheeze),' replied Jog tartly.
'No,' replied Sponge, after another examination. 'It's not Scroggins, is
it?'
'Napoleon (puff) Bonaparte,' replied Jog, with great dignity, returning the
head to the glove.
He showed several others, with little better success, Mr. Sponge seeming
rather to take a pleasure in finding ridiculous likenesses, instead of
helping his host out in his conceits. The stick-mania was a failure, as far
as Mr. Sponge was concerned. Neither were the peregrinations about the
farms, or ter-ri-to-ry, as Jog called his estate, more successful; a man's
estate, like his children, being seldom of much interest to any but
himself.
Jog and Sponge were soon most heartily sick of each other. Nor did Mrs.
Jog's charms, nor the voluble enunciation of 'Obin and Ichard,' followed by
'Bah, bah, black sheep,' &c, from that wonderful boy, Gustavus James, mend
matters; for the young rogue having been in Mr. Sponge's room while Murry
Ann was doing it out, had torn the back off Sponge's _Mogg_, and made such
a mess of his tooth-brush, by cleaning his shoes with it, as never was
seen.
Mr. Sponge soon began to think it was not worth while staying at
Puddingpote Bower for the mere sake of his keep, seeing there was no
hunting to be had from it, and it did not do to keep hack hunters idle,
especially in open weather. Leather and he, for once, were of the same
opinion, and that worthy shook his head, and said Mr. Crowdey was 'awful
mean,' at the same time pulling out a sample of bad ship oats, that he had
got from a neighbouring ostler, to show the 'stuff' their 'osses' were a
eatin' of. The fact was, Jog's beer was nothing like so strong as Mr.
Puffington's; added to which, Mr. Crowdey carried the principles of the
poor-law union into his own establishment, and dieted his servants upon
certain rules. Sunday, roast beef, potatoes, and pudding under the meat;
Monday, fried beef, and stick-jaw (as they profanely called a certain
pudding); Wednesday, leg of mutton, and so on. The allowance of beer was a
pint and a half per diem to Bartholomew, and a pint to each woman; and Mr.
Crowdey used to observe from the head of the servants' dinner-table on the
arrival of each cargo, 'Now this (puff) beer is to (wheeze) a month, and,
if you choose to drink it in a (gasp) day, you'll go without any for the
rest of the (wheeze) time'; an intimation that had a very favourable effect
upon the tap. Mr. Leather, however, did not like it. 'Puffington's
servants,' he said, 'had beer whenever they chose,' and he thought it
'awful mean' restricting the quantity. Mr. Jog, however, was not to be
moved. Thus time crawled heavily on.
Mr. and Mrs. Jog had a long confab one night on the expediency of getting
rid of Mr. Sponge. Mrs. Jog wanted to keep him on till after the
christening; while Jog combated her reasons by representing the
improbability of its doing Gustavus James any good having him for a
godpapa, seeing Sponge's age, and the probability of his marrying himself.
Mrs. Jog, however, was very determined; rather too much so, indeed, for she
awakened Jog's jealousy, who lay tossing and tumbling about all through the
night.
He was up very early, and as Mrs. Jog was falling into a comfortable nap,
she was aroused by his well-known voice hallooing as loud as he could in
the middle of the entrance-passage.
'BARTHOLO-_me-e-w!_' the last syllable being pronounced or
prolonged like a mew of a cat. 'BARTHOLO-_me-e-w!_' repeated he,
not getting an answer to the first shout.
'MURRY ANN!' shouted he, after another pause.
'MURRY ANN!' exclaimed he, still louder.
Just then, the iron latch of a door at the top of the house opened, and a
female voice exclaimed hurriedly over the banisters:
'Yes, sir! here, sir! comin' sir! comin'!'
'Oh, Murry Ann (puff), that's (wheeze) you, is it?' asked Jog, still
speaking at the top of his voice.
'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann.
'Oh! then, Murry Ann, I wanted to (puff)--that you'd better get the (puff)
breakfast ready early. I think Mr. (gasp)--Sponge will be (wheezing) away
to-day.'
'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann.
All this was said in such a tone as could not fail to be heard all over the
house; certainly into Mr. Sponge's room, which was midway between the
speakers.
What prevented Mr. Sponge wheezing away, will appear in the next chapter.