Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

“‘You have heard me say, that when there is much riot, I prefer an excellent vipper-in to an excellent ‘untsman. The opinion, I believe, is new; I must therefore endeavour to explain it. My meanin’ is this — that I think I should have better sport, and kill more foxes with a moderate ‘untsman, and an excellent vipper-in, than with the best of ‘untsmen without such an assistant. You will say, perhaps, that a good ‘untsman will make a good vipper-in; not such, however, as I mean; — his talent must be born with him.’

  “‘His talent must be born with him,’” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, “that is to say, he must have the bump of Fox-un-ta-tiveness werry strongly deweloped;” — adding to himself, “wonder if that beggar, Binjimin has it.” He then resumed his reading.

  “‘My reasons are, that good ‘ounds (bad I would not keep), — Nor I, nouther,’ — observed Mr. Jorrocks,—”’oftener need the one than the other; and genius, which in a vipper-in, if attended by obedience, his first requisite, can do no ‘urt: in an ‘untsman, is a dangerous, though a desirable quality; and if not accompanied with a large share of prudence, and I may say, ‘umility, will oftentimes spoil your sport and ‘urt your ‘ounds. A gen’leman told me that he heard the famous Will Dean, when his ‘ounds were runnin’ ‘ard in a line with Daventry, from whence they were at that time many miles distant, swear exceedingly at the vipper-in.’

  “A werry improper proceedin’ on his part,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, without looking off the book.

  “‘Sayin’, wot business have you ’ere? — the man was ‘mazed at the question — why don’t you know,’ said Dean, ‘and be bad worded to you, that the great earth at Daventry is open? The man got forward and reached the earth jest time enough to see the fox go in.’

  “Ow provokin’,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “absolutely distressin’ — enough to make a Harchbishop swear. Don’t know that I ever read any thing more ‘eart-rendin.’ The ‘ounds most likely been racin’ and tearin’ for blood, and then done out on’t. Dash my vig if it hadn’t been a main earth, I’d ha’ dug him!” continued he, thinking the case over.

  Presently, a loud snore interrupted our friend, and looking up, Mr. Jorrocks discovered Benjamin sound asleep, with his head hanging over his left shoulder. Shutting the book in disgust, Jorrocks took a deliberate aim at his whipper-in’s head, and discharged the volume with such precision, that he knocked the back off the book.

  Benjamin then ran roaring out of the room, vowing that Jorrocks had fractured his skull, and that he would “take the law of him” for it.

  CHAPTER XXII. THE CUT-’EM-DOWN CAPTAINS.

  HAVING NOW GOT a huntsman, and arranged with Duncan Nevin for mounting him until he fell in with screws of his own, Mr. Jorrocks felt if he had business matters arranged in the City, he would be all ready for a start; “business first, and pleasure arterwards,” having always been one of his prudential mottoes. Accordingly he slipped down by express-train to the Loopline station, on the Lilywhite and Gravelcoin lines, to meet his traveller (representative as he calls himself) Bugginson, to wet samples, and hear how things were looking in the Lane — and the up-train not fitting cleverly, Mr. Jorrocks repaired to the Imperial Hotel, where, being as an M.F.H., “rayther above the commercials,” he turned into the sumptuously furnished coffee-room. There he found a couple of regular cut-’em-down swells, viz., Captain Arthur Crasher of the Horselydown Hussars, and Captain Blucher Brusher, of the Leatherhead Lancers, carousing after a week’s career with Sir Peregrine Cropper’s hounds.

  Having exchanged their wet hunting things for dry tweeds, and got the week’s thorns out of their legs, they had dined and drowned dull care in a couple of bottles of undeniable, Moet-corked, gooseberry champagne, and were now picking their teeth, twiddling their luxuriant moustaches, and stroking their stomachs with the utmost complacency. Mr. Jorrocks’s entry rather disturbed them.

  “Old boy’s made a mistake,” whispered the hussar, raising his eyebrows as our creaking-booted friend deposited his reversible coat and writing-case on the side-board — the captain adding aloud, “what shall we have to dwink?”

  “Do us no harm, I des-say,” replied Brusher, staring intently at Jorrocks, adding, “‘spose we say clart?”

  “Clart be it,” rejoined Crasher, ringing the bell, and presently they had a jug of tolerable St. Jullien, doing duty for Chateau Margaux. The glasses being large, and the measure thick and highly cut, the men of war were not long in discussing its contents, and a second bottle, with an anchovy toast, presently followed.

  The captains then began to talk. They were the crack men of their respective regiments, then quartered at Furloughton, each with an admiring knot of his own, and each with the most sovereign contempt of the other’s prowess. To hear them talk each other over after mess was peculiarly edifying. “Well, what the deuce anybody sees in that Crasher’s equitation, I can’t for the life of me imagine!” Brusher would exclaim, amongst his own set, “Rider! I really think he’s the very worst rider I ever set eyes on!” Then the hussar would express his opinion of Brusher. “Poor Brusher, poor devil!” Crasher would say, “he is without exception the greatest humbug that ever got on a horse — greatest tailor I ever saw in my life.” And so the gallant men turned out each morning full of envy, hatred, and malice, with the fixed determination of cutting each other down, regardless alike of hounds, master, and field. Hark to their conversation!

  “Well I think I never had a better week’s work,” observed Crasher, throwing himself back in his chair, and eyeing Jorrocks, to see what effect the announcement would have upon him. “Had sixteen falls in five days.”

  “Sixteen have you?” exclaimed Brusher, doubtingly; “I didn’t think you’d had so many. I’ve had fifteen.”

  “No, surely!” replied Crasher, incredulously.

  “Yes I have,” asserted Brusher, confidently— “three on Monday, two on Toosday, four on Thursday, three yesterday, and three to-day.”

  “Three to-day!” reiterated Crasher.

  “Yes, three,” repeated Brusher.

  “Ah, but that’s reckoning the mill reservoir,” observed Crasher.

  “Well, surely one’s entitled to reckon the reservoir — was deuced near drowned.”

  “Well, but I was in the reservoir too,” observed Crasher, “so that makes me seventeen.”

  “But, mark! I was in first!” rejoined Brusher, energetically.

  “Ah, but you didn’t take the stiff post and rail with the yawner out of Cricklewood-spiny though,” exclaimed Crasher.

  “‘Cause I wasn’t there, my dear fellow!” replied Brusher; “neither did you take the brook at Waterfield Glen, or the stiff stake and rice-bund on the top of Cranfordheel Hill.”

  “Oh! didn’t I, my dear feller! that’s all you know,” sneered Crasher. “I took it just after Tom Stot’s horse all but came back over at it. Help yourself, and let’s dwink fox-hunting,” continued he, filling a bumper and passing the claret-jug to his friend, or his foe, whichever he considered him.

  “Ah, fox-’untin’ indeed,” grunted old Jorrocks from behind his Times newspaper— “glad you don’t ‘unt with me — should ‘ave to insure all my ounds’ lives and my own too, I should think.”

  The captains having done honour to the sport that accommodated them with so much jumping, then commenced a more elaborate calculation on their fingers of the number of falls they had each had, in the midst of which they were interrupted by the rushing of a dark-green corduroy-clad porter into the room, exclaiming, pro bono publico, “Please gents! the ‘bus for the height-fifteen train ‘ill be ’ere in ten minnits!” then addressing Captain Crasher, in a lower tone, he said, “Pleaz zur, your grum wishes to know if you ‘ave any horders for ’im afore you goes?”

  “Of c-o-o-o-r-s-e, I have,” drawled the captain, pompously napkining his moustache with the greatest coolness, adding— “send him here.”

  The porter withdrew, and presently a stiffly-built, blue-coated, stripe-vested, drab-gaitered groom entered, and with a sna
tch of his fore-lock, placed himself under the gas-lit chandelier.

  The following laconic dialogue then ensued between the captain and him, the captain hardly deigning to look at the man, and treating him quite on the word of command principle: —

  Captain.— “Hunt Toosday — Hardriding Hill.”

  Groom (with another snatch at the fore-lock)— “Yes, sir.”

  Captain.— “Talavera first — Barrosa second.”

  Groom. — (as before) “Yes, sir.”

  Captain.— “Or say Barrosa first — Corunna second.”

  Groom.— “Yes, sir.”

  Captain.— “Wednesday, Lubberfield Park, Salamanca first — Talavera second.”

  Groom.— “Yes, sir.”

  Captain.— “Thursday, Riddlerough, Toulouse first — Badajoz second.”

  Groom.— “Yes, sir.”

  Captain.— “Must send on to the Bull at Lushinger.”

  Groom, lowly and timidly.— “Please, sir, I shall ‘ave to trouble you for some money, sir.”

  “D — n and b — t!” roared the captain, boiling up furiously, “didn’t I tell you you were only to ask me for money once a month?”

  Groom, looking confused— “Well, sir, — but if you don’t give me enough to last, sir, what ham I to do, sir?”

  “Do!” roared the captain, knitting his brows, and eyeing the man as if he would exterminate him. “Do! Do as you did before — go to Mr. Castors,” so saying the captain rose from his seat, and dashing his napkin on the floor, bundled the man neck and croup out of the room.

  The other captain quickly followed, peeping over the Times as he passed to see whether Jorrocks was laughing, and hurried up stairs, taking three steps at a stridé.

  Presently the twang of a horn, the rumbling of wheels, with the bumping of portmanteaus on the stairs and in the passage, announced the coming of the ‘bus, and then the sound of hurrying footsteps was followed by “r-e-e-it!” and the bang of a door outside, when the renewed thunder of wheels announced that the cut-’em-down captains were gone.

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE CUT-’EM-DOWN CAPTAIN’S GROOM.

  “GOT A RUMMISH customer there, I guess,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, as the groom now re-entered the room to pick up the waifs and strays.

  “Hev that,” replied the groom, grinning, and pocketing a pair of dog-skin gloves and a cigar-case his master had left on the mantel-piece. The groom then made a dash at the nearly emptied claret jug.

  “Ah, that ‘ill do ye no good, my frind,” observed Mr. Jorrocks; “that ‘ill do ye no good. See,” continued he, “‘eres a shillin’ for ye — get yourself a glass o’ summut warm and comfortable — that ‘ill werry likely give you the cholera.”

  “Thank ’e, sir,” replied the man, taking and pocketing the money.

  “Are you a stoppin’ ’ere?” asked Mr. Jorrocks, who had now arranged himself with a coat-lap over each arm before the fire.

  “I ham,” replied the man, with a knowing leer, adding— “cause why? — I can’t get away.”

  “‘Deed,” smiled Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Wot, you’re i’ Short’s Gardens, are ye?” whispered he.

  “Just so,” nodded the man. “Hup the spout,” jerking upwards with his thumb.

  “I thought he looked like a fast ‘un,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks.

  “They’ll be ‘avin’ ’im fast afore long, I’m a thinkin’,” observed the groom. “Mr. Castor ’ere has wot he calls a lion on his ‘osses for I don’t know ’ow much.”

  “Wot you’re standin’ ’ere are ye?” asked Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Yes, and ‘ave been these six weeks, at sixpence a quartern for whoats and all other things in like proportion.”

  “In-deed!” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, thinking he wouldn’t like to keep horses on those terms. “Well,” continued he, thinking it might lead to something, “‘ave ye aught good for anything?”

  “They’re not bad ‘osses, none on them,” replied the groom; “all past mark o’ mouth and all done work, but they can go.”

  “Can they?” said Mr. Jorrocks, wondering if they would carry Pigg.

  “I assure you they can,” responded the groom confidently.

  “Carry weight?” asked Mr. Jorrocks in an off-hand sort of way.

  “Why, I doesn’t know that they’d carry you,” smiled the man, eyeing our friend’s substantial form; “but they’d carry anything i’ moderation.”

  “Oh, it’s not for myself,” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, with a frown and a toss of the head; “I’m a commercial gent, an £ s. d. man, not one o’ your cut-across country chaps; only, if I could pick up a thing cheap that would ride and go in ‘arness ‘casionally, I wouldn’t mind a trifle. But I’m not a figurante — not a three figur’ man at all,” added he,— “far from it — keeps no cats wot don’t catch mice.”

  “Well, either of ours will go in ‘arness,” replied the groom.

  “Vot! ‘ave you only two!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “why the man talked as if he ‘ad twenty.”

  “Only two to call our own — our own habsolute own,” explained the man— “the rest are jobs — twelve guineas per lunar month, and precious ‘ard times they ‘ave of it, I can tell ye. He does knock ’em about, I assure you.”

  Just then, Castors, the landlord, came to say that Mr. Bugginson had arrived, and availing himself of the introduction, Mr. Jorrocks sought an opportunity, after he got matters arranged with his traveller, for having a little conversation with Castors, beginning on indifferent subjects, and drawing gradually up to the Captain, when, finding the groom’s statement pretty well confirmed, Mr. Jorrocks slipped with Castors into the stable to have a look at the nags. Amidst the heaps of clothes and straw in which they were enveloped, our master found pretty good, though abused legs and big hocks, and after observing that he’d “seen wuss ‘osses,” he quietly withdrew arm in arm with the landlord.

  “You see,” said Jorrocks, in an under tone, “I’m only a tradesman — a post-hoffice directory, not a peerage man — and I doesn’t give extravagant, out o’ the way prices for nothin’ — least of all for ‘osses, but if it so ‘appens as you ‘spects that these quads o’ the captin’s come to grief, why I wouldn’t mind takin’ of them at a low moderate figur — twenty, or five-and-twenty pund ‘praps — or maybe hup to thirty — jest ‘cordin’ as they looked out o’ doors by day-light, sooner nor they should be degraded i’ the ‘bus or get into an old ooman’s cruelty-wan.”

  “Just so, sir,” replied Castors, thinking it well to have a customer in view.

  “As to their ‘untin’ qualities,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, with a pshaw and a pish, I doesn’t look at ’em at all i’ that light. It’s no commendation to a man wot wants an ‘oss for his chay to be hoffered one that can jump hover the moon.”

  “Certainly not,” replied Castors, who sat a horse with firmness, ease, and grace, until he began to move, when he generally tumbled off.

  “So,” continued Jorrocks, “if you find yourself in a fix, you know where to send to,” our friend diving into his pocket as he spoke, and fishing out an enormous steel-clasped, purple-backed, bill-case, from whence he selected one of his city cards, “Jorrocks & Co., Grocers and Tea Dealers, St. Botolph’s Lane,” and presented it to Castors, who received it with a bow. They then passed by a side-door into the bar, where successive beakers of brandy and water beguiled the time and caused Mr. Jorrocks to be very late, or rather very early (past three A. M.) in getting back to Handley Cross.

  CHAPTER XXIV. BELINDA’S BEAU.

  AS MR. JORROCKS sat at a late breakfast — his wigless aching head enveloped in a damp towel — the pawing of a horse at the trellised archway of Diana Lodge, caused him to look up from his well-spread table to reconnoitre the movement.

  “Dash my vig, if here ba’int Stobbs!” exclaimed he, jumping up in ecstacy, and bolting his bottom piece of muffin.

  “Stobbs!” exclaimed Mrs. Jorrocks, rushing to the eagle-topped mirror.

  “
Stobbs!” ejaculated Belinda, almost involuntarily, with a blush and a smile, and Jorrocks ran foul of Betsy in the passage, as she came to announce that “Mr. Stobbs was at the gate.”

  Charley Stobbs was just four-and-twenty — handsome, lively, and gay, he was welcome wherever he went. In height he was just five feet ten, full-limbed, but not coarse, with a cleanness of make and shape that bespoke strength and muscular activity. His dark brown hair clustered in unstudied locks upon a lofty forehead, while bright brown eyes beamed through the long fringes, giving life and animation to an open intelligent countenance.

  Charles was the only son of a rich Yorkshire yeoman — of a man who, clinging to the style of his ancestors, called himself gentleman instead of esquire — Gentlemen they had been styled for many generations, and son had succeeded sire without wishing for a change.

  The old lattice-windowed manor-house, substantial and stone-roofed, stood amid lofty oaks, upon a gentle eminence above the bend of a rapid river — myriads of rooks nestled in the branches, and the rich meadows around were studded with gigantic oaks, and venerable weather-beaten firs. The finest flocks and herds grazed in the pastures, ducks were on the pond, pigs and geese revelled in the stubbles, while the spacious yard at the back of the house contained Dorking fowls, the finest turkeys, and the best of cows. Old Stobbs was in short a gentleman farmer. His wife had been dead some years, and Charles and a daughter were the only ties that bound him to the world.

  The laudable desire of seeing one’s son better than one’s self, induced old Stobbs to give Charles a good education, not that he sent him to college, but he placed him at a good Yorkshire school, which, just as he was leaving, and the old gentleman was wondering “what to make of him,” he happened, while serving at York assizes, to be struck with the easy eloquence or “grand tongue,” as the country people call it, of a neighbour’s son, whom he remembered a most unpromising boy, that he determined to see if Charles would not train from the saddle and gun and make a grand-tongued barrister too.