Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Proud to make the personal acquaintance of Junius Secundus,” observed Ego, bowing and laying his hand upon his breast. “Often heard of him.” Fleeceall brings his hat in contact with his heel.

  “This be old Barleycorn,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, stopping a jolly-looking farmer, in dark clothes, on a good-looking brown horse; “a werry good friend to ‘unting — always goes fust over his own wheat.”

  Pomponius Ego vouchsafed him a bow.

  “Here comes a cove now,” observed Jorrocks, laying hold of Ego’s arm. “Jest look at this chap i’ the cap and cut-away coat, with the bridle all over buckles. ‘Dis arter six,’ I calls him. His mother gets her tea o’ me, and when this young blade came to settle the bill, he wanted dis arter six. Dis arter six!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, with an emphasis. “As if anybody ever ‘eard o’ dis arter six! The dirty-looking dog in the plum-coloured coat and dingy Napoleons wot’s jest joined ’im, we call ‘Two upon Ten’ — they ‘unt in couples, Dis arter six and Two upon ten. They took poor Two for a thief, and wen he went into the shops, they used to sing out ‘two upon ten! two upon ten!’ meanin’, two eyes on ten fingers — haw, haw, haw!” chuckled our master, adding, “I won’t interduce neither o’ them. But ’ere comes a good chap,” continued he, “Ridge the slater, gives ten pund, and pays it too. Slates, old bouy!” continued Jorrocks, beckoning him, come this way, and let me be the makin’ on you. Let me interduce you to the great Mr. Hego, King o’ the Chase, I may call ’im.” Ridge made as bountiful a bow as though he expected an order to roof in a palace.

  “‘Ere’s another good chap,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “Pigott the master plasterer — M.P., as he calls himself. ’Ere, Piggy!” continued Jorrocks, hailing him, “let me do the splendacious by you. Mr. Hego, let me interduce a reg’ler brick — fire-brick, in fact — gives sivin pund to the ‘ounds, and pays it too.”

  “Most praiseworthy character,” observed Ego with a salaam.

  “And ‘ere’s another good cove,” continued Jorrocks, “Sugar the grocer. He’s a payin’ subscriber too, gives ten pund.”

  “Five,” observed Sugar, whose real name was Smith, with smile.

  “Five, is it?” growled Mr. Jorrocks, adding aloud to himself, “shalln’t interduce you, then. Yon chap trottin’ along as if his wite choker wouldn’t let him look either to the right or the left, is the Reverend Titus Cramcub, a learned man like yourself — reads Lord Bacon’s works, and eats fat bacon for breakfast. He teaches the young idea ’ow to shoot, but prefers ‘unting himself, and as soon as ‘ounds ‘ave shaken off the crowd, and settled to a run, he drops into the front rank, and goes as if he couldn’t ‘elp himself. This is not a bad chap,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, nodding towards a square-built man in white moleskin breeches, an olive-coloured coat, and boots to match, who now turned a well-shaped gray upon the heath. “This is not a bad chap, Haimes the saddler, and I’ll tell ye a story ‘bout him that may come into your palarvarment, if you like. His trade lies a good deal ‘mong the saints, who wouldn’t ‘prove of his ‘unting, so he always christens his ‘oss Business, and when any on ’em call when he’s out, his foreman says his master’s away on ‘business’ — haw, haw, haw! he, he, he!” — a chuckle in which the great journalist joined. “This is a shabby screw,” said Mr. Jorrocks, pointing to a man in a rusty Bath-bricky scarlet, riding a badly-clipped ewe-necked dun. “He’s ‘unted all his life, they say, and never given a copper to ‘ounds, always declarin’ that each season was to be his last. And, by the way, reminds me,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, turning short on his secretary, “’ow do the chaps buck up now that they’ve got wot they want in the way of an ‘untsman?”

  “Why, only very middling, I’m sorry to say, Sir,” replied Mr. Fleeceall. “Somehow or other, I never can find a man with any money in his pocket. It’s always, ‘Oh, I’ll pay you next time we meet,’ or, ‘I s’pose you’ll be out on Monday, when I will bring my subscription,’ — but the happy day never comes.”

  “Well, but that’s all nonsense,” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s all nonsense. Won’t do in a commercial country like this, at least only for landowners, and folks wot don’t understand ’ow money makes money. I’ll tell ye wot ye must do,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “I’ll tell ye wot you must do,” repeated he, boiling up, “you must get a set of hinterest tables, and charge every man Jack on ’em five per cent. from the day the subscription becomes due.”

  “Well, Sir, what you think right,” replied Mr. Fleeceall.

  “Well, I thinks that right,” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, adding: “if I was to get over the left wi’ Bullock and Ulker, d’ye s’pose they wouldn’t charge me five per cent., or may be more? They’d be werry unlike bankers i’ general if they didn’t. Why should I give tick wi’ the’ ounds?”

  “Certainly not, Sir; certainly not,” replied Fleeceall. “The misfortin is, that every man thinks what he owes is of no importance. Now, there is Mr. Gillyflower coming up, as though the county was all his own, “ pointing to a stylish young gentleman cantering along on a white cover hack, attired in a spic and span new scarlet coat, with patent leather fisherman boots coming half up his thighs, and puffing large clouds of smoke as he went; “he is down for twenty guineas, and I carn’t get a halfpenny of it.” Just then Mr. Gillyflower spying the master as he cantered along, pulled short up, and taking his cigar from his lips, accosted Mr. Jorrocks with —

  “Holloa! good morning — how are ye, old boy?”

  Mr. Jorrocks deigned no answer.

  “Here’s a fine hunting morning, Mr. Jorrocks,” he continued in a somewhat subdued tone, seeing our distinguished stranger.

  “A werry bad ‘untin’ mornin,’ I should say,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, looking very irate, and unconsciously spurring his horse, who was still fidgetting about, from the effects of the ginger.

  “A good scenting one, at all events, I should think,” resumed the youngster, looking rather disconcerted.

  “A werry bad scentin’ one, I should say,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, ramming the spurs into his horse, which the animal acknowledged by a sudden and desperate kick, which fairly shot our master over its head.

  Great was the consternation! Ego, Fleeceall, Gillyflower, Barnington, Dis arter six, Two upon ten, and half-a-dozen more, all leaped off their horses at once, while Gillyflower caught the hat and wig, and was loud in his hopes that Jorrocks wasn’t hurt.

  “Hurt!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling with rage, as he scrambled up and replaced his lost head-gear, “hurt, Sir,” he repeated, looking as though he would eat him, “no, Sir — not at all — rather the contrary!”

  Our hero, however, having fallen both clean and soft, and having vented his anger upon his non-paying subscriber, things soon resumed their right course, while Pigg turned the accident to account by sending Ben about with the insurance tickets, singing out “Take your tickets, gents? please take your tickets! goin’ into a hawful country — bottomless brooks! Old ‘un got brandy in his bottle! Reg’lar cut-em-down-and-’ang-’em-up-to-dry country!”

  This traffic was in turn interrupted by an extraordinary Hyena-looking cap and scarlet-coated youth, with a cane-coloured beard and moustache, cantering furiously about on a long-tailed cream-coloured hack, dashing at every group of grooms and dark-coated horsemen, with the inquiry— “Have you seen my fellow? Have you seen my fellow?” At last he made for the pack, and hazarding the same enquiry of Pigg, that distinguished observer, after a careful though somewhat impertinent scrutiny, exclaimed,

  “N — o — r, ar’m d — d if iver ar did!” and Mr. Jorrocks seeing the stranger arranging his whip as if for action, and knowing Pigg’s pugnacious disposition, immediately gave the signal for throwing off, and in an instant the glad pack were frolicing over the greensward of the heath, with the now contracting crowd pressing on after them.

  South Grove, as our readers may remember, was the scene of Mr. Jorrocks’s former bag-fox exploit, and was well adapted for such experime
nts. It was a long wood of stately oaks, running parallel with the Appledove Road, for about a mile, the wood widening into something like twelve acres towards the middle. The other side was bounded by Bumpmead Heath, and the country around was of that undulating nature, that requires a man to ride close with hounds, or run a chance of losing them. From South Grove to Doitwich, the nearest cover, was four miles, as the crow flies, but a judicious winding of certain irregularities of surface would not only lengthen it into five or six miles, but also draw a bottomless brook twice into the run. Another great advantage it possessed for Mr. Jorrocks was, that sundry bridle-roads all made for the next cover, and yet each by itself appearing to lead in a different direction, no one who did not know them would think of following him.

  “But where’s Mr. Hego?” inquired he, looking round, expecting to find him at his elbow.

  “O, he’s just trotted back to the Cock-and-Bottle,” replied Mr. Fleeceall, “he will be here directly.”

  “Wot can he want at the Cock-and Bottle?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks. “He doesn’t need any more jumpin’ powder than he has in his pocket, surely!”

  “No,” replied Mr. Fleeceall, “but in looking into his silver sandwich-box just now, he found they had not put any mustard between the beef and bread, and he can’t eat it that way he says. He will be back directly, I dare say — yonder he comes, indeed!”

  “Then let’s be doin’, Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as Ego neared them; adding, “now Binjimin, mind your eye! Marmeylad, you know!”

  “Gently, hounds!” roared Pigg, as they approached the cover, and wanted to dash at the spot they took the scent up on the former occasion. “Have a care, all on ye!” added he, with a crack of his whip, as they reached the hedge.

  “Yooi, over in then!” cheered Pigg, cap in hand, seeing they were bent upon breaking away. “Yooi, over in!” and every hound dashes into cover, with rather more music than strict etiquette would allow.

  “Beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, fist in side, hoping Ego might not hear the riot. “Unkimmun heager certainlie. Now, Mr. Hego, look out for the find. They’ll drag up to him with all this rind, or whatever you call the stuff,” knocking some of it off the bushes with his whip. “Have at him there, Manager, old man! Undeniable ‘ound that,” turning to Ego, and pointing out a black and tan dog; “ven he begins to speak, you may look arter your silver sandwich-box, — haw! haw! haw!”

  “Hoic in! hoic in!” cheered Pigg along the ride, chuckling at the trick he was going to play. “Have at him, Crowner! good dog! Yooi! wind him, Lousey!” (Louisa) “good bitch! Have at him there, all on ye, and mind skeulmaister’s lookin’,” turning to Pomponius Ego with a grin, and saying, “Bain’t thatindustry?”

  “Tally-ho! tally-ho!tally-ho!” screamed Ben, from the thickest part of the cover, as though he were getting murdered.

  “Hoic, holloa! hoic, holloa! hoic, holloa!” exclaimed Ego, in the most orthodox style.

  “A, how-way, canny man! how-way!” roared Pigg, gathering up his reins and ramming his spurs into his horse. “How-way, ar say! dinna stand blairin’ there! Whativer ye de, keep the tambourine a roulin’.”

  Away tore Pigg to the holloa, through bogs, briars, bushes, and brambles, followed by Ego; and now the full music of the pack proclaims the finding of the drag. There is a tremendous scent, for though it has lain an hour it is strong enough to last a week. Round they go, full swing, every hound throwing his tongue, and making the old wood echo with their melody.

  “They’ll kill him in cover,” observed Ego, taking out his watch. “Beckford’s wrong about scent never lying with a white frost. I’ll write an article to prove it.” A momentary check ensues — the drag has been lifted.

  “Killed for a crown!” exclaimed Ego, with delight.

  “Niver sick a thing; — niver sick a thing!” retorts Pigg with a grin.

  Now they are on him again, and the old oaks seem to shake with the melody.

  “Is he a big’ un, Ben?” asks Pigg, as they meet at the junction of the rides.

  “Uncommon!” exclaims Benjamin, gasping for breath.

  “Aye, but we’ll bucket him,” responded Pigg, turning his quid in his mouth; adding, “ar’ll be the death of a shillins’, ony how! Sink it!” added he, “brandy and baccy ‘ill gar a man live for iver!”

  It’s now near leaving time, and Mr. Jorrocks and the field come up in long drawn file. The worthy M.F.H. all excitement and agitation.

  “Oh!” exclaims he, dropping his ponderous whip down his leg with a heavy crash, “if we do but manish it, ’ow ‘appy I shall be! My vig, they’re away!”

  Affable and Mercury top the fence out of cover, and the whole pack follow with desperate velocity. One twang of his horn is all Pigg gives, and then sticking it into his boot, he gets out of cover, hustles his horse, and settles himself into his seat. Away they go, up a long grass field by the side of the cover, scent breast high, the pack running almost mute, and the slow ones beginning to tail.

  Pomponius Ego having got a good start, begins to spur, and passes Pigg in his stride, singing out, “When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!” A stiff fence, with a strongly made-up gap, brings him up short, and turning to Pigg, he holloas out, —

  “I’ll hold your horse if you’ll pull it down!”

  “Ar niver gets off!” replies James, flying over the fence.

  A gap at the end by the wood lets Ego through, and away he strides after Pigg, as hard as ever his horse can lay legs to the ground. Three or four more large enclosures are sped over without any change of position, the hounds going best pace all the time.

  “Sink him, but he’s made it o’er strang!” exclaimed Pigg to himself, thinking of the drag; “ar wish they main’t beat us, “ looking at the hounds running away from them.

  A hat held against the clear blue sky proclaims the line over the hill.

  “That’s the way on him,” exclaims Pigg, pointing to the holloa.

  “Curse the fellow!” replies Ego; “he’ll have headed him to a certainty,” inwardly rejoicing at the thoughts of a check.

  On they go, at a pace truly awful. The drag has never been lifted till within a few yards of the halloa on the hill, and the rising ground tells on the heaving horses. Now they have a check, and on ploughed land, too. The hounds dash towards the fence beyond, and swing their cast without a whimper.

  Pigg sits like a statue, giving his horse the wind, his eagle eye fixed upon the pack. They throw up; and now he takes out his horn, gives one blast, and in an instant the pack! are with him.

  “I’ll lay my life he’s headed back!” exclaims Ego. “That confounded fool on the hill did all the mischief. Do for once try back, as Beckford says.”

  “Forroard yonder, to the left of the harrow,” whispers a confidant to James Pigg, “then along the bottom of the next grass field, and straight over Ulverstone Pasture and Bysplit, to the back of the red house yonder.”

  “That can never be the line!” exclaims Ego, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “None but a born idiot would make such a cast — in the very teeth of the wind, too!”

  “How-way, canny man! How-way!” exclaims Pigg, waiving his arm and pointing to Priestess hitting off the scent; “how way, ar say; what! hast getten ne mair ink i’ pen!”

  Away they go, at best pace as before, but a lane at the bottom of a turnip-field, a mile or two farther on, again brings them up.

  This check joins heads and tails. Mr. Jorrocks, who has come pounding along, in a state of desperate perspiring excitement, all eyes, ears, and fears through his pet line of gates, jumps with his man at the point in the lane where the drag has crossed. Both are in such a stew, that Jorrocks can only articulate, “Headies! ’ow they go!” and Pigg, all anxiety to get his hounds across before the tail comes up, exclaims, “Had bye ard man! Sink! ar’ll be dingin on ye down!” adding, “ye’ve ne carle to ride for raputation!” The tobacco-juice streams down either side of his chin, and his lank hair floats o
n the breeze as, bare-headed, he caps the hounds over into the field. They are now upon grass again. The scent lies parallel with the lane, and Mr. Jorrocks, whose horse and whose self are nearly pumped out, keeps on the hard road, followed by a heterogeneous tail of mud-stained, elbowing horsemen. The aspirants for fame stick to the hounds, and follow them into every field, Cramcub, who cast up as the hounds broke cover, leading.

  Nothing can be finer than the line! Large grazing grounds, some forty, none less than twenty acres, are sped over, and twice Dribbleford Brook comes in the way for those whose ambition is waterproof. What a scene! — what blobbings in and scramblings out; what leavings of hind legs and divings for whips, sticks, and cigar-cases!

  Jorrocks, who is well laid in on the road for a view, screeches and halloas them on. “Now, Sugar! now Slates! now Dis arter six!” Then up came Whezey, Junior, looking very like “enough.” “Hover ye go!” roars our master, cracking his ponderous whip. “O, Mr. Jorrocks! (puff) I must enter a (pant) nolle prosequi,” gasps the exhausted lawyer. “Enter it then,” exclaims our master, delighted at the symptoms of distress, and saying to himself. “If this don’t ‘stonish old Hego, there arn’t no halligators! Come hup, you hugly beast!” he adds to his horse, again spurring and kicking him into a canter.