by R S Surtees
That was Mr. Spraggon’s principle, only that the word ‘trifle’ inadequately conveys his opinion on the point; Jack’s notion being that a man was entitled to 5l. per cent. as of right, and as much more as he could get.
It was not often that Jack got a ‘bite’ at my lord, which, perhaps, made him think it the more incumbent on him not to miss an opportunity. Having been told, of course he knew exactly the style of man he had to deal with in Mr. Sponge — a style of men of whom there is never any difficulty in asking if they will sell their horses, price being the only consideration. They are, indeed, a sort of unlicensed horse-dealers, from whose presence few hunts are wholly free. Mr. Spraggon thought if he could get Sponge to make it worth his while to get my lord to buy his horses, the — whatever he might get — would come in very comfortably to pay his Christmas bills.
By the time the bottle drew to a close, our friends were rather better friends, and seemed more inclined to fraternize. Jack had the advantage of Sponge, for he could stare, or rather squint, at him without Sponge knowing it. The pint of wine apiece — at least, as near a pint apiece as Spigot could afford to let them have — somewhat strung Jack’s nerves as well as his eyes, and he began to show more of the pupils and less of the whites than he did. He buzzed the bottle with such a hearty good will as settled the fate of another, which Sponge rang for as a matter of course. There was but the rejected one, which, however, Spigot put into a different decanter, and brought in with such an air as precluded either of them saying a word in disparagement of it.
‘Where are the hounds next week?’ asked Sponge, sipping away at it.
‘Monday, Larkhall Hill; Tuesday, the cross-roads by Dallington Burn; Thursday, the Toll-bar at Whitburrow Green; Saturday, the kennels,’ replied Jack.
‘Good places?’ asked Sponge.
‘Monday’s good,’ replied Jack; ‘draw Thorney Gorse — sure find; second draw, Barnlow Woods, and home by Loxley, Padmore, and so on.’
‘What sort of a place is Tuesday?’
‘Tuesday?’ repeated Jack. ‘Tuesday! Oh, that’s the cross-roads. Capital place, unless the fox takes to Rumborrow Craigs, or gets into Seedywood Forest, when there’s an end of it — at least, an end of everything except pulling one’s horse’s legs off in the stiff clayey rides. It’s a long way from here, though,’ observed Jack.
‘How far?’ asked Sponge.
‘Good twenty miles,’ replied Jack. ‘It’s sixteen from us; it’ll be a good deal more from here.’
‘His lordship will lay out overnight, then?’ observed Sponge.
‘Not he,’ replied Jack. ‘Takes better care of his sixpences than that. Up in the dark, breakfast by candlelight, grope our ways to the stable, and blunder along the deep lanes, and through all the by-roads in the country — get there somehow or another.’
‘Keen hand!’ observed Sponge.
‘Mad!’ replied Jack.
They then paid their mutual respects to the port.
‘He hunts there on Tuesdays,’ observed Jack, setting down his glass, ‘so that he may have all Wednesday to get home in, and be sure of appearing on Thursday. There’s no saying where he may finish with a cross-roads’ meet.’
By the time the worthies had finished the bottle, they had got a certain way into each other’s confidence. The hint Lord Scamperdale had given about buying Sponge’s horses still occupied Jack’s mind; and the more he considered the subject, and the worth of a corner in his lordship’s will, the more sensible he became of the truth of the old adage, that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’ ‘My lord,’ thought Jack, ‘promises fair, but it is but a chance, and a remote one. He may live many years — as long, perhaps longer, than me. Indeed, he puts me on horses that are anything but calculated to promote longevity. Then he may marry a wife who may eject me, as some wives do eject their husbands’ agreeable friends; or he may change his mind, and leave me nothing after all.’
All things considered, Jack came to the conclusion that he should not be doing himself justice if he did not take advantage of such fair opportunities as chance placed in his way, and therefore he thought he might as well be picking up a penny during his lordship’s life, as be waiting for a contingency that might never occur. Mr. Jawleyford’s indisposition preventing Jack making the announcement he was sent to do, made it incumbent on him, as he argued, to see what could be done with the alternative his lordship had proposed — namely, buying Sponge’s horses. At least, Jack salved his conscience over with the old plea of duty; and had come to that conclusion as he again helped himself to the last glass in the bottle.
‘Would you like a little claret?’ asked Sponge, with all the hospitality of a host.
‘No, hang your claret!’ replied Jack.
‘A little brandy, perhaps?’ suggested Sponge.
‘I shouldn’t mind a glass of brandy,’ replied Jack, ‘by way of a nightcap.’
Spigot, at this moment entering to announce tea and coffee, was interrupted in his oration by Sponge demanding some brandy.
‘Sorry,’ replied Spigot, pretending to be quite taken by surprise, ‘very sorry, sir — but, sir — master, sir — bed, sir — disturb him, sir.’
‘Oh, dash it, never mind that!’ exclaimed Jack; ‘tell him Mr. Sprag — Sprag — Spraggon’ (the bottle of port beginning to make Jack rather inarticulate)— ‘tell him Mr. Spraggon wants a little.’
‘Dursn’t disturb him, sir,’ responded Spigot, with a shake of his head; ‘much as my place, sir, is worth, sir.’
‘Haven’t you a little drop in your pantry, think you?’ asked Sponge.
‘The cook perhaps has,’ replied Mr. Spigot, as if it was quite out of his line.
‘Well, go and ask her,’ said Sponge; ‘and bring some hot water and things, the same as we had last night, you know.’
Mr. Spigot retired, and presently returned, bearing a tray with three-quarters of a bottle of brandy, which he impressed upon their minds was the ‘cook’s own.’
‘I dare say,’ hiccuped Jack, holding the bottle up to the light.
‘Hope she wasn’t using it herself,’ observed Sponge.
‘Tell her we’ll (hiccup) her health,’ hiccuped Jack, pouring a liberal potation into his tumbler.
‘That’ll be all you’ll do, I dare say,’ muttered Spigot to himself, as he sauntered back to his pantry.
‘Does Jaw stand smoking?’ asked Jack, as Spigot disappeared.
‘Oh, I should think so,’ replied Sponge; ‘a friend like you, I’m sure, would be welcome’ — Sponge thinking to indulge in a cigar, and lay the blame on Jack.
‘Well, if you think so,’ said Jack, pulling out his cigar-case, or rather his lordship’s, and staggering to the chimney-piece for a match, though there was a candle at his elbow, ‘I’ll have a pipe.’
‘So’ll I,’ said Sponge, ‘if you’ll give me a cigar.’ ‘Much yours as mine,’ replied Jack, handing him his lordship’s richly embroidered case with coronets and ciphers on either side, the gift of one of the many would-be Lady Scamperdales.
‘Want a light!’ hiccuped Jack, who had now got a glow-worm end to his.
‘Thanks,’ said Sponge, availing himself of the friendly overture.
Our friends now whiffed and puffed away together — whiffing and puffing where whiffing and puffing had never been known before. The brandy began to disappear pretty quickly; it was better than the wine.
‘That’s a n — n — nice — ish horse of yours,’ stammered Jack, as he mixed himself a second tumbler.
‘Which?’ asked Sponge.
‘The bur — bur — brown,’ spluttered Jack.
‘He is that,’ replied Sponge; ‘best horse in this country by far.’
‘The che — che — chest — nut’s not a ba — ba — bad un. I dare say,’ observed Jack.
‘No, he’s not,’ replied Sponge; ‘a deuced good un.’
‘I know a man who’s rayther s — s — s — sweet on the b — b — br — brown,’ observed
Jack, squinting frightfully.
Sponge sat silent for a few seconds, pretending to be wrapt up in his ‘sublime tobacco.’
‘Is he a buyer, or just a jawer?’ he asked at last.
‘Oh, a buyer,’ replied Jack.
‘I’ll sell,’ said Sponge, with a strong emphasis on the sell.
‘How much?’ asked Jack, sobering with the excitement.
‘Which?’ asked Sponge.
‘The brown,’ rejoined Jack.
‘Three hundred,’ said Sponge; adding, ‘I gave two for him.’
‘Indeed!’ said Jack.
A long pause then ensued. Jack thinking whether he should put the question boldly as to what Sponge would give him for effecting a sale, or should beat about the bush a little. At last he thought it would be most prudent to beat about the bush, and see if Sponge would make an offer.
‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll s — s — s — see what I can do.’
‘That’s a good fellow,’ said Sponge; adding, ‘I’ll remember you if you do.’
‘I dare say I can s — s — s — sell them both, for that matter,’ observed Jack, encouraged by the promise.
‘Well,’ replied Sponge, ‘I’ll take the same for the chestnut; there isn’t the toss-up of a halfpenny for choice between them.’
‘Well,’ said Jack,’ we’ll s — s — s — see them next week.’
‘Just so,’ said Sponge.
‘You r — r — ride well up to the h — h — hounds,’ continued Jack; ‘and let his lordship s — s — see w — w — what they can do.’
‘I will,’ said Sponge, wishing he was at work.
‘Never mind his rowing,’ observed Jack; ‘he c — c — can’t help it.’
‘Not I,’ replied Sponge, puffing away at his cigar.
When men once begin to drink brandy-and-water (after wine) there’s an end of all note of time. Our friends — for we ‘may now call them so,’ sat sip, sip, sipping — mix, mix, mixing; now strengthening, now weakening, now warming, now flavouring, till they had not only finished the hot water but a large jug of cold, that graced the centre of the table between two frosted tumblers, and had nearly got through the brandy too.
‘May as well fi — fi — fin — nish the bottle,’ observed Jack, holding it up to the candle. ‘Just a thi — thi — thim — bleful apiece,’ added he, helping himself to about three-quarters of what there was.
‘You’ve taken your share,’ observed Sponge, as the bottle suspended payment before he got half the quantity that Jack had.
‘Sque — ee — eze it,’ replied Jack, suiting the action to the word, and working away at an exhausted lemon.
At length they finished.
‘Well, I s’pose we may as well go and have some tea,’ observed Jack.
‘It’s not announced yet,’ said Sponge, ‘but I make no doubt it will be ready.’
So saying, the worthies rose, and, after sundry bumps and certain irregularities of course, they each succeeded in reaching the door. The passage lamp had died out and filled the corridor with its fragrance. Sponge, however, knew the way, and the darkness favored the adjustment of cravats and the fingering of hair. Having got up a sort of drunken simper, Sponge opened the drawing-room door, expecting to find smiling ladies in a blaze of light. All, however, was darkness, save the expiring embers in the grate. The tick, tick, tick, ticking of the clocks sounded wonderfully clear.
‘Gone to bed!’ exclaimed Sponge.
‘Who-hoop!’ shrieked Jack, at the top of his voice.
‘What’s smatter, gentlemen? — What’s smatter?’ exclaimed Spigot rushing in, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a block tin candlestick in the other.
‘Nothin’,’ replied Jack, squinting his eyes inside out; adding, ‘get me a devilled—’ (hiccup).
‘Don’t know how to do them here, sir,’ snapped Spigot.
‘Devilled turkey’s leg though you do, you rascal!’ rejoined Jack, doubling his fists and putting himself in posture.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ replied Spigot, ‘but the cook, sir, is gone to bed, sir. Do you know, sir, what o’clock it is, sir?’
‘No,’ replied Jack.
‘What time is it?’ asked Sponge.
‘Twenty minutes to two,’ replied Spigot, holding up a sort of pocket warming-pan, which he called a watch.
‘The deuce!’ exclaimed Sponge.
‘Who’d ha’ thought it?’ muttered Jack.
‘Well, then, I suppose we may as well go to bed,’ observed Sponge.
‘S’pose so,’ replied Jack; ‘nothin’ more to get.’
‘Do you know your room?’ asked Sponge.
‘To be sure I do,’ replied Jack; ‘don’t think I’m d — d — dr — drunk, do you?’
‘Not likely,’ rejoined Sponge.
Jack then commenced a very crab-like ascent of the stairs, which fortunately were easy, or he would never have got up. Mr. Sponge, who still occupied the state apartments, took leave of Jack at his own door, and Jack went bumping and blundering on in search of the branch passage leading to his piggery. He found the green baize door that usually distinguishes the entrance to these secondary suites, and was presently lurching along its contracted passage. As luck would have it, however, he got into his host’s dressing-room, where that worthy slept; and when Jawleyford jumped up in the morning, as was his wont, to see what sort of a day it was, he trod on Jack’s face, who had fallen down in his clothes alongside of the bed, and Jawleyford broke Jack’s spectacles across the bridge of his nose.
‘Rot it!’ roared Jack, jumping up, ‘don’t ride over a fellow that way!’ When, shaking himself to try whether any limbs were broken, he found he was in his dress clothes instead of in the roomy garments of the Flat Hat Hunt. ‘Who are you? where am I? what the deuce do you mean by breaking my specs?’ he exclaimed, squinting frightfully at his host.
‘My dear sir,’ exclaimed Mr. Jawleyford, from the top of his night-shirt, ‘I’m very sorry, but—’
‘Hang your buts! you shouldn’t ride so near a man!’ exclaimed Jack, gathering up the fragments of his spectacles; when, recollecting himself, he finished by saying, ‘Perhaps I’d better go to my own room.’
‘Perhaps you had,’ replied Mr. Jawleyford, advancing towards the door to show him the way.
‘Let me have a candle,’ said Jack, preparing to follow.
‘Candle, my dear fellow! why, it’s broad daylight,’ replied his host.
‘Is it?’ said Jack, apparently unconscious of the fact. ‘What’s the hour?’
‘Five minutes to eight,’ replied Jawleyford, looking at a timepiece.
When Jack got into his own den he threw himself into an old invalid chair, and sat rubbing the fractured spectacles together as if he thought they would unite by friction, though in reality he was endeavouring to run the overnight’s proceedings through his mind. The more he thought of Amelia’s winning ways, the more satisfied he was that he had made an impression, and then the more vexed he was at having his spectacles broken: for though he considered himself very presentable without them, still he could not but feel that they were a desirable addition. Then, too, he had a splitting headache; and finding that breakfast was not till ten and might be a good deal later, all things considered, he determined to be off and follow up his success under more favourable auspices. Considering that all the clothes he had with him were his lordship’s, he thought it immaterial which he went home in, so to save trouble he just wrapped himself up in his mackintosh and travelled in the dress ones he had on.
It was fortunate for Mr. Sponge that he went, for, when Jawleyford smelt the indignity that had been offered to his dining-room, he broke out in such a torrent of indignation as would have been extremely unpleasant if there had not been some one to lay the blame on. Indeed, he was not particularly gracious to Mr. Sponge as it was; but that arose as much from certain dark hints that had worked their way from the servants’ hall into ‘my lady’s chamber’ as to our friend’s p
ecuniary resources and prospects. Jawleyford began to suspect that Sponge might not be quite the great ‘catch’ he was represented.
Beyond, however, putting a few searching questions — which Mr. Sponge skilfully parried — advising his daughters to be cautious, lessening the number of lights, and lowering the scale of his entertainments generally, Mr. Jawleyford did not take any decided step in the matter. Mr. Spraggon comforted Lord Scamperdale with the assurance that Amelia had no idea of Sponge, who he made no doubt would very soon be out of the country — and his lordship went to church and prayed most devoutly for him to go.
CHAPTER XXVI
MR. AND MRS. SPRINGWHEAT
‘LORD SCAMPERDALE’S FOXHOUNDS meet on Monday at Larkhall Hill,’ &c. &c. — County Paper.
The Flat Hat Hunt had relapsed into its wonted quiet, and ‘Larkhall Hill’ saw none but the regular attendants, men without the slightest particle of curve in their hats — hats, indeed, that looked as if the owners sat upon them when they hadn’t them on their heads. There was Fyle, and Fossick, and Blossomnose, and Sparks, and Joyce, and Capon, and Dribble, and a few others, but neither Washball nor Puffington, nor any of the holiday birds.
HIS LORDSHIP HAS IT ALL TO HIMSELF
Precisely at ten, my lord, and his hounds, and his huntsman, and his whips, and his Jack, trotted round Farmer Springwheat’s spacious back premises, and appeared in due form before the green rails in front. ‘Pride attends us all,’ as the poet says; and if his lordship had ridden into the yard, and halloaed out for a glass of home-brewed, Springwheat would have trapped every fox on his farm, and the blooming Mrs. Springwheat would have had an interminable poultry-bill against the hunt; whereas, simply by ‘making things pleasant’ — that is to say, coming to breakfast — Springwheat saw his corn trampled on, nay, led the way over it himself, and Mrs. Springwheat saw her Dorkings disappear without a murmur — unless, indeed, an inquiry when his lordship would be coming could be considered in that light.
Larkhall Hill stood in the centre of a circle, on a gentle eminence, commanding a view over a farm whose fertile fields and well-trimmed fences sufficiently indicated its boundaries, and looked indeed as if all the good of the country had come up to it. It was green and luxuriant even in winter, while the strong cane-coloured stubbles showed what a crop there had been. Turnips as big as cheeses swelled above the ground. In a little narrow dell, whose existence was more plainly indicated from the house by several healthy spindling larches shooting up from among the green gorse, was the cover — an almost certain find, with the almost equal certainty of a run from it. It occupied both sides of the sandy, rabbit-frequented dell, through which ran a sparkling stream, and it possessed the great advantage to foot-people of letting them see the fox found. Larkhall Hill was, therefore, a favourite both with horse and foot. So much good — at all events, so much well-farmed land would seem to justify a better or more imposing-looking house, the present one consisting, exclusive of the projecting garret ones in the Dutch tile roof, of the usual four windows and a door, that so well tell their own tale; passage in the middle, staircase in front, parlour on the right, best ditto on the left, with rooms to correspond above. To be sure, there was a great depth of house to the back; but this in no way contributed to the importance of the front, from which point alone the Springwheats chose to have it contemplated. If the back arrangements could have been divided, and added to the sides, they would have made two very good wings to the old red brick rose-entwined mansion. Having mentioned that its colour was red, it is almost superfluous to add that the door and rails were green.