by R S Surtees
It was with great satisfaction, after two days’ confinement to the house, that our friend Mr. Bunting arrayed himself in his hunting costume — smart new scarlet, with anonymous buttons, white tops, and leathers to match. He was not one of the “fine old English gentlemen-school” of sportsmen, with their queer-cut coats, ugly drabs, and inky pig-jobber-like boots. His was the gay butterfly costume, further enlivened with a heart’s-ease, embroidered blue cravat, a pink-striped shirt, with carbuncle studs and a worked buff vest, all covered with foxes heads. Having made a middling breakfast, he got on his spurs, and, after a satisfactory survey of himself in the mirror, with palpitating heart went clonk, clonk, clonking down stairs. Arrived in the yard, he gave his whip a crack to announce his approach, when the stable-door flew open, and Owen Ashford’s gray head protruded at the portals.
The first thing that struck our friend was that the bridle was very bad. “Oh dear, the bridle was very bad!” That, however, was immediately eclipsed by the saddle, which indeed passed all comprehension. If our excellent coadjutor, Leech, were to draw such a thing people would say it was a caricature — that such a saddle never was seen. And certainly it bore no affinity to the handsome horse on which it was placed, or to the delicate cream-coloured leathers with which it sought to be invested. It was old and black, and battered, and patched, and capped, in almost every part and place — patched, too, in the roughest, coarsest way, with great long dog-teeth-like stitches, instead of the beautiful little sewing that marks the production of the London workman. Even the very seat had given way in the middle and been stitched up into a thing that looked like a map of the lake of Geneva. Oh dear, Mr. Bunting was shocked, the whole being so unlike what were supplied to him by those great masters of arts in Oxford-street, who puzzle their customers so to know “which is which.”
“Why what the deuce have you put these things on for?” exclaimed he, taking the weather-bleached rein of the old Pelham bridle between his finger and thumb.
“They are what I got with the osses, sir,” replied Crop, eyeing his master’s look of disgust.
“But you don’t mean to say you’ve got nothing better than this!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, placing his hand on the lumpy pommel of the variegated saddle, with its frayed unmatching girths.
“Nothing else for this oss, sir,” replied Crop.
“Oh dear, you must have made a mistake, and come away with the exercising things!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting.
“They are just what they gave me at the Mews,” replied Crop.
“Oh dear, oh dear; but I would never have taken such things,” rejoined his master, frowning. “Captain Chichester could never have ridden on such a pack-saddle thing as this,” said Mr. Bunting, slapping it, adding, “Couldn’t you see what sort of a thing it was?”
“There was a cover over it, sir,” replied Crop, popping into the stable and producing one as he spoke.
“Why, the cover’s as bad as the saddle!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, throwing it down, adding, “It’s clearly a mistake, and they have given you the exercising things — deuced bad uns they are, too.”
The question then was, what to do. There stood a swell all ready for hunting, and there stood a horse ready to go if he had but a decent saddle and bridle.
At this juncture sore-eyed Sam, who was as fertile in expedients as he was in excuses, suggested that “p’raps Mr. Buckwheat, the sporting farmer, could let them have what they wanted.”
“Go and see,” replied Mr. Bunting, adding to Crop, “and you be getting the other horse ready in case of accidents.”
Crop, without telling his master that the other saddle and bridle ‘were equally bad, then proceeded to strip the Exquisite; but ere he had got him rubbed over and turned round in the stall, Sam returned, hearing a very passable-looking bridle and saddle, which fortunately fitted the gray not amiss, wherewith being invested, Mr. Bunting drew on his other doe-skin glove, and, gathering his whip, proceeded to mount the now greatly improved handsome animal. The important adjustments of seat and stirrups being next accomplished, he then drew rein, and feeling his horse gently with his heel, passed under the archway of the Lord Cornwallis Inn into the open space of Burton St. Leger. Here, as he got a glance of himself in Miss Muslin the milliner’s plate glass window, he thought that Owen Ashford and he looked very well together. With this pleasing conviction he rose in his stirrups, and, putting his horse into a gentle trot, passed up the straggling street, to the great admiration of the women, who drew to their windows as though a telegraphic message had announced his approach. Great was their curiosity to know who he could be. All towns have their attendant toll-bars — the penalty of greatness; and Hooker gate paid, the excitement of observation was over, while a liberal grass siding now enabled our hero to commence an estimate of his mount on Owen Ashford. For this purpose he put along a little quicker, and proceeded to think of him, and him only. The horse was weak under him — weak certainly, Mr. Bunting thought — not the springing elasticity of either the Bard or the Kitten. And now he began to wheeze and cough. “Confound the animal,” growled Mr. Bunting, as he went grunting and wheezing up the green siding. “May have got something into his throat,” thought he, easing him down into a walk. He then became a little better.
CHAPTER LXVII.
A SHOCKING BAD HAT.
JUST AS OWEN Ashford had about coughed himself out, and Mr. Bunting was thinking of setting him agoing again, a start and halflook round from the horse announced an approach, and presently up trotted a weather-beaten-looking old gentleman, in a shocking bad hat, stained scarlet coat, hard, cracky, uncomfortable-looking cords, and rusty Napoleons, who saluted our hero with a hail fellow well met “Good morning!” as though he had known him all his life. This was Mr. Archy Ellenger, of Kids Hill, a well-known old fox-hunting ferret, who followed the chase more to get into peoples’ houses and to fasten upon strangers than anything else. He had heard of Mr. Bunting’s arrival, and had come round by Burnfoot Lane, in order to take him in the rear. Archy was quite a different sort of gentleman to the Jug, for he affected hospitality himself, was always upbraiding people for not breakfasting or coming to him overnight — had such a nice piece of crimped cod and a four-year leg of mutton, to which he would have added a woodcock or a dish of mince pies; but if any one was simple enough to come, Archy would show that he was great at the art of evasion. He lived in furnished lodgings, kept a couple of screws and a shandrydan vehicle to attach to their tails, wherein he scoured the country far and near. Having the reputation of wealth, and no one to leave it to, Archy was everybody’s guest, though if many of his hosts had known that he had sunk his wherewithal in an annuity, he would not have been quite-so welcome. There are Archy Ellengers in most countries — forward men who fasten themselves on to strangers, and pretend to introduce them to people whom they hardly know themselves.
The tout ensemble, however, was not at all likely to attract such a fastidious gentleman as our friend, and under ordinary circumstances he would have shied him — at all events have shaken him off — before they got to the meet, just as a member of “White’s” gets rid of a rustic at the top of St. James’s Street; but after two days’ solitary confinement there is scarcely anybody that a man can’t put up with. Moreover the horseman’s familiar manner made Mr. Bunting almost think that he had seen him before, but where he couldn’t for the life of him imagine. The face was something like Harry Elstob’s, only more wrinkled; but Harry would be above puckering a crape right up his hat to conceal its shabbiness. The figure was something like Willy Waugh’s, of the Convolvulus Club, but the face didn’t fit; besides, Willy didn’t hunt, so it couldn’t be him. However, there he was, and it was for Mr. Bunting to take him or leave him, as he liked. Mr. Bunting took him. “Good morning,” replied he, returning Mr. Ellenger’s salute, who then followed it up with a “here’s a fine hunting day!”
“It is,” replied Mr. Bunting, “and very acceptable after all the rain.”
“Very,” rejoined Ell
enger, reining his badly-clipped dun with the familiar black stripe down its back alongside our hero.
Bunting then looked Ellenger over, and Ellenger looked him; Bunting thinking Ellenger was a queer-looking fellow, Ellenger thinking he would like to buy Bunting at his price and sell him at his own.
Bunting then spoke: “How far is it to the meet? — How far is it to the Holly Bush Inn?” asked he.
“Just over the hill — just over the hill,” replied Mr. Ellenger, nodding onward as he spoke, adding, “plenty of time — plenty of time — no fear of being late with the Duke.”
“What, he’s unpunctual, is he?” asked Mr. Bunting.
“Terribly! terribly!” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, adding, “If he was half as keen about beginning as he is about leaving off, he would-do.”
“Not much of a sportsman then, I presume,” observed Mr. Bunting.
“Not a bit of one — not a bit of one,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger. “Just keeps hounds for show’s sake — just keeps hounds for show’s sake. Pack of curs and a red-herring would do quite as well for him.”
Mr. Ellenger not having a vote or being otherwise available, was not admissible at Tergiversation Castle; hence his displeasure. He always abused the Duke well behind his back, and toadied him to his face.
Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, now went Owen Ashford, again boring with his head to the ground.
“Your horse has got a little cold, I think,” observed Mr. Ellenger, when the horse had done.
“I think he has,” replied Mr. Bunting, carelessly, “or something in his throat.”
Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, went the horse again.
“Cold, I should say,” continued Mr. Ellenger, drily.
Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, repeated the horse, vehemently.
“Deuced like broken wind,” muttered Mr. Ellenger to himself.
“Those stables at Burton St. Leger are not to be depended upon,” observed he, aloud.
“Arn’t they!” replied Mr. Bunting, adding, “What’s the matter with them?”
“No trade — no custom — never aired — cold and damp — uncomfortable. “Wish I’d known you’d been coming, I’d have got you some good ones at Stobfield or Oldgate.”
“Wonder who the deuce you are,” again mused Mr. Bunting, looking his companion over — shabby clothes, bad horse, and all. He thought he must have met him before, and yet he couldn’t tell where. It wasn’t old Hetherington of Berkeley Street, and yet he was very like him.
Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, again went Owen Ashford, in the most summary manner.
“If that horse is not broken-winded, I’m a Dutchman,” observed Mr. Ellenger to himself, eyeing the catch of his flank. However, it was no business of his, and perhaps he was only riding him to cover. “Horse on?” at length asked he, thinking to test it.
“No,” replied Mr. Bunting, “just jogging him on myself.”
“So am I,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, trying to put a little liveliness into the dun with his off-side spur as he spoke.
Just then two horsemen, one dressed in a bottle-green coat, with a buff vest and white cords, riding a great staring four-year old bay, the other in fiddle-case boots and red shawl cravat and mufti generally, emerged from Brackenside Lane upon the road our friends were travelling, and were immediately hailed by Ellenger in the patronising way a red-coated man speaks to a dark one.
“Hollo! Jobling!” exclaimed he, addressing the gentleman in green, “what, are you for the fox! How go on the harriers?” Then before the master of Muggers had time to reply, Mr. Ellenger followed up the charge by touching Mr. Bunting on the arm with the crop of his whip, and saying, “Allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Jobling — Mr. Jonathan Jobling, master of the best pack of harriers in the world;” whereupon Mr. Bunting made a bow, and Jobling grinned more complacently than he would have done but for the compliment.
Ellenger then tried to trot Jonathan out, but the hare-hunter saw through him, and without noticing his next inquiry, “How many hares he had killed?” began talking to Mr. Bunting about the wet, the weather, and other indifferent subjects.
The man of the hat then joined the man in mufti, and thus they proceeded in pairs. As they neared the brow of Little Hay Hill, where the Quarry-house toll-bar embraces the four lane ends in its three-halfpenny grasp, Mr. Ellenger bellowed to Mr. Jobling, who was then in advance, “I’ve got sixpence, Job! I’ll pay for all!” but when they reached the gate, and Mrs. Fakey stood with extended hand for the money, the sixpence was not to be found. Our hero at last had the pleasure of paying for all.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
A SHOCKTNG BAD HOBSE.
ORA TOLL-FREE MENDS having now gained the summit of Little Hay Hill, a goodly landscape appeared before them; in the far distance the town of Herdingford, with its lofty spire, then the tortuous windings of the silvery Dart meandering through the fertile meadows, next the ducal Castle on its stately eminence, and then a wide smiling vale, which at that distance looked extremely easy to cross. On the straight road full in front, a long cavalcade was approaching, foremost of which was old “Halth and Contantment,” with the hounds and the numerous attendants in yellow. Then came a dribbling line of scarlets, and blacks, and browns, and greens, the wearers riding in threes and twos and singly.
“Great muster, seemingly,” observed Mr. Jobling, eyeing the unwonted numbers.
“Got a great gun at the Castle — Prince of Potatoes, or something of that sort,” observed Mr. Ellenger, laughing at his own wit.
“Then we shall have a show day, I fear — bag-fox or something of that sort, praps,” observed the master of the harriers.
“Not unlikely,” replied Mr. Ellenger, “provided any body will trust the Duke for one, he — he — he, hem — haw — haw.”
The Holly Bush was a great resort of drovers and people of that description, but since they took to the rail, the Bush has rather come down in the world, and is more supported by the sale of lemonade and other non-intoxicating beverages, than by that of old Sir John Barleycorn. It stands in the centre of a good country, Sunny side Woods on the north, Shipton Green Grove on the south, Ravensdowne Craigs on the east, and Fernside Plantations on the west. Go which way a fox will, he can never get wrong. Though not so well adapted for a show meet as a park or a castle, it was better calculated for drawing a field, the roads being sound and good, and Haggish always showing sport when he could.
The fineness of the day, the badness of the previous ones, the fame of the country, and the attraction of a Prince, all conduced to a bumper, and people came whipping on wheels and spurring on steeds from all parts of the country, and great was the surprise and exclamations at unexpected encounters.
“Why Short! who would have thought of seeing you here!”
“What Cox! have you come all the way from Eddyford Edge! You are the boy for an early start. Wonder if you breakfasted over night.”
“No, but I shaved,” replied Cox, feeling his chin as he spoke.
Then when Mr. Haggish and the hounds came up, there were fresh exclamations, varied by inquiries as to who was at the castle, who on the road, and what Haggish would have to drink.
“Thank ye, just nothin at all, I’m obliged to ye,” replied the veteran, touching the peak of his cap to the inquirer, adding, “hanting and dranking are just two men’s work.”
“Oh, but a glass ‘ill not hurt you,” observed Mr. Wallower, the wool-stapler, who dearly loved one himself.
“O faith, but it’s just the first glass that does all the mischief; one glass begats another till a thing becomes foo, and no fit to take care of itself — halth and contantment’s my motto,” added he, turning with his hounds into the little grass-field in front of the Inn as he spoke.
“Now lat them have a roll,” exclaimed he to the amateur whips who were for driving them up to him like a flock of sheep. And forthwith the hounds began rolling and stretching themselves on the green sward, uttering occasional notes of delight at the prospect of the com
ing sport.
Fortunately for Billy Brown, the corpulent landlord of the Holly Bush Inn, all the field were not of Mr. Haggish’s way of thinking, and black bottles of whiskey, rum, and gin, began to appear and circulate freely to mutual “good healths” and “good sports.” And so a good many shillings and sixpences thus passed into Brown’s pocket. Having wetted their whistles, the parties at length began looking at their watches; twenty minutes past time and no Duke.
“His Grace will not be coming,” exclaimed Mr. Archy Ellenger, “Hadn’t you better throw off, Jock?”
“His Grace is coming, and the Earl too,” replied Mr. Haggish, wondering what business Mr. Ellenger had to “Jock” him.
“Coming! aye, so is Christmas,” sneered Mr. Ellenger, adding, “It’s no use people advertising for one hour, and coming at another.”
“Not a bit,” assented Mr. Bagnal, the butcher, who wanted a little bill of the Duke, and was thinking of dunning him.
At length, as even the most patient of the now numerous field were beginning to grumble, a something was seen in the distance, and presently the red and yellow liveries of the Duke loomed in perspective, and all eyes turned the way they were coming. There were out-riders both before and behind, who came working their arms in the great-exertion-little-progress-way peculiar to the riders of halftired horses. The postilions, who had been nursing their horses, presently began to spur and exert themselves in order to come up with a dash, which they did to the door of the Holly Bush Inn. Hats and caps then rose from the heads of those arrived. Archy Ellenger’s shocking bad hat making as great an effort as any of them. These salutations being condescendingly returned by the noble inmates of the carriage, the powdered footmen let down the steps, and the Prince, the Duke, and the Earl descended, and entered the parlour of the Holly Bush Inn, there to revise their attire. This they were not long in doing, and they presently returned, all red, and gold, and fancy colours, the Duke and his Lordship wearing leathers and tops, the Prince’s nether man being encased in a pair of superlatively shining Napoleons.