Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  The old steady Jug, thinking more than he talked, recognised the fox by his full brush and light fur, and seeing the wind was in the same art as when he beat them before, tells our hero he will “ride him right,” and the Jug being a well-known safe pilot, several others, Archey Ellenger among the number, sought his convoy, and he went bucketing away with a very respectable miscellaneous coloured tail. Though the pace was tremendous, the Jug thought it wouldn’t last after they got off the heath, so he went grinning, and hugging, and saving his horse with his great shoulders up to his ears, dreading every minute to be down in a rut or a stone-hole — or up to the tail in a moss-hag.

  Meanwhile Mr. Hawkins affects to lead the Duke’s division, and the Prince goes tearing along, pulling Hob Boy nearly double, his Highness grinding his teeth, and declaring he “vos von deuced deal vorse dan de oder.” Mr. Hawkins, seeing his misery, recommends him to ease the horse’s head a little, which the Prince doing, Bob Boy most ungenerously ran away with him, to the great danger as well of the Prince’s neck as of the horse’s own critical leg. Luckily the ground was not only favourable but upon the rise, and the Prince, after charging a flock of goats gallantly, and astonishing a cabin full of gipseys, at length succeeded in subduing him. The Duke with his tail coming up politely pretended to think the Prince was doing it on purpose.

  Horsforth Hill now appears full before the various groups of approaching sportsmen, dividing the heath from the vale, and forming the natural boundary between the Duke of Tergiversation’s country and Jessop’s. The hounds were over the hill before the Jug rounded the little green valley, which brought his detachment within sight of it, and the last of the first flight men were striving, and easing, and hugging their horses up it, saving them as much as they could for the evidently coming struggle in the vale below. The Jug follows their example, and on reaching the bottom he rises in his stirrups, and holding on by the chesnut horse’s mane, exhibits himself in anything but an elegant attitude. His followers, however, all do the same, so none can laugh at the other; luckily for them, there is no artist out to draw them for Punch, or anything else. So they toil, and strive, and spread-eagle, themselves, each according to his own peculiar ideas of equestrian easement, just as ladies lean forward in a carriage going up hill, thinking they are doing a great deal towards expediting matters.

  The summit gained, the Duke’s diminished party, who have risen the hill on the slope at the low end, came tearing along the top, the Prince grinning, and gaping, and steaming, and looking as if he were most thoroughly sick of the whole performance. Nor is the change of scene at all likely to conduce to his happiness, for the hounds are now racing away over the large grass enclosures below the hill, bearing right away for the heart of the vale, Mr. Jessop lying well with them, followed closely by Lord Marchhare, while George Wheeler sticks to Horneyman like a burr, followed by Black White, all of them sitting in that determined sort of way that says, Now we are in for a stinger. The country gets flatter and flatter, and it is only those who are in the same field with the now almost mute running pack that really know where the hounds are. The tail of the first flight are riding at hats and caps and horses’ heads, hoping for a speedy change of the scene. The hill as usual affords a favourable place for many to pull up and take a bird’s-eye view of as much of the rest of the run as they can, and many indifferently mounted dark coats gladly follow the example set by Captain Cambo’s scarlet.

  “Vot von vare grand (puff) prospect!” exclaimed the perspiring Prince, pulling up as if lost in admiration of the scene — the rich green water meandering vale, the dark clumps, the spire, the distant hills beyond.

  “Oh, come along!” cried the Duke, adding, “we shall have some fun now that we have got into the vale,” his Grace eyeing Black White’s meritorious exertions to distinguish himself, and thinking B. W. wasn’t such a bad fellow after all.

  “Oh, tank you, sare Duke, bot I am bomped enof!” gasped the exhausted Prince, holding Bob Roy hard by the head.

  “Would your Highness like your other horse?” now asks Mr. Hawkins, riding up cap in hand, thinking the Prince would get through the critical leg.

  “No, no,” retorted the Prince peevishly, “I have had foxing enof — I have had Timour de Tartaring enof — let me go ome to my music.”

  His Highness being resolute, there was no help for it, and a very little hesitation at the pace these hounds are going putting a very great gulph between them and their pusillanimous followers, the Duke now thinks it is of no use trying to catch them up, and resolves to save further risk, under plea of politeness to the Prince. Meanwhile, the flying pack press on in close array, and gradually appear no bigger than marbles. The fences, too, as surveyed from above, seem so trifling, that the only wonder is people don’t all charge them abreast.

  The further the horsemen get into the vale, the more formidable the fences become, until large water-cuts accompany them on either side, requiring skill and strength to get over. The slime and water-mark in the ditches show the marks of the recent flood, and prepare the mind for the probable treat of the river. They are now on the banks of the Lune, with its smoothly gliding water running even with its sides. First up is Mr. Jessop, followed closely by Horneyman and Michael; one side of the latter, together with that of his horse, being now encased in a complete plaster of mud, as if Michael had been taking an equestrian cast of himself.

  “Been down?” asks Mr. Jessop, as he gets a glimpse of his disfigured servant.

  “Yes, sir,” replies Michael, with a touch of his cap, “Mr. Black White crossed me at my leap, and knocked me right over — got in himself too,” added Michael, with a grin.

  “Sarve him right!” replied Mr. Jessop, putting his horse at a stiff flight of rails, where he expected to find a gap, but which had been recently made up, and getting well over. Lord Marchhare follows gallantly, but his horse making an awkward rap, a friendly place is quickly found in the hedge, of which the rest avail themselves. Still there is the river to be negotiated, as they say in the city. Of all the impediments to progress, there is none so impervious to friendship. Water is a case in which no man can do anything for another. The only real kindness he can show him is not to break the banks, so as to make matters worse for the last corner than it was for the first. A wall, however high, is generally lowered until a donkey might step over it, while a hedge is often laid as flat as a pancake, but water, unaccommodating water, flows on in a careless sort of way, that as good as says, You may take me or leave, but you’ll get me for nothing less than you see me.

  Our fox, either emboldened by repeated escapes or finding the river fuller than he liked, had evidently hesitated about crossing, and after running the green pastures for three quarters of a mile, took a bold swing to the right, and, passing up Acorn Hill, made across the large enclosures on the high side of the wood. Here, however, he was headed. Farmer Strongstubble was out coursing, and it was with great difficulty that his yellow dog Duster was restrained from running into him. As it was, Duster drove the fox so completely off his point, that when the hounds came up they overran the scent, and came to a check at the end of five-and-twenty minutes from the finding. Mr. Jessop saw at a glance what had happened, and, reining in his horse, sat transfixed in his saddle, while the hounds spread like a rocket and made their own cast. The check was lucky, for it enabled Mark to drop as it were from the clouds with our master’s second horse, who, whipping his horn out of its case, was off one and on to the other in the twinkling of an eye.

  “Into the wood by the gate!” now cries Mr. Strongstubble, waving his arm in that direction; and at a single whoop from our master the hounds rush to the spot to where he has now turned his horse’s head, and, catching the scent, go in with a cry that makes the cover echo, scaring out hares, pigeons, and pheasants, as though they thought the place was on fire.

  “Where have you brought him from?” asks Humbolt the miller, hurrying up to Horneyman, as the latter opens the gate into the wood.

  “B
rushwood Banks!” cries Homeyman, as he now passes through the gate after his master.

  The fox has passed straight through the wood, and dashes out into the green field below, just as the now red-hot Jug rides his detachment to the point at the low end of the cover. The Jug views him, and stopping his horse, holds up his hand as a signal to those behind to do the same. Out then pour the bristling pack, and Mr. Jessop, being now on a fresh horse, breaks the wood-fence for his followers. Away they all strive up the rich alluvial soil of the valley in much the same form as before. The Jug’s party join on, and there ore still some twenty horsemen in all. The number, however, is now about to be reduced. Mr. Ravenhill’s keeper is out shooting, and meeting the fox full in the face, decides him to cross the river in hopes of better luck on the other side. So he just drops down the sandy willowy bank, and, after a swim, is presently crawling up and shaking himself on the opposite one. The cry of the hounds is too full to admit of much dandyism, and he trots on, lightening himself of the water as he goes. The hounds turn as short as the fox, and there is presently a rare splashing and scrambling and striving in the water. Out they go on the opposite bank, and Freeman and Resolute proclaiming the line with unmistakeable emphasis, the rest scored to cry and went away as hard as before. Then came the perplexity of the field — the splashing of the hounds cooling the courage of many behind. Mr. Jessop cocked up his legs and went over just where the hounds did, followed by both his whips and Lord Marchhare; but Mr. Black White (who was now nearly all black with his fall) thought there was a better place higher up, and Colonel Nettlestead said the same. So they trotted on to look for it.

  “Now Jug!” exclaimed Archey Ellenger, as our safe pilot pulled up, and began to ponder on the bank, “Now Jug, ain’t you fond of water?”

  “Humph” grunted our friend, indignant at being thus called by his nickname in the presence of strangers.

  “Let me be at it then” cried George Wheeler, whom Horneyman had somewhat shaken off, Wheeler blobbing in overhead, and nearly parting company with his horse.

  “Hurrah for the Duke’s best man!” cried Archey Ellenger, as the yellow-collared rider and horse at last scrambled out on the opposite side, at a place a good deal lower down than where the others had done.

  This exhibition damped the ardour of the rest, and made the Jug think with Black White, and Colonel Nettlestead, that there might be a better place higher up. So he too trotted on to look for it.

  Meanwhile the hounds went racing on at a pace that spoke unmistakeably of killing.

  “We’ll do for him to-day, I think!” exclaimed Mr. Jessop to Horneyman, as the latter galloped up to open the gate on to Mr. Collins’s example-farm for his master.

  “Third time’s catching time,” replied Horneyman, lifting the latch and throwing wide the gate for his followers.

  Mr. Jessop then resumed his place, and went careering away over the swedes, mangolds, and winter tares, well-knowing that Collins would not say anything to his doing so when hounds were running best pace. —

  They were soon off the “Example farm,” and on to another that was only an example of dirtiness, then down Sherwood Banks with a roar, past Salmon’s bridge, Crookham corner, and out on to Skyehouse flats, with its wide-extended plain, where a view was obtained, and our game fox fairly run into the open, Mr. Jessop Anally holding him up over his head to an undiminished pack, but a very reduced field. However, among the number was the Earl of Marchhare, to whom our master politely presented the brush, expressing the great obligations he was under to the Duke of Tergiversation for allowing him to draw his covers. And after a little time spent in decorating his lordship’s horse’s head with the brush, and recruiting the hounds, the well satisfied party separated each on his homeward line to disseminate the news of the great run as he went.

  When the Prince got home he told Lady Honoria Hopkins that of all sports he had ever seen, he thought the English “hont de fox” was the most ridiculous, and he “vonder’d” that the Duke spent such large monies upon it. So his Grace’s purpose was satisfied at any rate, by making the Prince believe that Mr. Jovey Jessop’s hounds were his Grace’s.

  And as hunting notoriously brings us acquainted with many parties, we will now introduce a couple whom the Jug victimised on his way home from the hunt.

  CHAPTER LXXV.

  THE JUG AND HIS LUNCHEON, OR MR. AND MRS. BOWDERGUKINS’S

  DINNER PARTY.

  MR AND MRS. BOWDE- ROUKINS were honest, equitable, give-and-take folks, who loved s o c i.e. t y, which, in their opinion, consisted in eating and drinking periodically with their neighbours. Mirth, wit, humour, entered not into their calculations; three courses and a dessert being all they considered necessary. Hence everything was most studiously arranged in the most apple-pie order, with, at the same time, a sort of extempore air — Bowderoukins often demanding in a loud and audible voice from his end of the table, “WHAT HAVE YOU GOT THERE, MISTRESS BOWDEROUKINS?” as if he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was; while Mrs. Bowderoukins on her part was equally elegant, never knowing until the dish was uncovered.

  “Partridges!” Bowdey would exclaim, as the up-turned legs now appeared on the scene.

  “Pardon!” Mrs. Bowdey would reply; “gwouse, my dear.”

  “Hem — gwouse, are they,” Bowdey would rejoin, as if he had never heard of them before, though he very likely had the bill receipted, with the discount taken off for them, in his pocket.

  Bowdey, as the country people called him, had been in the linen line; and Mrs. Roukin’s father had been in the flannel trade; but all that was forgotten now, save when they plushed or powdered their footman, set up a dinner bell, or committed any other act of saltation against the peace of their longer retired neighbours’ pride and dignity. Then the shop was resuscitated, and the invidious question asked, “Who are these Bowderoukins’s?” —

  Most people are Dutch-auctioned occasionally — put up at their highest, and run down to their lowest point; so it is of very little use being at the trouble of appraising themselves — the world does it for them, and, generally speaking, not unfairly either. Still, with all the powder and plush, and pulling to pieces, the Bowderoukins’s were a nice plummy pair, well matched, and very “comfortable,” which latter term may be variously interpreted — some ladies thinking four men-servants to wait upon them, some three, some two, others one, “comfort,” or rather the height of happiness.

  The Bowderoukins’s residence, Rosella Lodge, was a pretty place — pretty even in the eyes of a stranger — beautiful of course in those of an owner. It was in the cottage ornée style, with neat lattice windows peeping out of the heather-thatched roof, and a green verandah encircling the whole; the pillars plentifully entwined with roses and flowering shrubs. It stood at the bottom of a little round Hassock’s heath-like hill, on whose rock-rugged sides Spruce, Scotch firs, and ferns flourished with healthy vigour, as though they wished no better place. Bowdey had planned the house himself, and if it lacked some of the comforts that a scientific architect would have given it, Bowdey had the satisfaction of knowing that he had saved said architect’s fees, and was entitled to the credit of all the commendation that was lavished upon it. In truth, Bowdey had rather sacrificed comfort to appearances, for though the receiving-rooms, library, drawing, and dining-room en suite, were good, the bed-rooms at either end of the house were only so so, and liable to the intrusion of beetles, earwigs, and other undesirable insects.

  To be such a fat, comfortable-looking man, Mr. Bowderoukins was a desperate fidget, always looking at his watch, always dreading to be late, always fearing people were not going to arrive. On his grand company days he was more than usually fidgetty, wondering why Paul didn’t lay the cloth, wondering why Mrs. Empson the cook didn’t put down the meat, fearing lest the fish mightn’t come, or the tea-cakes be late. He was always a good hour in advance of the day; and instead of running after time, was always hurrying other people up to it. If Bowdey had had to cook the dinner and wait a
s well, he could not have been in a greater stew; whereas all he had to do was to sit quietly in his easy arm-chair, exclaiming at intervals, “WHAT HAVE YOU GOT THEBE, MISTRESS BOWDEROUKINS?” and so on to the end of the short dialogue appropriated to the piece.

  Country hospitality being regulated a good deal by the moon, it so happened that what in the hunting calendar would be called the “Hassocks hill day,” had been fixed upon by our friends (if they will allow us to call them so) for the usual quarterly display of plate, linen, and china; and after the usual amount of prevarication, for people can fib in the country almost as well as they can in the towns, a full table full of guests had been engaged to assist at the demolition of a turbot, a Yorkshire pie, a Norfolk turkey hung in Dorking sausages, and other delicacies too numerous to insert in anything but a cookery book, all of which had given our host and hostess an amazing amount of trouble to get and prepare. As the time approached, the excitement became more intense; so much so indeed that, on the day of the great event, Bowderoukins could neither settle to his paper, nor his books, nor yet to that last solace of all — the contemplation of his accounts. He was in and out, backwards and forwards, here, there, and everywhere.

  Being a man of pro — o — perty (eighteen acres in a ring-fence), Bowderoukins of course patronised the chase. We don’t mean to say that he piled his fat self on a saddle; for, in truth, he was too wash bally for riding, but he talked affably about hunting, hoped the redcoats he met had had good sport, said he supposed Mr. Jovey Jessop had a good set of dogs that year, hoped foxes were plentiful, and so on. Now it so happened that, in order to allay the fever of excitement, and perhaps prevent himself committing an assault, he took frequent trots down to the green gate at the end of the little curved drive opening upon the Kelvingdon and Hassocks heath road, and, as luck would have it on the third excursion, just as he was rubbing his nose on his hand as he leant with his arm on the uppermost rail, who should come riding along but the Jug and our hero Mr. Bunting.