by R S Surtees
“Very good, sir,” said Lotherington.
“Very good,” assented the Colonel.
“Then I shall most likely be there,” said Romford, returning Lotherington his switch, adding, and “now I must be off for the days are short, the roads dirty, and I don’t know my way.” So saying, with a sort of half bow half nod to the Colonel, he rolled out of the kennel.
But that Abbeyfield Park kept it down, the Colonel would have said “he’s a rum un.” Lotherington, less awed, thus expressed his opinion to his friend Grimstone, the head groom, who, as usual, came, crab-like, down from the stables to hear what was up.
“Ar think nout o’ this Romford, mister,” said he. “Why, he cam to kennel i’ buttoned boots! cam to kennel i’ buttoned boots!” as if it was impossible for a man to be a sportsman who wore such things. And Grimstone shook his head as much as to say he “wouldn’t do.”
IX. THE DÉBUT
NO MAN WITH MONEY IN his pocket need ever be long in want of a horse; this Mr Facey Romford well knew, having bought four-legged ones, three-legged ones, and two-legged ones — all sorts of horses, in fact. He had bought horses with money and without — more perhaps without than with. He would take them on trial, buy them if he saw he could sell them for more than was asked, or pay or promise so much for their use if returned. And being a bold resolute rider, people had no objection to seeing him shove their horses along, feeling perhaps that they came in for part of the credit of the performance. Many of them thought what they would give to be able to spin them along as Facey did.
Having regained Minshull Vernon, with the omission of several of the angles he had made in going to the kennel, he refreshed his inner man, and then bethought him of further cultivating the acquaintance of his morning friend, Toby Trotter. Toby was in the West-end Swell, being a member of the Jolly Owls’ Club, which met there every other night, and gladly availed himself of the invitation to drink at Mr Romford’s expense instead of his own. Besides, the honour of the thing was very considerable. A Master of Fox Hounds! — He had drank with many eminent men — commercial gentlemen — representatives as they called themselves, — but never with anything approaching such eminence. So he pulled up his pointed gills, readjusted his cameo brooch, and proceeded to answer the summons. At first the Owl was inclined to stand, but Romford insisted upon his sitting, and each having got his favourite beverage, rum to the Owl, gin to the Master, together with pipes, they drew to the fire and had a very discursive discussion with regard to the country and its sporting capabilities generally. From him Facey learned that there were several young farmers with goodish-like horses who might be equitably dealt with — men who wouldn’t ask three hundred when they meant to take thirty — and Facey having got the names and addresses of some of these, borrowed Bullock the butcher’s pony the next morning and set off in quest of the needful. He wanted a mount for the Saturday, and almost the first place he came to viz., young Mr Dibble of Cumberledge, supplied the deficiency: Dibble was going to be married to the pretty Miss Snowball and wouldn’t want his horse during the honeymoon, and finding who he had for a customer, he unhesitatingly placed him at Mr Romford’s disposal, declining all mention of money. If Mr Romford liked him, well and good — they then could talk about it after; if not, he could return him, and would be welcome to the loan. Dibble was not one of the swell order of farmers, who ride in scarlet and spurt the mud in their landlord’s faces, but a quiet-going respectable young man, who got his day or two a week out of a great raking, snaffle-bridled, cock-thropped, chestnut horse, with white stockings; like Facey, himself rather deficient on one side of his head, his “fatther” being the gentleman, and his “moother” a cart mare. However, he could “gollop,” as Lotherington said, and leap almost anything when he was not blown. Independently of the usual trimming these sort of animals always want about the heels, a farmer’s condition is seldom first rate, and the Dragon of Wantley, as the horse was called, would have been better for a little trimming all over; but this was precisely where Facey was deficient — he had no idea of neatness, let alone style, and put hunting upon much the same rough footing as shooting. “What’s the use of dressing up fine when one’s going to dirty oneself directly?” he used to say; so the Dragon of Wantley and his rider were much upon a par. Facey not having thought it worth his while to get the dribbling cow-boy ostler of the West-end Swell to take the long hairs off the horse any more than to try to put any lustre upon his own rusty Napoleons; and being quite a man for the morning, our friend, having made a most substantial sausage breakfast, mounted betimes to ride the Dragon of Wantley quietly on to the meet, calling as he went down street at Toby Trotter’s for one of his pig-jobber-like whips in lieu of the Malacca-cane-sticked one he had left at Mother Maggison’s for the inexorable County Court Bailiffs. And now, being fully accoutred, Facey got the Dragon by the head, and giving him a touch of his persuasive spurs, tried his pace along the Westfield road. He was a strong light-going horse for his size, above sixteen hands, and seemed rather pleased than otherwise at carrying a pink, making Facey hope for his better acquaintance before night. So they proceeded gaily along through highways and byeways according as the pioneering grooms directed the course, from whom, however, Facey did not receive many complimentary caps. He arrived at the meet just as the hounds came up.
It having transpired that Mr Romford would be out at Oakenshaw Wood, there was a great gathering of the H.H. to greet the new master, and many were the times Lotherington was asked by ambling up horsemen if “Mr Romford had come,” the inquirers taking the shabby old scarlet sitting slouching among the hounds to contain young Tom Snowball, the bride’s brother, going to take his change out of the Dragon of Wantley, during the aforesaid honeymoon. And of course there was a good deal of awkwardness and many pantomimic gestures necessary to prevent further explosion, and stop people from saying what perhaps they ought not to say. It is very disagreeable to be talked of as if one was absent
And, as ill luck would have it, neither of the gentlemen with whom Facey had corresponded were out, and Colonel Chatterbox, the only member of the hunt who had seen him before, had got a bad attack of rheumatism from his day on the flags, where they met. So that there was really nobody to receive and introduce the owner of Abbeyfield Park to the field. However, Facey didn’t care much about that sort of thing, and having stared at the hounds as much as the field stared at him, he asked Lotherington if they hadn’t better be moving.
“Generally give a quarter-of-an-hour’s law,” replied Lotherington, with a semi-touch of the cap.
“Do you,” retorted Facey, “Devilish bad plan — I’d advertise an hour, and keep to it.”
“Well, sir, what you please, sir,” rejoined Lotherington, in a more subdued tone, for there was a determination about Facey that as good as said he meant to be master.
“Be off, then,” said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip, and a touch of the spur in the flank. This then gave the field, who had only hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. The field drew into line as he passed with the hounds to have a good stare, which Facey returned with a scrutinising sidelong glance at them all, embracing both riders and horses, with a running commentary in his own mind, as to which were the fifties, which the twenties, and which the ten pound subscribers to the hounds. But there was no salute or recognition on either side, and as the Dragon of Wantley was well known, there was great curiosity excited on the subject. “Where the deuce did he get the Dragon of Wantley?” asked one. “Did you ever see such a coat?” asked another. “Bought it off the pegs, I should think,” observed a third. “Boots and breeches are a dead match,” observed a fourth. “How much for the lot?” exclaimed
a fifth. “Hard-bitten-looking beggar,” observed a sixth. “Let’s be on and see what he does,” added another, spurring in front and thus leading the field.
X. OAKENSHAW WOOD
IF JONATHAN LOTHERINGTON THOUGHT LITTLE of Mr Romford in his buttoned boots, he thought less of him now that he saw him in his hunting costume mounted on the familiar Dragon of Wantley. He hadn’t seen such a coat, such a hat, such breeches and boots, he didn’t know when. They looked fitter for an earth-stopper, or a cad down Tattersall’s entry, than for a master of hounds. Jonathan on his part was spicy and gay, having on his first-class coat, first-class cap, first-class everything, in addition to which he was mounted on his best horse, North Star, and sat as corkily in his stirrups as a man of his years and weight could do. In fact there was a little affected activity in his movements, as if he wished to make Mr Romford believe he was young. But for Facey’s impudence at the kennel, Jonathan would rather have pitied him riding solitarily along with nobody noticing him; as it was, he thought to patronise him through the medium of his horse.
“Got Mr Dibble’s old hoss, I see,” observed he, looking the Dragon of Wantley over.
“Ay, what sort of a nag is he?” asked Romford, giving the horse a familiar slap on the ribs with his hand.
“Good hoss — gallops well,” replied Jonathan. “Loups too.”
This was satisfactory to Romford, who hoped to put both qualities to the test before evening. So they trotted on familiarly as before, each party examining the other critically, Jonathan thinking there wouldn’t be much credit in serving buttoned boots, buttoned boots thinking Jonathan was not at all like a man for his money.
“P’raps you’d like to see me find my fox,” now said Jonathan, consequentially, as they neared the little bridle gate leading into the east end of Oakenshaw Wood.
“Go along,” replied Facey, and at a wave of the hand away went the hounds, distributing themselves equably over the ground, sniffing and snuffing and questing as they went. Then Jonathan, who had a musical voice and could find a fox if he couldn’t hunt one, began yoicking and cheering and cracking his whip, little doubting that buttoned boots would be very much struck with his skill, — if he wasn’t, Jonathan thought he wouldn’t give much fox his judgment. And as hounds know where the fox lies nearly as well as their masters, Pillager and Pilgrim were quickly feathering on the line, but not yet venturing to speak. At length Pillager gives a whimper, Pilgrim gives a challenge which Driver and Duster endorse with their usual vehemence, and Jonathan caps the whole with one of his XX stentorian cheers. Then the chorus fills, hounds come tearing pell-mell to the place, horses jump and plunge with delight, while their riders funk or rejoice according to the stuff of which they are made. The wood rings with the melody, driving every denizen out save the fox, who takes a liberal swing of its ample dimensions to see which side affords the most convenient point of egress. He is a long-toothed full-brushed gray-backed old fellow, who has had many a game of romps with Jonathan and his followers, and does not despair of beating them again (though he has had rather a heavy supper) as he has beaten them before, only he wants a fair start and not to be bullied on leaving, chased by a cur or a lurcher, or turned over by a great daft greyhound whose followers take him for a tiger. Twenty couple of hounds are enough for any animal to contend with, even when light and full of running. So he plods diligently along, eyes well forward, ears well back, listening to where he hears his noisy friends and their vociferous huntsman. Coston Corner is blocked by a great leather-legged man with a gun. Three or four unfortunates who never come to the meet arrive at the high gate just as the fox comes up, or he would have tried his luck for the third time over Amberley Common and away for the main earths at Frankton Wood. However, the fall of the ground here gives him a view of the adjacent country, and the green fields of Longville look very inviting, so running the wood well as long as it served, he drops quietly down into the deep Dillington Road, and presently swerving to the left, by keeping the low ground, is never seen until he is half over Warrenlaw Hill. And the hounds having been brought to a check at the wall, Jonathan, never suspecting such an unhandsome cat-like performance, is holding them back into the wood, thinking the fox may have lain down in a drain, when the first distant note of surprise ripens into a nearer holloa, and the man with the gun next gives a most unmistakeable Tallyho! as he views him stealing quietly over the crown of the hill. Oakenshaw Wood is again electrified, horses are got shorter by the head, seats adjusted, and riders prepared to follow their respective leaders. Some men are quite lost in a wood.
And now friend Romford, who has kept well down wind hearing every note and cheer that was given, gets the Dragon of Wantley hard by the head, and lets in his Latchfords, determined to see what he is made of. He presently gets into a deep clanging ride, whose distance was closed by a group of flying red coats, and setting the Dragon’s head straight that way, he scuttled up its length, and emerged with the last of the tail into the Billington road.
“Which way?” “which way?” was the cry as the sportsmen locked right and left for the double line of hedgerows denoting a road.
The first thing Mr Facey saw on coming up was the hounds considerably in advance of the huntsman, the next thing was said huntsman dancing and prancing at his fence. At length he went over, and a great show of activity then took place as he spurted up a wet furrow. Then there came another fence and another furrow, so that if the hounds had been a quick mettlesome pack they would infallibly have run clean away from him.
As it was they were laboriously respectable, like the merchants of old, who made their fortunes more by saving than by rapid dashing adventure. Give the hounds time and they would generally wind up their fox, but they must do it carefully and systematically, taking nothing on trust, retaining in fact a good deal of the old Heavyside style of suspicious proceeding.
Their noses were always in the right place, they had plenty of music, were very truthful, and could get on with a bad scent better than many; but they were a lobbing set of goers, that a light-drawn fox would leave immeasureably in the lurch. They were quite a peep-of-day pack, notwithstanding their pretension to later hours. Lawyer Lappy and the Brothers Heavyside had effectually kept them back.
Romford seeing at a glance how things were going, readily accepted the pas the hesitating field seemed disposed to yield him, and ramming the Dragon at a high mortar-coped wall, sent his coat laps and his character flying up together.
“Well done, seedy boots!” exclaimed dandy Captain Hollybrook, who however did not off to follow him.
“Dash my buttons, but he can ride!” exclaimed ugly Tom Slam, with a jerk of his head, as he pulled his dun horse sharp round preparatory to clattering along the Billington road. Then a greater length of tail followed suit. In truth the H.H. were not rash men across country. They retained much of the prudence and caution of the original Brethren, and always liked to see which way the fox inclined before they began to bump. On this occasion there were Peel’s three courses open to him, Frankton Woods, Gatheridge Craigs, and Bewley Hills. The fox was evidently undecided at first which line to take, and until he settled the point, the field hesitated to commit themselves to the perils of the chase. The roads were very convenient. Jonathan was more venturesome than usual, but that was because he thought to astonish Mr Romford, whose going powers he greatly doubted. It was therefore with no very pleasurable sensations that on looking back he saw our Herculean master sailing along on the Dragon of Wantley, shoving him at his fences regardless of the gaps, in a very determined sort of way.
Worst of all he began “for for-ward, forward-ing!” to the hounds as he came up, as though he were huntsman as well as master.
“Gently, hurrying!” exclaimed Lotherington, holding up his hand as if afraid Romford would drive them beyond the scent.
“Hurrying!” exclaimed Romford, cracking his cart-whip, “why, man, you don’t call this going!” adding, “a fox will last them a week at this pace.”
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p; And Jonathan’s broad back heaved with anger at the speech. “Was there ever such a man?” thought he.
The run then continued without further incident over Soberton Meadows, past Holden Mill to Marwell, the pace somewhat better, with easy fencing, and most accommodating gates. Here a short check occurred which the hounds hit off by themselves, and then a swerve to the left is answered by a turn of the upward road to the right, and they cross the Little Paxton Lane just as the ecstatic field come clattering along full of enthusiastic delight.
“Hold hard!” is the order of the day, horses are pulled up, and all eyes are strained to see the Invincibles carry the scent over the road. Beautiful! beautiful! were there ever such hounds? Truest pack in the world! as each particular Solomon issued his proclamation, that the fox was on.
Up then comes Mr Jonathan Lotherington on North Star, Jonathan sadly out of his bearings, for he has been tempted into a field excursion, instead of leaving the throaty old line-holders to carry the scent to Rickwood Thicket, where they are evidently going, while he trotted gallantly round by the road. Worst of all, they have crossed at a most unfavourable place, there being no way out of the field, on the lane side, save over a very uninviting ragged blackthorn fence with a wide ditch on the far side. Jonathan had often contemplated it from the road, but never with any eye to leaping it; now he began dancing and prancing and wishing himself well over.
“Clear the course, old man!” now exclaims Mr Romford, coming up at a canter, holding the Dragon of Wantley well by the head, with his cart-whip brandishing on high, to give him a refresher.
“Old man!” snapped Lotherington, looking round irately.
“Then old woman!” retorted Romford, giving the cock-tail a cut that sent him over with a bound — horse and rider landed well in the road before the assembled field. Without waiting to pick up the compliments, Facey then rammed the Dragon at the opposite fence, a stiff stake and wattle, with a rail beyond, and was again in the same field as the hounds — Lotherington then led over.