Mr Facey Romford's Hounds

by R S Surtees

  The first thing that now struck our Master of fox-hounds was our squeaky friend Mr Stotfold vociferating for the rope—“Where’s my rope? I haven’t got my rope! Get me my rope!”, as if he was bent on immediate self-destruction.

  “Rope!” exclaimed Romford, “what the deuce do you want with the rope? Have your hunt out first, at all events.”

  “For the take, to be sure,” squeaked fatty, laughing now, receiving a coil of rope from a servant, which he slipped into a large inside coat-pocket, just as a clown in a pantomime disposes of a goose or a few yards of sausages. The boy then gave his fat self a hearty shake as if to ascertain that all was right, and thinking it was—money, keys, watch, buns, cigars, rope, and all, he next began squeaking for his horse.

  “Now, then, I want my horse! get me my horse! where’s my horse!” and forthwith the dray-horse-like brown emerged from the side-stable, for our Master to mount. But this wasn’t so easily managed as thought, for Willy Watkins had abolished the steps at the end of the stable as antediluvian, without providing a substitute, and Stotfold’s legs being short, and his horse high, he hopped about with one foot in the stirrup, without daring to attempt the grand final hoist.

  “Get me a pail! get me a pail!” at length squeaked he, relinquishing the effort, and forthwith two helpers rushed out with a pail each, while a third punched and pushed the punchy horse up to where they stood. Stotfold then made a bold effort, and landed in the happy haven of his enormous saddle, and began shuffling and working himself about like a jockey trying to establish a seat. At length he got one to his liking, and Romford having mounted his horse, things at length seemed all ready for a start. But the fat boy, instead of ordering Jack Rogers to liberate the pent-up pack in the straw-house, pulled his cigar-case out of his breast-pocket and deliberately selecting a weed, began squeaking for fire wherewith to light it—“Has anybody got any fire!—has anybody got any fire!” demanded he, and Facey, who had just lit his pipe, handed him it, and the fat boy proceeded to imbibe and blow up a leisurely cloud, instead of pursuing his deer as hard as he could.

  While all this was enacting, Brisket the butcher, and two or three other horsemen—or, more properly speaking, ponymen,—who had met the Benicia Boy, were having a most enjoyable hunt. At first he seemed inclined to sulk, but Ballinger the carter’s whip being freely administered, awoke him to a sense of his danger—if not of his duty—causing him to put his best leg first, and eventually to place two or three stiffish fences between him and his pursuers. The further the Boy went, the further the field were now left behind, and as the Benicia Boy passed through the orchard at the back of Mr Tithemtight’s rectory, the last of them left him, and he was only incommoded by farmer Badstock’s cur. This he presently disposed of by a rush and a stamp of his foot, and then went trotting leisurely over the clean linen on Mrs Martindale’s drying-ground, from whence he passed into Mr Ketherington’s nursery-garden, and had a dance among the winter-cabbages and Brussels sprouts.

  The sound of voices and of horses’ hoofs on the stones now roused the inmates of the straw-house, drawing forth a joyous yell, and when Jack Rogers shot the bolt, every hound bounded out full cry, and spread in all directions. Bouncer made straight for the dairy, Rantipole rushed into the scullery, while Prodigal and Poulterer dived up to their ears in the pig-pail.

  “Get on, and blow your horn!” now cried Romford, unused to such riotous proceedings, and dropping his whip-thong, he proceeded to lay it into the offenders with hearty good will. Jack Rogers aided his endeavours, and by the time the fat boy appeared in front of Dalberry Lees, he had as many hounds about him as if he was making a cast. Unfortunately, however, Miss Watkins’s Shetland pony was careering about the park, and certain anonymous hounds, thinking, perhaps, he would do as well as the stag, proceeded to charge him with vigorous determination, while a few others broke away at a cow. Then the horn and whips were at work again; the fat boy inflated his cheeks till they looked like bladder-balloons, and Rogers and Romford raced round the respective detachments of deserters to whipcord them back, at which Willy Watkins’s horse denoted his delight by sundry squeaks and bounds in the air that nearly sent our friend over its head—“Oh, for Mr Stotfold’s weight to keep him down!” thought Willy.

  The rule of Mr Stotfold’s hunt was for the Master to hunt the hounds as long as he could, after which Mr Rogers was at liberty to take them, and, both carrying horns, the arrangement answered very well, as Jack was always ready to face any place his master declined. And Jack, who was a bit of a courtier, always magnified his master’s performance.

  “That was a most terrific jump you took into the Adderley Road, just below the windmill,” he would say; or “I never saw a man ride over a brook better than you did over Long Kitlington Burn—wouldn’t have had it myself at no price;” the said Barn, at its best being about three yards wide, with sound banks on each side.

  But let us pursue the Benicia Boy.

  There not being much chance of a scent where the preliminary hunt had taken place, the fat boy had nothing for it but to cast on till became to virgin soil, and it was not until he neared farmer Badstock’s fold-yard that the redoubtable Wideawake dropped his stump of a stern, and Wiseacre endorsing the movement with his tongue, the rest of the pack were good enough to take their opinions from him, and, gradually closing in, at length assumed somewhat the appearance of a pack. “Hoop!” screeched Jack Rogers, cheering them on, as if it was the most brilliant move that ever was made. He inwardly hoped Mr Romford saw it.

  The Benicia Boy, as was his wont, had taken a turn round the country before deciding which line to adopt, astonishing sundry country folk by his appearance among them. Old Tommy Cobnut cutting fern in Brambleton Brake for bedding for his pig, young Johnny Gooseman taking his colt to the shop, sundry girls playing at pitch-halfpenny at the low corner of farmer Hoggin’s field, instead of pulling turnips at the high one—all of whom stood staring with their heads up, wondering whatever the Boy could be. One said he was a donkey, another that he was the devil, a third that he was a Kyloe. At length the notes of the horn, and the cheer of the hunters came wafted on the breeze, and first one pedestrian and then another telegraphed the line of the chace to our friends with their hats or their hoes or their arms.

  Jack Rogers now began to grin, for he saw the stag was going to run, and he thought Mr Romford couldn’t fail but to be highly delighted with the entertainment. Indeed, like Jawkins with Mrs Somerville, he almost fancied Mr Facey might tip him.

  “T-o-o-ld you so!” exclaimed Jack, rising in his stirrups “t-o-o-ld you so!” repeated he, pointing with his whip to where Wideawake was now leading, as usual. And Jack cheered the allied forces to the echo. Then,

  Invincible Jack and invincible Jowler,

  Invincible Tom and invincible Towler,

  all laid their heads together to assist in the grand consummation of the catch.

  The scent was now strong and good. They all seemed to enjoy it; even the generally mute ones threw their tongues occasionally, and the skirters closed in for their share of the fun. So they raced along Galloway Lane, down Dinlington Hill (astonishing a gipsy camp at the turn), and, striking away across Castle Kennedy Common, made for the dewy vale of Horbury Heath beyond. This was one of the misnamed, or rather nature-changed, countries—like many commons, chases, and meres, which now present nothing of their original state; and Horbury Heath, instead of being a wild, desolate track, frequented only by plovers and poachers, was a rich alluvial soil, with stout quickset fences and very wide, uncomfortable-looking ditches. Now, the Benicia Boy was fond of leaping, and made for the thick of these impediments, bucking and bounding as if they were so many skipping-ropes, to the great discomfiture of many of his followers. Here Mr Willy Watkins, having sorely scratched his face, declined any further distinction. At Brailsford Bank, however, the field was presently recruited by the appearance of our coatless friend, Independent Jimmy, who, having now got a young iron-grey in lieu of Mr Hazey’s old
horse, thought to try if he could do anything in the hunting way. So, on meeting the stag bobbing along, he unharnessed the young horse from the melon frame, and tying his aged companion up to a gate, was ready mounted, bare-backed, blinkers and all, when the tailing hounds came toiling up.

  “He’s on,” said Jimmy, jerking his head the way he had gone, and on they went along the grassy siding of the road, which the Boy had run on, in preference to the hard. Mr Rogers was now in command, the fat boy having fallen in arrear at some of the more formidable places, and his rough-actioned horse, Hatter-his-heart-out, having worked him up into a considerable stew.

  So far the Benicia Boy had kept clear of the towns, and would most likely have continued that course if they had not come in his way; but the pretty little village of Cherryford standing on rising ground, temptingly diversified by green slopes and gardens, was too inviting for an enterprising stag to withstand. So, taking the village diagonally, he passed through Mr Collupton’s flower-garden, over Mr Hopkins’s bleaching-field, into Pansey’s nursery-ground, and from thence into a high beech-hedged slip of ground, interspersed with swings, hoops, and gymnasiums. This was neither more nor less than the playground at the back of Miss Birch’s finishing and polishing seminary; and, in all probability, the Benicia Boy would have passed quietly along the passage, through the centre of the house—the vis-à-vis doors of which stood invitingly open—and so out on to the lawn in front, but for the wretched jingling notes of the old school piano, that parents buy so often over in the course of their children’s education, causing him to stop and listen attentively, to hear whether it was his old friends the hounds or not. Retreating a few steps, with a slight digression to the right, brought him in front of a plate-glass window, at which, after contemplating himself attentively, he made a most deliberate dash, landing handsomely in the drawing-room, clearing the globes and a model of Vienna. What a crash and commotion was there!

  “Murder! thieves! murder!” screeched Miss Birch, hurrying down from her bed-room.

  “Thieves! murder! thieves!” roared the cook.

  “Pollis! pollis!” squeaked the page, rushing frantically out the front way.

  But, before any extraneous assistance could arrive, the redoubtable Wideawake came bounding through the window too; and the Benicia Boy, seeing his old enemy, rushed at the now open door, passing over the prostrate body of Miss Birch, and making along the passage for the front of the house, without waiting to read the beautiful rainbow-shaped blue and gold affiche, MISS BIRCH’S FINISHING AND POLISHING ACADEMY, exhibited conspicuously in the garden, he cleared the iron rails at a bound, knocking off the hat of the pedestrian postman as he passed with the letters. The cook then having closed the drawing-room door on Wideawake (who did not like again facing the window), the immediate progress of the chace was arrested.

  The cock-throppled chestnut having got into difficulties, Jack Rogers was glad to catch at a holloa, which lead him clear of the small enclosures around Cherryford village; and now, getting his horn, he clapped forrard with his hounds, to lay them on at the windmill, where the view was just given to the south. Here they hit upon a scent untarnished by Wideawake, who, Jack candidly admitted (in reply to Facey’s uncomplimentary observation, that he ought to be hung), was “rather o’er swift o’ foot for them that day;” and Wiseacre led the long-drawn line with his accustomed vigorous energy. But Wideawake was the dog the Benicia Boy most dreaded, for he was in the habit of haunching him unawares; whereas Wiseacre, like the filial Irishman who never kicked his father when he was down, always gave him timely notice of his coming. Still, Wideawake had his use, in keeping the stag going when he might otherwise be inclined to soil or to sulk. Being now pent up at Miss Birch’s, the Boy soon found he hadn’t him in his wake, and began taking things in the easy, leisurely sort of way that a crow takes a gamekeeper on a Sunday, or a fox trots away before a party of shooters on a week day. There the noble animal might be seen going like a galvanised donkey, now trotting, now bucking, now trotting again; passing from pasture to fallow, and from fallow to wheat, in the open, undisguised way of a quadruped that is not afraid to be seen. He hasn’t robbed a hen-roost, or run away with an old fat goose. He got his living like a gentleman, not like one of those skulking marauders called foxes, who were continually attacking people’s poultry, and committing petty larcenies of that sort. He was above such work; could carry his head high—and high he did carry it. So on he went at a stilty trot as before.

  At length the Benicia Boy, having traversed some eight or nine miles of country, which at the old posting price of eighteen-pence a mile, and three-pence to the driver, would come to some fifteen shillings and nine-pence, possibly bethought him he had done enough for his dinner, and, being no longer tormented by the impetuous Wideawake, began casting about in search of repose. He did not want to break any more windows, for he thought he had scratched himself in the side at Miss Birch’s, and would rather prefer a barn or an outhouse with some clean straw in it. So he skirted the side of Hackberry Hill—half field and half moor—staring complacently round the country in search of what he wanted. There was a church steeple in front, denoting a village, another to the left, with a third in the rear. The latter, however, wouldn’t do, for he heard Jack’s horn, with the occasional accompaniment of the hounds,—yoou, yoou, yap, yap, yoou, yoou, they went.

  Just at this moment the picturesque outline of Pipeington Tilery presented itself, stretching its long length half across a five-acre field, offering every accommodation, including a mud-bath, that an aristocratic stag could desire; and thither our unantlered monarch decided on entrenching himself. So, sinking the hill, he struck boldly across country, not trying to take the tilery in the flank, but going right at the centre, spoiling as many green bricks as he could in passing over the drying ground. He then blobbed down into the spacious mud bath between it and the tilery, and began swimming and cooling himself in its yellow waters. Great was the commotion the descent caused in the tilery. Tom Sparrow, the boy in charge of the pug-mill, who saw him coming, and thought it was Geordy Crosier’s trespassing donkey, now stared as a hen stares when her ducklings take water. The moulders ceased their labours, the wheelers dropped their barrows, the clay-diggers their spades, and the firemen left their furnaces. It was confusion all and consternation. What the devil was it? The cry of the hounds and the cheer of the hunters presently enlightened them; and, looking to the left, they saw the gallant pack streaming down Hackberry Hill, closely followed by Rogers and Romford, and the man on the grey.

  “Sink it’ll be a stag!” exclaimed one.

  “So it will!” roared another.

  “That fat man’s from the Nook,” rejoined a third.

  “Keep him in! keep him in!” was now the cry, as the Benicia Boy struck out boldly for the tilery. Then they hooted and shooed him, and pelted him with clay.

  If the hounds tailed, so did the field; and Rogers, Jimmy, and Romford alone rode with the pack.

  “He’s taken soil!” exclaimed Jack, now pointing with his whip to the tilery commotion, as Romford and he galloped down Backberry Hill together.

  “Soil, is it?” said Romford, “it looks to me very like water.”

  “Oh, that’s what we stag-hunters call soil,” replied Jack, inducting Romford into the science.

  “Do you?” rejoined Romford, thinking they might as well call it by its right name.

  “For-rard! for-rard!” cheered Jack, thinking that Romford cannot fail to be highly delighted with the performance. Jack then looks back for his master.

  And sure enough, on the now almost white-lathered Hatter-his-heart-oat, comes the fat boy, puffing and blowing and looking very like a peony. He has indeed had a tremendous gallop, Hatter-his-heart-out having acted well up to his name, and nearly shaken him to pieces. Since our master, Mr Stotfold, declined the dangerous in favour of Jack Rogers, he has had a good deal of rough fencing to contend with alone; none of the leaders of the chace doing much for their followers in t
he way of breaking the fences, and the heterogeneous group who united their fortunes with his, expecting “red coat” to do all for them. So he had nothing for it but to throw his magnanimous heart over each fence, and follow it as quickly as ever he could. And though Hatter-his-heart-out was a desperately rough galloper, he was a very smooth leaper; measuring, however, his ground so closely, as always to make the fat boy think he was going to let him down, thus keeping him in a state of constant labour and excitement.

  Indeed but for the honour and credit of the thing, he should have preferred stopping before; for though it was undoubtedly a good thing to get a good gallop, yet the operation might be overdone, and the appetite injured instead of promoted. What he wanted was, to bring it home with a bloom upon it that would entitle him to oysters and porter and a substantial repast after. That he thought he had got before he came to the windmill, consequently all that had taken place since was what might be called work of supererogation. And now that he saw the prospect of a close, his flagging spirits rose within him, and getting Hatter-his-heart-out short by the head, he stood in his stirrups giving a squeaking cheer to his followers as he pointed out the strange confusion in the vale below. He then made for the tilery as hard as ever he could. What a hubbub was there! Clowns from all parts had turned up to the scene—clowns from the ploughs, clowns from the harrows, clowns from the hedges, just as the roughs turn up in London at the prospect of a row—Willy and Harry and Jackey and all.

  They thought the stag was going to be killed, and that they might come in for a slice. So they hemmed the Benicia Boy in on all sides, determined he shouldn’t get away, despite Squeakey’s urgent entreaties that they would let him land. Then the before-mentioned rope was produced from Mr Stotfold’s inner pocket, and Hatter-his-heart-out being resigned to a lad, our Master commenced lassoing the stag with clumsy dexterity. Now he was near him, now he was wide; now he was near him again. At length he lassoed and landed him, amid the cheers of the populace. Instead, however, of sticking and skinning him as the countrymen expected, giving the head to Willy, the neck to Jackey, and the haunch to Harry, Mr Stotfold began staring about, squeaking for the carriage. He wanted the old gentlemen in green again.