Mr Facey Romford's Hounds

by R S Surtees

  “Have you seen my fellow?—have you seen my fellow?” demanded he, running from party to party.

  “Have you seen my fellow?” asks he, rushing up to Independent Jimmy, now standing by the side of the panting iron grey.

  “Nor, arm d—d if iver ar did,” replied Jimmy, bursting into laughter.

  At length the carriage was seen stopping the way at the top of Cinderby Lane, and a man of the place was induced by the promise of a shilling to go and conduct it through the field to the tilery. The while it was jolting its way down the rutty road, nearly tilting old Solomon out of his seat, our fat friend cast about on foot fishing for compliments on the length and severity of the run.

  “Capital (puff) gallop,” said he, cooling his cauliflower head by taking off his cap. “Excellent (gasp) run,” continued he, mopping his brow with a yellow Bandana. “Never saw the old (puff, gasp,) Benicia Boy in such (puff) before. Can’t have come less than twenty miles—twenty (puff) miles in (puff) and twenty minutes.

  Then he approached Mr Romford, who he thought ought to have come to him.

  “Well, and what do you (puff) of it?” asked he, still continuing the mop of his greatly perspiring brow.

  “Well oi, ha-hem-haw, think it’s just about the ha-hem-haw sport oi know,” replied Mr Romford, adding “oive half a mind to set up a pack myself to hunt the same day as the foxhounds, in order to draw off the superfluous of the field.”

  And the fat boy, feeling the compliment, but fearing the consequences, blurted out in reply—

  “Don’t my (gasp) feller, I’ll (puff) mine down whenever you (gasp).”

  And thereupon he tendered his fat hand to Romford, who concluded the bargain with a shake.

  The deer-carriage then came jolting down to the tilery, and a feed of oats in front and a kick behind soon sent the Benicia Boy back into the place from whence he came, amid the jeers and cheers of the populace.

  Just then the sound of lamentation arose high above the shouts and clamour of the crowd. It was Jack Rogers bewailing the loss of his favourite hound, running about wringing his hands, asking if anyone had seen him. “Seen a yellow pied hound with a short tail—a yellow pied hound with a short tail?” But we need scarcely say that nobody at the tilery has, for Miss Birch having kept the redoutable dog safe under lock and key until her strong job gardener came, he administered such a bastinadoeing as sent the old dog scampering home, with his short tail between his legs, as hard as ever he could. In vain, therefore, Jack whooped and halloaed, and twanged his horn. No Wideawake came.

  “Oh, he’ll cast up,” at length squeaked Mr Stotfold, getting tired of the wait. “He’ll cast up,” repeated he, making for where Hatter-his-heart-out was still being led about by the boy. Then, getting the horse into a clay hole, he made a vigorous assault on the saddle, and, having settled himself in his seat, he chucked the lad a shilling, and drawing his thin reins, with a touch of the spur put his thick horse in motion.

  The hunt was then up; the disappointed chaws returned to their clays and their clods; anxious Jack Rogers moved off with his hounds, still casting about for the lost one; and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy that they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.

  “Ar’ll show you the way,” said Jimmy, jumping on to the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.

  “Ar think nout o’ this stag-huntin’,” observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.

  “Nor I,” rejoined Mr Romford, following him.

  “When you’ve catched the stag, ye’re ne better off than ye were afore,” observed Jimmy.

  “Just so,” said Romford.

  Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the far side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.

  “Greate numb beast!” exclaimed Jimmy, jumping up and catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford.

  A few more fields brought them to where Jimmy had placed his second horse; which now having reached, he prepared to resuscitate the melon-frame, leaving Mr Romford to pursue his journey without him.

  “Ye can’t miss yer way,” said Jimmy, jerking his head in the direction of Dalberry Lees. “Ye can’t miss yer way. Just keep axin for the biggest feuil in the country, and they’ll be sure to send yer to Lees.” So saying, he gave our master a nod, and turned away to the right.

  Mr Romford then rode on, and having a good eye for country, soon took his bearings, and without troubling any of the country people with the inquiry Jimmy propounded, speedily found his way back to the glittering gates. Then having arrived at the house, he alighted at the front door and desired a footman to take the horse round to the stable; which saved him an interview with Gullpicker, Mr Watkins’s Melton groom, whom nobody would have at Melton. Then Miss met him, all radiant with smiles, so glad to see him safe back; mamma was delighted to hear Mr Romford say he was much amused with the hunt, and altogether she thought they had made a great hit in having the fat boy down. And out came the flute and the harp for “Bob Ridley.”

  XLVII

  MR STANLEY STERLING

  MR FACEY ROMFORD HAD NOW got pretty well settled in his saddle in Doubleimupshire. He had seen most of the great guns of the country: the Watkinses and the teapot-handle man, and had now extended his acquaintance to the fat boy and the interesting family of the neighbouring master of hounds, Mr Hazey. He had also established a nodding and “how-are-ye” acquaintance with the non-hunting Fuller, and Fowler, and Binks, and Brown, and Postle, and Hucklebridge, whom he prudently sir’d or mister’d in blank, instead of risking a shot at their names, and perhaps making a bad hit. There is nothing people dislike so much as being misnamed.

  The country, if not first-rate, was fairly sporting: good enough for those who lived in and knew it, and yet not good enough to tempt peripatetic sportsmen out of their ways, unless, indeed, they happened to have a billet with someone in it. This immunity from strangers was a great comfort to Mr Romford, for some men are troubled with such a mania for pack-seeing, that there is no saying but an inquisitive stranger might have strayed from the other Mr Romford’s, and instituted an invidious comparison between our Master and him. Not that anyone could take exception to our friend’s hounds, or his horses, or his system of hunting; but they might have raised the question, Which was the right Romford?—asserted, perhaps, that Facey was not the man who lived at Abbeyfield Park, which would have been very discouraging and difficult to gainsay. A master of hounds ought not to have his attention distracted by extraneous matter—especially a master hunting his own hounds, as our friend did.

  Like most countries, Doubleimupshire varied a good deal: some parts of it being good, some of it indifferent, and much of it bad. The low-lands were deep and boggy, with great false-bottomed drains, large enough to hold both horse and rider; but, then, these very drains contributed to the sound riding of the up-lands, they being, in fact, the receivers and conveyers of the superfluous water that fell. Then there were the Bentley Hills, over which hounds raced; and the Heckington and Stanborough vales, where they dwelt, requiring all the Romford science and energy to get them along. Taking the country, however, as a whole, the soil was favourable to scent, as the staple of it was generally good. And Romford’s hounds could solve the difficult problem, “Which way has he gone?” in most parts of it.

  The best part of the country, undoubtedly, lies between Shervington Bridge and the town of Farmington Hill; but, then, it was infested by game preservers, who were generally suspected of Dalberry Lees practices, with regard to the illicit production of foxes. Formerly, three fields out of every four in this part were ploughed; but, since the repeal of the corn laws, the system has been reversed, and three fields are now in old
grass or clover ley, for one that is under the plough. The enclosures, too, are large and roomy—twenty and thirty acres each, with not over and above strong fences; but the land is deep and holding—or what Mr Otto Musk, the Leicestershire swell who got straggled there, once described as “flat, dirty, and unpleasant.” Still, there were no fences mended with old wire-rope in it, and the brooks are generally fairly jumpable—at least, when not flooded.

  But we will indulge in a day in this the most favoured locality, and select a meet at Independent Jimmy’s friend, Mr Stanley Sterling’s, he being about the only real sportsman on that side of the country.

  Mr Sterling was a comfortable man, and was waited upon by a woman. After that, we need scarcely say he was a bachelor: for where is the lady who will submit to be tended by one of her own sex, if she can possibly help it? Well, Mr Stanley Sterling was a comfortable man, and was waited upon by a woman. He lived at a pretty, old-fashioned, gable-ended, grey-roofed place, called Rosemount Grange: where there was always a spare stall for a horse, and a hearty welcome for a friend. Moreover, there was generally a good wild fox to be found in his cover, Light-thorn-rough, at the back of the house, the next morning.

  Let us also suppose that Mr Facey Romford—lured, perhaps, by the fame of Mr Stanley Sterling’s nutty sherry, ruby port, and comfortable ménage generally—has come over to Rosemount to be handy for the meet on the morrow; and that Mr Freeman, of Shenstone Burn, commonly called Old Saddlebags, and the clergyman of the parish, form the parli quarré, for the evening.

  Freeman, who is hard upon eighty years of age, has hunted all his life, and looks more like sixty than what he really is. He is a stout, square-built man, with silvery-white hair, shading an extremely rubicund face, with strongly marked lines, and whipcord like muscles: a little, twinkling, grey eye, lights up an intelligent countenance.

  In marching order—that is to say, the day before hunting—Mr Freeman travels in his red coat and other hunting things, having his horse-rug rolled up before him, and the aforesaid saddlebags, containing his dress things, underneath him. Thus accoutred, he makes for the house of the nearest acquaintance he has to the meet, where Bags and his horse are always heartily welcome. Compared with the pyramids of luggage with which a modern exquisite travels, Saddlebags’ wardrobe would seem strangely deficient; but Bags had lived in times when locomotion was difficult, and people had to think what they could do without, and not what they could do with—which, after all, is a great ingredient in travelling.

  And yet to see the old gentleman come down in his nice black dress-coat, filled shirt, and clean vest—the latter vying the whiteness of his hair—with black shorts, silk stockings, and pumps, no one would suppose but he had come in his carriage, with a valet to boot. There he stands before Mr Stanley Sterling’s bright parlour-fire with a beech-log on the top, as radiant and sparkling as the fuel itself. There, too, is Mr Romford, looking him over, thinking what a man he is for his years; and now in comes the Reverend Mr Teacher, the vicar, and the party is complete.

  Mr Stanley Sterling did not attempt side-dishes, but let his cook concentrate her talents upon a few general favourites. Hence, the ox-tail soup was always beautifully clear and hot, the crimped-cod and oyster-sauce excellent, while the boiled fowls and ruddy ham ran a close race with the four-year-old leg of roast mutton, leaving the relish they give for the “sweet or dry” to support their claims for preference. Beet and mealy potatoes accompanied the solids, and macaroni and mince-pies followed in due course. A bottle of Beaujolais circulated with the cheese. They had then all dined to their hearts’ content. As Romford chucked his napkin in a sort of happy-go-lucky way over his left shoulder, he thought how much better it was than any of the grand spreads he had seen. Grace being said, the plate-warmer was then taken from the fire, the horseshoe-table substituted, and each man prepared to make himself comfortable according to his own peculiar fashion.

  And as each succeeding glass of bright port wine circulated down Mr Saddlebags’ vest, the old man warmed with sporting recollections until he became a perfect chronicle of the chase. He seemed to remember everything—when Mr Princeps had the Hard and Sharps—when Mr Tedbury had the Larkspur—when Sir Thomas Twyford had a third pack that hunted all the country east of Horndean Hut, and so across by Broad Halfpenny wood lands to the town of Cross Hands in Marshdale. Then he got upon the subject of runs. That tremendous run from Trouble House to Wooton Wood, eighteen miles as the crow flies, when nobody could get near the hounds for the last two miles save little Jim, the second whip, on a Pretender mare—the best animal that ever was foaled—no fence too large or day too long for her. Or that magnificent day from Scotgrove-hill to Wellingore, when some of the crack men of the Hot and Heavy Hunt were out, and they ran from scent to view in the middle of Heatherwick Moor, thirteen miles, without allowing for bends,—the finest men with the finest finish that ever was seen! To all which Mr Romford sat listening as he would to a lecture. Facey dearly loved to pick up such stories at the end of a stinger. He kept weeding his chin till he almost made it sore.

  Dinner having been at six, at nine o’clock precisely—for fox-hunters are generally pretty punctual—Bridget the maid re-entered the room with the tea-tray, just as the second bottle of port was finished, thus putting a stop to the veteran’s recitals and causing him to fall back on the sherry. A game of whist followed tea, and Mr Teacher having taken his departure, Mr Facey retired to his comfortable couch with five shillings more in his pocket than he brought. “Not a bad night’s work,” muttered our Master, as he added a couple of shillings to it that he had of his own. He never gave house-servants anything, alleging that he could take care of himself,—nor stable ones either, if he thought his horses would fare as well without his doing so.

  XLVIII

  MR STANLEY STERLING’S FOX

  BREAKFAST AT ROSEMOUNT GRANGE WAS conducted pretty much on the London Club principle, each guest having his separate ménage, viz., two teapots, one containing the beverage, the other the hot water, a small glass basin of sugar, a ditto butter-boat and cream-ewer, together with a muffin or bun, and a rack of dry toast. A common coffee-pot occupied the centre of the round-table, flanked on the one side with a well-filled egg-stand, and on the other with a dish of beautiful moor-edge honey. On the side-table were hot meats and cold, with the well-made household bread. Hence, each man, on coming down, rang for his own supply without reference to anyone else—a great convenience to foxhunters, who like riding leisurely on instead of going full tilt to cover.

  On this auspicious day, however, it was “all serene,” as old Saddlebags said, the Master being in the house, and the hounds having to meet before the door; so they dawdled and talked as people do who are not in a hurry and are sure of being in time. Mr Romford was the only one who felt any concern, but his was not the uneasiness caused by the fear of unpunctuality, but alarm lest the redoubtable servants should arrive in a state of inebriety. Lucy, however, had undertaken to see them safe away from Beldon Hall, and the strong persevering man, who bought Mr Romford’s horse, was charged to look after them on the road. And very creditably they both fulfilled their mission, for as our Master was deeply absorbed in the dissection of a woodcock’s leg, the click of a gate attracted his attention, and looking up he saw the gay cavalcade pass along the little bridge over the brook into the front field, in very creditable form—Swig sitting bolt upright on his horse, and Chowey preparing his succulent mouth for fawning operations on the field.

  The sight acted electrically on the party: Mr Sterling finished his tea, Mr Romford took the woodcock leg in his fingers, and old Bags quaffed off his half-cup of coffee at a draught. They were then presently up and at the window. Bridget went out with the bread, cheese, and ale on a tray, while Mr Sterling unlocked the cellaret, and produced cherry brandy and liquors for those who chose to partake of them. In came Bonus, and Dennis, and Bankford, and two or three other never-miss-a-chancers. Meanwhile our host and his guests are off to the stable, where
the horses are turned round in the stalls all ready for a start. They mount and away, Romford on the Baker, late Placid Joe, Bags on his eighteen-years-old bay horse, still called the “colt,” and Mr Sterling on a five-year-old iron grey of his own breeding. Thus they come round to the front, to receive the “sky scrapes” of the men, and the “mornins” and “how are ye’s?” of the field. Then more horsemen came cantering up, and more went into the house. At length the time being up—say a quarter to eleven—and Mr Facey making it a rule never to wait for unpunctual people, be their subscriptions ever so large, now gives a significant jerk of his head to Swig, which, communicating itself to Chowey, the two instantly have their horses by the head with the lively hounds bounding and frolicking forward the way the horses are going. The foot-people run and open the white gates, the parti-coloured cavalcade follow in long-drawn file, and the whole are presently in front of Light-thorn-rough—a cover so near the house and yet so secluded as almost to look like part of the premises. A deep triangular dell of some three acres in extent, abounding in blackthorn, gorse, broom, and fern, presenting in every part dry and most unexceptionable lying. The bridle-gate leading to it was always kept locked, and there was no foot-road within three quarters of a mile of it. Here indeed a fox might repose. Some persons are always certain that covers will hold a fox—even though they may have been shooting in them the day before—and keep repeating and reiterating the assertion up to the very moment of testing its accuracy. “Sure to be there!—sure to be there! Certain as if I saw him!” perhaps with a view of hiding their delinquency. Mr Stanley Sterling was not one of the positive order. He knew the nature of his wild animal too well to be bail for his appearance. So in answer to numerous inquiries if they are likely to find, he merely says he “hopes so,” and then takes up a quiet position for a view, a point from whence he can see without being seen himself.