CHAPTER IX
THE MEET--THE FIND, AND THE FINISH
Early to bed and early to rise being among Mr. Sponge's maxims, he wasenjoying the view of the pantiles at the back of his hotel shortly afterdaylight the next morning, a time about as difficult to fix in a Novemberday as the age of a lady of a 'certain age.' It takes even an expeditiousdresser ten minutes or a quarter of an hour extra the first time he has todeal with boots and breeches; and Mr. Sponge being quite a pattern card inhis peculiar line, of course took a good deal more to get himself 'up'.
An accustomed eye could see a more than ordinary stir in the streets thatmorning. Riding-masters and their assistants might be seen going along withstrings of saddled and side-saddled screws; flys began to roll at anearlier hour, and natty tigers to kick about in buckskins prior todeparting with hunters, good, bad, and indifferent.
Each man had told his partner at Miss Jumpheavy's ball of the capital trickthey were going to play the stranger; and a desire to see the stranger, farmore than a desire to see the trick, caused many fair ones to forsake theirdowny couches who had much better have kept them.
The world is generally very complaisant with regard to strangers, so longas they _are_ strangers, generally making them out to be a good deal betterthan they really are, and Mr. Sponge came in for his full share of strangercredit. They not only brought all the twenty horses Leather said he hadscattered about to Laverick Wells, but made him out to have a house inEaton Square, a yacht at Cowes, and a first-rate moor in Scotland, andsome said a peerage in expectancy. No wonder that he 'drew,' as theatricalpeople say.
Let us now suppose him breakfasted, and ready for a start.
He was 'got up' with uncommon care in the most complete style of the severeorder of sporting costume. It being now the commencement of the legitimatehunting season--the first week in November--he availed himself of theprivileged period for turning out in everything new. Rejecting the nowgenerally worn cap, he adhered to the heavy, close-napped hat, described inour opening chapter, whose connexion with his head, or back, if it cameoff, was secured by a small black silk cord, hooked through the band by afox's tooth, and anchored to a button inside the haven of his lowcoat-collar. His neck was enveloped in the ample folds of a large whitesilk cravat, tied in a pointing diamond tie, and secured with a largesilver horse-shoe pin, the shoe being almost large enough for the foot of ayoung donkey.
His low, narrow-collared coat was of the infinitesimal order; that is tosay, a coat, and yet as little of a coat as possible--very near a jacket,in fact. The seams, of course, were outside, and were it not for theextreme strength and evenness of the sewing and the evident intention ofthe thing, an ignorant person might have supposed that he had had his coatturned. A double layer of cloth extended the full length of the outside ofthe sleeves, much in the fashion of the stage-coachmen's greatcoats informer times; and instead of cuffs, the sleeves were carried out to theends of the fingers, leaving it to the fancy of the wearer to sport a longcuff or a short cuff, or no cuff at all--just as the weather dictated.Though the coat was single-breasted, he had a hole made on the button side,to enable him to keep it together by means of a miniature snaffle, insteadof a button. The snaffle passed across his chest, from whence the coatee,flowing easily back, displayed the broad ridge and furrow of a white cordwaistcoat, with a low step collar, the vest reaching low down his figure,with large flap pockets and a nick out in front, like a coachman's.Instead of buttons, the waistcoat was secured with foxes' tusks and catgutloops, while a heavy curb chain, passing from one pocket to the other,raised the impression that there was a watch in one and a bunch of seals inthe other. The waistcoat was broadly bound with white binding, and, likethe coat, evinced great strength and powers of resistance. His breecheswere of a still broader furrow than the waistcoat, looking as if theploughman had laid two ridges into one. They came low down the leg, andwere met by a pair of well-made, well put on, very brown topped boots, acolour then unknown at Laverick Wells. His spurs were bright and heavy,with formidable necks and rowels, whose slightest touch would make a horsewince, and put him on his good behaviour.
Nor did the great slapping brown horse, Hercules, turn out less imposinglythan his master. Leather, though not the man to work himself, had a verygood idea of work, and right manfully he made the helpers at the Eclipselivery and bait stables strap and groom his horses. Hercules was a fineanimal. It did not require a man to be a great judge of a horse to seethat. Even the ladies, though perhaps they would rather have had him awhite or a cream colour, could not but admire his nut-brown muzzle, hisglossy coat, his silky mane, and the elegant way in which he carried hisflowing tail. His step was delightful to look at--so free, so accurate, andso easy. And that reminds us that we may as well be getting Mr. Spongeup--a feat of no easy accomplishment. Few hack hunters are without theirlittle peculiarities. Some are runaways--some kick--some bite--some go tailfirst on the road--some go tail first at their fences--some rush as if theywere going to eat them, others baulk them altogether--and few, very few,give satisfaction. Those that do, generally retire from the public stud tothe private one. But to our particular quadruped, 'Hercules.'
Mr. Sponge was not without his misgivings that, regardless of being on hispreferment, the horse might exhibit more of his peculiarity than wouldforward his master's interests, and, independently of the disagreeablenessof being kicked off at the cover side, not being always compensated for byfalling soft, Mr. Sponge thought, as the meet was not far off, and he didnot sport a cover hack, it would look quite as well to ride his horsequietly on as go in a fly, provided always he could accomplish themount--the mount--like the man walking with his head under his arm--beingthe first step to everything.
Accordingly, Mr. Leather had the horse saddled and accoutred as quietly aspossible--his warm clothing put over the saddle immediately, and everythingkept as much in the usual course as possible, so that the noble animal'stemper might not be ruffled by unaccustomed trouble or unusual objects.Leather having seen that the horse could not eject Mr. Sponge even introusers, had little fear of his dislodging him in boots and breeches;still it was desirable to avoid all unseemly contention, and maintain thehigh character of the stud, by which means Leather felt that his owncharacter and consequence would best be maintained. Accordingly, herefrained from calling in the aid of any of the stable assistants,preferring for once to do a little work himself, especially when the riderwas up to the trick, and not 'a gent' to be cajoled into 'trying a horse.'Mr. Sponge, punctual to his time, appeared at the stable, and after muchpatting, whistling, so--so--ing, my man, and general ingratiation, theredoubtable nag was led out of the stable into a well-littered straw-yard,where, though he might be gored by a bull if he fell, the 'eyes of England'at all events would not witness the floorer. Horses, however, havewonderful memories and discrimination. Though so differently attired towhat he was on the occasion of his trial, the horse seemed to recognize Mr.Sponge, and independently of a few snorts as he was led out, and anindignant stamp or two of his foot as it was let down, after Mr. Sponge wasmounted he took things very quietly.
'Now,' said Leather, in an undertone, patting the horse's arched neck,'I'll give you a hint; they're a goin' to run a drag to try what he's madeon, so be on the look-out.'
'How do you know?' asked Mr. Sponge, in surprise, drawing his reins as hespoke.
'_I know_,' replied Mr. Leather with a wink.
Just then the horse began to plunge, and paw, and give symptoms ofuneasiness, and not wishing to fret or exhibit his weak points, Mr. Spongegave him his head, and passing through the side-gate was presently in thestreet. He didn't exactly understand it, but having full confidence in hishorsemanship, and believing the one he was on required nothing but riding,he was not afraid to take his chance.
Not being the man to put his candle under a bushel, Mr. Sponge took theprincipal streets on his way out of town. We are not sure that he did notgo rather out of his way to get them in, but that is neither here northere, seeing he was a str
anger who didn't know the way. What a sensationhis appearance created as the gallant brown stepped proudly and freely upCoronation Street, showing his smart, clean, well-put-on head up and downon the unrestrained freedom of the snaffle.
'Oh, d--n it, there he is!' exclaimed Mr. Spareneck, jumping up from thebreakfast-table, and nearly sweeping the contents off by catching the clothwith his spur.
'Where?' exclaimed half-a-dozen voices, amid a general rush to the windows.
'What a fright!' exclaimed little Miss Martindale, whispering into MissBeauchamp's ear: 'I'm sure anybody may have him for me,' though she felt inher heart that he was far from bad looking.
'I wonder how long he's taken to put on that choker,' observed Mr.Spareneck, eyeing him intently, not without an inward qualm that he had sethimself a more difficult task than he imagined, to 'cut him down,'especially when he looked at the noble animal he bestrode, and the masterlyway he sat him.
'What a pair of profligate boots,' observed Captain Whitfield, as ourfriend now passed his lodgings.
'It would be the duty of a right-thinking man to ride over a fellow in sucha pair,' observed his friend, Mr. Cox, who was breakfasting with him.
'Ride over a fellow in such a pair!' exclaimed Whitfield. 'No well-bredhorse would face such things, I should think.'
'He seems to think a good deal of himself!' observed Mr. Cox, as Spongecast an admiring eye down his shining boot.
'Shouldn't wonder,' replied Whitfield; 'perhaps he'll have the conceittaken out of him before night.'
'Well, I hope you'll be in time, old boy!' exclaimed Mr. Waffles tohimself, as looking down from his bedroom window, he espied Mr. Spongepassing up the street on his way to cover. Mr. Waffles was just out of bed,and had yet to dress and breakfast.
One man in scarlet sets all the rest on the fidget, and without troublingto lay 'that or that' together, they desert their breakfasts, hurry to thestables, get out their horses and rattle away, lest their watches should bewrong or some arrangement made that they are ignorant of. The hounds too,were on, as was seen as well by their footmarks, as by the bob, bob,bobbing of sundry black caps above the hedges, on the Borrowdon road as thehuntsman and whips proceeded at that pleasant post-boy trot, that hasroused the wrath of so many riders against horses that they could not getto keep in time.
Now look at old Tom, cocked jauntily on the spicey bay and see what adifferent Tom he is to what he was last night. Instead of a battered,limping, shabby-looking little old man, he is all alive and rises to theaction of his horse, as though they were all one. A fringe of grey hairprotrudes beneath his smart velvet cap, which sets off a weather-beaten butkeen and expressive face, lit up with little piercing black eyes. See howchirpy and cheery he is; how his right arm keeps rising and falling withhis whip, beating responsive to the horse's action with the butt-endagainst his thigh. His new scarlet coat imparts a healthy hue to his face,and good boots and breeches hide the imperfections of his bad legs. Hishounds seem to partake of the old man's gaiety, and gather round his horseor frolic forward on the grassy sidings of the road, till, getting almostout of earshot, a single 'yooi doit!--Arrogant!'--or 'here again, Brusher!'brings them cheerfully back to whine and look in the old man'sface for applause. Nor is he chary of his praise. 'G--ooodbetch!--Arrogant!--g--oood betch!' says he, leaning over his horse'sshoulder towards her, and jerking his hand to induce her to proceed forwardagain. So the old man trots gaily on, now making of his horse, now coaxinga hound, now talking to a 'whip,' now touching or taking off his cap as hepasses a sportsman, according to the estimation in which he holds him.
As the hounds reach Whirleypool Windmill, there is a grand rush ofpedestrians to meet them. First comes a velveteen-jacketed,leather-legginged keeper, with whom Tom (albeit suspicious of his honesty)thinks it prudent to shake hands; the miller and he, too, greet; andforthwith a black bottle with a single glass make their appearance, andpass current with the company. Then the earth-stopper draws nigh, and,resting a hand on Tom's horse's shoulder, whispers confidentially in hisear. The pedestrian sportsman of the country, too, has something to say;also a horse-breaker; while groups of awe-stricken children stand staringat the mighty Tom, thinking him the greatest man in the world.
Railways and fox-hunting make most people punctual, and in less than fiveminutes from the halting of the hounds by the Windmill, the various roadsleading up to it emit dark-coated grooms, who, dismounting, proceed tobrush off the mud sparks, and rectify any little derangement the horses ortheir accoutrements may have contracted on the journey. Presently Mr.Sponge, and such other gentlemen as have ridden their own horses on, castup, while from the eminence the road to Laverick Wells is distinctlytraceable with scarlet coats and flys, with furs and flaunting feathers.Presently the foremost riders begin to canter up the hill, when
All around is gay, men, horses, dogs, And in each smiling countenance appears Fresh blooming health and universal joy.
Then the ladies mingle with the scene, some on horseback, some in flys, allchatter and prattle as usual, some saying smart things, some trying, allmaking themselves as agreeable as possible, and of course as captivating.Some were in ecstasies at dear Miss Jumpheavy's ball--she was such a _nice_creature--such a charming ball, and so well managed, while others wereanticipating the delights of Mrs. Tom Hoppey's, and some again were askingwhich was Mr. Sponge. Then up went the eye-glasses, while Mr. Sponge satlooking as innocent and as killing as he could. 'Dear me!' exclaimed one,'he's younger than I thought.' 'That's him, is it?' observed another; 'Isaw him ride up the street'; while the propriety-playing ones praised hishorse, and said it was a beauty.
The hounds, which they all had come to see, were never looked at.
Mr. Waffles, like many men with nothing to do, was most unpunctual. Henever seemed to know what o'clock it was, and yet he had a watch, hung inchains, and gewgaws, like a lady's chatelaine. Hunting partook of thegeneral confusion. He did not profess to throw off till eleven, but it wasoften nearly twelve before he cast up. Then he would come up full tilt,surrounded by 'scarlets,' like a general with his staff; and once at themeet, there was a prodigious hurry to begin, equalled only by the eagernessto leave off. On this auspicious day he hove in sight, coming best pacealong the road, about twenty minutes before twelve, with a more numerousretinue than usual. In dress, Mr. Waffles was the light, butterfly order ofsportsman--once-round tie, French polish, paper boots, and so on. On thisoccasion he sported a shirt-collar with three or four blue lines, and thena white space followed by three or more blue lines, the whole terminatingin blue spots about the size of fourpenny pieces at the points; aonce-round blue silk tie, with white spots and flying ends. His coat was alight, jackety sort of thing, with little pockets behind, something in thestyle of Mr. Sponge's (a docked dressing-gown), but wanting the outsideseaming, back strapping, and general strength that characterized Mr.Sponge's. His waistcoat, of course, was a worked one--heart's-ease mingledwith foxes' heads, on a true blue ground, the gift of--we'll not saywho--his leathers were of the finest doe-skin, and his long-topped,pointed-toed boots so thin as to put all idea of wet or mud out of thequestion.
Such was the youth who now cantered up and took off his cap to the rank,beauty, and fashion, assembled at Whirleypool Windmill. He then proceededto pay his respects in detail. At length, having exhausted his 'nothings,'and said the same thing over again in a dozen different ways to a dozendifferent ladies, he gave a slight jerk of the head to Tom Towler, whoforthwith whistled his hounds together, and attended by the whips, bustledfrom the scene.
CAPTAIN GREATGUN]
Epping Hunt, in its most palmy days could not equal the exhibition that nowtook place. Some of the more lively of the horses, tired of waiting,perhaps pinched by the cold, for most of them were newly clipped, evincedtheir approbation of the move, by sundry squeals and capers, which beingcaught by others in the neighbourhood, the infection quickly spread, and inless than a minute there was such a scene of rocking, and rearing, andkicking, and prancing, and
neighing and shooting over heads, and rollingover tails, and hanging on by manes, mingled with such screamings from theladies in the flys, and such hearty-sounding kicks against splash boardsand fly bottoms, from sundry of the vicious ones in harness, as never waswitnessed. One gentleman, in a bran-new scarlet, mounted on a flourishingpiebald, late the property of Mr. Batty, stood pawing and fighting the air,as if in the saw-dust circle, his unfortunate rider clinging round hisneck, expecting to have the beast back over upon him. Another little wirychestnut, with abundance of rings, racing martingale, and tackle generally,just turned tail on the crowd and ran off home as hard as ever he could laylegs to the ground; while a good steady bay cob, with a barrel like a butt,and a tail like a hearth-brush, having selected the muddiest, dirtiestplace he could find, deliberately proceeded to lie down, to the horror ofhis rider, Captain Greatgun, of the royal navy, who, feeling himselfsuddenly touch mother earth, thought he was going to be swallowed up alive,and was only awoke from the delusion by the shouts of the foot people,telling him to get clear of his horse before he began to roll.
Hercules would fain have joined the truant set, and, at the firstcommotion, up went his great back, and down went his ears, with a singlelash out behind that meant mischief, but Mr. Sponge was on the alert, andjust gave him such a dig with his spurs as restored order, without exposinganything that anybody could take notice of.
The sudden storm was quickly lulled. The spilt ones scrambled up; the looseriders got tighter hold of their horses; the screaming fair ones sanklanguidly in their carriages; and the late troubled ocean of equestriansfell into irregular line _en route_ for the cover.
Bump, bump, bump; trot, trot, trot; jolt, jolt, jolt; shake, shake, shake;and carriages and cavalry got to Ribston Wood somehow or other. It is along cover on a hill-side, from which parties, placing themselves in thegreen valley below, can see hounds 'draw,' that is to say, run through withtheir noses to the ground, if there are any men foolish enough to believethat ladies care for seeing such things. However, there they were.
'Eu leu, in!' cries old Tom, with a wave of his arm, finding he can nolonger restrain the ardour of the pack as they approach, and thinking tosave his credit, by appearing to direct. 'Eu leu, in!' repeats he, with aheartier cheer, as the pack charge the rotten fence with a crash thatechoes through the wood. The whips scuttle off to their respective points,gentlemen feel their horses' girths, hats are thrust firmly on the head,and the sherry and brandy flasks begin to be drained.
'Tally ho!' cries a countryman at the top of the wood, hoisting his hat ona stick. At the magic sound, fear comes over some, joy over others, intenseanxiety over all. What commotion! What indecision! What confusion! 'Whichway?--Which way?' is the cry.
'Twang, twang, twang,' goes old Tom's horn at the top of the wood, whitherhe seems to have flown, so quick has he got there.
A dark-coated gentleman on a good family horse solves the importantquestion--'Which way?'--by diving at once into the wood, crashing alongtill he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, when the scene openingto 'open fresh fields and pastures new,' discloses divers other sectionsstruggling up in long drawn files, following other leaders, all puffing,and wheezing and holding on by the manes, many feeling as if they had hadenough already--'Quick!' is the word, for the tail-hounds are flying thefence out of the first field over the body of the pack, which are runningalmost mute at best pace beyond, looking a good deal smaller than isagreeable to the eyes of a sportsman.
'F--o--o--r--rard!' screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followedby jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy,some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishingto know if there was anything on the far side.
Now Tom tops another fence, rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird;still 'F--o--o--r--rard!' is the cry--away they go at racing pace.
The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at theend, and many--the fair and fat ones in particular--seeing the hopelessnessof the case, pull up their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands aview. Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward,though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go thesmaller the point of the telescope becomes. The pace is awful; many wouldgive in but for the ladies. At the end of a mile or so, the determined onesshow to the front, and the spirters and 'make-believes' gladly availthemselves of their pioneering powers.
Mr. Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, thegreat striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, andtaking his leaps safely and well. He now shows to the front, and old Tom,who is still 'F--o--o--r--rarding' to his hounds, either rather falls backto the field or the field draws upon him. At all events they get togethersomehow. A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on eachside, tries their mettle and the stoutness of their hats: crash they getthrough it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten branchesresembling the outburst of a fire. Several gentlemen here decline undercover of the trees.
'F--o--o--r--rard!' screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fenceand lands in the field outside the plantation. He might have saved hisbreath, for the hounds were beating him as it was. Mr. Sponge bores throughthe same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done toclear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake.
The field is now reduced to six, and two of the number, Mr. Spareneck andCaingey Thornton, become marked in their attention to our hero. Thornton isriding Mr. Waffles' crack steeple-chaser 'Dare-Devil,' and Mr. Spareneck ison a first-rate hunter belonging to the same gentleman, but they have notbeen able to get our friend Sponge into grief. On the contrary, his horse,though lathered goes as strong as ever, and Mr. Sponge, seeing theirdesign, is as careful of him as possible, so as not to lose ground. Hisfine, strong, steady seat, and quiet handling, contrasts well withThornton's rolling bucketing style, who has already begun to ply a heavycutting whip, in aid of his spurs at his fences, accompanied with a halffrantic 'g--u--r--r--r along!' and inquires of the horse if he thinks hestole him?
The three soon get in front; fast as they go, the hounds go faster, andfence after fence is thrown behind them, just as a girl throws herskipping-rope.
Tom and the whips follow, grinning with their tongues in their cheeks, Tomstill screeching 'F--o--o--o--rard!--F--o--o--o--rard!' at intervals.
A big stone wall, built with mortar, and coped with heavy blocks of stone,is taken by the three abreast, for which they are rewarded by a gallop upStretchfurrow pasture, from the summit of which they see the houndsstreaming away to a fine grass country below, with pollard willows dottedhere and there in the bottom.
'Water!' says our friend Sponge to himself, wondering whether Herculeswould face it. A desperate black bullfinch, so thick that they could hardlysee through it, is shirked by consent, for a gate which a countryman opens,and another fence or two being passed, the splashing of some hounds in thewater, and the shaking of others on the opposite bank, show that, asusual, the willows are pretty true prophets.
Caingey, grinning his coarse red face nearly double, and getting his horsewell by the head, rams in the spurs, and flourishes his cutting whip highin air, with a 'g--u--u--ur along! do you think I'--the 'stole you' beinglost under water just as Sponge clears the brook a little lower down.Spareneck then pulls up.
When Nimrod had Dick Christian under water in the Whissendine in hisLeicestershire run, and someone more humane than the rest of the fieldobserved, as they rode on,
'But he'll be drowned.'
'Shouldn't wonder,' exclaimed another.
'But the pace,' Nimrod added, 'was too good to inquire.'
Such, however, was not the case with our watering-place cock, Mr. Sponge.Independently of the absurdity of a man risking his neck for the sake ofpicking up a bunch of red herrings, Mr. Sponge, having beat everybody,could afford a little humanity, more especially as he rode his horse onsale, and there was now no one left to witness
the further prowess of thesteed. Accordingly, he availed himself of a heavy, newly-ploughed fallow,upon which he landed as he cleared the brook, for pulling up, and returnedjust as Mr. Spareneck, assisted by one of the whips, succeeded in landingCaingey on the taking-off side. Caingey was not a pretty boy at the best oftimes--none but the most partial parents could think him one--and hisclumsy-featured, short, compressed face, and thick, lumpy figure, wereanything but improved by a sort of pea-green net-work of water-weeds withwhich he arose from his bath. He was uncommonly well soaked, and had to beheld up by the heels to let the water run out of his boots, pockets, andclothes. In this undignified position he was found by Mr. Waffles and suchof the field as had ridden the line.
'Why, Caingey, old boy! you look like a boiled porpoise with parsleysauce!' exclaimed Mr. Waffles, pulling up where the unfortunate youth wasspluttering and getting emptied like a jug. 'Confound it!' added he, asthe water came gurgling out of his mouth, 'but you must have drunk thebrook dry.'
Caingey would have censured his inhumanity, but knowing the imprudence ofquarrelling with his bread and butter, and also aware of the laughable,drowned-rat figure he must then be cutting, he thought it best to laugh,and take his change out of Mr. Waffles another time. Accordingly, hechuckled and laughed too, though his jaws nearly refused their office, andkindly transferred the blame of the accident from the horse to himself.
MR. CAINGEY THORNTON DOESN'T 'PUT ON STEAM ENOUGH']
'He didn't put on steam enough,' he said.
Meanwhile, old Tom, who had gone on with the hounds, having availed himselfof a well-known bridge, a little above where Thornton went in, for gettingover the brook, and having allowed a sufficient time to elapse for theproper completion of the farce, was now seen rounding the opposite hill,with his hounds clustered about his horse, with his mind conning over oneof those imaginary runs that experienced huntsmen know so well how totell, when there is no one to contradict them.
Having quartered his ground to get at his old friend the bridge again, hejust trotted up with well-assumed gaiety as Caingey Thornton spluttered thelast piece of green weed out from between his great thick lips.
'Well, Tom!' exclaimed Mr. Waffles, 'what have you done with him?'
'Killed him, sir,' replied Tom, with a slight touch of his cap, as though'killing' was a matter of every-day occurrence with them.
'Have you, indeed!' exclaimed Mr. Waffles, adopting the lie with avidity.
'Yes, sir,' said Tom gravely; 'he was nearly beat afore he got to thebrook. Indeed, I thought Vanquisher would have had him in it; but, however,he got through, and the scent failed on the fallow, which gave him achance; but I held them on to the hedgerow beyond, where they hit it offlike wildfire, and they never stopped again till they tumbled him over atthe back of Mr. Plummey's farm-buildings, at Shapwick. I've got his brush,'added Tom, producing a much tattered one from his pocket, 'if you'd like tohave it?'
'Thank you, no--yes--no,' replied Waffles, not wanting to be bothered withit; 'yet stay,' continued he, as his eye caught Mr. Sponge, who was stillon foot beside his vanquished friend; 'give it to Mr. What-de-ye-call-'em,'added he, nodding towards our hero.
'Sponge,' observed Tom, in an undertone, giving the brush to his master.
'Mr. Sponge, will you do me the favour to accept the brush?' asked Mr.Waffles, advancing with it towards him; adding, 'I am sorry this unluckybather should have prevented your seeing the end.'
Mr. Sponge was a pretty good judge of brushes, and not a bad one ofcamphire; but if this one had smelt twice as strong as it did--indeed, ifit had dropped to pieces in his hand, or the moths had flown up in hisface, he would have pocketed it, seeing it paved the way to what hewanted--an introduction.
'I'm very much obliged, I'm sure,' observed he, advancing to takeit--'very much obliged, indeed; been an extremely good run, and fast.'
'Very fair--very fair,' observed Mr. Waffles, as though it were nothing intheir way; 'seven miles in twenty minutes, I suppose, or something of thatsort.'
'_One_-and-twenty,' interposed Tom, with a laudable anxiety for accuracy.
'Ah! one-and-twenty,' rejoined Mr. Waffles. 'I thought it would besomewhere thereabouts. Well, I suppose we've all had enough,' added he,'may as well go home and have some luncheon, and then a game at billiards,or rackets, or something. How's the old water-rat?' added he, turning toThornton, who was now busy emptying his cap and mopping the velvet.
The water-rat was as well as could be expected, but did not quite like thenew aspect of affairs. He saw that Mr. Sponge was a first-rate horseman,and also knew that nothing ingratiated one man with another so much asskill and boldness in the field. It was by that means, indeed, that he hadestablished himself in Mr. Waffles' good graces--an ingratiation that hadbeen pretty serviceable to him, both in the way of meat, drink, mounting,and money. Had Mr. Sponge been, like himself, a needy, pennilessadventurer, Caingey would have tried to have kept him out by some of thoseplausible, admonitory hints, that poverty makes men so obnoxious to; but inthe case of a rich, flourishing individual, with such an astonishing studas Leather made him out to have, it was clearly Caingey's policy to knockunder and be subservient to Mr. Sponge also. Caingey, we should observe,was a bold, reckless rider, never seeming to care for his neck, but he wasno match for Mr. Sponge, who had both skill and courage.
Caingey being at length cleansed from his weeds, wiped from his mud, andmade as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, was now hoisted onto the renowned steeple-chase horse again, who had scrambled out of thebrook on the taking-off side, and, after meandering the banks for a certaindistance, had been caught by the bridle in the branch of a willow--Caingey,we say, being again mounted, Mr. Sponge also, without hindrance from theresolute brown horse, the first whip put himself a little in advance, whileold Tom followed with the hounds, and the second whip mingled with the nowincreasing field, it being generally understood (by the uninitiated, atleast) that hounds have no business to go home so long as any gentleman isinclined for a scurrey, no matter whether he has joined early or late. Mr.Waffles, on the contrary, was very easily satisfied, and never took theshine off a run with a kill by risking a subsequent defeat. Old Tom, thoughkeen when others were keen, was not indifferent to his comforts, and sooncame into the way of thinking that it was just as well to get home to hismutton-chops at two or three o'clock, as to be groping his way aboutbottomless bye-roads on dark winter nights.
As he retraced his steps homeward, and overtook the scattered field of themorning, his talent for invention, or rather stretching, was again calledinto requisition.
'What have you done with him, Tom?' asked Major Bouncer, eagerly bringinghis sturdy collar-marked cob alongside of our huntsman.
'Killed him, sir,' replied Tom, with the slightest possible touch of thecap. (Bouncer was no tip.)
'Indeed!' exclaimed Bouncer, gaily, with that sort of sham satisfactionthat most people express about things that can't concern them in the least.'Indeed! I'm deuced glad of that! Where did you kill him?'
'At the back of Mr. Plummey's farm-buildings, at Shapwick,' replied Tom;adding, 'but, my word, he led us a dance afore we got there--up toDitchington, down to Somerby, round by Temple Bell Wood, cross GoosegreenCommon, then away for Stubbington Brooms, skirtin' Sanderwick Plantations,but scarce goin' into 'em, then by the round hill at Camerton leavin' greatHeatherton to the right, and so straight on to Shapwick, where we killed,with every hound up--'
'God bless me!' exclaimed Bouncer, apparently lost in admiration, though hescarcely knew the country; 'God bless me!' repeated he, 'what a run! Thefinest run that ever was seen.'
'Nine miles in twenty-five minutes,' replied Tom, tacking on a little bothfor time and distance.
'_B-o-y_ JOVE!' exclaimed the major.
Having shaken hands with, and congratulated Mr. Waffles most eagerly andearnestly, the major hurried off to tell as much as he could remember tothe first person he met, just as the cheese-bearer at a christening looksout for some one to giv
e the cheese to. The cheese-getter on this occasionwas Doctor Lotion, who was going to visit old Jackey Thompson, ofWoolleyburn. Jackey being then in a somewhat precarious state of health,and tolerably advanced in life, without any very self-evident heir, wasobnoxious to the attentions of three distinct litters of cousins, some oneor other of whom was constantly 'baying him.' Lotion, though a sapient man,and somewhat grinding in his practice, did not profess to grind old peopleyoung again, and feeling he could do very little for the body corporate,directed his attention to amusing Jackey's mind, and anything in the shapeof gossip was extremely acceptable to the doctor to retail to his patient.Moreover, Jackey had been a bit of a sportsman, and was always extremelyhappy to see the hounds--_on anybody's land but his own_.
So Lotion got primed with the story, and having gone through the usualroutine of asking his patient how he was, how he had slept, looking at histongue, and reporting on the weather, when the old posing question, 'What'sthe news?' was put, Lotion replied, as he too often had to reply, for hewas a very slow hand at picking up information.
'Nothin' particklar, I think, sir,' adding, in an off-hand sort of way,'you've heard of the greet run, I s'pose, sir?'
'Great run!' exclaimed the octogenarian, as if it was a matter of the mostvital importance to him; 'great run, sir; no, sir, not a word!'
The doctor then retailed it.
Old Jackey got possessed of this one idea--he thought of nothing else.Whoever came, he out with it, chapter and verse, with occasionalvariations. He told it to all the 'cousins in waiting'; Jackey Thompson,of Carrington Ford; Jackey Thompson, of Houndesley; Jackey Thompson, of theMill; and all the Bobs, Bills, Sams, Harrys, and Peters, composing therespective litters;--forgetting where he got it from, he nearly told itback to Lotion himself. We sometimes see old people affected this way--farmore enthusiastic on a subject than young ones. Few dread the aspect ofaffairs so much as those who have little chance of seeing how they go.
But to the run. The cousins reproduced the story according to theirrespective powers of exaggeration. One tacked on two miles, another ten,and so it went on and on, till it reached the ears of the great Mr.Seedeyman, the mighty WE of the country, as he sat in his den penning his'stunners' for his market-day _Mercury_. It had then distanced the greatsea-serpent itself in length, having extended over thirty-three miles ofcountry, which Mr. Seedeyman reported to have been run in one hour andforty minutes.
Pretty good going, we should say.
Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Page 9