Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER L

  SIR HARRY SCATTERCASH'S HOUNDS

  The reason Mr. Sponge did not take his departure, after the prettyintelligible hint given by his host, was that, as he was passing hisshilling army razor over his soapy chin, he saw a stockingless lad, in apurply coat and faded hunting-cap, making his way up to the house, at apace that betokened more than ordinary vagrancy. It was the kennel, stable,and servants' hall courier of Nonsuch House, come to say that Sir Harryhunted that day.

  Presently Mr. Leather knocked at Mr. Sponge's bedroom door, and, beinginvited in, announced the fact.

  'Sir 'Arry's 'ounds 'unt,' said he, twisting the door handle as he spoke.

  'What time?' asked Mr. Sponge, with his half-shaven face turned towardshim.

  'Meet at eleven,' replied Leather.

  'Where?' inquired Mr. Sponge.

  'Nonsuch House, 'bout nine miles off.'

  It was thirteen, but Mr. Leather heard the malt liquor was good and wantedto taste it.

  'Take on the brown, then,' said Mr. Sponge, quite pompously;' and tellBartholomew to have the hack at the door at ten--or say a quarter to. Tellhim, I'll lick him for every minute he's late; and, mind, don't let oldRory O'More here know,' meaning our friend Jog, 'or he may take a fancy togo, and we shall never get there,' alluding to their former excursion.

  'No, no,' replied Mr. Leather, leaving the room.

  Mr. Sponge then arrayed himself in his hunting costume--scarlet coat, greentie, blue vest, gosling-coloured cords, and brown tops; and was greetedwith a round of applause from the little Jogs as he entered thebreakfast-room. Gustavus James would handle him; and, considering that hispaws were all over raspberry jam, our friend would as soon have dispensedwith his attentions. Mrs. Jog was all smiles, and Jog all scowls.

  A little after ten our friend, cigar in mouth, was in the saddle. Mrs. Jog,with Gustavus James in her arms, and all the children clustering about,stood in the passage to see him start, and watch the capers and capriolesof the piebald, as he ambled down the avenue.

  'Nine miles--nine miles,' muttered Mr. Sponge to himself, as he passedthrough the Lodge and turned up the Quarryburn road; 'do it in an hour wellenough,' said he, sticking spurs into the hack, and cantering away.

  Having kept this pace up for about five miles, till he thought from theview he had taken of the map it was about time to be turning, he hailed ablacksmith in his shop, who, next to saddlers, are generally the mostintelligent people about hounds, and asked how far it was to Sir Harry's?

  'Eight miles,' replied the man, in a minute. 'Impossible!' exclaimed Mr.Sponge. 'It was only nine at starting, and I've come I don't know howmany.'

  The next person Mr. Sponge met told him it was ten miles; the third, afterasking him where he had come from, said he was a stranger in the country,and had never heard of the place; and, what with Mr. Leather's originalmis-statement, misdirections from other people, and mistakes of his own, itwas more good luck than good management that got Mr. Sponge to NonsuchHouse in time.

  MR. SPONGE STARTING FROM THE BOWER]

  The fact was, the whole hunt was knocked up in a hurry. Sir Harry, and thechoice spirits by whom he was surrounded, had not finished celebrating thetriumphs of the Snobston Green day, and as it was not likely that thehounds would be out again soon, the people of the hunting establishmentwere taking their ease. Watchorn had gone to be entertained at a publicsupper, given by the poachers and fox-stealers of the village of Bark-shot,as a 'mark of respect for his abilities as a sportsman and his integrity asa man,' meaning his indifference to his master's interests; while thefirst-whip had gone to visit his aunt, and the groom was away negotiatingthe exchange of a cow. With things in this state, Wily Tom of Tinklerhatch,a noted fox-stealer in Lord Scamperdale's country, had arrived with a greatthundering dog fox, stolen from his lordship's cover near the cross roadsat Dallington Burn, which being communicated to our friends about midnightin the smoking-room at Nonsuch House, it was resolved to hunt himforthwith, especially as one of the guests, Mr. Orlando Bugles, of theSurrey Theatre, was obliged to return to town immediately, and, as hesometimes enacted the part of Squire Tallyho, it was thought a little ofthe reality might correct the Tom and Jerry style in which he did it.Accordingly, orders were issued for a hunt, notwithstanding the hounds werefed and the horses watered. Sir Harry didn't 'care a rap; let them go asfast as they could.'

  All these circumstances conspired to make them late; added to which, whenWatchorn, the huntsman, cast up, which he did on a higgler's horse, hefound the only sound one in his stud had gone to the neighbouring town toget some fiddlers--her ladyship having determined to compliment Mr. Bugles'visit by a quadrille party. Bugles and she were old friends. When Mr.Sponge cast up at half-past eleven, things were still behind-hand.

  Sir Harry and party had had a wet night of it, and were all more or lessdrunk. They had kept up the excitement with a champagne breakfast andvarious liqueurs, to say nothing of cigars. They were a saddebauched-looking set, some of them scarcely out of their teens, withpallid cheeks, trembling hands, sunken eyes, and all the symptoms ofpremature decay. Others--the sock-and-buskin ones--were a made-up, wigged,and padded set. Bugles was resplendent. He had on a dress scarlet coat,lined and faced with yellow satin (one of the properties, we believe, ofthe Victoria), a beautifully worked pink shirt-front, a pitch-plastercoloured waistcoat, white ducks, and jack-boots, with brass heel spurs. Hecarried his whip in the arm's-length-way of a circus master following ahorse. Some dozen of these curiosities were staggering, and swaggering, andsmoking in front of Nonsuch House, to the edification of a lot of gapinggrooms and chawbacons, when Mr. Sponge cantered becomingly up on thepiebald. Lady Scattercash, with several elegantly dressed females, all withcigars in their mouths, were conversing with them from the opendrawing-room windows above, while sundry good-looking damsels ogled themfrom the attics above. Such was the tableau that presented itself to Mr.Sponge as he cantered round the turn that brought him in front of theElizabethan mansion of Nonsuch House.

  Sir Harry, who was still rather drunk, thinking that every person theremust be either one of his party, or a friend of one of his party, or aneighbour, or some one that he had seen before, reeled up to our friend ashe stopped, and, shaking him heartily by the hand, asked him to come in andhave something to eat. This was a godsend to Mr. Sponge, who accepted theproffered hand most readily, shaking it in a way that quite satisfied SirHarry he was right in some one or other of his conjectures. Bugles, and allthe reeling, swaggering bucks, looked respectfully at the well-appointedman, and Bugles determined to have a pair of nut-brown tops as soon as everhe got back to town.

  Sir Harry was a tall, wan, pale young man, with a strong tendency todelirium tremens; that, and consumption, appeared to be running a match forhis person. He was a harum-scarum fellow, all strings, and tapes, and ends,and flue. He looked as if he slept in his clothes. His hat was fastened onwith a ribbon, or rather a ribbon passed round near the band, in order tofasten it on, for it was seldom or ever applied to the purpose, and theends generally went flying out behind like a Chinaman's tail. Then hisflashy, many-coloured cravats, stared and straggled in all directions,while his untied waistcoat-strings protruded between the laps of his oldshort-waisted swallow-tailed scarlet, mixing in glorious confusion withthose of his breeches behind. The knee-strings were generally also loose;the web straps of his boots were seldom in; and, what with one set ofstrings and another, he had acquired the name of Sixteen-string'd Jack. Mr.Sponge having dismounted, and given his hack to the now half-drunkenLeather, followed Sir Harry through a foil and four-in-hand whip-hung hallto the deserted breakfast-room, where chairs stood in all directions, andcrumpled napkins strewed the floor. The litter of eggs, and remnants ofmuffins, and diminished piles of toast, and broken bread and empty toastracks, and cups and saucers, and half-emptied glasses, and wholly emptiedchampagne bottles, were scattered up and down a disorderly table, furtherlittered with newspapers, letter backs, county court summonses, mustardpots, anch
ovies, pickles--all the odds and ends of a most miscellaneousmeal. The side-table exhibited cold joints, game, poultry, lukewarm hashedvenison, and sundry lamp-lit dishes of savoury grills.

  'Here you are!' exclaimed Sir Harry, taking his hunting-whip and sweepingthe contents of one end of the table on to the floor with a crash thatbrought in the butler and some theatrical-looking servants.

  'Take those filthy things away! (hiccup),' exclaimed Sir Harry, crushingthe broken china smaller under his heels; 'and (hiccup) bring somered-herrings and soda-water. What the deuce does the (hiccup) cook mean bynot (hiccuping) things as he ought? Now,' said he, addressing Mr. Sponge,and raking the plates and dishes up to him with the handle of his whip,just as a gaming-table keeper rakes up the stakes, 'now,' said he, 'makeyour (hiccup) game. There'll be some hot (hiccup) in directly.' He meant tosay 'tea,' but the word failed him.

  Mr. Sponge fell to with avidity. He was always ready to eat, and attackedfirst one thing and then another, as though he had not had any breakfast atPuddingpote Bower.

  Sir Harry remained mute for some minutes, sitting cross-legged andbackwards in his chair, with his throbbing temples resting upon the back,wondering where it was that he had met Mr. Sponge. He looked differentwithout his hat; and, though he saw it was no one he knew particularly, hecould not help thinking he had seen him before.

  Indeed, he thought it was clear, from Mr. Sponge's manner, that they hadmet, and he was just going to ask him whether it was at Offley's or theCoal Hole, when a sudden move outside attracted his attention. It was thehounds.

  The huntsman's horse having at length returned from the fiddler hunt, andbeing whisped over, and made tolerably decent, Mr. Watchorn, havingexchanged the postilion saddle in which it had been ridden for a horn-casedhunting one, had mounted, and, opening the kennel-door, had liberated thepent-up pack, who came tearing out full cry and spread themselves over thecountry, regardless alike of the twang, twang, twang of the horn and thefurious onslaught of a couple of stable lads in scarlet and caps, who, trueto the title of 'whippers-in,' let drive at all they could get within reachof. The hounds had not been out, even to exercise, since the Snobston-Greenday, and were as wild as hawks. They were ready to run anything. Furiousand Furrier tackled with a cow. Bountiful ran a black cart-colt, and madehim leap the haw-haw. Sempstress, Singwell, and Saladin (puppies), wentafter some crows. Mercury took after the stable cat, while old Thundererand Come-by-chance (supposed to be one of Lord Scamperdale's) joined inpursuit of a cur. Watchorn, however, did not care for these littleebullitions of spirit, and never having been accustomed to exercise theCamberwell and Balham Hill Union Harriers, he did not see any occasion fortroubling the fox-hounds. 'They would soon settle,' he said, 'when they gota scent.'

  It was this riotous start that diverted Sixteen-string'd Jack's attentionfrom our friend, and, looking out of the window, Mr. Sponge saw all thecompany preparing to be off. There was the elegant Bugles mounting herladyship's white Arab; the brothers Spangles climbing on to theircream-colours; Mr. This getting on to the postman's pony, and Mr. That onto the gamekeeper's. Mr. Sponge hurried out to get to the brown ere hisanger arose at being left behind, and provoked a scene. He only justarrived in time; for the twang of the horn, the cracks of the whips, theclamorous rates of the servants, the yelping of the hounds, and the generalcommotion, had got up his courage, and he launched out in such a way, whenMr. Sponge mounted, as would have shot a loose rider into the air. As itwas, Mr. Sponge grappled manfully with him, and, letting the Latchfordsinto his sides, shoved him in front of the throng, as if nothing hadhappened. Mr. Leather then slunk back to the stables, to get out the hackto have a hunt in the distance.

  The hounds, as we said before, were desperately wild; but at length, bydint of coaxing and cracking, and whooping and hallooing, they got some tencouples out of the five-and-twenty gathered together, and Mr. Watchorn,putting himself at their head, trotted briskly on, blowing most lustily, inthe hopes that the rest would follow. So he clattered along the avenue,formed between rows of sombre-headed firs and sweeping spruce, out of whichwhirred clouds of pheasants, and scuttling rabbits, and stupid hares keptcrossing and recrossing, to the derangement of Mr. Watchorn's temper, andthe detriment of the unsteady pack. Squeak, squeak, squeal sounded rightand left, followed sometimes by the heavy retributive hand of Justice onthe offenders' hides, and sometimes by the snarl, snap, and worry of acouple of hounds contending for the prey. Twang, twang, twang, still wentthe horn; and when the huntsman reached the unicorn-crested gates, betweentea-caddy looking lodges, he found himself in possession of a clearmajority of his unsizable pack. Some were rather bloody to be sure, and afew carried scraps of game, which fastidious masters would as soon haveseen them without; but neither Sir Harry nor his huntsman cared aboutappearances.

  On clearing the lodges, and passing about a quarter of a mile on theHardington road, hedge-rows ceased, and they came upon Farleyfair Downs,across which Mr. Watchorn now struck, making for a square plantation, nearthe first hill-top, where it had been arranged the bag-fox should be shook.It was a fine day, rather brighter perhaps, than sportsmen like, and therewas a crispness in the air indicative of frost, but then there is generallya burning scent just before one. So thought Mr. Watchorn, as he turned hisfeverish face up to the bright, blue sky, imbibing the fine fresh air ofthe wide-extending downs, instead of the stale tobacco smoke of the fetidbeer-shop. As he trotted over the springy sward, up the gently risingground, he rose in his stirrups; and, laying hold of his horse's mane,turned to survey the long-drawn, lagging field behind.

  'You'll have to look sharp, my hearties,' said he to himself, as he ranthem over in his eye, and thought there might be twenty or five-and-twentyhorsemen; 'you'll have to look sharp, my hearties,' said he, 'if you meanto get away, for Wily Tom has his hat on the ground, which shows he has puthim down, and if he's the sort of gem'man I expect he'll not be long incover.'

  So saying, he resumed his seat in the saddle, and easing his horse,endeavoured, by sundry dog noises--such as, 'Yooi doit, Ravager!' 'Gently,Paragon!' 'Here again. Mercury!'--to restrain the ardour of the leadinghounds, so as to let the rebellious tail ones up and go into cover withsomething like a body. This was rather a difficult task to accomplish, forthose with him being light, and consequently anxious to be doing and readyfor riot, were difficult to restrain from dashing forward; while those thathad taken their diversion and refreshment among the game, were easy whetherthey did anything more or not.

  While Watchorn was thus manoeuvring his forces Wily Tom beckoned him on,and old Cruiser and Marmion, who had often been at the game before, andknew what Wily Tom's hat on the ground meant, flew to him full cry, drawingall their companions after them.

  'I think he's away to the west,' said Tom in an undertone, resting his handon Watchorn's horse's shoulder; 'back home,' added he, jerking his headwith a knowing leer of his roguish eye. 'They're on him!' exclaimed heafter a pause, as the outburst of melody proclaimed that the hounds hadcrossed his line. Then there was such racing and striving among the fieldto get up, and such squeezing and crowding, and 'Mind, my horse kicks!' atthe little white hunting wicket leading into cover. 'Knock down the wall!'exclaimed one. 'Get out of the way; I'll ride over it!' roared another. 'Weshall be here all day!' vociferated a third. 'That's a header!' criedanother, as a clatter of stones was followed by a pair of white breechessummerseting in the air with a horse underneath. 'It's Tom Sawbones, thedoctor!' exclaimed one, 'and he can mend himself.' 'By Jove! but he'skilled!' shrieked another. 'Not a bit of it,' added a third, as the deadman rose and ran after his horse. 'Let Mr. Bugles through,' cried SirHarry, seeing his friend, or rather his wife's friend, was fretting theArab.

  Meanwhile, the melody of hounds increased, and each man, as he got throughthe little gate, rose in his stirrups and hustled his horse along the greenride to catch up those on before. The plantation was about twenty acres,rather thick and briary at the bottom; and master Reynard, finding it waspretty safe, and, moreover, having at
tempted to break just by where somechawbacons were ploughing, had headed short back, so that, when the excitedfield rushed through the parallel gate on the far side of the plantation,expecting to see the pack streaming away over the downs, they found most ofthe hounds with their heads in the air, some looking for halloos, otherswatching their companions trying to carry the scent over the fallow.

  Watchorn galloped up in the frantic state half-witted huntsmen generallyare, and one of the impromptu whips being in attendance, got quickly roundthe hounds, and commenced a series of assaults upon them that very soonsent them scuttling to Mr. Watchorn for safety. If they had been at thehares again, or even worrying sheep, he could not have rated or floggedmore severely.

  'MARKSMAN! MARKSMAN! _ough, ye old Divil, get to him!_' roared thewhip, aiming a stinging cut with his heavy knotty-pointed whip, at avenerable sage who still snuffed down a furrow to satisfy himself the foxwas not on before he returned to cover--an exertion that overbalanced thewhip, and would have landed him on the ground, had not he caught by thespur in the old mare's flank. Then he went on scrambling and rating afterMarksman, the field exclaiming, as the Edmonton people did, by JohnnyGilpin:

  He's on! no, he's off, he hangs by the mane!

  'LET MR. BUGLES THROUGH']

  At last he got shuffled back into the saddle, and the cry of hounds incover attracting the outsiders back, the scene quickly changed, and thehorsemen were again overhead in wood. They now swept up the grass ride tothe exposed part of the higher ground, the trees gradually diminishing insize, till, on reaching the top, they did not come much above a horse'sshoulder. This point commanded a fine view over the adjacent country.Behind was the rich vale of Dairylow, with its villages and spires, andtrees and enclosures, while in front was nothing but the undulating,wide-stretching downs, reaching to the soft grey hills in the distance.There was not, however, much time for contemplating scenery; for Wily Tom,who had stolen to this point immediately the hounds took up the scent, nowviewed the fox stealing over a gap in the wall, and, the field catchingsight, there was such a hullabaloo as would have made a more composed andorderly minded fox think it better to break instead of running the outsideof the wall as this one intended to do. What wind there was swept over thedowns; and putting himself straight to catch it, he went away whisking hisbrush in the air, as if he was fresh out of his kennel instead of a sack.Then what a commotion there was! Such jumpings off to lead down, suchhuggings and holdings, and wooa-ings of those that sat on, such slidingsand scramblings, and loosenings and rollings of stones. Then the frantichorses began to bound, and the frightened riders to exclaim:

  'Do get out of my way, sir.'

  'Mind, sir! I'm a-top of you!'

  'Give him his head and let him go!' exclaimed the still drunken brother BobSpangles, sliding his horse down with a slack rein.

  'That's your sort!' roared Sir Harry, and just as he said it, his horsedropped on his hind-quarters like a rabbit, landing Sir Harry comfortablyon his feet, amid the roars of the foot-people, and the mirth of such ofthe horsemen as were not too frightened to laugh.

  'I think I'll stay where I am,' observed Mr. Bugles, preparing for abird's-eye view where he was. 'This hunting,' said he, getting off thefidgety Arab, 'seems dangerous.'

  The parties who accomplished the descent had now some fine plain sailingfor their trouble. The line lay across the open downs, composed of sound,springy, racing-like turf, extremely well adapted for trying the paceeither of horses or hounds. And very soon it did try the pace of them, forthey had not gone above a mile before there was very considerable tailingwith both. To be sure, they had never been very well together, but stillthe line lengthened instead of contracting. Horses that could hardly beheld downhill, and that applied themselves to the turf, on landing, as ifthey could never have enough of it, now began to bear upon the rein andhang back to those behind; while the hounds came straggling along like aflock of wild geese, with full half a mile between the leader and the last.However, they all threw their tongues, and each man flattered himself thatthe hound he was with was the first. In vain the galloping Watchorn lookedback and tootled his horn; in vain he worked with his cap; in vain thewhips rode at the tail hounds, cursing and swearing, and vowing they wouldcut them in two.

  There was no getting them together. Every now and then the fox might beseen, looking about the size of a marble, as he rounded some distant hill,each succeeding view making him less, till, at last, he seemed no biggerthan a pea.

  Five-and-twenty minutes best pace over downs is calculated to try themettle of anything; and, long before the leading hounds reachedCockthropple Dean, the field was choked by the pace. Sir Harry had longbeen tailed off; both the brothers Spangles had dropped astern; the horseof one had dropped too; Sawbones, the doctor's, had got a stiff neck;Willing, the road surveyor, and Mr. Lavender, the grocer, pulled uptogether. Muddyman, the farmer's four-year-old, had enough at the end often minutes; both the whips tired theirs in a quarter of an hour; and inless than twenty minutes Watchorn and Sponge were alone in their glory, orrather Sponge was in his glory, for Watchorn's horse was beat.

  'Lend me your horn!' exclaimed Sponge, as he heard by the hammer andpincering of Watchorn's horse, it was all U P with him.

  The horse stopped as if shot; and getting the horn, Mr. Sponge went on, thebrown laying himself out as if still full of running. Cockthropple Dean wasnow close at hand, and in all probability the fox would not leave it. Sothought Mr. Sponge as he dived into it, astonished at the chorus and echoof the hounds.

  'HE'S AWAY!--REET 'CROSS TORNOPS']

  'Tally ho!' shouted a countryman on the opposite side; and the road Spongehad taken being favourable to the point, he made for it at a hand-gallop,horn in hand, to blow as soon as he got there.

  'He's away!' cried the man as soon as our friend appeared; 'reet 'crosstornops!' added he, pointing with his hoe.

  Mr. Sponge then put his horse's head that way, and blew a long shrillreverberating blast. As he paused to take breath and listen, he heard thesound of horses' hoofs, and presently a stentorian voice, half frantic withrage, exclaimed from behind:

  'WHO THE DICKENS ARE YOU?'

  'Who the Dickens are you?' retorted Mr. Sponge, without looking round.

  'They commonly call me the EARL OF SCAMPERDALE,' roared the samesweet voice, 'and those are my hounds.'

  'They're not your hounds!' snapped Mr. Sponge, now looking round on hisbig-spectacled, flat-hatted lordship, who was closely followed by hisdouble, Mr. Spraggon.

  'Not my hounds!' screeched his lordship. 'Oh, ye barber's apprentice! Oh,ye draper's assistant! Oh ye unmitigated Mahomedon! Sing out, Jack! singout! For Heaven's sake, sing out!' added he, throwing out his arms inperfect despair.

  'Not his lordship's hounds!' roared Jack, now rising in his stirrups andbrandishing his big whip. 'Not his lordship's hounds! Tell me _that_, whenthey cost him five-and-twenty 'underd--two thousand five 'underd a year!Oh, by Jingo, but that's a pretty go! If they're not his lordship's hounds,I should like to know whose they are?' and thereupon Jack wiped the foamfrom his mouth on his sleeve.

  'Sir Harry's!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, again putting the horn to his lips,and blowing another shrill blast.

  'Sir Harry's!' screeched his lordship in disgust, for he hated the verysound of his name--'Sir Harry's! Oh, you rusty-booted ruffian! Tell me thatto my very face!'

  'Sir Harry's!' repeated Jack, again standing erect in his stirrups. 'What!impeach his lordship's integrity--oh, by Jove, there's an end ofeverything! Death before dishonour! Slugs in a saw-pit! Pistols and coffeefor two! Cock Pheasant at Weybridge, six o'clock i' the mornin'!' And Jack,sinking exhausted on his saddle, again wiped the foam from his mouth.

  His lordship then went at Sponge again.

  'Oh, you sanctified, putrified, pestilential, perpendicular,gingerbread-booted, counter-skippin' snob, you think because I'm a lord,and can't swear or use coarse language, that you may do what you like; butI'll let you see the contrary,' said he, bran
dishing his brother to Jack'swhip. 'Mark you, sir, I'll fight you, sir, any non-huntin' day you like,sir, 'cept Sunday.'

  Just then the clatter and blowing of horses was heard, and Frostyfaceemerged from the wood followed by the hounds, who, swinging themselves'forrard' over the turnips, hit off the scent and went away full cry,followed by his lordship and Jack, leaving Mr. Sponge transfixed withastonishment.

  'Changed foxes,' at length said Sponge, with a shake of his head; and justthen the cry of hounds on the opposite bank confirmed his conjecture, andhe got to Sir Harry's in time to take up his lordship's fox.

  His lordship's hounds ran into Sir Harry's fox about two miles farther on,but the hounds would not break him up; and, on examining him, he was foundto have been aniseeded; and, worst of all, by the mark on his ear to be onethat they had turned down themselves the season before, being one of alitter that Sly had stolen from Sir Harry's cover at Seedeygorse--abeautiful instance of retributive justice.